Shame

A year after I submitted the final copy of the typescript, W. is still polishing his book. ‘It’s like Gnosticism,’ he says, ‘if your book is full of typos, mine has to be pristine’.

‘I’ve reached new levels of self-disgust.’ – ‘You’re always disgusted at yourself.’ – ‘No, but this is worse. The book is so bad.’ – ‘Why did you read it?’ – ‘I don’t have a copy. But then one appeared in the library.’ – ‘Why did you get it out?’

‘You know what I feel? Ashamed. But it’s good to feel shame. It’s appropriate.’ W. says, ‘I thought you were supposed to be finishing your new book.’ – ‘I can’t.’ – ‘Why not?’ – ‘I’m ashamed.’

‘So what are you going to do about it?’ – ‘After this book I’ll …’ – ‘write a book about Smog.’ – ‘Exactly.’ – ‘But you don’t know anything about music.’ – ‘No, but I know a guy who plays guitar.’ – Who?’ – ‘You. But you can’t play chords, can you?’ – ‘No. You’re not going to write a book about Smog, are you?’ – ‘No.’

W. has been to a conference. ‘You’re famous’, he says I said: ‘why?’ – ‘These guys were asking me whether I was W.’ – ‘They read the blog? Haven’t they got anything better to do? Anyway, it’s going downhill. It’s terrible. I should call it “Shame.” Really, it’s drivel.’ W. says: ‘I told them you’re really fat. Too fat to come to conferences.’ – ‘Tell them I can’t make out of my bedroom. That it’s like something off Jerry Springer.’