What is Dogma?, we ask ourselves as dawn comes. What will it have been? We can have no idea, we know that, we agree. We came upon it by chance. It grazed our lives. It touched us, and who were we? Idiots, we agree. Dunces.
But perhaps that's what was required. Perhaps thought needed its buffoons. Perhaps thought could only begin with the exhaustion of thought, and who were we if not its exhausters? But what if it's all an illusion? What if there's nothing to it, and Dogma was just a mirage?
There's always a chance of that, we agree. There must be. Dogma has nothing to do with the order of proof. Faith – that's what belongs to Dogma. Messianism, we're sure of that.
But what is Dogma? What should we reply if we're asked. No one has asked us, it's true – but what if we were asked? It can't be explained, we've long since decided. It can only be felt. You can only lower yourself into it as into a warm bath.
Dogma is a condition, says W. It's an affair of the sinews, of the kidneys. It's an affair of the viscera. Dogma must be a blow to the head or not be at all, I say categorically. It's the blood in the chinks between the stones of the law, says W., very grandly.
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