What will he say when the last words of philosophy are spoken? Wittgenstein wonders. What will he say, when the spell of philosophy has been broken?
He’ll say nothing, he says. He’ll open his eyes. He’ll look up at the sky. He’ll laugh.
After philosophy, thoughts will be common, Wittgenstein says. Thought will belong to all, like the sunlight, like the rain.
After philosophy, there will be nothing important at all, he says—everything will be important. Everything will take on significance. The light on a particular afternoon will be as rich as the collected works of Kant.
• • •
To come across philosophy rusting in a field, like an old piece of farm machinery. To chance upon philosophy as one might the fossilised carcass of some great prehistoric beast. That’s what he wants, he says. To decommission philosophy. To place it out of use, as former terrorists do their weapons …
For two and a half thousand years, philosophy has been turning like a cat, wanting to lie down. Two and a half thousand years of thought seeking rest, seeking sleep, seeking death …
But soon thought will lie down, he says. Soon, philosophy will lie down.
Only at its end will we know what philosophy was, he says. Only at the brink of its cessation will philosophy reveal itself.
On the last day, philosophy will stand silhouetted against non-philosophy. Against the storms of non-philosophy.
On the last day, thought will lie down with the opposite of thought. On the last day, thought and the world will be as one.
On the last day, there will be nothing left to think. On the last day, thought itself will become redundant.
At the end, after the end, we will use the Critique of Pure Reason as a kilo-weight, the Tractatus as scrap paper. Our children will doodle on the works of Plato, and make paper boats from the pages of Spinoza. They will fold the Monadology into a paper hat …
The end of logic. The end of philosophy.
His head will empty, when it comes, he says. His head will be empty, as our heads are already empty.
And philosophy will be revealed as what it is, and what it always was—nothing. And logic will have at last come into its own—as nothing.
The end will see the hollowing-out of philosophy, he says. The voiding of logic. Until it becomes the empty shell through which nothingness roars like a distant sea.
Three AM. The hard white light of Accident and Emergency. Guthrie, propped between Ede and I, apparently concussed. Staging the death of Empedocles was bound to have its risks.
An indignant rah, demanding to be attended to straight away. A suicidal Sloane, wheeled straight into resus. A Varsity face, moaning loudly, a patch over his right eye. Some rugby beefcake bluelighted in after a drinking game—it’s not a good night unless you end up in A&E, he bellows.
EDE (pissed off): I wish he’d fucking shut up — fucking caveman.
Cries as minor fractures are set. As local anaesthetic is injected. Groaning. Wailing. The malty smell of urine.
The doctor shines a light in Guthrie’s eye, and disappears again.
EDE (more pissed off): Fuck this.
We stare at the no-win, no-fee solicitors’ notices. At the in-house hospital magazine. At the ward philosophy poster—striving for your health in a holistic way … encompassing your disabilities … understanding your cultural sensitivities …
EDE (completely pissed off): Let’s just leave him here, for fuck’s sake. He won’t know the difference.
GUTHRIE/EMPEDOCLES: Can’t you see where you are looking? You see the earth, a pit, and you see only these miserable laws, which are laws of the dead. Don’t you look to the laws of the gods?
We prop Guthrie against the wall. Snatches of Empedocles follow us to the door.
• • •
Out — into the night. The sense of having made the greatest of escapes.
Our friendships are not deep, we agree. We hardly know what friendship means. We happen to come together, that’s all. We coincided, that’s all. We were going in the same direction for a while, and we made the best of it.
Cambridge is only an interlude, we agree. Cambridge is a corridor, a passageway. And we’ve milled about together, waiting for life to begin.
After Cambridge, we’ll fall out of contact. After Cambridge, we’ll unfriend each other on Facebook. After Cambridge, we’ll forget each other’s names. Each other’s voices. After Cambridge, we’ll begin to confuse each other with someone else.
We fell into step with one another for a while, that is all. We passed the time …
The Snowball.
Ede and I, in our dress suits, knocking on Wittgenstein’s door.
He looks tall when he answers. Neat. No jacket. White shirt. Pleated trousers, worn high on the waist.
How fresh his room seems! His floor — how it shines! I picture myself walking across it in bare feet.
WITTGENSTEIN (smiling): Your ties are all wrong.
He reaches out just as Ede lifts his chin, adjusting the angle of Ede’s bow tie.
How intense he is! As though bow ties were a problem in logic!
WITTGENSTEIN (smiling again): There!
My turn. I look upwards, at the panelling on the ceiling.
WITTGENSTEIN: That’s better. Now, off you go and lose your souls.
Bubble machine and bouncy castle …
Girls in ball gowns, leaping in their tights. Rahs in dinner jackets, jumping in their socks.
And whooping. Everybody whooping. It’s quite the new thing, whooping.
This would be the right moment for a campus massacre, we agree.
• • •
Cocaine. Tequila. More cocaine. More tequila. Our noses tingle. Our throats are hoarse from shouting. Our heads are dizzy …
The entertainment arrives: children’s TV presenters, reality TV stars. Are we all having a good time tonight? Have we all been good boys and girls? Have we written our lists for Santa? Have we gobbled up all the chocolates in our advent calendars?
More cocaine and tequila, to numb the pain. Have we all taken quite enough drugs and alcohol?
Doyle’s come as Bad Santa, and Mulberry, as his demonic elf, with a sack full of laughing gas balloons. We whoop ourselves crazy …
• • •
The park, 3.00 AM. Titmuss, lying in the flowers, chanting quietly. Guthrie, in Doyle’s Santa hat, kebab grease around his mouth. Ede and I on the bench, sharing a bottle of vodka.
EDE: He likes you.
ME: Who?
EDE: Wittgenstein. Wittgenstein likes you.
ME: What do you mean, likes me?
EDE: I mean likes you, you idiot. It’s obvious.
ME: Fuck off. No way.
EDE: It’s your boyish charm. Your innocence. You really are an innocent, Peters.
ME: There’s no way he likes me.
EDE (sagely, draining the last of the vodka): That’s why he likes you, Peters: because you say things like that.
In my dream, snow falls on Wittgenstein’s sleeping body. Snow covers him, like a crisp white bedroom sheet. But it covers his shoulders and his arms and his head, too.
In my dream, he is stirring, his eyes are opening. His head falls to one side. He’s facing—me.