My troubles, W. says. I'd like to think I am a troubled man. My romantic troubles. My troubles at work. My life troubles. He's heard them all, W. says, and he's convinced by none of it.
They don't touch me, my so-called troubles. I like to moan and wail, W. says. In its way it's quite admirable, my moaning and wailing. The smallest thing will make me moan and wail. An imagined slight. A brusque email. A cloud on the horizon.
In an instant, I'm wailing like an American ambulance siren. It becomes quite impersonal. It becomes the moaning and wailing of being, W. says. The moaning of a world that is as yet unredeemed.
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