I’m dreaming of administration, I tell W. It’s all I dream about, all I think about. It’s permeated me completely. I’m made of administration. Of course, I’m very good at administration, I tell W. I’m perfectly fitted to it. It’s frightening. Did I ever think I would become an administrator?, W. asks. Oh I knew I’d do anything! Anything! It’s your desperation, says W., they can smell it on you. You’re a desperate man, anyone can see that.
It’s all to do with my periods of unemployment, W. says. I fear unemployment more than anything, he notes. In fact, don’t I tell him constantly about my dreams of unemployment? I probably dream more about unemployment than about administration, W. decides. In the end, my dreams of administration are actually a kind of relief from my constant dreams of unemployment.
W. has no great fear of unemployment, he says. We both agree that I began from a lower position than he did. I expected much less. Survival was enough for me. A job – any job – that was halfway tolerable. You were made to be an administrator, W. says. You have the soul for it. The fear. It’s what makes you a good administrator. My administrative proficiency frightens him, W. admits. It’s a sign of complete desperation. In the end, it’s what will always compromise my work, my reading and writing. You always have administration to fall back on, W. says. You never really experience your failure.
With neither a fear of unemployment nor a fearful skill as an administator, W. is alone with his failure, he says. It’s terrible – there’s no alibi, he can’t blame it on anyone. Whose fault is it but his. W. laments his laziness, his indolence. He had every advantage and now – what has he accomplished? What has he done? I can have no understanding of his sense of failure, W. tells me. It’s beyond my understanding. You’re like the dog that licks the hand of his master. You’ll be licking their hand even as they beat you and making little whiny noises. You’re good at that, aren’t you – making whiny noises.
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