W.’s been ill, he says. Again? Yes, again. He gets up, goes to work, and comes back to sleep, that’s all. ‘I don’t know how Kafka got anything done. It’s terrible being ill.’ I ask him whether his houseguest has gone. She has; and Sal’s still away, so his house is becoming like Howard Hughes’, he says. With bottles of urine everywhere? Exactly. Has he cut his hair and nails? No. ‘I’m like a wildman’, W. says.
Has he had any thoughts from his illness? None. Has his new book advanced any further? No. Has he written our joint abstract? No again. And what of your news?, he asks me. I tell him; it’s been a while; we haven’t spoken since Christmas. It’s all begun afresh for you, hasn’t it?, says W. What new plans do you have? Where will your idiocy lead you? Of what lines of flight are you dreaming?
I’m at my most idealistic at the start of the year, W. notes, whereas he’s at his most gloomy. Idiocy protects you, he says. He reminds me of my great follies in the past. ‘Do you remember your Hindu period? Your plans for a career in music? Your foray into business ethics?’ We both marvel at them. What’s it to be this year?, says W., go on, I need a laugh.
The new year! It’s always the same! New ideas! New follies! But W. is ill, and has no plans. Bottles of urine everywhere, hair and nails uncut, scrabbling through piles of unfinished writing, he staggers through the day.
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