Man is only a reed, the weakest in nature, but he is a thinking reed. There is no need for the whole universe to take up arms to crush him: a vapour, a drop of water is enough to kill him. But even if the universe were to crush him, man would still be nobler than his slayer, because he knows that he is dying and the advantage the universe has over him. The universe knows nothing of this.
That's Pascal, W. says. Are we nobler than our slayers? Are we more dignified than the forces arrayed against us? And there are many forces, W. says. There are many slayers. The end is coming. These are the last days, the end times. We're vulnerable, he says, desperately vulnerable. But isn't it now, at the moment of our extinction, that we might rise to our highest glory?
'My God, look at you', W. says. 'Your trousers are covered with stains. Your shirt … It's unspeakable. And your shoes: do you really call them shoes?' They're crocs, I tell him. – 'Yes I know they're crocs'. They're good for the allotment, I tell him. – 'But this isn't the allotment!'
This isn't the allotment … why does W. see this, and not me? Why don't I understand my own abasement, and the forces that are arrayed against me?
Lars Iyer's Blog 