W. speaks of his obsession with the great Hungarian plain. Bela Tarr spent six months visiting every house and every pub on the plain, W. notes. He said he discovered mud, rain, and the infinite, W. says, in that order. Mud, rain and the infinite: nothing to W. is more moving than those words.
W. wonders whether we too have discovered the infinite in our own way. Our incessant chatter. Our incessant feeling of utter failure. Perhaps we live on our own version of the plain, W. muses. Am I am the plain on which he is lost, or vice versa? But perhaps the plain is the friendship between us in which we are both lost, he says.
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