The Golfcourse

Now he knows why I fear unemployment so much, W. says as we walk through the suburbs. – 'This is what you fear, this place'. I'm afraid of falling back here. Of falling to the bottom of the world, which is undoubtedly here.

We turn back through the golf course. We wait on the path as a golfer hits his ball into the distance. Then he starts to yell. – 'Oy, leave it alone', he cries. One of four lads, sauntering on the fairway in the distance, has reached down to pocket the hit gold ball. The golfer shouts again. - 'That's my ball!' – 'That's my ball', says W., remembering Pascal. 'That's how the usurpation of the world began'. And then, 'Why don't those lads come back and kick the shit out of him?'

Laughter in the summer air. My God, this world is mad, mad! Oh God, couldn't we laugh ourselves to death? If we started to laugh, really started, we wouldn't be able to stop, how could we? If we really laughed, really laughed, we could laugh forever, laughing at laughter, laughing at the whole dreadful imposture, at our dreadful imposture. They could cut off our heads, tear us apart, and we'd still be laughing, and laughing at ourselves laughing, as we were strewn along the river ….