Oblivion

There's no point bringing any books in his man bag on one of our trips, W. says, because soon he'll be too drunk to read. And there's no point carrying his notebook either, because soon he'll be too drunk to think. Why does my presence make him drink so much?, W. asks. What is it about me? He wants only to drink until he passes out, W. says. He wants oblivion, he says, and this must have something to do with me.