W. is perpetually, grindingly disappointed with himself, he says. He suspects that I am not as disappointed with myself as he is. In fact, I seem rather pleased with myself, he says. But W. is not pleased with himself, he says.
At Mount Batten, up by the tower, which is locked, W. speaks of his overwhelming sense of shame. We do nothing, he says. We're parasites. What are we doing with our lives?
Later, W. speaks of his dream of a community, of a society of friends who would push each other to greatness. We speak of our absent friends over a pint of Bass. If only they were closer! Of what would we be capable! They would make us great! Perhaps that is his last temptation, W. says, the thought that something could make us great.
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