You would think that with my simplicity I would also have a simple love for humankind, says W., but that’s not nearly the case. I’m full of hatred, aren’t I? This as we walk around the cloister at W.’s place of work, colleagues warmly greeting W. and W. warmly greeting his colleagues.
I skulk around my place of work, W. observes, I’ll do anything to avoid human contact. He remembers how I told him of the vastly circuitous routes I take through my building so as to not to say hello to anyone. I don’t know why greetings are so difficult for you, says W.
W. doesn’t believe its misanthropy, just as he has never believed I am a melancholic. It’s simply a kind of low level awkwardness, he says just as my melancholy is no more than a few bad moods.
More friendly greetings from his colleagues. W.’s place of work is a much happier place than mine, we observe, despite everything. It doesn’t know despair. Everyone helps and supports one another, except for management, and everyone is against management.
That’s not the case where you work, is it?, says W. There’s no help and no support, only brooding hatred and resentment. It’s no wonder I think I’m misanthropic, says W. He would be, under the circumstances. And it’s no wonder I think I’m melancholic, I mean look at my life. Something has gone very badly wrong with me, that much is clear, says W.
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