St Hilda’s College, looking at the river. Capitalism and religion, W. muses. He hasn’t got much further with his thinking, W. says. His notebook’s nearly empty. I flick through it.
Where there is hope there is religion: Bloch, I read. Sometimes God, sometimes nothing: Kafka, I read. I have seen God, I have heard God: a ray of light under the door of my hotel room: Celan. Beautiful! But there are few thoughts of W.’s own. He’s going through a dry period, W. says.
Maybe he should try his hand at poetry, like me, W. says. He could write haiku: ‘Half ton friend/ in trouble again’. ‘Fuckwit in a vest/ Friend I love best’. Or he could draw some pictures.
(from Dogma)
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