We’re at a kind of threshold. This is the most important moment of our lives.
Is it?
Seen in a certain way.
In what way?
In Livia’s way.
Why? How?
We’ve lost our hope. Our final hope.
Which is?
That someone’s going to save us.
Hope doesn’t die that easily. We can’t help nut hope. We hope nonetheless. Hope against hope. For the little drummer postgraduate. Or the ‘Philosopher Child. Or whatever.
Stupid hope.
Call it what you like.
Farcical hope.
Sure it’s farcical! That’s what Livia loved, the farce. She’s thinking of us now, no doubt. She’s laughing now. She’s clapping her hands in delight right now …
I don’t get it: have we given up our hope or not?
It’s only now that our hope is revealed for what it is: as idiotic hope. Which is to say, messianic hope.
What a farce!
Sure, it’s farce. We’re at the height of the farce!
There’s nothing but farce – so long as we hope. And we cannot help but hope. It’s our most basic … reflex. Hopelessness isn’t an option. We’ll never just sink down – not completely. Not finally. We’ll get up again. We’ll rise again. Hope again! It’s the breath of life. In spiro spiro, and so on. It’s our last religiousness. Our last religious instinct. Our last idiotically religious gasp. Our last messianic … reaching. Even here in the dark – imagine. We’ll never learn. We’ll never have learnt …
Which is our glory.
Which is our stupidity.
Work in Progress 