How long has he been reading Rosenzweig?, W wonders. It's like rain hitting a tin roof. Nothing goes in. It makes no impression. But at least he does read; at least there is the steady rhythm of his non-understanding that beats against his intelligence. He knows his limits, W. says, because they are constantly tested. He has a sense of what he does not know.
But I have no such sense; I err with no knowledge that I err. My ignorance is happy, almost innocent. Many times, W. has tried to teach me shame, but I'm a poor pupil. -'It's the purity of your idiocy', W. always says. 'It protects you'.
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