My instincts are wrong, W. says. They always have been. How else could I account for my life, with its lurches and shudders? How that desire for ruination that has marked every one of my relationships.
It's a wonder that our friendship has survived, W. says. In fact it's always worried him: is he one in the long line of nutters and weirdoes with whom I've been associated? He doesn't think of himself as a nutter or a weirdo, says W., but still.
If there's anything like a pattern in my life, in my associations it's exactly that, W. says: a great veering towards nutters, towards weirdoes. Which means he can only conclude that he too is a nutter or weirdo.
But how would he know? To what criteria could he appeal? And that's the horror, says W.: that friendship with me means losing all sense of what being a nutter or a weirdo might mean.
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