He remembers them well: my work years, W. says. My writing years. I used to sleep in my office, in my cupboard, didn’t I? I used to live in my office, showering in the gym, living on discounted sandwiches (as I still live on discounted sandwiches, W. says) …
How much I wrote! How much I published! I was like the Hunchback of Notre-Dame, W. says, gone mad and deaf in my belfry, ringing out the bells of my stupidity …
Even he was inspired, W. says. Oh, not by what I wrote – it was complete rubbish, he says. But by my shamelessness in publishing it at all. One essay after another, one essay and then another in every kind of academic journal, W. says, across every discipline you could name.
It was pell-mell, W. says. Completely shameless. Completely opportunistic …
Ah, but my work years are long past. What do I do all day?, W. wonders. How do I occupy myself? Do I read? Write? Do I continue to refine my knowledge of Sanskrit? Of ancient Greek? Do I continue to try to understand mathematics, and keep up with the latest developments in the sciences?
Ah, he knows the answer, W. says. He knows how I live.
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