Literature was our great curse, W. says. To be fascinated by something of which we would always be incapable. And it's not as if we know our limits. We keep bumping our heads against them, over and over again, like idiots.
I close my eyes. – 'What are you contemplating?', W. asks. 'Your next magnum opus?'
'You have to know what you can do, in your case, nothing, and what you can't do, in your case, everything', W. says. 'Where do you think your strengths lie?', and then, 'do you have any strengths?'
What sort of literature would W. write, if he could? – 'I would write a book called The Idiot, and it would be about you'.
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