No more, no more. Have we really reached the end?
I remind W. of the fate of Bhisma in the Mahabharta. This wise and virtuous man had been granted the boon of deciding the hour of his own death. There he lay, on the battlefield, his body filled with arrows.
It was time to die, white-bearded Bhima thought. He'd lived a long life! He'd seen it all, even the disaster that was the battle on the Kurushetra plains. Even the darkness that was soon to fall over India.
The fighting around him stopped. His nephew, Arjuna, sought to slake his uncle's thirst by firing an arrow into the ground to let a jet of water spring into his mouth. Silence reigned over the battlefield. And in the time that was left to him, Bhima spoke.
He spoke of what he'd learned in his long life. He spoke of his horror at the battle, that set uncle against nephew, friend against friend. He spoke of what was to come, and his horror at what was to come. And then his white-haired head fell back, and death came as a sweetness to him.
What will he say?, I ask W., now the end has come, the endless end? Of what will he speak? Of love? Of friendship? Of the life of thought? He'll speak about me, says W. Of not being able to get rid of me. Of me being here, even now … How did it end up here, with the two of us? What wrong turn did he take?
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