Every year I tell W. about my latest plans to escape. Why do I think I can escape? Why do I have that temerity? It amazes W., who knows he will never escape and nor will I.
I'm not getting out, he says, I'm stuck like everybody else. Two years ago I was going to learn Sanskrit, he reminds me. I was going to become a great scholar of Hinduism. And what was it last year? It was music, wasn't it? I was going to become a great scholar of music.
But what did I know about Sanskrit, really? And what did I know about music? Nothing at all, says W., about either subject. What work did I do to learn something about Sanskrit and music? Nothing at all, says W. Not one thing.
There's no getting out: when am I going to understand that? I'm stuck forever: when am I going to resign myself to the cage of my stupidity?
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