£2,600

Conversation with W., who has wheedled £2,600 from somewhere or other; he’s pleased with himself; he’s serious. We are to Do Things. What are we going to do? Give something to the world, he says, rather than taking. Because that’s what we always do, he says, we take something from the world. Our books are a taking from the world, not a giving to the world. They suck life from the world, rather than give life to it.

No original thought, no contribution to the world of ideas, only commentary, and there are better commentaries around, no question of that. And what of our much vaunted DOGMA movement in philosophy? W. sends me his latest DOGMA piece – it’s all there he says, the whining – that’s what DOGMA is about – the self-pity. Yes, that’s what it’s become, DOGMA, whining and self-pity, with everything dragged back to the ‘I’, the self-pitying and whining ‘I’.

We talk about Bela Tarr. Why don’t we send the money to him, says W. He’s right. Send the money to Bela Tarr. Send it all to him. By that we’d give something to the world. Yes, by that, we’d have given something rather than stealing something. W. asks me about my latest DOGMA piece. It was a disaster, I tell him. A disgrace – nothing worse. I made a real fool of myself, that’s what I told him. It was like performance art, I tell him. I got more and more manic – it was grotesque. A real disgrace, no question of that.

W. is impressed. He’s never heard me say something like that before: a disgrace. He tells me I remind him of the landlord in The Big Lebowski, the performance artist, who dances to Wagner. I tell him he’s like the idiot dancers in Damnation, splashing in the rain and the pools of beer on the floor. That’s what you are, I say, an idiot dancer. W. has the 7 hour Satantango, he says. He’s obsessed by it; it’s all he can think about. He’s going to use the money to visit me, he says. And then I can visit him. And we can watch Satantango, he says. That’s what we’re going to do. Night and day, over and over again: Satantango.

I tell him we should make a film, that’s what we should do. Imagine it! £2,600, and out first feature film. Von Trier’s already made a film called that, he says, when I tell him we should call it The Idiots. The Idiots! Imagine! Sucking life from the world! Taking life and giving nothing! Giving nothing back to the world! No ideas! Nothing creative! We’re anti-creative! We take and do not give! The opposite of creators! Anti-creators, idiots! You’ve achieved a new level in your whining, W. tells me. It’s my great gift to humanity, I say, it’s all I have to give.

He uses non-professional actors, says W. of Bela Tarr. We talk of the great speech in Damnation about madness and coal scuttles. It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen in a film, I tell him. He agrees. And the bit in the mud with the dog, with him barking at the dog. Nothing better. Because that’s where we’ll end up – in the mud, covered in mud, barking! And that’s too good for us! Barking – in the mud!

What else have you been doing?, W. asks me. Nothing. Admin. So’s he. Were you in, working, on New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day, I ask him? He wasn’t. I was in, doing my admin. W. says he was so alone over Christmas he forgot how to talk. I’m not like you, he says, I don’t need people. I don’t need to be adored, he says. Look at you with your weblog, he says. I write just as much as you do, he says, but I don’t put it all online, he says. I’ve written about Spinoza, says W., and what have you written about? He sends me his lecture notes. He sends me a paper by someone cleverer than us. He sends me his introduction to a special edition of a journal. That’s what he’s been doing. He’s been busy. Not like me. I’ll tell you what your problem is, says W., you’re lazy – l-a-z-y! And you want to be adored! And you’re a binge eater! All you think about is food! And adoration! You want to be adored!

W.: How are we going to get the money to Bela Tarr? Should we go to Hungary ourselves? I tell W. about the jobs in Kazakhstan – should we apply for them? Imagine that – Kazakhstan! It could be the making of us! The regenerators won’t have got their yet! The buying-second-homes lot won’t have got there yet! We should go! But we won’t go, will we?, says W. We’re not going anywhere, are we?, says W.

Bela Tarr made his first film when he was 16, W. says. 16! No chance for us then, he says. 16! Non-professional actors! When did you know?, says W. When did you know you weren’t going to amount to anything? It’s a curse, isn’t it?, says W. Knowing you haven’t really got it. W. says his students had to explain the plot of Damnation to him. He didn’t understand it. This after I asked him to explain the plot. He sold his friends to the police said W. Oh that’s what happened, I said, feeling stupid. But W. hadn’t understood the plot either. His students, whom he says are clever than him, explained the plot. Ah. I saw the film twice, I said, and hadn’t understood it. So had he – twice – and he, too, hadn’t understood it.

DOGMA!, W. says, we invented it, and look what it’s made us into! It’s true – it’s amounted to nothing. But X. liked us, didn’t he?, I ask him. Oh yes, X. liked us, that’s true. Yes, we’ll always have that – X. liked us. Was that our high point?, I ask him. Yes, that was probably it. Downhill from here. I tell W. I’ve already peaked. I’ve done it, I say, I’ve shot my load, there’s no more. But really, says W., who likes a running mate, what are you planning? Tell me, he says, because W. loves a bit of friendly competition, what are you writing? Nothing, I tell him. Not – a – thing. And nor do I intend to. I’ve shot my load, I tell him, that was it. There’s no more.

What’s he working on? Nothing, he says. He’s done his Spinoza lectures, and now he’s editing his special edition. It’s a real pain, says W. He doesn’t like it at all. He whines – it’s a lot of work! And he’s completely sick of Blanchot! He’s had it with him! We should introduce Blanchot to Kazakhstan, I tell him. They won’t have heard of him. We could make out fortunes – in Kazakhstan.

Bela Tarr – he was 16, says W. 16! That’s when he started, says W. When did you first realise you were going nowhere?, says W. When did you really understand you weren’t going to do anything with your life? I knew about Rimbaud, I say, but I wrote nothing when I was 16. I knew about Radiguet – but I wrote no novel by 18. And D.H. Lawrence was a prodigy, I say – but I was no prodigy. And it went on from there, I say, I fell at every fence. At every fence, I took a tumble.

It’s a curse, says W., with great feeling. Yes, we’ve always been united in this. Think of them, the great friendships – Blanchot and Levinas, Foucault and Deleuze, Blanchot and Bataille. And then us – who write on these great friendships – and are friends, that’s true, but for what? Often, in his cups, W. will talk passionately about friendship. It’s all about friendship!, says W. It’s true. I’m carried away. We’re in the only late night bar in Oxford, the only one open after closing time. It’s true, he’s right – friendship. That. But what has it become, friendship, with us? It’s soured. It’s curdled. Nothing was made, nothing was produced, by way of our friendship. The opposite, in fact.

W. and I have a game of over-praising the other. The praise has got to become more extravagant each time. That’s part of DOGMA, says W. DOGMA! What dreams we had for DOGMA! What a good idea it seemed, that night in Oxford! And what has it come to? £2,600. We should send it to Bela Tarr. How can we get it to him? Imagine it – we might be able to redeem ourselves if we can get the money to him! £2,600!