Why was I allowed to do this?, that's my great question, W. says. Who let me do it? Whose fault is it? I blame everything on someone else, that's my instinct, W. says. It's never my fault, it's always somebody else's fault. I'm acted upon, rather than acting myself. I'm passive, rather than active. Or rather, my fervid activity is only a sign of a great passivity, as though I was a leaf blowing about in the wind.
It wasn't me!, that's my cry, W. says. It wasn't my fault! This is why, when it comes to it, when it comes to the end, I'll die uncomprehending. – 'You'll never understand. You'll never grasp the extent of your failure'. I'll die with froth on my lips, W. says. I'll die like some rabid animal with wild eyes and dirt under my nails. I'll have tried to dig my way out. I'll have gone mad from confinement, and they'll have shot me like a dog.
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