Schelling, Malebranche … no one's safe when I begin to think. Maimon, Nicholas of Cusa … Is there anyone who might be saved?
A rumbling through the heaven: Lars is writing one of his commentaries! Angels' cries: he's defiling Rosenzweig! And Weil! And Kierkegaard!
W. shudders. No one reads a line he writes, he says. It's of no significance at all. But when I write – when I publish my reflections, if he can call it publishing, if he can call them reflections – he wants to clasp the entire oeuvres of Rosenzweig, Weil and Kierkegaard to his breast. Wants to build a big wall around the library and all libraries, posting sentries to shoot me on sight.
Don't let him get near!, he's tell them. But he knows, like the Red Death of Poe's story, that I'm in there already, that my reading has eaten away at those oeuvres like cancer.
Lars Iyer's Blog 