'You drink too much, that's your problem', W. tells me. 'Mind you, I'd drink if I had your life'. He'd slope off to the bars every evening as I do, W. says. He'd drink himself stupid in the corner of a pub.
How do I bear it, my day to day reality?, W. asks. But it's quite clear: I don't bear it. My life is in a state of collapse, anyone can see it. I'm in the final act, W. always tells himself. It can't go on, can it? But it does go on, W. says. Empires have collapsed more slowly.
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