He's not bright enough, that's his tragedy, W. says. That there is another dimension of thought, another dimension of life he will never attain; that the murk of his stupidity has a gleaming surface: he half understands, half knows; but he doesn't understand, he doesn't know.
But isn't that his mercy, too; isn't that what saves him? For if he understood, really understood, how immeasurably he had failed, wouldn't he have had to take his life in shame? If he knew, really knew, the extent of his shortcomings, wouldn't his blood have had to mingle with the water?
But then, if he really understood, he wouldn't be stupid, W. says.
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