Idiotbuch

The idiotbuch is part of the whole idiocy.

Idiocy tries to understand itself – hilarious. Idiocy gives itself a world-historical role. A messianic role. Idiocy writes a book about itself … Come on.

You were fooled, Shiva, if you thought you were going to escape the idiocy through some kind of meta-idiocy. Because that meta-idiocy was just more idiocy.


Shiva’s secret dreams of becoming more than an idiot. Your literaro-philosophical dreams. As if they could ever be the equivalent of Livia’s mathematico-philosophical dreams …

You fell into the literary trap by thinking you could escape the philosophical one. We’re all caught in the philosophical trap – sure we are. We’re all caught in the trap of being crap philosophers.

But you – you thought you could escape. You thought you might be some kind of literary stroke non-literary genius after all. You thought there was a secret meaning to you being made leader. When really, you were the greatest joke of all.


Our leader! Our idiot in chief! Who was being led into his own cul-de-sac. Beautiful.

But who’s the joke for? Who’s going to get the joke?

The readers of your idiot book, maybe.

What readers?

And Livia, who’s watching somewhere. And maybe Herwig, too. Livia is laughing and laughing somewhere. With that smile on her face. Clapping her hands.


The joke’s on you, Shiva. And even your name: what a stupid, grandiloquent name. The god Shiva’s supposed to be the one who can destroy everything and start it all over again. And you can’t end shit.

Oh the irony. The cruelty of a name. Your name mocks you. Your name mocks you.

All our names mock us. Taking the piss, Livia called it. That fine English expression.


You believed it, Shiva. You took it seriously. You thought Livia had given you some lofty Task, capital T. You thought you were going to squirm off the philosophical hook. But you just hung yourself on the literary hook instead! Ah, so amusing.

It is funny, in its way. I can laugh at you, anyway.