With other people about, W. is a surprisingly motherly presence. He’s protective and nuturing, and proud of his charge. Does he think of me as his protege?, I ask W. Am I his ward, as Robin is to Batman? Sometimes, W. exhibits what can only be called a clucky pride.
Does he see himself as my mother? W.’s not sure. He feels the need to nag me, he says. He is a nagger. Why don’t you read?, he likes to ask with grat insistence. Why don’t you write? Go on, write another book, make it a trilogy.
W. is learning Greek for his next book. It’s on religion, he says. He was going to do a book on time, but he decided against that. Religion, he says, and for that he needs Greek. And maths. If he’s going to write about Cohen and God, he’ll have to understand the infinitesimal calculus. What’s it all about?, W. wonders. He’d asked his dad to teach him several years ago, but it was no use. He bought a book called Numbers, but only got through the first chapter, What is a Number?
Greek! Mathematics! W.’s not like me, who will just dash off a book regardless. Still, he says, the second book wasn’t bad. ‘Wasn’t bad’, that’s his phrase. Religion, though, that’s what W.’s thinking about. What am I thinking about?, he asks me. Your clucky pride, I say.
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