Is there hope for us, any hope?, W. wonders. We're hungover. The light hurts our eyes. Perhaps in our own way, we have prayed, W. says, as we reach the Hoe. Perhaps that's how we'll be judged: as idiots, it is true, but as prayerful idiots. We had a sense of what was good, a sense of what was right. And a sense of God, too – perhaps we even had that.
But there is something, too, that we lacked. For did we ever suffer enough? Were we not always too blithe, too light-spirited? 'The destiny of this life is that it be brought to the extremity of life weariness', Kierkegaard wrote in his journals. The extremity of life weariness: how hungover would we have to be to feel that? How much would we have had to drink?
Lars Iyer's Blog 