'What keeps you going?', W. asks. 'What, from moment to moment?' If he had my life, he says, he'd kill himself straightaway. It's a disaster, a travesty. – 'How do you go on? How -really?' W.'s never been sure. He has enough trouble with his life, he says. It's already too much. But mine – mine!
He shakes his head. – 'If you had any decency …' But I don't, do I? I'm still alive! I do it just to annoy him, don't I? It's my little victory, from moment to moment … It's It's why I always look so gleeful. It's why I always look as though I've pulled one over on him, which in fact I have.
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