My stomach betrays me, that's how I put it, W. says, when in fact, my stomach, with its endless problems, its growling and grumbling, acts only in my interests. – 'It's trying to save you', W. says, 'Don't you understand?' It's sending a message like a gaseous cloud, W. says, as though something were dying inside me. As though something had crawled inside me to die.
That's why I look so bilious and green. It's why we had to seek out an emergency scheisse bar in Freiburg, W. says. The emergency scheisse bar: isn't that what I have to search out in every city, almost as soon as I arrive?
In the end, my so-called intellectual life is the emergency. My so-called intellectual life and my shamelessness about my so-called intellectual life. – 'Don't your lies bother you?', W. says. But he knows that at some level, they do. Something inside you is honest, W. says, at least there is that.
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