What's my role in all this?, W. wonders. – 'What do you do to people? Have you any idea?' It's as though I were a gap within W. himself. An uncrossable distance, there at his centre. What do I want from him? What do I ask?
Sometimes, W. thinks he invented me, or something inside him invented me. That I'm his nightmare come to life. But then, too, he wonders whether it's the other way round. I invented him; he, W., was born from me as a detour from the nightmare, from the horror of my life.
Am I a question he asks himself, W. says. Or is he my question, my way of asking what it might have been, for a moment, to raised myself above failure and the knowledge of failure? Is there's something good in me, despite everything?, W. says. Something not quite dead, not quite finished?
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