Am I an idiot dreaming he's a genius, W. wonders, or – this is unlikely – a genius dreaming he's an idiot? Because there is something genius-like about my idiocy. It's extent. It's splendour.
I've kept him entertained – I've kept everyone entertained, like some idiot conjurer. How do I keep pulling the scarves of my idiocy out of my hat? How have I managed to humiliate myself over and over again?
It must take some kind of genius, W. has often supposed that. It must be the result of some entirely unforeseen order of ability. But then, too, perhaps it is my idiocy to mistake myself for a genius; perhaps that's it.
My incessant activity. My remorselessness: it's as if I thought there were a great task allotted to me. As if I thought it was duty to humanity to press on. Don't I know that everyone's laughing? Don't I know their eyes are streaming with tears of laughter?
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