Idiocy is always unwitting, W. says. It doesn't really know itself. It doesn't really suffer itself, that's its lightness. The idiot is an innocent, a child.
Others laugh at him, the idiot, and he laughs along. Everyone's laughing!, he thinks. Great! He even laughs at himself – but what does he understand of what he's laughing at? Everything's funny. He's an idiot – and that's funny, too. Everything's funny! Everything's hilarious.
W.'s not laughing anymore, he says. He's done with laughing. His laughter has stuck to his thoat. These are serious times, he says. When have things ever been more serious than this?
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