W. has no great love of nature, he says as we walk through the gorse towards Cawsand. The sublimity of nature, mountain peaks, the surging ocean, all that: it means nothing to him. He's a man of the city, W. says. And if we're out of the city today – apolis, as the Greeks would say – it is only to return to it refreshed, catching the bus back from Cawsand to Plymouth.
His city, W. says, but not for much longer. By what cruel fate will he be made to leave? For what reason will he be forced out? He knows the time will come. He’s always known it, which has made his relationship to the city that much more intense. He’s always known the city would slip through his fingers.
A man without a city is a terrible thing, W. says. But that’s what he might become. Aren’t there rumours of redundancies in the corridors in W.’s college? Aren’t there murmurings in the quadrangle? It’s a bit like ancient Rome, before they stabbed Caesar to death, W. says.
Of course, he’ll have to leave, if he loses his job, W. says. He’ll have to take to the roads. Because there’s no work here, not in Plymouth, W. says. There’s nothing for the locals, those who’ve lived here all their lives, let alone W., who is only an adopted son of the city.
You can lodge yourself in an adopted city, but you’re never entirely of your city, W. says. He thinks of me in my Newcastle. – ‘Don’t think you’re safe’, W. says. ‘Don’t think you’re going to live out your life in the pubs of Newcastle’.
‘They’re coming to get us’, W. says. Who? Who’s coming?, I ask him. He’s not sure. But somewhere, far away, our fate has already been decided.
[Opening section of Dogma, second version. Also replaced.]
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