Sometimes W. feels like one of the pillar saints, like Simon Stylites in Syria in the first century AD, waiting for the Messiah to return. When's he coming, the anointed one? When will he be redeemed?
Right now, W.'s a little higher than me. He's perched on his pillar, reading his books in the great languages of Europe. He's reading, he's taken notes in the great languages, ancient and modern, and there I am at the base, masturbating in the dust.
How's your Latin?, says W. And your Greek? Say omoi again, go on. That's all you can say, isn't it: omoi, omoi, omoi?
Omoi, that's what W. wants to say. Or oy vey! Or yuy! What sound should you make at the end, to acknowledge the end? Yuy! It's all over. Oy vey! We're done for. Omoi, omoi: the lament of Antigone and her siblings as their father was taken away. No, that was popoi. Popoi, popoi, popoi, that's what they say. – 'Are you listening down there?', W. says.
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