That there is thinking: how many times has W. meditated on that phrase? That there is thinking at all, that we have been permitted some leeway, some chance to lift ourselves from the life of the animal – isn't that the great surprise?, W. says. Isn't that the miracle?
Sometimes, he believes thinking to be a kind of curse, he says. Sometimes, the desire to think, the drive to think, seems like sheer perversity, sheer waywardness, and W. envies the base stupidity of animals, the silence of grass, the quiet growth of mushrooms in the forest glade.
But at other times, he knows that these same animals, these plants, are redeemed by thinking, that it is their only chance.
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