Am I concerned about posterity?, W. wonders. Am I concerned about what people will think? – 'How will they make sense of you? What will they make of your mighty oeuvre?' Will they open a library in my name? Will there be a plaque?
In the end, of course, I give nothing to the world, only take from it. What can the notion of a legacy mean to me? Of selfless devotion to a task? I was given a chance, and ran with it. The door was open for a moment, and I was through, never looking back.
They must have regretted letting you in!, W. says. But in truth, no one was looking. In truth, the wind, by chance, shook the door open for a moment, and that was that. No one saw me. I disappeared into the crowd. I imitated the others, acted like them, even though I was still an ape from the savannah.
Wasn't I happier back there, on the outside? Wasn't I happier there, the endless plains stretched out around me? There was no thought of posterity, no thought of a legacy. But then, W. supposes, I carry a version of the savannah along with me, even now. I'm immune in some sense. I'm not touched by it all.
Hard to believe, W. says, that I have no idea of posterity, or of leaving a legacy. No sense of duty to the traditions of which I am apart, to my great predecessors and to the thinkers, much cleverer than us, who will come. Don't I feel part of something? Don't I feel a sense of indebtedness? Apparently not, W. says. I carry the savannah with me, my internal savannah, across which shamelessness roils like a tropical storm.
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