One would think that with my simplicity I would have a simple love for humakind, says W., but that's not nearly the case. I'm full of hatred, aren't I? This as we tour the cloister at W.'s place of work, colleagues warmly greeting W., and W. warmly greeting them back.
Of course, I skulk around my place of work, W. says, doing anything to avoid human contact. He remembers how I told him of the circuitous routes I take through my building so as to avoid saying hello to anyone. I don't know why greetings are so difficult for you, says W.
He doesn't believe it's misanthropy, W. says, just as he's never believed that I'm melancholy. It's simply a low level awkwardness, he says, just as my so-called melancholy is no more than few bad moods.
Or perhaps, then again, it's a kind of shame. You don't think you belong, do you?, W. says. You don't think you deserve to be there, which of course you don't. Nor for that matter does he, W. says. Perhaps he's more reconciled with his idiocy, W. says. Perhaps I haven't quite accepted mine.
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