He needs a tranquiliser gun, W. says, with a dart strong enough to bring down an elephant. How else is he going to stop me rampaging through philosophy, tearing up everything with my tusks?
That I write on Western philosophy is really the destruction of Western philosophy, W. says. That I write on religious ideas is really the destruction of all religious ideas. And that I pretend to think is really the destruction of thought, affecting all thinkers, everywhere.
Schelling, Feuerbach … no one's safe when I begin to think. Maimon, Nicholas of Cusa … Is there anyone who might be saved?
A rumbling through the heaven: Lars is writing one of his commentaries! Angels' cries: he's defiling Rosenzweig! And Weil! And Kierkegaard – what’s he going to do with him?
W. shudders. No one reads a line he writes, he says. It's of no significance at all. But when I write — when I publish my reflections, if he can call it publishing, if he can call them reflections — he wants to clasp the entire oeuvres of Bataille, Weil and Kierkegaard to his breast. Wants to build a big wall around the library and all libraries, posting sentries to shoot me on sight.
Don't let him get near!, he's told them. But he knows, like the Red Death of Poe's story, that I'm in there already, that my reading is eating away at those oeuvres like cancer.
Lars Iyer's Blog 