From the greatest stupidity, the greatest thought, W. sometimes thinks to himself, he's not sure why. Will the last thinker – the thinker who will wrap it all up, the Messiah of thought – be distinguishable from the perfect idiot? The last thinker, the perfect idiot: they're versions of the same figure, in W.'s imagination, he says. They're the same figure, viewed in different ways.
Is idiocy the path to thought, or thought, idiocy? Is idiocy the outcome of the process, of thought? W.'s not sure of the answer.
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