W. tells me of the legend among Essex postgraduates of the last thinker, of the thinker of the end of times, the alpha and omega of thought.
Of course, you'll never be able to tell who the last thinker is, W. says. He'll look like anyone else, W. says. At least that's how he (W.) sees it: the last thinker'll look exactly like anyone else. And perhaps he doesn't know he's the last thinker himself. Perhaps he has no idea of his mission, W. says, like a god who's forgotten he's a god. Like a son of God, unaware of his calling.
Perhaps it's the last thinker he seeks, attending early morning conference sessions. Perhaps that's what's he looks for in the thinkers he invites to stay with him in his home, W. muses. He's waiting, in his own way, W. says. At any moment, his guest will be revealed in glory. At any moment, it will be the last thinker, the messiah of thought, who sits beside him.
Good God, perhaps that's why he even hangs out with me! Is Lars the last thinker?, W. sometimes catches himself thinking as he walks beside me on the street. Is he the thinker of the end of times?, he muses sometimes, watching me eat my chips, tomato ketchup staining my jumper. Probably not, W. thinks.
Lars Iyer's Blog 