Last night I had an odd reverie, one of those things that William Blake would call a “memorable fancy”. I suppose it may have followed from my earlier comment about the plague of “false prophets”. It wasn’t a dream, because I was quite awake.
In this reverie I found myself in a large, cavernous and somewhat darkened hallway. I’m supposing it was a cathedral. There were pews, but mostly empty pews. There was a man at the end of the hall, at a lectern, dressed in presbyter’s robes giving a sermon. His features were quite indistinct from my distance, but something in me recognised him as Francis Fukuyama. I couldn’t make out what he was sermonising about, but I presumed it was about “the end of history”.
Suddenly, though, as he was speaking, his head detached from his body, fell to the floor, and began rolling like a bowling ball down an aisle. Then a man leaped up from a pew, caught the head in his hands, and held it, kneeling, while the oracular head continued to sermonise as if nothing had happened. I looked back toward the lectern and saw his body still standing there, rigid and immobile, while the head continued to sermonise. Then the curtain came down on the reverie.
I know what the reverie is about, of course. Francis Fukuyama is no William Blake.
“I will not cease from mental fight, nor shall my sword sleep in my hand” until I’ve slain this dragon called “the End of History”.