His own incapacity: it's with that that W. is always left. His incapacity: that's what remains to him after lights out. He lies in the dark with it, it dreams beside him: who is more intimate with his own incapacity than W.?
No one knows it better. And he will know nothing else; he will be pushed to think nothing else. The capacity to think only leads him to his incapacity; he begins only to end straightaway. Why do his powers desert him? Why do they seem always to have left him in advance?
W.'s dream: he's drowning, and he can't swim upwards into the light. His dream: drowning, and pulled ceaselessly down by an enormous weight. There's a block tied to one of his feet; he looks down, there it is – a block, a book. He makes out the letters: The Star of Redemption.
Another dream: a ceaseless ascent, a mountain climb into the freshest of air, his guide a few steps ahead of him. He feels lighter, happier; he wants to laugh; he asks, are we there? And the guide, turning, plunges a barbed spear into W.'s breast and draws him close. And across his forehead, glowing: The Star of Redemption.
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