The painter talks, and I listen. I understand little of what he says, often he speaks too softly, as if talking to himself, or else I don't undersand it because it doesn't seem cohenrent, or else because I'm too stupid.

[…] I have observed the painter Strauch, I have lain in wait for him, I have lied to him, because that is what my assignment has called upon me to do, I have driven him crazy with my questions, much crazier than he was before, and I struck him on the head with my silences, on his head that he fears so much. I bothered him with my youth. With my plans. With my fears. With my incapacity. With my moodiness. I talk about death without knowong what death, what life is, what any of it is …

Thomas Bernhard, Frost