We were never witty, W. and I agree. We are not raconteurs; we do not have conversation, as we imagine others have conversation. Of course W. can do an impression of a wit, of a conversationalist, he can sit with others at the high table, but he is at home, much more at home with my crudeness and simplicity.
Idiocy, we decide, is very different from stupidity. Stupidity is replete, and content with itself. Stupidity, sated, has no need of anything else; it has already been fulfilled. And idiocy? Idiocy wanders; idiocy is outside itself and this is what draws us together, us idiots. W. does a good impression of an insider (as I cannot), but it is still an impression; they'll sniff him out. Is he really one of them? Does he really belong at the high table? His wit is sham, and his conversation dries up in his mouth.
Idiocy, we reflect, begins only when idiot is joined to idiot; when idiots meet outside the high table and outside themselves. Idiocy speaks,we decide. Idiocy addresses W. in me; and it addresses me in W. Idiocy is a kind of lightening, we decide. It lightens speech (the heaviness of words), it lightens stupidity. I no longer suffer alone (but can you ever be an idiot on your own?) Friendship: that's how idiocy discovers itself. That's how it lets itself be discovered.
There's a bottle of gin between us, and slices of Emmenthal in a plastic packet. There's an empty ice-tray and a motley pile of open jewel cases and dirty CDs. 'Listen to this!' – 'You've got to hear this.' Speak, and there is idiocy; it is our speech itself, and all its reality is borrowed from outside it. Speak of this, of that – but only to clothe idiocy, only to give it form, only so that idiocy will have something to sacrifice. For doesn't idiocy shake stupidity away as a dog shakes water from its coat?
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