“Incertitude” is a profound philosophical work, a work pulsating with life and the colors it implies. Words intertwined with suffering, illness and death, certitude, despair and hope and waiting, confusion and hesitation and contradiction, and the passion and joy one feels in his words when he grasps an idea. His day begins with thinking and all of it is hope, and it ends in the night with despair and the contemplation of suicidal thoughts. He wakes up with a great thirst for thinking about the world, as if it had never been thought about before. Masked with his pen, he thinks and writes until the last moments of his life, in a way that is difficult for any human to follow. It is harsh and there is no skill in it. It makes you feel tired during your reading of it, and it conveys to you, with his clumsy style of writing, his deep anxiety and his sufferings in a blatant way like an artist with his exhibition, his encounters and his dialogues, his mood and his anger. He departs from life in the height of his excitement. He is excited, in the grip of illness, realizing that death is approaching little by little and will not be extinguished. He is in a state of a fierce war with himself. You can feel that silent war by looking into his eyes. He is constantly striving for authenticity and truth with himself, a war to know, to get rid of his lies and his flaws. It has been difficult for him with himself and his high standards that he expects. Wittgenstein is erratic, a human being before he is a philosopher. He puts you in a state of dissatisfaction with yourself, a state of constant hesitation, and he forces you to move towards what is unknown. What Wittgenstein tells us through all that he has gone through and endured is that we must respect life. We must respect life, take it seriously, and work until the last moment. We must strive until we are worthy of it, worthy of our minds and hearts that we possess. We must take our place and earn it in the magnificent scene of life, to be a path for illness and love and death and poverty and sorrow and breakdown and weakness and despair and hope and war and word and melody and painting and tree and sea and mountain and sun and air and rain and cloud and even emptiness. Everything that exists on earth and in man and in life, so that this scene and this canvas may be completed through us and we and our images may be formed through all of that. That we persevere and be tough in work and thought and life and take on courage and lose ourselves in that until the horizons open up to us.
“Tell them that I have had a wonderful life!”
He said this to his doctor's wife, Eduard Biefang, as he was lying in his bed. These were Wittgenstein's last words to her and to us before his departure.