All jobs are becoming the same, W. says. We're all administrators now, all of us. What do any of us do but administer? We administer and prevaricate about administration. Work time is either administration time or prevaricating about administering, which occupies a large part of W.'s day, he says.
He doesn't know how I just get on with it, he says. He's always marvelled at it: my ability to launch myself into administration, to get to work early, to sit at my desk and begin. It's incredible, W. says, though it also indicates there's something very wrong with me. There's something wrong with my soul, he observes.
For his part, W's given to endless prevarication. He can never make a start, no matter how early he gets in. He stares out of the office window, W. says. He makes himself some tea, he says and sips at it amongst the great parcels of books that get sent to him for review.
His life is absurd, says W. It's a living absurdity, and mine is no better, although I have the strange capacity to just get on with it. Where does it come from?, W. wonders. Who am I trying to please?
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