The letter from Wittgenstein

The letter from Wittgenstein

From the case book of Sherlock Holmes

As recorded by Dr Watson/ Kvant

MKvant@csi.com

Chapter one.

The letter from Wittgenstein

“This letter is from Wittgenstein”. Holmes voice was ice cold.

A rather anonymous looking envelope, stamped in Cambridge on October the 25th, had arrived at Baker Street two days later, moist, damped and the paper had yellowed. The postman delivered it personally although it was insufficiently stamped for such a service.

“Would you sign here, sir, if you would, please”, demanded the postman. His uniform shining new, he was a worthy representative of the British civil service at its very best. He could do with a haircut, though, I thought. “Was he Scottish by any chance?

The famous detective scrutinised the envelope, tore open the letter rapidly, studied carefully its content, folded it again thoughtfully and placed it in his inner pocket. The postman, arranging his bag, hadn’t yet left.

“This may prove to be our last case, Watson”, said Holmes. “No more cases will remain in now. Mr Postman, would that be all?»

“Yes of course, excuse me. I’ll be on my way”. Holmes accompanied him to the door, closing it with care.

Clearly the famous detective was concerned. His forehead in wrinkles, eyes half shut, he turned sharply, snapping his fingers as if to shake off something.

“I’m afraid we must prepare to leave now at once, Watson. Remember to trust no one, keep to ourselves until we have finished. Guard this treasure as if it were all that is the case. The risk however, my dear friend, is far from negligible at all, that we may not return from this as people once remembered us”, said Holmes.

It did seem unlikely somehow, that a letter of this appearance could be of recent origin so I wanted to ask Holmes what he thought of it. Living so close to the great detective for so many years had taught me to observe even the minuteness of details. Wasn’t this after all the very essence of Holmes’ so very successful methods?

Holmes glanced puzzled at me and handed me the letter. It was clearly addressed to him.

Holmes

221B Baker Street

London

I opened it. Was it really from Wittgenstein? How could it be?

The famous Austrian philosopher didn’t exist any longer. He died in 1951. Was it at all possible that a letter from him could arrive now? Had he composed it himself all these years ago? If so, where had the letter been? Who had posted it? And why indeed had he chosen to write to Holmes in the first place on these matters?

It was by no means an elegant letter, simply hand-written with a ball-pen on his note-paper. It was stained with damp marks everywhere and clearly not of recent origin. Thousands and one questions rushed through my mind as I read the content of the letter. The text was very short, condensed.

1.World too narrow! Even if, as I have proved, there is only one.

1.1.The World was all that was the case

1.2.If truth was true, then truth is true now.

1.3.Does future exist?

1.3.1.Butterflies, grids and quantum physics.

2.Will truth prevail? - Probability is left with no choice.

2.1.Probability is man’s free will

3.Methods inadequate

4.(line was empty, erased, smeared or spotted with a liquid)

5.Speech not essential

5.1.Oysters do not speak much

5.2.Darwin and hubris govern still

6.Please join at Diogenese Club on October 27th at 1700 hours precisely.

6.1.Better keep quiet about silence.

6.2.Necessarily named Ludwig, ha! not him. Your destiny forever.

7.A priori.

8.Proof available but now to short to write it down!

Servus, for ever. Ludwig.(Wittgenstein)

This was all that the letter contained.

A rather strange kind of letter, undisputedly.

I pride myself of a good portion of common sense but this letter required Moore. It certainly made little sense to me. My linguistic skills are no worse than anybody’s but the text clearly needed to be broken down further to be analysed, understood and verified.

“What do you make of it? Holmes”, I asked.

Holmes stood by the French window, looking out onto the foggy October-misty London street. The tulle curtains trickled the feeble afternoon light falling on his figure further sculpturing his chin. I glanced at him, subordinately.

“Elementary, my dear friend, they are not, these thesis”, answered Holmes somewhat contemptuously. “And if had they been, I’m afraid it wouldn’t have brought us much closer. However, once we’ve understood what this is about, then we may very well forget all about it.. Watson, is it not but too obvious that we know far too little? Holmes paused, sighing..

“Is it really from Wittgenstein”, I asked Holmes. “ It certainly is signed Ludwig (Wittgenstein) and it looks old enough. But, could it be a malicious hoax or the act of an adulterator? I mean, he’s been dead for some time already, not forgotten, no, but physically his body is no longer with us. He must have sent this letter way back in 1950 or so. To invite us to meet him today at the Diogenes Club. Is someone trying to trap us into something? No, surely all this is too improbable”.

“Watson, the letter is from Wittgenstein. No doubt about that. It’s written by someone of philosophical disposition and you see yourself, that the letter finishes with the greeting “Servus”, which is a courtesy phrase exclusively used by Austrians. And it’s stamped in Cambridge, where Wittgenstein lived most of his life”.

“Circumstantial proof”, Holmes, “and not at all like you”, I protested. “Any philosophically minded Austrian might cook up such a forgery”.

“True, but you can see that the letter was written in great haste. I think you agree, Watson, that a more than brilliant mind is needed to coin such eternal thesis so quickly. And after all, only Wittgenstein would have whistled Beethoven’s Destiny symphony whilst writing such an intricate and complicated letter. He was a brilliant whistler and was particularly fond of whistling the symphonies of Ludwig van Beethoven”.

“Holmes! Whistled van Beethoven? How can you tell that he whistled a piece of Beethoven?

“Watson, the stains! All over the letter you see the damp patches as if the page had been sprinkled by a sneeze. But on closer scrutiny you will notice that the patches are not randomly distributed but follows an up and down pattern, displacing along the text, just as we would expect them to be, moving your head slightly up and down when you whistle. And with the air flow from one’s mouth follows, of course, tiny droplets of saliva, inevitably, yellowing with time to become visible”.

“In fact, it wouldn’t surprise if he had been whistling his fifth symphony at the time. He even jokes about it himself in thesis n° 6.2.”, Holmes continued.

Holmes whistled “The Destiny Symphony” by Beethoven and we were able to follow the up and down pattern to match exactly the ones on the paper. The letter had turned into music scores.

"Strange though". Holmes eyes shrunk. His sight dimmed. The symphony was composed in c-minor and it seems to me as if he whistled a semitone out of key. Well we must ask Wittgenstein himself, perhaps he had his reasons at the time. It would take us too far on the road of guesswork to speculate at this stage”. Holmes eyes had blackened, his pupils hardly visible.

“Well, yes, I see”, I said disillusioned and nodded. “That’s all cleared then”. I was rather thoughtful and still puzzled, confronted with the possible implications of these facts.

“No, the enigma, Watson, is that he has written the letter after his death!"

“But Holmes that’s absurd, no one can write anything after one’s death, letter or not”, I objected. “Why do you say such things? ”

“The letter is hand written with a ball-pen. And the ball-pen was yet to be invented in 1951 when Wittgenstein died. This matter is very serious, Watson, and we should put everything else aside. It’s the most important case we’ve faced so far”. Holmes was portentously solemn.

“But enough of this now, we are, as I said, in a hurry. And again, Watson, please remember, not a sign, a sound, stay incognito! This is of primordial importance. Many a life may depend on it. And still, imagine, there are people who think philosophy is dying when in fact this kind of problems has only just begun.”

Holmes, who undisputedly isn’t recognised primarily for his gayety, gave up a short nervous laughter. He took his coat, hat and stick, ready to leave.

“I have felt it coming for a long time”, said Holmes. “Had it not been for the GAP, it would have been very promising indeed. But I fear what we will witness, may widen the GAP still further. Indeed, we may even contribute to it. This is the paradox of continuity.”

"You mustn’t be too puzzled though, Watson”, continued Holmes. “It’s still a bit early to completely comprehend all this. We will discuss it with Wittgenstein later and thus it will become much clearer to everybody.”

I was used not always to be able to follow the great detective’s quick-witted mind but this, I must admit, was rather too much.

We left. Holmes shut the door behind us firmly as to make sure he’d left everything in order. We descended the staircase and walked out into the greyish London mist. The shop windows continued raying their seductive suggestions as usual. Pavements full of passers by and shoppers looking for yet something to buy perhaps. The traffic was intense. Nothing moved fast. Holmes looked at his watch.

“A brisk walk will do us good”, I suggested.

Said and done, we decided to walk to the Diogonese Club instead of taking a cab. Holmes said nothing and seemed composed. There were people all around us, heading for whatever their aim. Holmes walked purposefully, almost colliding with by-passers.

“Most people go home after work”; I said catching my breath. “Then they have a drink or two and then they switch on the TV to let time pass by”.

“Quite”, said Holmes very short. “That’s part of the GAP”.

“What do you mean? Holmes”, I asked. “How I wish that sometimes people would express themselves clearer”.

“Exactly”, said Holmes.

Chapter two

The logical room

We arrived at the Diogenes Club, my friend and myself. The main entrance was closed, which is rare.

“We’ve had an incident. Our guardian was taken ill”, the doorman excused himself. “I’ve replaced him on a temporary basis”. He seemed a bit bewildered with his long hair and his foreign accent. He looked familiar somehow. Had we seen him before? Surely not.

Holmes, being the celebrity he is, was of course recognised immediately and we were admitted straight away although we possessed no membership cards. The doorman opened a side door for us. His wrist carried a tattoo, rather a grim looking one too, I thought. Perhaps was he a seaman? Somewhat displaced really to have such a character as doorman at a reputable club like this one. Holmes passed quickly, almost pushing me trough as well. We stopped in the lounge as if to scout. The atmosphere was dense, as always. The brass knobs polished, the mahogany varnish well maintained. The club is still well managed indeed. We saw fewer people than normal there. Some read the Times. A few smoke cigars and some had their glass of Port. The pots of palm trees contributed to the special odour.

We entered the chambers. Holmes looked around, searching.

“Holmes”, I said. “I think that is von Wright sitting over there. He seems sad somehow.”

“He has his reasons”, answered Holmes. “I’m looking for my brother, Mycroft, he understands a thing or two”.

Behind us someone approached and his deep voice was not to be confused:

“ Sherlock, my dear brother. I haven’t seen you for a long time. Please join our company. We are in here”.

Mycroft took his brother by the arm and lead us along into a back room.

“They call it “The Logical Room”, laughed Mycroft. “It is rather funny, isn’t it?”

Only my professional experience protected my sanity. Years of treating people going through sometimes devastating traumas have taught me to handle even severe chocks. What I saw in this room was not possible however, this I knew, and still there he was in front of my very eyes.

Wittgenstein in person sat at the table looking down, whistling slowly. He was smoking.

“Delighted to meet you again at last, Holmes”, said Wittgenstein. “Sorry about the letter but as you realise there was no other option. The thing is, I need your help with a particularly awesome case”.

I was stunned. My world order collapsed. Wittgenstein had after all been a real person, not a fictitious one like Holmes and me. He couldn’t be here now. He died in 1951. That was in the past. And yet, he shook hands with Holmes, who smiled and remarked that no one had heard much from him lately.

“No, it is true, that I’ve been dead awhile”, said Wittgenstein smiling. “I didn’t mean to, but that was all that was the case. It has permitted me, though, to keep quiet about a few things I that I couldn’t know about. It has its moments to be left with some peace, though, to go through a few loose ends without being too distracted by insignificant things. It’s a state that is normally not to be recommended but it does have a few advantages nevertheless, as a matter of fact.”

“To speak the truth, I’m deeply worried. All the elements are there and yet no one seems aware of its implications. We have the power to avoid the worst crime humanity has ever been threatened with and still it is not clear how to. My present state of health forbids me to prevent it all by myself. I must rely on your help, Sherlock. After all, in this respect, I’m less fortunately equipped than you are. Your existence being less time dependant, alas.”

Chapter three

The boundary conditions.

Holmes sat down. So did Mycroft and Wittgenstein. The clock struck five.

“Please do take part, Dr Watson”, said Wittgenstein invitingly. “We all value your views and sound mind. May we even ask you to take down some minutes?

I sank down slowly in the armchair, incapable of grasping my role. My mind at this moment was far from sound.

“I’ve expected your letter, Ludwig”, said Holmes. “It was bound to arrive. Recent events as well as all the familiar ones inevitably lead to your conclusions. You are no less brave today than yesterday”.

“I agree”, said Mycroft. “Perhaps the problem lies elsewhere?” he suggested tryingly.

“Sherlock”, said Wittgenstein. “Mycroft and I have already discussed things thoroughly. Yet we fail to conclude. There is also the aspect of common knowledge to address. This side, I’ve learnt over the years, is of no less importance. We all realise, in view of our findings, this side to be indeed the basis of what we realise. But common knowledge becomes so only when that happens. This is another issue where I need all your help. All we are certain of, is that it’s of utmost urgency and capital potency”.

I felt entirely bewildered. What were they talking about? And I was supposed to take records and write it down!

“Pardon me, but may I interrupt shortly?” I asked humbly. “Would it be of great inconvenience if, to get my minutes down correctly, someone gave a short background?”

“Not at all, Dr Watson”, said Wittgenstein. “Right, this is in fact exactly my view. My compliments to you, Dr Watson. All your work also proofs your exquisite talent in recording events. No one is held in higher esteem, I can assure you”.

Wittgenstein concentrated, as is his habit, walked around us, looking up, looking down, his sight elsewhere.

“The background, well, I think events that happen are somehow glued onto it, the background I mean, with couplings of some sort. Do you understand better now, Dr Watson?

I wasn’t much convinced, quite frankly, but my inner pride prevented me from demanding further clarifications.

“I’ve come to rethink some of my earlier thoughts”, said Wittgenstein. “But as I haven’t been present lately, I have had no information at all on what others may have concluded lately. Can someone brief me rapidly?»

“The practical side of life has never been my strong point”, said Mycroft. “I haven’t got a clue”.

“My views are not less biased, I’m afraid”, said Holmes. “As you know, I’ve been preoccupied with the criminal aspect of human behaviour. I certainly haven’t heard anything spectacular.

“May we ask you, Dr Watson, to fill us in?» Wittgenstein turned his head towards me.

I was lost. How could I possibly lecture these people and the very Wittgenstein in particular even if he asked me to? And about what? I realised Wittgenstein wanted to learn about recent events but in which field? About what? I hesitated rather too long and Wittgenstein, eager and intense as always, continued himself.

“By the way, is my cottage in Norway still intact?» he asked. “I’d really like to know. I could have asked von Wright about it, but, I don’t know, he seems saddened and stuck somehow. He’s turned rather unsympathetic to progress, I feel. Can you really ask someone who sees not to do so?» Wittgenstein started to whistle. The symphony of Destiny. And out of key too. “ The time is again out of joint”, Wittgenstein glanced furtively at Holmes. “Were we sole born to set it right?”

“There was Kripke, of course”, said Mycroft. “I don’t know if it says you anything? But he was perhaps rather more interested in whether you were really called Ludwig, Ludwig. I suppose he doesn’t know either if your cottage is still called your cottage. No, old chap, I’ve got it, Dennett of course. He ought to be aware of his consciousness”.

“Right, I see your points”, added Holmes. “And still, there are bound to be people who do know. It’s just that we haven’t heard of them. Maybe they do not say much, maybe they think it too unpopular or not enough profitable”.

“Anyway, it was just a cottage, but I liked it a lot”, said Wittgenstein.

This whole affair was clearly getting out of hand. “Gentlemen”, I tried. “Would it be an idea to review Mr Wittgenstein’s letter and go on from there?”

“Brilliant, I’m very content that you were able to attend, Dr Watson”, said Wittgenstein. “And please do call me Ludwig”.

The door flew open. A waiter entered. It was the new doorman who obviously had had his duties altered.

“May I suggest some refreshments?" he asked. His accent very particular indeed.

“I think, I’ve already made it clear that your presence is not desired”, exclaimed Holmes rather unfriendly I thought. “Please make sure not to disturb us again. You may leave. And do not think for a moment that your intentions are not known”.

The waiter turned on his heal and left. He didn’t even bother to close the door properly. Some of these foreigners really have poor manners.

Holmes handed me the letter. I opened it and laid it flat on the table. I prepared to read it loud. Holmes, putting his finger to his mouth, signalling silence rose to close the door.

“Watson, you may begin”, urged Holmes.

“1. World too narrow” I read.

“Who can comment on this?” I tried. “Is this a statement or just your personal feelings due to all the recent time you had to spend in a coffin like state of existence, Mr Wittg… Ludwig”. I was deliberately provocative as I was by now somewhat desperate to understand what this was indeed all about.

“No, no, I have nothing to do with it any longer”, replied Wittgenstein. ‘I just feel that it has to be said. You know well my standpoint. On the one hand, it’s plain silly to speculate about things that we can never learn about. By definition, we can know nothing of it. Not the World, of course, but all the other things that are out of reach and still it’s fascinating, isn’t it? Are we really indefinitely locked up into our logical way of reasoning? Or could we find a new logic and thus discover a new, all together different World? Would we then include our present World as a sub-World in this, the more Omni-comprehensive greater one?»

“Can we, alas, conclude that there is but one World and that we may have no other Worlds beside it then?» postulated Holmes.

“Yes, yes”, said Wittgenstein eagerly. “Of course, but there is more to it than that. Suppose now that the World is made of everything. All space and all events. Including common knowledge. But everything is clearly not known by everybody so everything haven’t yet become common knowledge. Thus everything wouldn’t have been known in the first place and the World wouldn’t contain it. Clearly what we call the World is not wide enough. In other words: If everything is there why on earth do we not know everything then? It is strange indeed”.

“Has there been other worlds”, asked Mycroft rhetorically.

“Aha, you may have a point there”, said Wittgenstein. “I think this has some bearing. Perhaps the World doesn’t contain everything after all. Maybe it’s evolving, learning as it evolves”.

Holmes’ logical mind worked hard. So did all of ours. We are touching the very edges of human capabilities. We’re creating history. This was obvious to everybody present. “We shouldn’t jump to conclusions”, advised Holmes.

“May I add a wee personal comment?” I asked rhetorically. “I fail to see what significance the existence of ancient possible worlds may have. As far as everyone knows, the past doesn’t exist any longer, just as the future doesn’t exist yet. It does seem rather obvious to everybody, doesn’t it?

“The Logical Room” turned completely silent. Holmes looked a trifle embarrassed, Mycroft whistled sultrily. Wittgenstein lit another cigarette. Was it so utterly silly what I had said? Better perhaps to keep quiet on matters that I could know nothing of.

“Suppose you’re right, just for the sake of argument, Watson”, said Holmes. “It would have some very significant implications”.

“Very amusing”, remarked Mycroft. “If neither the past nor the future exist, it leaves us with just the present, Now. Haha, one asks oneself how long is it then, your precious Now, Dr Watson”.

“The past is a priori”, said Wittgenstein suddenly as he got up from his chair, walking around again. Then he stopped, composed himself and looked at us earnestly.

“The past is true, no arguing about that. What was was. Die Welt war alles was der Fall war. This is the base.” He rose from the table and walked around nervously. Finally he stopped and just stood there, still, glazing. He had commenced his whistling again, unconsciously.

“Hideous, mark my words”, beamed Mycroft. “Descartes missed the point. He should have postulated: I thought, hence I was. Right out hilarious”. Mycroft bursts out in laughter. “You’ve really put a golden edge to our little congregation, Dr Watson. Hahaha”. Tears of joy rolled down his rounded cheeks. His belly jumping. Mycroft indeed was amused.

“Still this may prove less amusing than one would anticipate to start with”, said Wittgenstein. “Time has somehow been left out before once too often”.

Holmes, who had been silent for some time, rose. I recognised immediately the symptoms. After all I have been his friend and confidant as well as his medical doctor for a considerable period of time.

“Television has degraded to the extent that it has become a menace to public sanity”, said Holmes suddenly somewhat out of context, I thought.

“Yes, yes, I agree”, answered Wittgenstein. “What is done is done, there is no turning back. It is an enormous responsibility. Once happened it turns into the truth and may even remain the truth forever. Knowledge equals the World just before Now.»

“It would explain why so many waste their lives on dangerous things, doesn’t it? asked Holmes rhetorically. “Maybe they have simply misinterpreted the past, not drawing the right conclusions?”

“No, no, you’re completely wrong, Holmes,” replied Wittgenstein. “Your detective mind overruns you. Those are details; we’re not talking about that. Well yes, you are right too, but later, it has to be done too. Even if it was untrue it is true forever that it was untrue. Put otherwise, if things weren’t true then, then they weren’t and that’s all there is to it.”

“But first, and more constructively, if “Now” is so damned short and with very little time in it, perhaps none at all, then surely we cannot know everything. How could we? It’s completely clear. It really does explain a thing or two. We would only have time to make one single observation or think one single thought at a time.”

“We all share your point, every case has its proper time. And yet without it we can hardly proceed, can we?” Mycroft wiped his nose.

“Does the World proceed without us thinking of it? Well yes of course, it does indeed seem to be the case. It certainly did so before I came into existence. But rather, the knowledge in it, does it evolve if we decide not to bother? This is my concern”, said Holmes. “And then still Knowledge is the World”.

“No, Holmes, the World was all the Knowledge that it contained”, argued Wittgenstein. “We must move on!” He had started walking around again. Whistling anew MI MI MI, DO, RE RE, DO……….

“Quite the opposite”, Holmes was impatient, “surely all the laws of physics have always existed, permanently. They’ve never evolved, have they? By the way, why do you whistle a halftone out of key, Ludwig?"

"But I do not! In my frame of reference, where I exist, "Times" runs faster than in yours and it just sounds like that. Remember that I'm still a sort of wave spirit not suffering from gravity as much as you are."

"Possibly" said Holmes enlightened. As I said the laws of nature never change. From those we can in principal foresee everything and learn everything. It follows that the Knowledge in the World up until NOW must already be there, carved into the stones long ago”.

“You’re confusing two things Holmes”, protested Wittgenstein. One thing is what we know. Quite another if all there is to known already exists, to be discovered ultimately”.

“Please, Ludwig, do not take me for a child”.

Holmes became ever more restless. He now walked to and fro, tapping his stick nervously. It is in this state that he often shows his most brilliant sides. I still cannot endorse it. This habit of his breaks down his bodily functions piece by piece. Such strong agents cause very strong reactions.

“The past contains all there is to know as of yet”, said Holmes out of a sudden clarity. “If it hadn’t been for “Now” the future would have looked exactly the same. Now distorts the World”.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself”, said Wittgenstein.

“For some, Now can be too harsh to endure”, continued Holmes. “Maybe they feel the future to be probably less painful. In any case, it is mere speculation, silly and still a severe menace. This is the one point where Marx was right. Religion and all that I mean, haven’t we had enough of fabrications? None has proven indispensable. Crystals, astrology, boxing and healing, God knows where we’re heading. I’m feeling poorly, you must excuse me for a while.»

Holmes left The Logical Room for a moment. We all looked down, thinking about the implications. Mycroft seemed more concerned than ever before. Wittgenstein remarked that it is strange indeed that he, the great detective, could leave any logical room for such a trivial habit.

“We all know”, I said. “There is nothing we can do about it. It’s his only weakness. I can do nothing but ensuring that he gets the very best. My professional code of conduct preventing me from supplying him, of course, but what I can do is to have the stuff checked. Syringes I’m authorised to furnish”.

“In your cases, it’s of rather less significance, I presume”, said Wittgenstein.” I hope you forgive me for saying so and you must take it rightly for what it is. But Holmes wouldn’t suffer too much, I think, having such a devoted friend as yourself, Dr Watson. It is true, however also, and this we must and cannot denounce, that neither of us exist, you Dr Watson, Holmes and Mycroft you never were anything but fictitious whereas I myself, though having been real for some time, left this world in 1951. And still we continue to shape the future. That’s odd somehow, isn’t it? How can fictitious events alter the future of real events? Those are strange days indeed.»"

“Have we finished with point 1 on the agenda? I asked trying to get some structure into my minutes.

“What was the point again? asked Wittgenstein. “I am thinking about something parallel”.

Chapter 4

There’s another dimension to it

Holmes came back into “The Logical Room”. Now relaxed, smiling slightly, almost grinning. Snapping his fingers, he walked “stilt-like” around us. I recognised immediately all the signs usually preceding Holmes’ conclusions.

“I’ve come to a conclusion”, confirmed Holmes. “There is another dimension to it. The four traditional ones cannot contain all the information. They're simply insufficient.”.

“I know. I know. That's what I said wasn't it. The World as it was defined is not wide enough, too narrow. But I’m certain the extra ones must coincide somehow with ours”, Wittgenstein inserted. “They have to as a matter of fact as we are synchronous”.

“Quite”, said Holmes, “and then there is the principle of congruence to be reckoned with as well. We must ask him to join us, I think. It’s nothing less of a scandal that he is no longer with us”.

“I did discuss him with Russell”, Wittgenstein defended himself. ”Not enough from my side, I agree, but there was the war and everything. That’s the difference, you see, being real has its timely limitations“.

“You definitely have nothing what so ever to reproach yourself, Ludwig”, said Holmes. “Your outstanding achievements has made the past complete and there is no more to be said about it”.

Wittgenstein looked abashed, shy. “It is kind of you to say so, Holmes. One always wonders after all, if and all that, well you know yourself, do people care? Do they even notice?.”

“The thing is, he won’t come straight away. We have to meet again later at another location”, said Holmes.

“God knows if we can”, answered Wittgenstein worried. “That if anything would require some co-ordination! Just imagine the number of possible places to meet in, not to speak about all the possible dates!!, when!! And who knows if everybody can be there on the same spot at the same time? It is a worthy task indeed. The World may have changed beyond recognition by then”.

“No, no”, replied Holmes, “I’m sure it’s not as bad as that. There is bound to be some continuity”.

“Yes, yes and yes.” Wittgenstein was on a defensive attack. “Of course I realise this. But can we explain it? That is the question!

“I’ve been waiting for those words”, said Mycroft unobtrusively. “Most people think it so obvious that they think it goes without saying. And still, if Now is infinitesimally short it might be argued that whatever the past the future must look exactly the same. Now is too short. There is no time to change things. The World ought to be perfectly static. There is something queer about the whole thing”.

“No, no it’s not what you think”, replied Wittgenstein. The future would rather be totally unpredictable. It may skate on the past but God knows in which direction. And then there are the quantum effects as well, if I have understood it correctly. The future might just as well turn into whatever. I’m sure there are more pleasant things than a runaway future. It’s strange enough that the Morning Star becomes the Evening Star not just once but every day repeating. Surely there is more to it than meets the eye.”

“It is raining again”, said Mycroft. “The weather changes all the time. It’s like a summer butterfly”.

“Exactly”, answered Wittgenstein, “ sometimes one knows, sometimes one doesn’t. It’s kind of tricky and I never got a good grip of it, actually. That is the one thing I regret never really having had the time for. I became obsessed with trying to understand what I was saying and if indeed I meant anything. It was not a waste of time, not at all, it had to be sorted out, of course, but in the light of (or rather absence of it, haha) what I refer to as my mortal period, I have got a rather fresh perspective on things”.

“I’m afraid I have to leave now”, said Holmes looking at his watch. “I’ve a pressing engagement at the Yard which has been planned for several months. It cannot wait, I’m afraid. May we ask Dr Watson to contact Albert and try to organise a new meeting?»

“I think that could actually be worthwhile”. Wittgenstein nodded.

“Before we leave, a word of caution”, said Holmes sinisterly, “there are immensely powerful forces out there. I urge you to keep absolutely quiet and not to mention anything to anybody about our discussions. If it leaked, the repercussions would be most grave indeed. It might change the cause of these events and benefit only those that approve of the extreme chill”.

“But all the other points, then, of your letter, Ludwig?” I asked. “We’ve only just begun”.

No one responded. We all just looked down, recognising our inadequacy. The clock showed five past five. The meeting had lasted a mere five minutes.

We all left “The Logical Room”, never to set foot in it again.

Chapter 5

A relatively new approach

“It is even worse than they imagined”, said Albert. “I think they don’t fully realise the extent of it. Personally I feel there are seven more of them. Seven more seems a lot, I agree. They must be extremely small, compacted of course, as we can’t see them. Compacted onto something, a manifold or so. But it’s just a thread, string. You see, it doesn’t fit into our, how can I say…it’s not, well sometimes a bit out of the ordinary, if I may express it that way. It’s a bit like a black hole. Once inside, God forbids, things are bound to look very different. A one dimensional point in a two dimensional space time wouldn’t know where to go, if you understand what I mean”.

I had invited Albert to luncheon. We had to meet at the Ritz in New York, as he wouldn’t hear of coming to Europe again, not even England let alone Germany.

“I’m amazed that you can even suggest such a thing”, he said. “You know why I left”.

“Yes, I know”, I answered. “But those days were different. Today everything is relatively calm. There is no risk because of that any longer. People have become civilised and sensible”.

“That’s what they thought about Hegel, Nietzsche, Heidegger, Marx and Frege too actually. But look what they stirred up. Horrid that’s what it is and nothing else. Bloody idiots the whole bunch, if you pardon the expression. A complete lack of predictability that’s what they all suffered from. Sartre was different”.

Albert’s white tufts of hair stood right out even more than usual. He clearly didn’t want to be reminded of the past. He was very upset.

Albert is a gentle man. His reaction was, I think, not at all typical for him. But understandable perhaps relative to his frame of reference and past experiences.

“Wittgenstein, yes I think Bohr talked about him or was it Russell. No, no, yes it was Russell. Russell did what he could. Very admirable chap really, Russell. Wrote a whole book on my findings. Pretty correctly as well. Understand he was very friendly to Wittgenstein. Helped him along and all that. Moore as well. Today, I don’t know, do we see such people?”

“But we do, Albert”, said I. But one would have hoped for more of them, there I must give you right. Some of them who ought to know better just complain and blame science, technology or commercialism. Their intellect could be of greater use, no doubt”.

“Just imagine, there are even those who stoop to arguing even with their own colleges! Watson, civilisation is but a thin coat of varnish. We have a long way to go yet”.

We continued our meal. The service was excellent, as was the food. Seafood actually, grilled with a Rosemary sauce. White wine, Chardonnay, good but of dubious origin. I tried to figure out from where.

“You know what, Dr Watson”, said Albert suddenly. “I think I would like to meet that chap, Wittgenstein, after all. Maybe we could come up with something, who knows?»

“Then there is Holmes as well, I suggested.

“Yes, yes of course, we must not forget Holmes”, said Albert. “He has this formidable capacity of drawing conclusions, I gather, and conclusions reduces the degrees of freedom considerably. It’s not clear how that influences the entropy, though it is certain that the order increases, at least for some time. Maybe it compresses locally the quantum time space at a given time. This very possible. Certain, though, that it shrinks the number of possible parallels, quite clear, conclusions I mean.

“They’re like black wholes somewhat, conclusions, sucking in all the hypothesis circulating around it, absorbing them and then we don’t know what happened to all these hypothesis any more. They turn one-dimensional and seem to vanish. You can follow them right up to the event horizon but no further. The entropy of the “World of unanswered questions” is much reduced. This is certain. We don’t know if the information held in the hypothesis is lost all together or if at least a part of it may be recovered later. Conclusions are powerful stuff, never to be taken lightly. And stranger still, they too seem to evaporate, slowly being assimilated into “common sense” But you know what, Watson, the real mystery is with TIME. If there wasn’t any, all problems would disappear”.

I left Albert there at the end of our meal. He seemed a bit displaced, as was his nature. I have no idea what so ever where he went. He disappeared in the crowds and I went my way as well. I felt rather cheerful, of course, having had this rather successful meeting. Have to phone Wittgenstein, I thought, and tell him of the good news.

Now I had to think about a suitable place and time for our next meeting. It would have to be relatively close, both in time and place, that was necessary. Things couldn’t wait for long and I knew that both Holmes and Wittgenstein were very eager to continue.

When I came home again to London I resumed my practice of medicine for some time, following my inner voice to serve to my ability. I actually met Holmes only a couple of times. He was very busy and did not seem to enjoy my company as much as before. He had sold his TV set and said he didn’t want to be informed anymore.

I remained preoccupied, however, with the idea to congregate the party again. I had my map lying open in my study. Every evening I looked at it trying to determine where to meet.

I talked to Holmes about it once when I had the occasion.

“Holmes”, I said,” it’s already some time since we all met at the Diogenese Club. As you know, I’ve also managed to get an OK from Albert to join at the next meeting. He refuses categorically, though, to go to Europe. I wonder if you yourself would appreciate a trip over there to the New World. My meeting with Albert was my first stay there and although I didn’t find it much to my liking I cannot really say why”.

“I still have his letter”, said Holmes. “We haven’t even begun and time is short. I urge you, Dr Watson, not to linger any further. There are dark clouds on the horizon to be squelched”.

Encouraged by his words, he is a remarkable personality, Holmes; I regained much of my spirit and curiosity. No one can cheer you up like him. He has this divine ability. He literally pumps you up with energetic self-esteem. How I wish it to be more wide spread. Enthusiasm that’s what it is called in plain English.

Hence, I distributed an invitation.

London, the 13th of March.

To Messieurs, Wittgenstein Ludwig, Holmes Sherlock, Holmes Mycroft, Einstein Albert.

Gentlemen,

I have the honour, pleasure and privilege to invite you to the second round-table discussion on the Worlds transition from the past via Now and into the future.

We’re particularly pleased to welcome Mr Einstein for the first time and looking forward to his eagerly awaited contributions.

The meeting is scheduled for the 2nd of May. Subject to changes due to weather conditions.

I have taken the liberty to ask Albert to arrange for us to hold the meeting in a basket under a hot air balloon flying over the State of New York, USA.

Please note the time and place of embarkation to be at the New Jersey Senior Balloonist Club at 0400 hours. We will meet in the lounge of the clubhouse for a briefing.

Yours very truly.

Dr Watson.

PS. Minutes from last meeting.

1.There is only one World

1.1That World is now

1.2Now is very short

1.3Now distorts the World

1.4What happens, happens now

1.5Now too short to find out everything

2.The past is true and a priori.

2.1 The past World was all that was the case.

2.2The past sums up all there is to know before NOW.

2.3The rest is speculation.

1.The future may probably partly turn out to be predictable (some confusion here)

2.Not yet clear why the future resembles the past. Aspects of continuity. Alternatively why the World changes at all. To be discussed.

3.It remains also to discuss the further points not yet dealt with in Mr Wittgenstein’s original letter;

3.2In particular his remarks on inadequate methods and his comment on the relative non-importance of speech.

Gentlemen, welcome to another fruitful session.

______________________________________

I posted the invitations to each and everyone, hoping my call wouldn’t be regarded as too concise or enclosing.

CHAPTER SIX

The attempt

Only a few days after having posted the invitation to the new meeting, I received the answers. All were positive to my delight and everything seemed set for the next round. I felt that we were really on the right track and that our contribution to the cause of freeing the mind of mankind was taking a huge leap forwards. I sort of always thought that Holmes’ superior mind would eventually help to solve the really big issues still plaguing us. And now with Wittgenstein and Einstein as well just about nothing could go wrong. We were a winning team. Perhaps already this autumn all the questions will be answered with a bit of a chance and man free for the first time in history. What prospects indeed.

Suddenly Holmes rushed in without knocking. It was Monday, I think, in the middle of the night.. The clock had just struck two.

“Watson”, he shouted.

I looked up, surprised. My spectacles fell down on my nose tip. I was in my library going through a fascinating report on the advancements in the mapping of human genome published in the British Medical Journal.

“Watson, there has been an attempt on Ludwig’s life. He’s being treated at Charring Cross. He’s in a poor state. Leave your things and come immediately. We must go there at once”.

No, no this cannot be true. An attempt on Ludwig’s life; why, why, how, who would want to hurt such a gentle man. He’s never done anything wrong. He’s invincible. Not even the war managed to kill him. He left in 51 because he had finished what he had set out to do, to return with the most important insight ever given to anybody. And now someone has tried to end his life again. It simply can’t be true. He’s too valuable, his intellect, and his thoughts- we cannot be without them. How is he? Is he very ill? Are they doing all they can?

The cab drove through the streets of London.

“Faster”, said Holmes to the driver. “We have a friend in hospital”.

“Well, he’s not well”, informed us the doctor. “There is no immediate threat to his life as we have put him on a life support machine. His injures are grave, though, and he may never be fully revived to 100%. His medical records show a history of problems which turned fatal in 1951 already”, the doctor added. “If it hadn’t been for those complications, the prospects would have looked far better. I feel I have to by frank and specific on this point”.

The superintendent arrived.

“Good morning, Holmes, are you here already?" Lestrade shook our hands. “This is serious business and something that the force is not likely to take lightly. We will put all our strength behind this investigation, I can ensure you. What we know until now, is that Mr Wittgenstein left his house in Cambridge at 0815 this morning, apparently to buy some bread. The landlady, Mrs Whitehall, who likes to watch over of him, observed him. He is reported to have bought two loaves, which is confirmed by the baker himself, who knows Mr Wittgenstein well as a faithful and reliable customer. The baker remembers Mr Wittgenstein to have left at 0835, as this is the time when Channel Four starts transmitting Eastenders. He hasn’t yet missed even one single episode, he claims. ”.

“Some 100 yards from his door, returning from the baker shop, Mr Wittgenstein was attacked by some motorcyclists, Hell’s Devils, there were some twenty or so of them. Mr Wittgenstein was first chased around, hit with chains and finally run over. His injuries are grave and we have every reason to believe it to be an attempt on his life. Mrs Whitehall, who phoned the ambulance, witnessed the incident. She claims to have witnessed it all at 0925 hours, when Eastenders was over on television. The time is confirmed by the ambulance service. As to the motive, we are not in the position to say anything, though it looks like a classical random street violence. The two loaves were found on a lawn some 300 meters from the scene but otherwise nothing seem to be missing. We do not see for the time being any reason to ask for your assistance, Mr Holmes. It looks pretty straightforward. The only curiosity being the whereabouts of Mr Wittgenstein from the time he left the baker until the attack on him. Over one hour seems rather a long time to walk such a short distance. But, alas it may not be significant. Perhaps he just sat down in the park for a while.

“The bread, the loaves were they wrapped in paper?» asked Holmes.

“No, no they are wasted and far too dirty to eat now”, answered Lestrade irritated. “They were lying in the park, on the lawn, Mr Holmes. Yes, yes, I think one of them was wrapped. Excuse me but now I have to attend to my duties. We’re trying to find a witness who might explain why it took relatively long for Mr Wittgenstein to walk this short distance from the shop to his home”.

“Have you made any arrests?» I asked.

“Yes, they’re all behind bars. We know them well”, answered the superintendent.

Lestrade went off and we were left bewildered.

“Do you think we can see him, Watson? asked Holmes. “I’d rather make sure myself what he wants”.

“We’ll have to ask permission from the Doctor”, I informed Holmes. “He may well think it too early, though. Perhaps tomorrow or later still”.

“I’ll sit before his door in the mean time”, said Holmes persistently.

The corridor was busy as in any emergency ward. The attack on Wittgenstein had already arisen some attention and journalists from the media industry started to arrive. Von Wright showed up with them.

“How do you do, Mr Holmes”, said Von Wright, “I’m honoured to make your acquaintance. I don’t believe we have met before. I’ve heard of the dreadful assault on Ludwig. How is he?»

“We cannot say, we don’t know. Tomorrow, perhaps, we will know. It may go any way, we’re told.”

“There’s one thing I don’t quite follow”, murmured Von Wright in his Finnish dialect, “Why did they bring him here? Was that really necessary? Very inconvenient indeed. There are excellent hospitals in Cambridge.”

One of the journalists, together with a bewildered looking paparazzi, came pushing his way through and asked where the nursing room where Wittgenstein was treated was. Von Wright declared surprisingly that he didn’t know of any such patient. It was one of those very dedicated representatives of the fourth power. Extremely persistent, rude, aggressive and tendentious, those are the attributes of the tabloid journalist with but one perspective in sight; sensation. He had a particularly unpleasant appearance as well with his long unwashed hair and his unshaved chin.

“No, no”, said the nurse, “ you can’t interview him now. He’s not well”.

Von Wright persisted claiming for a second time that he had no acquaintance with somebody called Wittgenstein.

“I tell you, I don’t know the man. I’ve told you three times already.”

“I’m afraid, it’s out of the question”, repeated the nurse.

Von Wright pointed at the door. The clock struck five am. The sun was on the verge of rising. Wasn't there a cock crowing?

The journalist tried again to sneak in. The policeman intervened. “No one has access here”, he declared firmly.

“Security reasons, Mr Von Wright”, said Holmes, “this you know but all too well already. The World cannot afford to lose him a second time”.

“You are right, of course”, confirmed Von Wright, “it’s just that we got sort of used to go on living without him. We tried to continue but it never was the same. I saw you met with him at the Diogenese the other day, was in October? Time passes fast doesn’t it?»

“I’m not too sure about that”, commented Holmes. “ Watson, would you do me a service? I see that you’re thinking of leaving. I agree, we cannot do much here tonight. I have to stay, however, would you fetch my pistol. I may need it. It’s in the usual place. It’s much to ask, I know, but the stakes are too high without it.

All of a sudden it struck me. I recognised the photographer who was with the journalist. It was our doorman at the Diogenes Club. He who so rudely disturbed our meeting. I’ll never forget his tattoo and unsympathetic air.

CHAPTER Seven

The crime

I felt dazed and alone. The night had fallen and I walked down the stairs of Charring Cross Hospital. Holmes wanted me to fetch his pistol. Ludwig hovered between life and death. Scotland Yard had placed guards in the ward. The guilty ones were behind bars. What was it that had struck? Was there a motive? Why did it happen right now? Did Lestrade cope? Something didn’t end up. I was puzzled. It was all very confusing.

The mist grabbed me as I came closer to the Thames. I swept my coat firmer. The scare light enfeebled by the fog. Was I being followed? One always has that feeling when it’s dark and misty. As I proceeded on the lanes along the shore under the lampposts my inner voice told me to pull myself together. How would Holmes have reasoned? What are the facts? Ludwig had been attacked by a gang of motorcycle hooligans and beaten almost to death. They do these things. Their distorted minds allow them to find pleasure in such behaviour. Random violence is never understandable. There is no logic in it. Surely, this is what Holmes would have concluded. I must try to stay rational and calm down.

When arriving at 221B Baker Street again, I felt rather more secure. Everything looked the same. His pipe lying on his desk was spreading its odour and in the drawer the pistol he waned me to fetch. Why did he want that? The guilty was already apprehended. I put it in my pocket together with some bullets. I left, like in a hurry, locking the door thoroughly. I went home as agreed. No sign of Holmes though. Strange indeed, why hadn’t Holmes gone home to fetch his pistol himself? And why didn’t he show up to have it now that I had gone to all this length?

On the third day, the telephone rang. It had taken three days for Ludwig to regain consciousness. He woke up suddenly, I’ve been told. They usually do. He didn’t smile, just looked up and the nurse at the ward saw that he had opened his eyes. He tried to turn in the bed but it hurt too much and he gave up the attempt. The nurse addressed him.

“Mr Wittgenstein, I’m pleased to see you awake. I’m Harriet and I’m a nurse. You’ve had an accident and we’re helping you. Your friends, Mr Holmes and Von Wright are here giving us a helping hand. You will recover although now you’re no doubt in some pain.” She was an experienced and qualified nurse and she knew how to combine compassion with professionalism.

Ludwig stared at her. He’s eyes wide open. His appearance was suggestive of that of a frightened dog. He tried again to move and to get up. The hoses, the syringes, the massive bandage around his head, his left arm in plaster, immobilised, he was in no shape to move freely.

“Do you see?" asked Wittgenstein. “Have you seen my bread?” He was clearly confused.

“I’ll fetch your friends for you”, tried the nurse comfortingly. She went out to see them.

“Mr Holmes, we may need you in here. Would you please come this way and you to Mr Wright”.

“Von Wright”, grumbled Von Wright. “I come from Finland”.

“Nurse, may I ask you a service? Would you be so kind as to call Dr Watson and inform him on this recent development? I do put a lot of faith in his judgements”. Holmes is never at ease when visiting sick people in hospitals. “I’m afraid that Ludwig may not remember much.”

I arrived at Charring Cross. The nurse, Holmes and Von Wright stood by his bed.

“He doesn’t remember anything at all”, informed the nurse. “He just nags about bread and we can’t possibly give him something to eat now. He simply wouldn’t be able to keep it”. Holmes looked sinister. “Watson, you have a worthy task.”

“It may come back all by itself, his memory”, I said comfortingly although I was truly alarmed, “but amnesia is not a condition to take lightly. It’s not generally easy to treat”.

“Ludwig”, I said to him gently, “what do you see?” We all leaned over his bed. He looked pale.

“Everything, of course. Can’t you read?”, he whispered in return.

“Where do you think it is, your bread?” asked Holmes bluntly without turning a hair.

I put on a grave face, hawked and gave Holmes a truly harsh glance of disapproval as he broke the golden rule of never playing along with the follies of confused patients.

“You must have it, I can’t remember anything of it any longer. All is lost!”. Wittgenstein wept. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

It’s particularly trying and harsh to see a fellow friend in such a state. I was very much afraid that this tragic event might seriously hamper all the progress that we had made thanks to a major part to Ludwig’s clear mind. And now a gang of hooligans had crippled him and clouded his wit.

“There is nothing we can do, I gather. It is undoubtedly better for him not to remember.”, concluded Von Wright. “At least we know. He may never be the same again. I will certainly do what I can”.

“It’s a crime”, Holmes burst out surprisingly as if we didn’t know. “Watson say no more”. He grabbed me hard-handedly by my arm.

Holmes insisted that we all leave together. He talked briefly to the officer still placed to guard the nursing room and prevent the journalists from entering.

“Holmes, I have your gun for you, as you requested”, I said.

“SSSch, please do not awake the bear that sleeps” hushed Holmes back.

CHAPTER Eight

The second resurrection

Wittgenstein’s condition was alarming and remained so for some time. His temperature refused to rise showing a mere 25°C and he had to be kept warm with electric blankets. His heart wouldn’t beat properly although the medical team tried all tricks of the trade. He made only slow progress and his memory refused to return. He talked in riddles continuing to nag about a loaf and the importance of it. On the seventh day, his physical condition improved however to the extent that he was able to stand up for a very short time. He was however in great pain and preferred to lie down. The media continued to cover his improvement although the tabloids in particular wrote very impertinently about his life. They called him a menace to civilisation and a seducer of the youth. They dug into his previous life accusing him of all sorts of queer sexual dispositions. They focused on his loyalty and bravery to the Austrian army during the First World War. They reported on the incident when he as a teacher hit a boy hinting that he had malicious intent.

Holmes was busy, to say the least. He ran around, seemingly without a plan. He went to Cambridge, visiting the scene of the crime. He went to the police station to talk to Lestrade. He talked to Mrs Whitehall, the only witness. He was everywhere. To what end, I couldn’t imagine. He became ever more absent, as if he was diffusing away somehow.

I didn’t see Holmes for good many days. Naturally I wondered where he was. He had vanished it seemed. He was nor at home, neither at the Yard. Nobody seemed to know anything regarding his whereabouts.

I continued to visit Ludwig everyday to monitor his progress. It was slow, very slow and his temperature remained a concern. The staff at the hospital did an admirable work and very professional too.

A few days later, It was now in early April, just after Easter, when I was just leaving the hospital, an awful noise sounded right behind me. I walked along heading for the Tube as a motorcyclist threw his vehicle up onto the pavement right in front of me. I became frightened out of my wits and I had my heart in my mouth. Obviously what had happened to Ludwig had etched itself into my mind. Would I become the next victim? The driver was a mean looking, unshaved, dirty man. He wore black leather cloths and grim looking boots. Enormous tattoos on his arms and the seal of Hell’s Angels adorned the picture. He grinned at me, starring into my eyes. His white teeth contrasted to his appearance at a whole.

“Watson, do not pretend that you know me”, the hooligan .hissed. His teeth were glowing brilliantly white out of proportion.

I looked him in the eyes. “Is that you, Holmes? What on earth are you doing dressed up like that?

“Shut up you castrated swine and friend of a Jew. We’ll have you off this island in no time”, shouted the driver whilst he grab me by my coat with his both hands. He shook me violently and then drove off with a bunch of other hooligans. There bikes left black rubber marks on the pavement and the air filled with greyish exhaust fumes of smoke and the terrible sound of roaring motors made the windows shiver.

“What was he up to now, Holmes. It was not the first time he was in disguise and he never did so without valid reasons. But this time he seemed to put himself at great risk. Playing around with these murderous outlaws was not without risk that was clear. He must have a very good reason indeed.”, I thought to myself.

I was still rather shaken by the incident as I returned home to my practice. My home is my castle, as the saying goes, is not without justification. I sank down in my old beloved armchair. I hadn’t even taken my coat off. This is too much, there is no way, I feel hopelessly lost. For the first time in years I poured myself a really huge Whiskey, an Irish one. I even switched on the TV to deaden my mood and escape the vicious circle of thoughts. Channel four gave a report on the few remaining orang-utans in Bali and Channel two reeled the “News” reporting on a national congress in Albuquerque in the USA (where else?) on the latest American folly to collect 18 inches long samples of barbed wire. One collector had more than 1500 samples, all different. He was particularly proud of one, a piece from the slaughter at Verdun in 1918. Very profitable hobby apparently.

I fell asleep in my shiny armchair not to wake up until in the middle of the night. The TV buzzed and the screen flared of snow. My collar and shirt was all wet from sweat and I felt miserable to say the least. I have to pull myself together and undress and go to bed properly, I thought, stretching my legs, pushing off one shoe with the other.

When I woke up the sun was shining and everything looked a trifle lighter. I arranged the mess from yesterday, had a coffee, grabbed my coat and went on to my practice. I had only two patients that day. One case of gout as a result of extensive Port consumption. He’s an elderly civil service employee who comes regularly. The other was a foreigner. I was unable to treat him for whatever he suffered from as he hadn’t brought his E 111 form. Possibly he didn’t have one?

Holmes remained obscure and I heard nothing what so ever from him. In fact I began to become concerned and worried over his fate. Mingling with such lethal maniacs is putting one’s life at stake.

Then in the evening, about six, I’d just had my tea, Holmes reappeared. He entered without knocking, as is his habit.

“Watson, have you got it?” Holmes hissed out.

“Holmes my dear friend. How I’m pleased to see you well. What on earth were you doing with these motorcycle hooligans dressed up like that yesterday?”

Holmes passed over towards the window, looking out smiling. His eye whites glared.

“Watson, the paper that I slipped you yesterday, hand it to me, if you please! I squeezed it into your coat pocket.”

“What are you talking about, Holmes? The paper? What paper? My coat? It’s on the hanger in the waiting room, I think. Or not? I’m not sure I brought my coat actually, the weather was too nice.”

“Can we go there at once. Let’s hope it’s not too late.” Holmes was serious.

My coat was not in the waiting room.

“I must have left it at home” , I concluded. We went home, we rushed rather.

“What’s that paper, Holmes, that you’re talking about?” I asked out of my breath. “Is it important?”

“Yes”.

Well at home, we searched the entire flat over and over again. The coat was and remained gone.

“I’m afraid, someone has nicked it”, I said. “Very annoying indeed. It was pure wool and everything. The best coat that I’ve certainly had for many years. But it’s not uncommon for things to disappear from the waiting room. I should have known better than to leave it there. It must have been him, the foreigner without the E 111 form.”

“Watson, those papers contain all there is to know. It contains Ludwig’s notes. He took down notes on that paper whilst strolling home from the baker’s. He used the bread wrapping as he had no others. I believe these papers carry such explanations that they could completely revolution our concept of the World and change the whole cause of events. The hooligans took possession of it but I’ve managed to recover them again. I put them in your coat”.

So this was what all these events were all about!

“Maybe there is a slim chance, if we talk to Lestrade?” I tried. “Possibly he’s known to the Yard, I mean. The foreigner, not Lestrade.”

“At least we can be sure they won’t make use of it”, commented Holmes acidly. “I doubt if Lestrade will be able to help us.”

Holmes was right. The Yard had no knowledge of any character resembling “my foreigner”. My coat remained disappeared and the papers with it.

Ludwig made progress and end of April he was allowed to leave the hospital. His physical condition improved day by day and the beautiful springtime weather helped further. His arm was still in plaster and with his memory, it was worse. He couldn’t recall at all what he had written down on the papers. The trauma of having been so seriously attacked had taken its toll.

Notwithstanding all these events, I continued the preparations for our next meeting. We didn’t know, of course, if we would be able to carry them through. Ludwig’s health and everything. And having the meeting without Ludwig wouldn’t be of much use, we knew that.

I consulted the medical team as to the judiciousness of Ludwig taking part. We agreed that a journey to “over there” to experience new things would do nothing but good. So we all went, Holmes, Mycroft, Ludwig still in plaster and I.

CHAPTER Nine

The ascension

“What do you call it, your balloon? Does it have a name”, asked Wittgenstein.

“We call it “The Logical Space-Time”, actually”, said the pilot. “It seemed appropriate at the time. It’s a bit long to pronounce, however, so we normally say just LOST for short. It’s easier to understand as well”.

“Understand?» asked Wittgenstein. “What is there to understand about a name?”

“Well, we have to call it something, don’t we” said the pilot.” Name or not name, we still have to identify it. We rather like our balloon, you see”.

“I once had a hut in Norway”, answered Wittgenstein. “I was fond of it, as well. I know the sentiment. I don’t know what happened to it. I may have lost it”.

It was a brisk morning, now in early May. The trees barely green. It was but four o’clock. Not a sigh of wind. Sky clear, almost purple without a trace of cloud. Absolutely still, the birds just starting to sing. As we walked through the grass, our shoes went wet from dew, the sun still faint, rising over the sea. It was the beginning of time. Beautiful and placid. We were part of the universe.

Wittgenstein still couldn’t walk without difficulty after his convalescence. He talked a lot, often about old memories, trying to arrange his mind.

“We’re lucky with the weather, I think”, said the pilot. “The thermicals are right in our favour, splendid conditions. We will have no difficulties reaching our destination, I’m sure”.

“Are we really going somewhere?» asked Albert, “or will we just go for a fly-by anywhere whenever”.

“Won’t it be very windy up there?” asked Mycroft a little worried. “I do catch a cold relatively easy”.

“It will be my five hundred and thirtieth flight to day and I have never felt a single puff”, the pilot reassured. “You’ll see yourself, Mr Holmes, we will become one with the whole World and glide through it with the Space Time. It is poetry incarnated”.

“Mycroft, I cannot help myself commenting on this.” Albert broke in German. He doesn’t do that much nowadays but now he did. “I became rather a celebrity, as you know, but quite without my -what can I say- I never searched for it. Anyhow, once up there we will of course move with the wind and relative to it we will not be moving at all. The Earth underneath will move but that is hardly our concern.

The ground crew started a noisy engine driving a powerful fan. The balloon was first filled with air from this fan. We all stood still around the scene, looking on contemplating our fate. Laying on the grass the immense volume of the balloon filled rapidly looking like a wormhole or something. The pilot started the burner. The huge flame somehow avoided the cloth. Hot air blew into the wormhole and the mighty balloon began to rise. It was magnificent indeed.

“You may enter the basket! Please give Mr Wittgenstein a helping hand, if you would, Dr Watson”. The pilot took command, as was his duty.

We all climbed there into. Holmes with his hat, Mycroft swept his neckerchief tightly around. Wittgenstein had brought his binoculars arguing that they prevent shortsightedness, which might otherwise hamper the outcome of the whole journey. Albert didn’t say much, composed and thoughtful.

“Gentlemen, welcome on board the “Logical Space Time” balloon, LOST for short. I understand that for some of you this is your first hot air balloon flight. The balloon contains some 7000 m3 of air, which we heat to 150°C with the help of these two gas burners. It will take us to an altitude of 3000m or more. We will stay at this height for about three hours and then slowly descend again. As we float through the air and do not move relative to it, we will have the feeling of being stationary. Only by looking down is it obvious that we move at all. May I suggest, nevertheless, that you avoid doing so to start with before growing used to the height”. Clearly the pilot had done his homework.

LOST slowly took off, a meter or so first, accelerating rapidly later. The balloon was drifting towards an elm tree as the pilot skilfully blasts the burners and we rose still faster to avoid being caught by the branches.

“Gosh, that was close”, sighed Albert. “Its mass almost caught us”.

We were now high up. The view was magnificent, it really was. To the North the skyscrapers of Manhattan reaching for the sky. The rays of sun stained the facades, in all their tallness, in a yellow pale paint. To the East the magnificent, glittering sea.

We gained height ever more, reaching 1000m. The pilot blew the burners now and then but surprisingly seldom, as a matter of a fact. We drifted with the mass of air towards the sea. The pilot changed altitude. We rose even further, to 3000m where the direction of wind was different.

“We wouldn’t want to fly past the coast, would we?» The pilot laughed roughly being in control as he was.

We were all very quiet, looking at the earth, the cloudless horizon and the deep blue sea. It was absolutely quiet not a sound apart from the occasional blow from the burners.

“Being up her always make me wonder about the meaning of life”, said the pilot melancholically.

“The meaning of life?” commented Wittgenstein with some emphasis. “What a funny set of words, indeed. Who’s life and who’s meaning and relative to what? I have no meaning with your life, as far as I know. With mine it’s different.”

“I’m truly sorry if I’ve vulgarised something”, regretted the pilot, “I didn’t mean at all to be simple but what I understood from our discussions regarding these arrangements there was a purpose with this flight. I just meant that being up here makes all down there seem completely unreal, if you understand, well, doesn’t it? ”.

“What did you do yesterday, did you have another balloon flight?” Mycroft resolved the situation.

“Yes, we had a party of retired horse instructors that wanted to open their horizons and see the World from above”, answered the pilot.

“ Did they see it? asked Mycroft. “I mean the World”.

“Yes, yes of course, they didn’t expects otherwise either, I suppose”, replied the pilot.

“So yesterday it was there, the World”, Mycroft countered.

“In my youth I had a rare opportunity”. Wittgenstein wanted to say something and we all listened in spite of what we all experienced as a major predicament.

“Because there was the war going on and everything, you see. I went with the others to the front to seek the boundaries of existence. I saw many things. I want to tell you in particular that I remember seeing a man being decapitated by a canon. It wasn’t even firing. It sort of swung out somehow hitting the man’s neck and his head fell off. He was Hungarian, I think. His fate was different from that of the prisoner. Have you heard of him? Did I tell you already? He was Russian. He spoke no German at all. I took care of him. They commanded me to. Yes this I did. I think he didn’t regret being caught actually. I saw evil and gallantry too. I saw horrible scenes. I tried to see beyond our World, to look over the edge but there was none. The edge was there all right but twisted into itself again. I can assure everybody of this. I know. I’ve lived it and there’s nothing more to be said about it. The World is all that it is.”

Wittgenstein started to move from one side of the basket to the other causing it to sway to and throe. It’s rattan cane threads squeaked and groaned.

“Could you please stop doing that?” demanded Mycroft pleadingly. He looked pale and was not in the best of spirit at all.

“I can understand your mood, Ludwig,” I said, “but may I suggest nevertheless that we try to remember the purpose of our trip”.

“If only we had my papers”, mumbled Wittgenstein. “I had it all written down. It was so clear. I believe it was all.”

“Do we have all the facts?» Holmes thundered forth. “Certainly not! But enough perhaps. I think that we concluded already at our last meeting that the World rather was all that was the case and that Now is very short.”

«It appears clear that what you have lived, Ludwig, was real and hence true. But what about us, Holmes, Dr Watson and myself. We are after all fictitious. Are we any less true because of that?» Mycroft was not feeling well. Maybe he felt it rather better being fictitious.

“Please stop!” Albert sighed and mumbled. “We can’t just leave out all that I figured out in my youth. In fact, it’s often very valid, what you figured out when you were young. Have you any notion of space-time? My friends. It was quite an enriching theory actually. Nothing much yet has proven it wrong. It contradicts your base that there is a past, now and future. Space-time is but one where all events are!

“Yes, yes, I remember Russell explained all that to me.” Wittgenstein became increasingly eager. “But there was still some confusion I believe. If space-time contains all events, past, now and future ones then all would be predictable. And it’s not, wasn’t that it?

The pilot raised his voice: “Gentlemen, I have two announcements to make. First it is custom to drink Champagne whilst flying a balloon. May I therefore offer you all and each one a glass of this noble drink!

Secondly, a little question to divert your mind. Have you seen that coastline? It’s the longest in the World”, claimed the pilot true to his national heritage. He leaned leisurely over the edge of the basket and looked down. Pointing to the east at the coast, he asks somewhat triumphantly; “Can you guess its length?” Perhaps he wanted to becalm us trying to help us becoming somewhat less tense. We were all still very much afraid of the high altitude. “Do you know how long it is? He who guesses closest will gain a whole bottle extra.”

“Such a funny question again. You really have some interesting and suggestive ideas, my friend”, laughed Albert. “How long indeed? Ha, can you have a look in your binoculars, Ludwig? Can you see the length of it? Maybe you can distinguish the cliffs. Count them too, for God’s sake. With a telescope we might see singular stones too and had we had a microscope we could have included the grains of sand even. How long are they then? Does this coast have a length at all? One might wonder. Ludwig, you who are passionate over boundary conditions?”

“I’m not”, grumbled Wittgenstein. “I’ve left all that behind.” He brought out his binoculars nevertheless, directing his sight towards the earth and the coastline. “One can see the breaking waves rolling in”, he said. “Wave after wave in an endless row. Each different, I think, though their origin must be the same.”

“I like your way of communicating, Ludwig," said Einstein. “So far you haven’t proven wrong although you talk in riddles. Are you playing with that famous “Private language” of yours, which is impossible? What you mean, I suppose, is that these waves are just ultimately another sign of quantum random effects. A wave is born as a result of a disturbance of some kind and then it turns into one single distinct one out of a great number of possible shapes”.

“I know precious little about quantum effects”, mumbled Wittgenstein. “But we all know that a cat’s World is different from that of a non cat.” Wittgenstein raised his voice, becoming authoritative, as was his habit.

“Albeit most people think it strange that the World exist at all, we know that it does as it quite evidently existed before. The real mystery is that the World as we see it “Now” resembles that of the past. This is strange indeed and there is no reasonable explanation to it so far. As a matter of fact, quantum physics show itself in the “Butterfly effect” and the World ought to change suddenly from one second to the next beyond recognition. As you understand, I have studied your reasoning from last meeting, Ludwig, and science supports your views all the way. And still it doesn’t change all that much, doesn’t it? ” We all were very pleased that Albert had joined us. His sense of clarity was indeed of immense value.

“You know what, Holmes?” Mycroft turned to his brother. “The cause of disagreements, Now is too bloody short and people can never agree on exactly the same thing, can they?”

“We’re closing in. Do we have more facts?” Holmes was restless.

“There are literally millions of them, the facts”, responded Mycroft. “How can we possibly mention them all? And when we’ve mentioned even one of them then it turns history and we’re already good on our way into an illusive future. Do we need another approach?”

“Suppose there really isn’t any” said Albert. “Time I mean. We measure it with our clocks, we claim. I had to use it too in my work. Space-time and all that. Suppose there isn’t any space either. Yes, yes, I know what it sounds like, weird. But it would solve a few things. No more dealing and wheeling over the age of the universe or how big it is ultimately going to be. No more fuzz over the speed of light. No more arguing on the arrow of it.”

But where are we then, Albert?” I asked. “if we are nowhere at no time at all?

“Yes, I know. I’ve of course thought about it too. A lot as a matter of fact. But still, all those paradoxes would vanish, don’t you agree?”

“Watson, haven’t you forgotten something?”, Holmes lit his pipe, sipping and puffing. “You and I and my brother, we are fictitious. We are not in space-time at all and still we have more influence over people then most. Aren’t we as real as one would possibly desire. I think Albert is right actually.”

“But all the others then, Holmes, the real ones, where are they if there isn’t any space-time?”

“Are they more real in the end?” Holmes put forward the question.

“Where are we, for God’s sake then, if we are not in space-time,” asked Mycroft, “I thought there was only one World.”

“What is a real man? Watson, you have studied medicine”. Holmes was authoritative. He clearly had figured out something using his enormous deductive power.

“What can I answer to such a question, Holmes”, I tried. “Yes, man is a set of limbs and organs connected and controlled by his brain and nervous system.”

“What holds him together?”, asked Holmes.

“Well, holds and holds. He needs all his functions. Otherwise he wouldn’t be a man, would he?” I turned the question antropically upside down.

“Is he a topologic construction or concept”. Holmes persisted.

“Rather more than that, I gather” said I. “A man is a complex set of functionalities”.

“Not good enough, Watson”, replied Holmes. “You can do better”.

“What about a VERY complex set of functionalities, then”, I tried.

“Better, but somewhat obscure, Watson. And inadequate.”

“Please let me just clarify one point”. Albert was eager to explain something. “We haven’t talked much about the other seven, have we? Maybe the four ones are just an illusion and the other seven the real ones.”

“What seven? What are you talking about?” asked Wittgenstein.

“Well”, said Albert, we fly in this balloon, don’t we? But whereto? We have no idea. The earth is spinning below us. We float in the sea of air. It’s all relative. But what we DO know is in which direction: up or down, forward or backward. We feel if we spin around too. This is my point, you see, if there are more directions than those we normally talk about, then time is a mere substitute and definitely unnecessary. Remember that “DIMENSION” is but another word for “DIRECTION” ”.

“What about it then?” asked Wittgenstein puzzled. “

“Ludwig, you had your papers, remember? A paper is a sheet in two dimensions. You may write up-down or sidewards or both. Is that important? No, of coarse not. Rather more interesting what you write, alas! The information that it contains. That’s the clew! Information must be stored somewhere. In dimensions. ” Albert’s eyes glared of enthusiasm.

“But there is so much of it!”, I said. “The information, I mean. How can it be stored, all of that? It’s immense.”

“Seven more may not be enough”, answered Albert. “It may be that there is so much information that the World would need even more dimensions”.

“World too narrow”, muttered Holmes thoughtfully. “Spite that we cannot close the gap.”

The party turned quiet. Nobody had anything to say. It took long, very long. The balloon flew on ever so placidly, finding its own set of co-ordinates apparently in the mutlidimensional world.. At first I think we all felt uneasy, the vacuum, the void. It wasn’t our nature. It’s in no way pleasant to run out of words.

CHAPTER Ten

The confession

“What about sexuality?” I said just to ignite the conversation again. “No one has mentioned that. Isn’t it essential?”

“Watson, you do save us repeatedly”. Wittgenstein had his eyes falling onto me, his sight penetrating the haze, which separates two individuals. He became silent for a while, reflecting on something.

“Although I much enjoyed the company of a particular woman for some time, I must admit that it made me more sad than gay”, Wittgenstein conceded.

“Did you have any children at all, finally, Ludwig?” Einstein wanted to advance the course of events.

“Nooh, I understand the importance of it, of course. Yes I do! But it takes a woman as well. And suppose there’s no woman there to take part. After all, it’s the woman who gives birth. Funny really, isn’t it. Imagine if there never were any women willing then we wouldn’t be here at all, would we? Or if we, the men, suddenly decided not to bother. It’s somewhat worrying, I find, that there are essential things one cannot decide on all by oneself, not even if one thinks about it and tries really hard.”

“I too once grew fond of a woman”, revealed Holmes in a sudden outburst of intimacy. It’s almost amusing, somehow, how being together in a balloon brings you so close to one another, I thought. “Were you ever married, Albert?”

“I can’t remember”, said Albert. “It was ages ago, yes twice I believe”.

“You know what? asked Wittgenstein suddenly. “I have a confession to make. I do not like to make it. It is very hard for me to say this but, and please understand me rightly. Do you know that I changed my mind once? It’s not easy for a man to do, but I had to quite simply. I mean what can you do when you find out that you were all and entirely wrong? You remember, I wrote this TRACTATUS of mine, have you heard of it? It was ages ago. Anyway, there were a few things I had to change already then. My concept of the World was ok enough, I think. There’s nothing else and most certainly it is what it is. No arguing about that. However, I had this idea of mine that speech had anything to do with it. That we needed a language to describe it otherwise we wouldn’t be conscious of it. It does seem logical at first, very seductive, isn’t it? I fell into this trap and for decades I thought of nothing else. Even thought that it was atomic in nature, though I never found a single elementary phrase. Spent the rest of my living life thinking about it as a matter of fact I tried to sort out the loose ends, defining what to make of it. For some time I even thought language was made of atoms, dreadfully silly of me. At least I had time to correct all that».

“You shouldn’t blame yourself, Ludwig”, Albert comfortingly broke in. “You were not alone, everybody in the philosophical community thought the same.”

“Yes, yes, I know. It was easy enough to join the club. Even Austin thought the same. He might otherwise have come up with something different. I’ve always thought he was bright enough. And then, as we were obliged to, we continued our narrow-minded course in our witlessness to pursue this line into absurdity.

“We said, write down a sentence on a piece of paper! Does the paper understand then what has been written on it? Not a lot, everyone agrees. But why? Well it has no brain, the paper, how could it possibly understand anything? replied someone. I think it was Ayer. He was rather clear minded, wasn’t he, all considered? Sure, but a paper does not distinguish between truth and lie. Hence it can never truly claim to understand anything, someone said. No, it’s not because the paper has no brain or that it is incapable of judging right from wrong that it cannot understand what is written on it, said yet someone else. Is because it is incapable of performing the act of saying or thinking it! That may be so, argued yet another, but the real reason is, as the paper has no experience to relate to, it cannot interpret the true meaning of what is written on it. No, no, this is all very well, but to understand anything surely the paper needs a basic knowledge in logic and syntax. And few are indeed the papers satisfying such criteria. Thus it went on and on. Already in my lifetime I should have realised what we were doing! It’s nothing less than embarrassing. We were all in a blind alley. We all ended up in a singularity. This is my ultimate and final confession!

Wittgenstein was devastated, crushed. He had purified himself. He had performed the ultimate sacrifice, he had announced that he was wrong.

“Ludwig, dear friend, cheer up. It is not the end of the World. We all make mistakes. And we all love you, we really do. You’re the new light and hope and you know that! Please don’t be sad. We can’t bare it. Everybody has thought the same ever since you left us. You were 100% right at the time and have nothing what so ever to reproach yourself for. Please, please don’t be sad!” We all sympathised enormously as we saw how he suffered.

“Still you must understand”, said Wittgenstein, “I was terrible, dominant, persuasive, condescending, patronising, repressive etc. and my heritage that I left behind in 1951 was heavy. And on top of all this, I ought to have understood it already 1929 when I moved from Austria to the UK. I cannot but regret all this. How is it possible that I didn’t see it already then? I moved and in Cambridge nobody spoke German or at least they didn’t want to”. Wittgenstein was under such emotional strain that blood started to flow from his nose. Clearly he hadn’t yet fully recovered yet from his injuries.

“Ludwig, you’re the most outstanding person since you were born. Please listen!” Mycroft declared his affection. “It’s not at all what you think. What you concluded has been refined in the extreme. This is not a bad thing but a very valuable one. No, no please listen! True, it’s but a partial truth but on