The new book laughs at me. Not a line, you’ve not written a line. The new book is laughing: do you think you can write me? Do you think you can bring me to birth? But you’ve not written a line. Not a line! Rather, you’ve crossed out everything you’ve written! Rather, in your tiredness, in your vagueness, everything you’ve written has crossed itself out! Idiot, why did you think you were as strong as me! Dazed ox, wanderer through the day, why did you think you could even begin to write me!
I’ve watched you, says the book, as I have always watched. To the office, and then to the shops. To Marks and Spencer for your salad and you sandwich, to the Refrectory for your wrap, your little circumnavigations, your vague perambulations, your movements around and around town, the return of the same: I am watching, watching and laughing, watching you fail and laughing at your failure. Did you think you could match your strength with mine?
Last weekend, says the book, you ruined yourself with caffeine, didn’t you? Half a cafe mocha, that’s what you thought it would take, didn’t you? That’s what you thought would give you the strength, wasn’t it? Saturday – do you remember that? Saturday, wandering around town, cursing yourself for not working, going out to buy a paper, and then to buy some envelopes, and then to buy a snack, and then, god knows, to the charity shop to look for books, and then to the secondhand CD shop to look for albums – what a day! What a failure of the day!
But there was still Sunday to come, still Sunday, when you woke looking more tired than ever, more ill than ever, when you woke and washed and dressed and went off again to the office. To the office! On a Sunday! Nothing better, the world quiet, world can be done, you thought you’d meet me on the plane of Sunday, you thought we’d do combat on that open plane, you thought we’d meet at last. Laughter. What happened? Sunday rotted. The day was rotten, like an old log in stagnant water.
Nothing, nothing: no work. Down to the streets, down the cobbled alley and into the town. The same salad, the same sandwich. The same wandering, I saw you, dazed ox, I saw you and I laughed. Another half cup of mocha. Then, when that didn’t work, and your tiredness and vagueness seemed worse than before, half a can of Irn-Bru. Then, for a time, I drew back. Then, was it for an hour?, I drew back. You wrote, I admit it. You began to write me. A whole weekend, and now writing began. It was five o’clock, and you began. After nine hours in the office, and you began.
Blissful hours! You were happy, weren’t you? Joy at last! You’d missed the deadline, or so you thought, but at least you were working! The deadline had passed, but you thought: I’ve written something, I’ve put something together, that’s how it was. You thought: I’ve pushed back the illness, I’ve pushed back tiredness, I’ve cleared a little space for myself, I’ve met my old adversary on my own terms; I have written. And you wrote, with that little space cleared. You wrote, and I fell back into the forest, I was lost there.
Even I was impressed, says the book. Even I thought: he’s earned it. I retreated, not laughing anymore. I went, not laughing, and not even looking forward to the time when, I knew, I would laugh again. He’ll exhaust himself, I told myself, but now shaking my head. Tomorrow, the same wandering. Tomorrow, the same dazed ox, wandering around town.
Lars Iyer's Blog 