Death, death, death: W. hears them tolling in the sky, the great bells. We're at the end, the very end! There can't be much more, can there? This is it, isn't it? The credits are rolling…. The game is up….
They're calling him home, W. says. He sees them as light-filled figures in light, the philosophers of the past, the other thinkers. Is that Kant? Is that Schleiermacher? Is that Maimon, made of light? He's falling upwards, W. says. Is this the Rapture?
And meanwhile, where am I falling? Down, only down, W. says. And who do I see? Is that Sabbatai Zevi, the apostate Messiah? Is that Alcibiades, the great betrayer? Is that the humanzee, bred in Soviet research labs?
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