Russell
The West is the Father of the Postmodern Man, and the Postmodern Man is his fulfillment, and his name is Russell.
No size is big enough for him, it must be infinite. The universe must then be infinite. He doesn’t know it. He feels it, and it is felt so strongly that the world would perish so that it could be so. The number of galaxies and stars and planets and moons and every other kind of smaller thing must not be a number at all. It must have no outer boundary, or his arm would be stopped as it reaches out.
But the universe is as a piece of lined paper with pre-punched holes. The edge of the paper is a boundary, but so too are the hole punches, so that the whole page lives inside the space created by the holes and the edge. But there is no edge to the universe, so the world must live in between the space made by a series of holes, the black holes, who together make its boundary.
But nothing changes except Entropy, who is Dying, and so whatever falls into the hole must come out. Hawking dutifully vomits forth until the hole has nothing inside, so that since nothing is inside and everything is outside, the holes fall away, and there is no boundary.
But there is a boundary: a sphere. Should time go on forever, or stop? It stops in the past, and goes forever into the future. He is the center of the sphere of the universe, and its radius is a number, which is its age. It grows, Dying takes hold, the holes empty themselves, and everything becomes nothing, forever and ever.
No size is small enough for him, it must descend infinitesimally. The atom breaks, and her bosom breaks further, and the protons and neutrons break again. When the breaking is done, an ocean of infinite detail turns and turns, and flattens itself so that the instantaneous particle may appear on its surface, before it returns and waves begin to swell again. There is not one ocean, but many, who all share the same surface of reality.
But the details are too small, and he finds a container which can contain nothing. A drop of the oceans in this tiny cup become monstrous, and can no longer be anything. He turns elsewhere.
He sets about making his instrument: on beams of abstract manifolds he strings the harp, and the vibrations on the string are the particles. Now there are no more multiplicities, only one song, and all things dance to its sound.
He doesn’t finish his instrument.
That devious god, Felicity, Luck, Chance, appears. It cannot be propitiated, no worship can pass to it by any reason or method, but he will try. If two things could be, then both must be, otherwise there was never a possibility of the one or the other. So all things that can be are, and his infinity is gained at the bottom of the infinitesimal. God made the world in 7 days, and in 30 milliseconds, he has made every world that could be, a sprawling ensemble of infinitely large spheres which do not touch.
He has invited a crowd with whom he cannot interact by any means. His reality is entirely alone in the largest gathering that could ever be. He has gained his infinitesimality.
Now there is only Dying, to whom he can do nothing but submit.