It's come to an end, all of culture and civilization, it's all finished, Rosenzweig and Cohen with it, that's what you think, isn't it?, says W. You see no point in anything, which is why you do nothing. For his part, W. says, he's not sure whether I say these to give myself an excuse for not working, or whether I'm right, and there is no point to anything at all.
Anyway, whether W. is in the wrong or not, working, for him, is like some conditioned reflex. He hasn't got a choice! What's he working on, and why is he bothering?, W. asks himself. What does it matter? Why does he read these books that are too hard for him? Why does he batter himself against the wall of mathematics? What difference does it make? What's it all for? Who could he possibly influence or persuade?
Who will listen to him but me, who has no idea what he is talking about, who can only regard the work of Rosenzweig and Cohen with the awe of an ape before the thundering power of a waterfall? What can it possibly mean to you?, says W. That's what makes it worse for him: the only person paying attention to him, says W. is the one least capable of understanding anything he says.
But then too, W. says, he doesn't really understand Rosenzweig and Cohen either, and he too can only hoot and point like an ape at their mighty oeuvres.
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