A Book of Etiquette

I have no idea how to talk to people, W. says. I lack even a basic sense of the reciprocity of conversation. – 'Come on, let's practice', says W., as we walk out from Dublin towards the sea. 'I'll say something to you, and you say something right back. "Hello, I come from Plymouth"'. – 'I come from Newcastle'. – 'No, no', says W. 'You should ask me something about Plymouth. "Hello I come from Plymouth"'. – 'I've never been to Plymouth'. – 'No!', says W. 'You have to ask me something about my life'. I know too much about his life, I tell him.

W.'s going to write a book of etiquette for me, he says. The art of conversation, that's what I'll have to learn, he says. Give and take. And table manners. – Y'ou never learnt them, have you? And keeping yourself clean. Look at you! You're filthy! When did you last wash your trousers? And that morose expression on your face. Why should anyone want to talk to you?'

Conversation! All real conversation is Messianic, W. says. Not the content of what is said – not that at all, but the fact that it is said, that speaking is possible, says W., impressively. But what would I know of that? You're conversationally lazy. W. says. You can't be bothered, it's obvious to anyone. You never feel responsible for your conversation. You never want to drive it to greater heights.

For his part, W. is never happier pressing a conversation towards Messianism. He always has the sense his conversationalist is about to say something great, something life changing. That's what a conversation should be, W. says, every conversation: something great, something life changing. But of course I'd have no sense of that.