"Do you dream in Ws?"

W, this strange portmanteau letter, the only letter in the alphabet that is plausibly divisible, wide-bodied yet silent, this ostentatious consonant that is really a vowel—it is the very essence of ambiguity, falling loudly but invisibly on the stress of that very word. The W is both an enface image of itself as well as a perfect anagram; it resounds alliteratively in the opening words of this book: “Wie War”. The algebraic w could stand for a book, a hypothetical book, a potential book, coming as it does before the unknown xyz, it would carry all the other letters into the unknown.