Eco: Foucalt's Pendulum

It hurts all thesame. Patience. When I'm dead, it won't hurt.
It's very late. I leftParis this morning, I left too many clues. They've had time toguess where I am. In a little while, They'll be here. I would haveliked to write down everything I thought today. But if They were toread it, They would only derive another dark theory and spendanother eternity trying to decipher the secret message hiddenbehind my words. It's impossible, They would say; he can't onlyhave been making fun of us. No. Perhaps, without his realizing it,Being was sending us a message through its oblivion.
It makes no differencewhether I write or not. They will look for other meanings, even inmy silence. That's how They are. Blind to revelation. Malkhut isMalkhut, and that's that.
But try telling Them.They of little faith.
So I might as well stayhere, wait, and look at the hill. It's so beautiful.