Melancholy, melancholy. 'What else does this craving, and this helplessness proclaim', Pascal says, 'but that there was once in man a true happiness, of which all that now remains is the empty print and trace?'
True happiness: what can this possibly mean for W.? What sense of it can he have? I've been in his life too long, he says. I've been there too long, blocking the sun of what might have been his happiness with the moon of my stupidity.
Ah, the lunar eclipse of his life! Ah the obliteration of his hopes and dreams! He knows his happiness, what he might have been, only from the faint glow of its corona.
Lars Iyer's Blog 