Heidegger, with his fine scalpel work, deft fingers, and the occasional hammerblow, executes a daring reconstructive surgery on the deepest structures of thought, language, and being for the willing and patient subject (some would say unwary victim). You don't read Heidegger so much as yield to him, and in so yielding you're thrown back to the world you never realized you were always already in. Heidegger's world, which is to say our world (and which is to say further not the crystalline, arranged, static worlds of philosophers like Plato, Descartes, and even Kant), is a tangled web of references, objects ready-to-hand, actions to be engaged in, decisions to be made, moods to be thrown into. It is a relational world in every sense, and only secondarily through thinking, speaking, and tarrying alongside things a world of arrays of objects standing side-by-side in space. Heidegger's work is barely philosophy, if philosophy to you is made up of arguments and propositions. Arguing with Heidegger is as foolish as arguing with a piece of music: it's operating on a different level, a more mythical and mysterious one. When the theme calls out to you, you either hear it in your soul, or you don't.