Covered In Shame

Mladen Dolar was the real thing, we agree. The real Central European intellectual. – 'How did you think you looked beside him?', W. says. 'How do you think you came across, chairing his presentation?'

I was having a bad morning, I told W. later, but that didn't excuse it. A bad morning! – 'That question you asked …', says W. He knew I was in trouble when Dolar finished reading, and the audience, taking in the many and rich ideas, were quiet. He knew I was finished when it fell to me, his Chair, to ask a question.

'You could barely speak!' It's true; I babbled incoherently. I raved. – 'Everyone was hoping you'd stop, but you didn't stop, did you?' I didn't stop. I carried on. Some fat idiot, carrying on, and next to a real Central European intellectual …

Ah, how many times have I covered myself in shame, and by extension, covered him, W., with shame? How many times have I covered us both in shame? He'd been too stunned to explain me to Dolar, as he should have done, W. says. He – who should have known it would be necessary – simply wasn't ready to provide the usual excuses.