W. is tortured by the cries of the dead, of our ancestors, he says. We've betrayed them, he says. We've destroyed their memory. After the trust they placed in us – after the faith that generation, succeeding generation, would make good on the great task of human flourishing …
Every setback of the past – every cataclysm – should make us only more dutiful, more heedful of our task. Every horror – the whole slaughterbench of history – should only make us redouble our efforts. And the coming cataclysm? The cataclysm of cataclysms?
We've failed the dead, W. says. We've failed even the ones who failed. Even they're furious. Even they're crying out in the night, the ones who themselves could accomplish nothing.
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