Is this what your mighty oeuvre has shrunk too, says W., writing stupid posts about me? They’re not even accurate, he says. You make me out to be too mean, too much of a nag. And you’re too much of a whiner. I’m an idiot Boswell to an idiot Johnson, I tell him.
How’s it come to this?, W. says. What wrong turn did he make? He was like Dante, he says, lost in a dark forest. And there I was, he says, the idiot in the forest. I was always lost, weren’t you? I didn’t even know I was lost, but I was lost. Or perhaps I was never lost. Perhaps I belonged in the forest, W muses. Perhaps I am I only that forest where W. is wandering, he says, he’s not sure.
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