Aside from the perplexing omission of Heidegger, who gets two drive-by mentions, the absence that most haunts this text is that of the copy editor, who seems to have vanished like Doughboy at the end of Boyz n the Hood. Perhaps it's all part of an extended gag, but words—more often than not, the two-letter prepositions—are forever not appearing where they're meant to be, and while the frequency of these lexical defections in some way underscores Sorensen's thesis, it's also more irritating than the business end of a turtleneck nuzzling up against a fresh spot of razor burn.
This sentence in particular functioned as a candle-lit invitation to make nice with the Void: "It is from a book of Henry II kept in Munich library." As the aphasic philosopher once said, "God is a disease we imagine we are cured because no one dies it nowadays."