Puerility

1. One of us is dragging the other down, W. and I decide, but which one? Is it him or me? Of course I think it’s me, and so does he. But I think he likes being dragged down. A friend of his, who had held out great hopes for him noted that since he’s been hanging out with me, his work’s really gone downhill. I like to think that’s my gift to you, I tell W., laughing.

Of course, W. had great hopes in me, once, which were part of his larger hopes of building a larger intellectual community. W. often speaks movingly of those hopes and how they were dashed, and how I played a large role in dashing them. Do you remember, he says, when I gave you that opportunity of speaking for a whole afternoon to some of the most interesting and intelligent people in philosophy? He pauses for dramatic effect. I know what’s coming. You ruined it, didn’t you? You completely spoilt it!

That was the last of those meetings, W. observed, that used to held over two days with only three speakers speaking. And you were one of them, says W. I invited you. And then what? ‘Disaster’, I say cheerfully, remembering it all. ‘But I was ill.’ W. communal dreams fell apart, just as his great hopes for me, and for all of us fell apart.

There’s still our collaboration, of course, W. admits, but that is slowly taking us downhill. We’ve worn out everyone’s patience, says W. Everyone’s tired of us. W. is also alarmed by my new surly turn. When asked a question after one of our talks, I speak for as short a time as possible, churlishly and without concession. W., meanwhile, is ceremoniously polite, and has to overcompensate for my surliness. I tell him I find this very funny. I like it when you flail about, I tell him.

For his part, he likes to turn to me when I am least awake and ask me, before an audience, a deliberate and pointed question. He’s always amazed by my recuperative powers. I can always think of something to say, and quickly. You manage to sound intelligent, says W., how do you do it? I tell him it’s shamelessness pure and simple. And I can think on my feet, I tell him. I’ll say that for myself, I tell him, I can think on my feet. Or I used to be able to. I think that’s going, too.

I remind W. that we’ve rejected a prestigious invitation to speak or two. Even to promote our own work, and in London. Yes, we turned it down, that opportunity, and that was a great moment. ‘Our greatest moment’, says W. But then we remember with great solemnity how we’ve encouraged those truly intelligent minds amongst us to carry on with their work. We pause and say their names like magic talismans.

By a strange turn, I end up inspecting W.’s teaching. He draws diagrams for the students, two stick men. What was he explaining? Hegel and religion, I think. This is Lars, he says, and draws a tiny cock on one of the stickmen, and this is me, he says, and draws a huge cock on the other. Why do you think we’re so puerile?, he asks me later. We’ve always cursed our sense of humour. We’re not witty, we know that. It lets us down. We disappoint people ceaselessly.

2. I know nothing irritates W. more than sociobiology, so I always make a special effort to read up on the latest sociobiology before I see him. What have you been reading?, he asks. I run down the list of titles I’ve committed to memory. Why Men Lie and Women Cry, I tell him. It’s good, you should read it. I learnt all kinds of things. I tell him what I’ve learnt at great length until he holds his hands over his ears and rocks back and forth.

Stuck in a German airport for six hours, I know this is a special opportunity to get on W.’s nerves. Six hours!, I say with relish. Oh my God, says W. I’m concerned about Lindsay Lohan, I tell W. – ‘Who’s Lindsay Lohan?’ – ‘She’s getting so thin. Like Nicole Ritchie.’ – ‘Who’s Nicole Ritchie?’ W. tries to hide behind a newspaper. ‘W. – I’m concerned about Mischa Barton.’ He doesn’t say anything. ‘W., W., Mischa Barton! I’m concerned about her!’ He puts down the paper and looks at me over his glasses. – ‘Shut – the fuck – up.’

Six hours! We don’t have much money between us. How are we going to spend our time? ‘You go that way and I’ll go that way’, says W., pointing in opposite directions. But of course it’s his fault we’re stranded here. ‘So, what shall we talk about?’, I ask W. ‘What have we left undiscussed? What have we learnt from our trip? What have you learnt about yourself? How has your thought advanced? Are you dreaming of your magnum opus? When do you think you’ll write it? Have you abandoned all hope that you’ll write it, or do you still think you’ll write it? Do you think you have a magnum opus in you? Go on, I’ll bet you do.’

W. seems panicky. I’ll have to calm him down. ‘Remember the ‘Realitatpunkt‘, I tell him. In ungrammatical German, it directs us towards what is firm and certain in our world – our hatred of X. Remember that hatred, and rebuild the world back up from that. ‘Focus’, I tell W., who is flailing.

Alternatively, in these moments, I sing to W., knowing he can never help but sing along with me. Like a disturbed child, rocking back and forth, he needs order and regularity to restore his mental health. So I sing, ‘hey, little W., hey little W., thank you for not letting go of me, when I let go of you.’ It’s our version of ‘No More Bad News’ by Bonnie Prince Billy.

Sometimes I sing our version of ‘A Hit’ by Smog. ‘You’re not going to think anything so why even bother – with it. You’ll never be – Franz Kafka. You’ll only ever be a Jean-Luc – Nancy …’ W. can never help joining in, and this restores continuity to his thoughts. ‘You were stuck for a while, weren’t you?’

For my part, I lapse into stammering, and can’t get a word out for several minutes. W. is convinced I’ve had a series of minor strokes. ‘Your decline – it’s alarming.’ But he thinks stammering is another of my many affectations. W. is convinced I have dozens. Why do you sit with your hands beneath your thighs?, he asks me, outraged. And why do you keep touching your chest? It’s rude. No one likes it. Don’t you think you should give it up?

3. We’re too puerile to be true European intellectuals, we’ve decided. W. lived in Strasbourg for a while, it was beautiful, but he couldn’t stand it. ‘I’m too puerile’. But, visiting Strasbourg this year, we walked along the river without a puerile thought in our heads. The city had silenced us. We drank wine from tumblers, quietly. W. spoke French softly. We were happily quiet.

‘I think we’re cured,’ I tell W. ‘I think we should live here.’ It’s true – we are quieter, softer people, real intellectuals. But later, when we get hopelessly lost in Strasbourg puerility returns. When we find the station, we sit in an antechamber and do hysterical impressions of people we’ve met. ‘What’s wrong with us – this is terrible – my God!’

Then, on another trip, as we are borne through Poland on an old style communist train (as we imagine), being brought beer after beer by a steward, we know we’ll never belong to the continent whizzing by us. ‘They’re different from us.’ What went wrong in our country? What happened to us? Who can we blame? W. becomes hysterical. I sing to him. He calms down.

In Freiburg, the Americans seem very earnest to us. ‘We’re not like them, either.’ We like them, they wear caps and are very serious. ‘Serious young men and women’, says W. as we drink our morning beers in the sun. They’re all going on a daytrip, in their caps, all fresh and innocent, we imagine. ‘They’ve never seen anything like it,’ we decide, ‘all this old stuff.’

Passing through the German countryside on the train, we notice station names from Kafka’s Diaries and other books. Europe! Everything has happened here! All the great men and women have criss-crossed the continent! Of course they belonged here, as we do not. W., who was to be my guide, knowing this part of Europe quite well, is as lost as I am. ‘We don’t belong here. They’re better than us’, looking round frantically at the other passengers. ‘They’re so calm and quiet.’ – ‘Europeans, not like us.’

I sing him a snatch of another song. W. likes to say that before a course of action, he asks himself what Kafka would do. – ‘What do you think he would make of us, sitting here?’, I ask him. – ‘We’re the two assistants in The Castle.’ – ‘Or Blumfeld’s bouncing balls.’ – ‘He had two assistants as well, didn’t he?’ – ‘Idiots always come in pairs’, I tell W.