Colds come from China, says W. They spread West across the mountains and the steppes. It's a tremendous journey, he says. From China to Plymouth, but a cold's reached him nonetheless, although he calls it a flu, but he's always been prone to exaggeration.
I'm in bed, he tells me on the phone, shivering and coughing up phlegm, and thinking only of the great crises that have gripped the world.
In W.'s mind, he says, ill health has always been linked to genius. Maybe it's the key to great thoughts, W. muses, reminding me of the authors we admire who passed close to death. But then, of course, W. has only got a cold, not even flu, not really, let alone tuberculosis or liver failure or anything like that. Still, he's disappointed that not one thought has come to him, not one, especially as it would pertain to the great crises that have gripped the world.
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