W., as always, is fascinated by my eating habits. He asks to put his hand on my belly. – 'It's big', he says. 'You look pregnant'. And then, 'This is just the start. You're going to get really fat'. It'll be elasticated trousers soon, he says.
W. has always liked chubby men, he says. We remember the fat singers we admire, drinking wine out of bottles on stage. Fat, angry men. He's angry because he's fat, I said of the singer of Modest Mouse. – 'No, he was angry and then he got fat', says W. Do you think he minds being fat?, I ask him. – 'He has other issues'.
Kafka was thin, W. reminds me. Yes, but he was ill. – 'Blanchot was thin', says W. But he was ill as well. - 'I bet Brod was fat'. Definitely, I agree. He drank too much, that's why he got fat. – 'Why do you think he drank?', W. says. Because he knew he was stupid.
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