Faces don’t get much more expressive than Bernard-Henri Lévy’s. The thick eyebrows go up and down, powered variously by rage, incredulity and sadness; the lips purse, pout and curl with derision. But when the 75-year-old French philosopher describes the scene at what was left of the Kfar Aza kibbutz in southern Israel on October 10 last year, his face empties of all expression. “The bodies of the victims had been buried by that point, but there were still pieces of bodies that hadn’t been assigned yet,” he tells me. “They were stacked in a corner of a vegetable shed that was being used to house unidentified body parts. And that image?” He shakes his head. “There is not a day…