In the end, W. says, the last thinker might be each of us, any of us. He (W.) might be the last thinker, but so might I. There's nothing which distinguishes the last thinker from anyone else, not until he thinks in W.s mind, he says. Not until he speaks of what thinks.
It's a thought that will let you become the last thinker, W. says. It's only the thought that matters, W. tells himself. Having the thought, or letting the thought have you. Perhaps it's only being able to void yourself, unburden yourself sufficiently to let the thought come that will distinguish you as the last thinker, as the last of thinkers.
That's why we must follow the path of idiocy, W. says. That's why he must follow me, the perfect idiot. He's waiting for the clearing to open. Waiting for idea to be born inside him. Waiting to be spoken, ventriloquised. It's quite a process.
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