These are the last days, says W. It's finished. Everything's shit, but we're happy – why is that?' Because we're puerile, he says. Because we're inane.
We're chatterers, we're agreed on that, like monkeys. We're never happier until until we've worn speech down to nothing, until we've reached the highest, most rarefied of inanities.
It was different once upon a time, W. says. He spoke little. He was nearly silent, everyone said so. And then he became a lay member of the Trappists, a silent order, W. remembers. That must have been difficult! No, he says. He liked the peace. He wasn't as inane back then. His head wasn't full of chatter. – 'It was before I met you'.
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