W.'s great fantasy, and he must admit, he says, that's it's a fantasy, is of forming a community of writers and thinkers, linked by mutual friendship. Friendship, says W., is everything. Real work is collective, and we've each to spur one another on, he says. Together we'll be capable of more than we might do on our own. That's what's he's always thought, says W. It's what he's always dreamt of.
Above all, we have to avoid the traps of careerism, says W. Loyalty and trust, that's what matters: we have to be prepared to die for one another. Literally that: to die for one another, W. emphasises. It's all about the phalanx, W. says. The phalanx you would immediately betray, says W.
That's the ultimate paradox, W. says: how is it that one with such faith in friendship should end up with such a friend? Would I die for him? No. Would I immediately betray him, given any opportunity? Yes. In fact, I've already done so several times, W. notes.
Where did it all go wrong? At what stage did he stray from the path? These are the questions he asks himself constantly, W. says, and they always come back to the same: me. It's my fault, W. says. Everything went wrong when he met me.
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