I never read philosophy, that's what Beckett said in an interview, W. says. I don’t understand it, he said. And when they asked him why he wrote his books, he said, I don’t know. I’m not an intellectual. I just feel things. I invented Molloy and the rest on the day I understood how stupid I’d been. I began then to write down the things I feel.
How stupid must I have been to invent him, W.?, W. asks me. I might as well have invented him, he says, for all the resemblance the written W. bears to him. I made W. from my stupidity, says W. I folded him from it like a paper plane. Through a weird origami, I gave him life. And then I set him, like a paper tiger, against me.
Or was it the other round?, W. wonders. Did he make me from his stupidity? Did he invent me on the day he understood how stupid he was?
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