Ah, but what does it matter, any of this?, W. says. There’s no time left. It's coming, the end, as great and fearsome as a hurricane. Climatic collapse, financial collapse: it's coming, the great wind that will blow out our candles …
Death is striding towards us. Death is laughing in the morning air. It's so obvious, so clear. Why can't everyone see it: death, laughing, striding towards us?
How they're going to hate us, all of us, the future generations!, W. says. He can feel their hatred even now. They're not yet born, they've yet to appear on their scorched and burning earth, but they already hate us. They already hate us, especially him (W.) …
Some of them, of course, will never appear. Some of them have been denied even their chance to be born. They hate us even more for that, he says. They hate him even more.
And he feels the hatred of the generations of the past, W. says. He feels their hatred, those who felt something good might come from their struggles on the slaughter-bench of history. He feels their disappointment, those who expected something better to come.
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