Retrospective redemption, that's what W.'s holding out for. It will have made sense, he says. It will always have made sense from the perspective of redemption, that's what he hopes. But there's little sign of it, he concedes. In fact, it's getting worse.
He hears the dull rumble of thunder, W. says. The storm is coming; lightning could flash down at any time. But why does no one else hear it? Why does no one but him know the signs? Make it stop!, W. wants to cry – but to whom? Make it stop! – but not to me, who is only part of the catastrophe, only a catastrophic scrap torn off to torment him.
What is hell?, W. muses. It's when friend falls upon friend, he says. I would turn upon him, wouldn't I? I'm always about to. I'm already poised …
When friend turns upon friend, that will be the sign, says W. But then hasn't our friendship always involved a turning against him, W.? Hasn't it always meant the destruction of friendship? Yes, that's what W.'s concluded: it is nothing but the destruction of friendship in friendship and as friendship.
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