W. can't work anymore, so he's reading some crap on Wikipedia about the nine kinds of intelligence, he says on the phone. That must mean they're nine kinds of stupidity, too. He works through the list.
One, he says, spatial stupidity. – 'You can't find your way about, can you? You've no sense of direction'. I've led him down the garden path, for one thing.
Two. Linguistic stupidity. – 'You can barely talk! You stutter. You stammer'. And then, 'And you can't read! You haven't got the attention span! The diligence! You're not humble before the text'. And then, 'And, above all, you can't write. My God, your writing. The typos! The grammatical mistakes! What you've done to the English language …!'
And then, 'And you have no ability to learn foreign languages. How many languages have you learned and forgotten? What trace in you is left in you of French and German, Latin and Greek? And didn't you once try to learn Sanskrit? God, the hubris …'
Three. Logical-mathematical stupidity. I'm extremely poor with logic, abstractions, reasoning and numbers, W. says. This has always been clear. He's the last person to whom he would turn for assistance in his mathematical studies, for instance, W. says. In his philosophical studies, although turn to me he does, W. says. Perhaps that's his stupidity: self-sabotage. Self-ruination …
Four. Bodily-kinesthetic stupidity. I've poor control of one's bodily motions at the best of times, W. says. Grotesquely poor. How many pints have I spilled? How many beer-trays dropped? My abysmally poor sense of timing, of rhythm. My dancing, for example. W. shakes his head. 'You can tell a great deal about people from the way they dance', W. says. Oh, what has he learnt about me? – 'That you're a fucking idiot'.
And I know nothing of sport. I've no feeling for sport. When he took me to a Plymouth Argylle match, I cheered for the wrong side. – 'You were nearly lynched!' And then I made myself sick eating hotdogs. God, how many did I have?
Five. Musical stupidity. Ah, this is very clear, W. says. I've no sensitivity to sounds, rhythms, tones, or pitch, meter, tone, melody, timbre … – 'You listen to Jandek, for fuck's sake!' And then, 'You only listen to Jandek'. W. finds my dedication impressive. I'm at least consistently stupid.
Six. Interpersonal stupidity. Where should he start?, W. wonders. Where to begin? I try to avoid everyone, for one thing. I'm always looking for escape routes, for excuses to leave. I want to avoid everyone! Well, everyone except him, W. says, who would most want to avoid me.
And I've no sensitivity to other's moods – to his moods, for one thing, W. says. To his despairs, which are largely despairs concerning my presence in his life. To his melancholy, which is probably also entirely due to me. Nor to others feelings – how many times have I hurt his feelings?, W. says. How many times have I turned on him? It's always the way, after the first two days of drinking: I turn. I become nasty. It's very upsetting, W. says.
Seven. Intrapersonal stupidity. – 'What does this mean?' This has to do with introspective and self-reflective capacities, he reads. Well, I don't reflect on myself, my conduct, that's very clear, W. says. He's always wondered whether intelligence might be a moral category, W. says, and nothing to do with IQ. It's about feeling shame, remorse. It's about developing introversion. Do I ever, like him, curse myself for my failings? Do I ever ask myself how I might become a better person?
Eight. Naturalistic stupidity. I've no feeling for nature, W. says, but nor has he. Or rather, he has a Jewish distrust of the nature (- 'It's unredeemed!'), and of the cult of the natural. In truth, animals trust him. Robins would alight on the handle of his spade as he dug in his garden, if he had a spade or a garden. Squirrels would pick nuts from his palm with their tiny paws …
Children like him, of course, W. says. It's his calmness, he says. You can tell a lot by what children think of you. I just confuse them, of course. Animals watch me warily. - 'What's the ape man going to do?' Even plants seem worried, twisting towards W. for help.
Nine. Existential stupidity. – 'This is a good one', W. says. The ability to contemplate phenomena or questions beyond sensory data, such as the infinite and infinitesimal, he reads. – 'Who dreamt up this shit?'
You'd have thought I'd have some feel for the infinite, W. says. For the infinitude of my stupidity. Of my sin! And, for that matter, he'd have thought I'd have a feel for the infinitesimal, too. For the quantum. – 'For your micro-penis', W. says. 'For your nano-penis!'
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