W., as usual, is reading about God. God and mathematics, that's all he's interested in. Somehow everything has to do with God, in whom W.'s not capable of believing, and mathematics, which W. is not capable of doing. And he's reading about God and mathematics in German, W. says, which means he doesn't really understand what he doesn't really understand. He'll send me his notes, W. says, they're hilarious.
God, muses W. He's going to write about God, he says. And about Messianism. How are my studies of Messianism coming along?, W. asks me. And then: should we really be writing about Messianism? In fact, that's how he's going to begin his essay on Messianism: saying he is in no way qualified to write on Messianism.
But what about God? He's not really qualified to write about God either, W. says. God least of all. Of course it's all a joke to you, W. says. You'll write about anything – anything. You've no shame. Nothing internal prevents you from parading your ignorance.
W. wants to believe in something, he says, but I believe in nothing, nothing. It's a game to you, he says. Messianism, God: what meaning can they possibly have for you?
It's beyond masochism in my case, W. says. It's not that I want to punish myself by parading my ignorance, or not merely that, he says. It's something cosmic, he says. There's something cosmic streaming through you. There's a cosmic storm howling through your ignorance and your shamelessness, says W.
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