W. reads to me from The Star of Redemption. – 'Listen to this!'
In the innermost sanctum of the divine truth, where man might expect all the world and himself to dwindle into likeness of that which he is to catch sight of there, he thus catches sight of none other than his own. The Star of Redemption is become countenance which glances at me and out of which I glance. Not God become my mirror, but God's truth.
What does it mean?, W. wonders. It doesn't matter. It's amazing, I tell him. It's the best thing I've ever heard. W.'s impressed at my vehemence. I have certain instincts, W. allows. Occasionally I'm right, he tells me. – 'It's like a chimpanzee who knows a storm's coming, jumping up and down and screaming'.
Sometimes we go up to W.'s study and spread Rosenzweig's books on the table. How is it possible that a human being could write like that?, W. always says, with quiet reverence. – 'Even you feel it, don't you? Even you have a sense of what is greater than you'.
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