He had a strange dream the other night, W. says. I had become a kind of priest. A Hindu priest, with lines of ash on my forehead, and my hair long and in a topknot.
I was speaking the Law, W. says. Not about the Law, but the Law itself, as if it could be spoken. As if I would know the Law.
I spoke in a low murmur, W. says, that was inseparable from a rumbling all around us. The skies were darkening, W. says. Stormclouds were massing in the sky.
It was like the Biblical disasters, W. says. The great flood. The plague of locusts. The destruction of Sodom. But it was worse, W. says. It was more terrible, even as it seemed to leave everything intact.
The destruction of the world was the world: that’s what suddenly became clear to him, in his dream, W. says. The end of the world was already present in every detail of the world. The eschaton was already here; the apocalypse was already happening.
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