We should be content to write ragged books, W. says. There's no time for polished ones. Time is running out! These are the Last Days! We should write books made of pathos and nothing else, W. says. We should aim for pure declamation, statements without argument. Rosenzweig's example leaps ahead of us.
Of course, I'm halfway there already, W. says. What does argument mean to me? What does logic? There's a kind of purity to my stupidity, W. says. It's instructive. But it can also be misleading. Who, one might think, would be better to speak about the end of the world and the Last Days?, W. says. Who has a more vivid instinct for apocalypse?
But I've never managed it have I? It's never come right, for all that I write, for all that I type away, day and night. I can't spell, for one thing. I have no sense for the rudiments of grammar. Have I ever written a single clean sentence? Just one? That would be the coming of the Messiah for me, W. says, a single clean sentence.
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