Kafka wondered if he cast a shadow on the sun, and W. wonders if I'm his shadow, or in some way his eclipse. A shadow is a region of darkness where light is blocked, W. reads. Am I his region of darkness? Am I that part of him that remains untouched by light? W. is tempted by this thesis. It would account for so much.
A shadow cast by the earth on the moon is a lunar eclipse, W. reads. Conversely, a shadow cast on the earth by the moon is solar eclipse. Each time, it is a matter of an interruption of light – of that opaque body that blocks the light from the space behind it. Mostly, W. assumes I'm his own shadow. But what if I am that body that blocks light from him?
'Your obesity', says W. 'The immensity of your thighs and arms'. Yes, it's quite clear: I eclipse him just as, in another sense, I am his eclipsed shadow. I stand in front of his light, but I am also that shadow that trails behind him. Which comes first, then: light or the shadow? It was the darkness of my stupidity that came first, W. supposes. Just as it will be the darkness of my stupidity unto which everything, in the end, will return.
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