“Wittgenstein was trying to gather his thoughts, but the wind caught them swirling them toward the rocky expanses. I'm lost, I thought, I'm back where I started. Ordinary people do not exist; there are Connolly, Donal, Molloy. The simpler, the more complex: a sterile life feeds fanaticism. What if philosophy and man were not strangers? Connolly is a common individual, and yet a philosopher. An eccentric, perhaps; but an eccentric is an instrument that makes revolutions. What if Connolly was right when she says that crisis is an everyday thing? The people will make fun of this madness, they will continue living in the innocent self-evidence of their gestures. There is no resurrection of the dead. If the dead rise, I am dead and buried. ”