Come the revolution, the turning of time, and friendship itself will be changed, that's W.'s great hope. What will it mean, friendship? What will it become?
Sometimes W. supposes that the revolution will be only the unfurling of friendship, and of a new freedom of speech that would accompany friendship. It would be possible to say anything at all, W. says. Anything!
And everyone would have something to say. Everyone would have something to write on the walls. In the end, says W. saying something was more important than what was said. It's the act of speech that will be most important. No one will speak on behalf of anyone else. The one will only speak to the other, W. says, addressing her, acknowledging him. The one to the other, in the anonymous, innumerable crowd.
And in the meantime? Friendship is but a sign of what will happen. Our happiness is not yet happiness. Our joy is not joy. But there are signs, signs …
Where does he find them, on this sunny day in Cawsands? In the honey beer, W. says. In that dog who wants me to play with him, dropping a stone at my feet. In the narrowness of the three-storeyed house opposite. In the name of the pub in whose garden we drink: The Rising Sun.
And in me, too? No, says W. Not in you.
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