What does it mean to you, all your reading?, W. asks. I haven't read much, W. says, and I read less and less, but what did it mean to me, the little I have read? What could it mean?
Thinking depends upon seeing the world differently, says W., but I can only see the same. Thinking means questioning your assumptions, but all I am is one big assumption, which is really a presumption.
The world is shit, that's my presumption, W. says. In its way, it's impressive. The world is shit and life is shit: that's my single thought, W. says, and everything else is nonsense to me, isn't it? Ideas mean nothing to me, books nothing. The whole history of thought matters not a jot to me, W. says, since it's just a game. That's what I think it is: a game, says W.
In a sense, he admires it, W. says. I know one thing: life is shit and nothing else touches me. That's my starting point. It's where the world begins for me, isn't it?, says W.
All my faults can be traced to this fundamental assumption. My laziness, for example. The fact that I read nothing, and when I do read it's not real reading, which is to say disciplined reading, says W. And my conversational monomania, says W. Really I say the same thing over and over again, especially when I'm drunk, which I nearly always am. Over and over again.
And my obesity. I'm growing fatter for the apocalypse, aren't I? I eat incessantly – incessantly, says W., who has always marvelled at my appetite. I eat because you're depressed, and you're always depressed, not least at the amount I eat. Eating and drinking, says W., that's all I do. I'm going to eat and drink my way through the apocalypse, though that won't help me.
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