A series of jerks and tics, like those of a hanged man in his final death throes; a series of involuntary and grotesque spasms: that will have been my life, W. says. It's not even desperation; it's more basic than that.
There's a rebellion at the level of my bare existence, W. says. - 'You shouldn't exist. You should never have been born': that's what my body knows. It's what I know at some abysmal level. And meanwhile, there I am twitching over the void, a man half-hung, neck broken …
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