Will the scholars of Oxford have whispered of W.’s Cohen, W.’s Rosenzweig and W.’s messianism as they crossed college quadrangles (‘Mathematical messianism! Of course! Why didn’t we see it — Mathematics is the key to messianism!’; ‘By Jove, what brilliance!’)? Will the governing bodies of Cambridge have wondered whether to offer W. a Chair in philosophy (‘The blighter! So he’s finally done it …’; ‘What a marvel! Dash it all, if I only had half his intelligence …’)?
Will W. have received offers of American lecture tours and plenary talks? Will fellow scholars have stood on their chairs and cried, ‘hurrah!’, throwing their mortar boards in the air when they heard him speak? Will a ticker-tape parade have been held in his hometown, with W. being driven along waving to cheering crowds?
He feels light, W. says; the burden of his essay has been lifted from his shoulders. But he has a sense of purposelessness, of casting about. What will his next project be? Where next will he direct his academic labours?
His Gottbuch, his Book of God — might it be time for that? W. wonders. His Gottesbuch — Gott is in the genitive, W. says, correcting himself. Is it really time?
Only at a certain point in your life can you begin such a project, W. says. Only once you have ripened. Is he ready yet? W. wonders. Is it time to begin?
W.’s bored of his God researches on Wikipedia. — ‘The train’s no place for serious philosphy’, he says.
A moment later. — ‘Did you know that there are many different kinds of intelligence?’, W. says. ‘Wikipedia lists at least ten’. He’s going to contribute an article of his own, he says. On the many different kinds of stupidity. After all, it’d be criminal not to share his findings with the world. Not everyone gets to observe a real live idiot at first hand.
One. Linguistic stupidity. My stammering, W. says. My stuttering. I can’t speak. And I can’t read! W. says. Haven’t I said that the sentences in the Krasznahorkai books which W. lends me are too long to follow? Didn’t I say that The Melancholy of Resistance offers too little for the reader? And that War and War is too boring? — ‘Boring!’, W. exploded. ‘Life is boring! Literature is not a celebrity magazine!’ And then, ‘Literature should be boring!’
Two. Logical-mathematical stupidity. I’m the last person to whom he would turn for assistance in his mathematical studies, W. says. How many times has he tried to explain to me the significance of the infinitesimal in the work of Rosenzweig and Cohen? How many times has he drawn the graphs?
Three. Bodily-kinesthetic stupidity. I’m not what he’d call a graceful man, W. says. How much have I spilt from our pint glasses, as I carry them from the bar? How many beer-trays have I dropped? It’s my great flat feet, W. knows that. Didn’t I have to wear special shoes as a child? He imagines a smaller version of me flapping along like a duck.
Four. Interpersonal stupidity. I’ve no sensitivity to other people’s moods, W. says. To his moods, for one thing! How many times have I hurt his feelings? W. says. How many times have I turned on him? It’s always the way, after the first two days of drinking: I turn. I become nasty. It’s very upsetting, W. says.
Five. Intrapersonal stupidity. This has to do with introspective and self-reflective capacities, W. says. With what Kierkegaard calls inwardness. He can imagine what I see when I look inward, W. says. There, where you’re supposed to find the souclass="underline" only the expanse of the desert and the wind blowing. There, where you’re supposed to find the centres of will and deliberation: only a surging ocean, filled with kraken. There, where you’re supposed to find the seat of the intellect: only torn clouds, racing over the moon …
Six. Naturalistic stupidity. I’ve no feeling for nature, W. says, but then nor has he. In fact, he has a Jewish suspicion of nature (‘It’s unredeemed!’), and of the cult of the natural. But animals trust him. Robins would alight on the handle of his spade as he dug in his garden, if he had a spade or a garden. Squirrels would pick nuts from his outheld palm with their tiny paws …
You can tell a lot by what animals think of you, W. says. Animals watch me warily, he’s noticed. — ‘What’s the ape man going to do?’ Even plants seem worried, twisting towards W. for help.
Seven. Moral stupidity. I speak of myself in the middle voice, he’s noticed that, W. says. In a voice that is neither active nor passive and that has neither a subject nor an object. It’s to avoid all sense of responsibility! W. says. All sense of blame! I would never say, I’ve ruined W.’s life, W. says. There was ruination in W.’s life, I’d tell him. I would never say, I’ve soiled myself. There’s been a faecal emergency, I’d tell him.
Eight. Existential stupidity. Why are we here? What’s it all for? Why is there something rather than nothing? Questions I’ve never asked myself, W. knows that. Questions he asks himself constantly! Why does Lars exist?: isn’t that his first question? W. says. Why is there Lars rather than nothing?
Nine. Sartorial stupidity. What’s behind my Our-Man-from-Havana-after-twenty-years-on-the-beer look? What’s behind my footwear? A thinker should dress for thought, W. says. A philosopher should be judged on his tops and his tails. He’s lucky, because Sal dresses him, W. says.
Ten. Religious stupidity. I have no sense of God, W. says. No sense of monotheism! Oh, I have religious enthusiasms, W. grants that. Religious Schwärmerei. Sometimes, W. has felt moved to attribute a religious dimension to my despair over my life. To my warehouse years! To my years of unemployment and underemployment! But I’ve always fallen short of the idea of God, W. says. The idea of messianism. My Hinduism limits me, W. says. It’s quite obvious.
Eleven. Painting-and-decorating stupidity. Why did I paint my living room pink? W. wonders. What was going through my mind? Oh, he knows my answer: It was to bring out the red tones of the woodwork — of the built-in cupboards, with their louvre doors, I told him. But pink! W. says. Salmon pink! He shakes his head. Of course, the pink is turning brown now, in big patches, W. says. It’s turning green, too, and grey. Parts of the wall are spongy to touch. Parts of it seem to be becoming hairy. My posters of Louis Wain’s cats do nothing to cover it up.
Twelve. Romantic stupidity. W. imagines my courtship display, spreading the peacock’s tail of my idiocies. He imagines my great mating cry, like a wounded bull, W. says. But there will be no mating cry, and no courtship, he knows that. The word ‘love’ is completely meaningless to me.
Thirteen. Culinary stupidity. The discount sandwich is the opposite of food! W. says. The desecration of food! A man cannot live on stale gingerbread men and Kwik-Save beer alone, W. says. Though I’ve tried to.
Fourteen. Stupidity stupidity. The stupid are invariably stupid about being stupid, W. says. They have no idea of their own stupidity! Others laugh at the idiot and he laughs along. Everyone’s laughing! he thinks to himself. What fun! The stupid person doesn’t really suffer his stupidity, W. says. He leaves others to do that for him.