The Slump

I am a sullen drinker, W. says. Not for the whole evening, he admits – not even for most of it, but the time always comes when I refuse to say anything at all and slump down in my chair. That's when your immense belly becomes visible, says W. During the slump. It's like Moby Dick, says W. Vast and white and rarely seen. But there it is in the slump. It always amazes him, says W. It amazes everyone.

I'm not like him, W. notes, for whom every conversation is on the verge of becoming messianic. W. likes to journey with his interlocutor through the apocalyptic and towards the messianic, he says. He believes in his interlocutor, not like me. He believes in conversation. You're slumped, drunk and silent at one end of the table, W. says, while he is waiting for the messiah at the other.