Wittgenstein Jr by Lars Iyer

party.
    Raves are full of posh girls now, waving glowsticks and going all trippy, he says. And the DJs have double-barrelled names.
    And there she was, in the middle of it all, Ede says. The sum of all beauty. The centre of the world.
    EDE: Do you know what it means to dance, Peters? To really move?
    He danced, Ede says. He broke out his moves. He mouthed song lyrics. He acted them out. He was slick. He was funny. She laughed. He smiled. He mouthed,
I like you
. She looked demure. He mouthed,
Shall we go outside?
She mouthed,
Yes
.
    Outside into the cool clear night. Fee: the centre of the world. And he, beside Fee, close to the centre. The pair of them, carving out their little channel in space-time.
    Everything is true
, he thought to himself, as they walked.
The stars are hard and bright and true. The moon is true. The night is true …
    Remember this
, he thought to himself.
I am awake and the world is new. Life is alive in me. Life is alive in a new way
.
    Does she know how beautiful she is?
, he thought to himself.
She’s Guinevere. She’s Helen of Troy. Wars could be fought over her. Murders committed. Holy vows broken
.
    I should kneel
, he thought to himself.
I should fall to my knees. I have been called, like a prophet. I have been chosen. I have a mission. The bells of life are ringing in my ears
.
    It was as if the world was rocking, Ede says. His knees were weak. To walk was to stagger. The pavement was a ladder mounting upwards.
    He laid his coat on her shoulders. She nestled into him.
I am Certainty
, he thought to himself.
I am Protection. I am the Firm Ground
. And her heart was the fluttering bird that he wanted to stalk, to catch, to hold, to free …
    And later that night, he bared her upper body. Later, he saw her white skin, her breasts, her luminous face, full of everything divine …
    Wittgenstein is hoarse this morning. He pulls a tube of cough sweets from his jacket pocket. He unwraps one, and pops it into his mouth.
    He speaks of the
undoing
of logic. Of logic’s
deactivation
. He speaks of the
release
of logic, as of captive birds into the wild.
    He speaks of giving logic a kind of
freedom
. A kind of
wildness
. He speaks of
unfettering
logic. Of taking off logic’s blinkers. He speaks of letting logic soar up wildly into its own sky …
    Logic is lost, that’s the trouble, he says. Logic has got lost. We must lead logic back to itself, he says. We must let logic recover its memories.
    And one day, logic will whisper in our ears, he says. Logic will say the kindest words. We will mistake it for roaring, he says. We will confuse it with the howling wind …
    And logic will bloom in our hearts, he says. And then we’ll see it—that our hearts, all along, were
logical
hearts. And logic, which we think we master, will be
our
master, he says. Logic will be the crown we wear on our heads …
    Redemption
: that’s what he seeks. Logical redemption. Logical
love
. It must sound strange to speak of logical
love
. But there really is such a thing as logical
love
.
    It must sound strange to speak of the
blood
of logic, he says. Of the
heart
of logic. But there really is such a thing as the
blood
of logic. As the
heart
of logic.
    In his dream, the
Logik
is light, he says. The
Logik
laughs.
    In his dream, the
Logik
can be expressed in a single greeting. In a single
word
. In his dream, the whole of the
Logik
can be expressed in a gesture. In a handshake. In a friendly nod of the head.
    A walk in Grantchester, under the weak winter sun. Wittgenstein, in a terrible mood. Whose idea was this?, he demands.
    Over the centuries, the academics of Cambridge have
worn a path
to Grantchester, he says. Over the centuries, the academics of Cambridge have sought to
cool off their minds
in the willow-shade of Grantchester. To
slip down a few gears
on the river-path to Grantchester. The Grantchester walk was part of the
rhythm
of their work; the
respiration
of their work. The Grantchester walk let their