You're never witty, says W., that's a sign of intelligence: wit. W. says he is sometimes witty, but, more generally, he's never witty. I never bring it out in him, W. says. I don't make him more intelligent.
W. is more intelligent than me, he decides. But what about those illuminated moments when the clouds part, and I have ideas? It's true, I do have moments of illumination, W. grants, but they are sporadic and lead nowhere.
Write it down!, write it down! W. often cries in the midst of my moments of illumination, but when I read back my notes, I find only incomprehensible scrawls and random words without sense.
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