Lars Iyer's Blog

No one should drink as quickly as I do, says W., no one. Or as much. You drink too much, W exclaims. Of course, W. remembers when I barely drank at all. I wasn't a drinker then, W. says. I lived with monks at the time, which explains a great deal. What happened?, says W. What changed for you? I know: it was finding friends. You didn't have any friends before, did you? All you had were potatoes, your potato friends.

W. remembers coming to stay with me, and being made potatoes for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Potatoes were your mainstay, said W. I tried to convert him to my potato diet, W. remembers, and he agreed, I did have quite a way with potatoes, I cooked them in interesting ways, but in the end he thought I was insane. No one can live entirely on potatoes, W. says. Not even you.

In those days, W. remembers, the only friends I had were potato friends. Didn't I draw faces on them, and animate them like some idiot child? That's what W. imagined. You and your potatoes, W. says. Your only friends.

It all changed when you actually found some friends. You left your potatoes behind, W. said. You went out into the world. My God, the amount you used to drink! And the way you drank! So quick! So remorselessly!

For his part, W. is a steady drinker – a heavy drinker, but a steady one. He paces himself – he learnt it from Polish drinkers, who begin slowly and continue slowly, but drink through the whole night. Visiting Poland taught W. a great lesson about drinking.

There comes a stage in your life when you have to drink, W. says. There's nothing for it. The world is shit, life's shit, and if you thought for a moment, really thought, you'd kill yourself. W. went through a period of drinking everyday, he says, just as I went through one. He had to, he says, it had all become too much for him. He learned it from me, he says, drinking through your despair.

He was a melancholy drunk, W. says, lying in front of the TV with a bottle of wine. I, on the other hand, was an exhilarated drunk, writing rubbish on the internet all night, when I wasn't out in the pubs. Of course, W. never knows when to stop drinking. He never stops until he passes out, he says. Imagine it: passed out, in front of the TV. That's why he cut down his drinking, W. says.

I ruined my digestive system, W. remembers, that's why I stopped drinking so much. I was continually on the verge of soiling myself, it was disgusting, says W. When he came to stay and followed my drinking regime, it was exactly the same: he was on the verge of soiling himself. He had a glimpse of the horror of my life, which was completely different to the horror of his life. Your digestion!, he remembers. What did you do to yourself? No one should have lived as I did, says W. He's amazed I survived.

Whatever happened to W.'s publisher? Once the most generous and gregarious of men, he insisted upon travelling hundreds of miles to visit W. and take him out to dinner. They spent days going over the proofs, which were properly proofread (not like yours, W. says, which was farmed out to Malaysia). And he'd decided on a full colour cover to the paperback – an expensive undertaking, W. notes. Granted, the final version still had typos on the first page (to my amusement) and even in the blurbs on the back (which I found even funnier), but it was a handsome volume, and one of a series of handsome volumes.

But what's happened to the publisher? He's gone out of business, that much is clear. You can't get the books anywhere, which always amused W. As soon as it was in print, it was out of print, he said. It was always and already out of print, he said, which was fitting, he said. Luckily, he got a box of free copies, says W., which he sent to his friends. Were it not for that, no one would believe it had existed, W. says.

To W., it's completely inconsequential whether the book is in print or not. You should always publish with friends, he says, and the publisher was a friend. But where is he? He doesn't reply to emails or telephone calls, W. says. Doubtless there's no longer a computer in his office, nor a telephone, he says. Doubtless the office has long been stripped and demolished, he says, and he's sitting sobbing in the ruins, W. says.

You should always publish with friends, W. notes, and that's all he wants from his vanished publisher: a sign of friendship, of their shared failure. That's all he would want from any of his friends, who are all failures, whether they know it or not.

If it can't be explained to Sal in the bath, then it's not a genuine thought, says W. That's his test: the bath, Sunday night, he tries to explain his thoughts to Sal. She's merciless, says W. She demands that everything be absolutely clear, he says. She doesn't tolerate vagueness or prevarication. She wants to understand, and if she doesn't, it's invariably my fault, W. says. 

Do you remember what she called us when she heard us speak? Vague and boring, says W. You were vague, and I was boring. Or was it te other way round? Either way, She's more intelligent than us, W. says. And she can actually do things, make things, he says. She's more to give to the world than we do.

In fact, all of his friends prefer Sal to him, W. says. Whenever they visit, their first question is always, Where's Sal? They're always disappointed when it's just him, W. says. In fact, even he's disappointed, says W. What is he without Sal? How would he think or write anything if it were not for their weekly bath?

W.'s great fantasy, and he must admit, he says, that's it's a fantasy, is of forming a community of writers and thinkers, linked by mutual friendship. Friendship, says W., is everything. Real work is collective, and we've each to spur one another on, he says. Together we'll be capable of more than we might do on our own. That's what's he's always thought, says W. It's what he's always dreamt of.

Above all, we have to avoid the traps of careerism, says W. Loyalty and trust, that's what matters: we have to be prepared to die for one another. Literally that: to die for one another, W. emphasises. It's all about the phalanx, W. says. The phalanx you would immediately betray, says W.

That's the ultimate paradox, W. says: how is it that one with such faith in friendship should end up with such a friend? Would I die for him? No. Would I immediately betray him, given any opportunity? Yes. In fact, I've already done so several times, W. notes.

Where did it all go wrong? At what stage did he stray from the path? These are the questions he asks himself constantly, W. says, and they always come back to the same: me. It's my fault, W. says. Everything went wrong when he met me.

Despite everything, W.'s always placed his trust in the young, he says. He has great hopes for them, although he knows they'll come to nothing. They're more crushed than we are. They have fewer hopes, he says. But they're gentler, kinder. The young are soft, says W., but it's not a weak softness. They're not meek, just mild.

W. has always surrounded himself with the young. After all, I'm several years younger than him, W. notes. We're separated by almost an entire generation. His generation, he said, still had hope – the residues of hope. Mine had young, hope itself was a luxury. What chance did you have?, W. says. We knew we never had a chance, I say.

The young, W. muses. What is it about the young? For the most part, of course, the young are part of the infernal machine. They've been swallowed up; they've disappeared. But there are pockets of them left, a few scattered here and there, despite everything, who live in a manner entirely different. They're marginal beings, W. says, surviving on benefits and part-time jobs. They expect nothing; they don't want to make their way in the world.

They know it's all shit, that everything's shit. And this, in the end, is what separates W.'s generation from mine, he says. You know that everything's shit, says W. It's in your bones: it's – all – shit. Still, the generations that have followed mine are different again. It's all shit – they know that, but don't mind; they know the world's not for them and they can't change a thing. They know they'll have to survive on handouts and part-time jobs.

Sometimes we go out to be among the young, W. and I. We mingle with them, drink with them. We're greatly in favour of them. They know all too much, I say to W. They know everything, he say; they've seen it all. They know the world's not for them, and it's all shit. If only I'd known that, said W. He's not sure what would have become of him. Maybe he would have turned out like me, he says, happy to be alive, happy to have a corner to survive in.

You don't want much, do you?, says W. You don't expect much? As for him … W. is the last of the generations who expected a great change, a kind of revolution to occur. And it might have occurred, too, he says. It might have happened. Didn't Godard make a film on his university campus? Oh that was long before his time W. says. But weren't there still communists outside the student union? It seemed like the beginning of times rather than the end of them, the endless end, he muses.

Why am I such an obsessive?, W. ponders. Take Jandek. That's all you listen to now, isn't it: Jandek? There's nothing else on your iPod. I always need some marker on the horizon to head toward, W. notes. You need to measure yourself by something.

W. laments that I'm no longer open to pop music. Coming downstairs on a recent visit, I find him sitting on the sofa in his dressing gown with a cup of tea, listening to Jens Lekman. It's pure pop, W. exclaims. Nothing makes him happier, especially in the morning, W. says, than to fill his house with Nights in Komedia.

Of course you only listen to Jandek, W. says. He tried to have a Jandek party the other night, W. says. He couldn't play any Jandek until Sal, who hates Jandek, passed out around 5.00 in the morning, but there were still a few people up, young people.

How long do you think they could stand Jandek?, W. asks, how long? He pauses dramatically. Three seconds, he says, that's all they could take. I think one of them shat herself, he says. 

For his part, W. appreciates Jandek, although Sal has thrown away all the Jandek CDs I burned for him. He appreciates Jandek, whereas I am obsessed with him. It's all you listen to, isn't it, Jandek? W. says whenever he puts Jandek on – whenever I send him a fresh batch of Jandek CDs - he finds himself leaving the room. He can't be in the room with it, W. says. He goes out, and then upstairs or downstairs, but he can't endure Jandek, even though he appreciates him, W. says.

When I visit, it's different, W. acknowledges. My presence in the room helps him with his Jandek listening. It's because it amuses him to see obsession in person, W. says. The look on your face, says W., it's hilarious. You look like a fascinated ape, he says.

W. has a certain respect for my obsessions, W. says, although they're absurdly narrowing. Your whole life has been nothing other than a series of obsessions, W. announces, and this is your latest one. W. is more measured than I am, he notes. He's interested in many things, in a whole expanse of things, for example, the whole gamut of Swedish pop.

That's what he listens to in the morning after he's read his Cohen, W. says. Two hours of Cohen - from four to six PM – without so much as a cup of tea, and then his cup of tea and Swedish pop, W. resting in the fact that he's already done a morning's work. It's a kind of reward to himself, W. says, his Swedish pop. It's an essential bridge between his morning of work and the rest of his day. It's the hinge of his day, W. says, his Swedish pop.

Of course, you would know nothing of this, W. says. When do I work? What do I all day? You're an administrator, W. says. You administrate all day, and then you put on Jandek and weep into your bovril.

I am a flounderer, says W., anyone can see that. I'm perpetually floundering at sea, says W. That's the word for you: flounderer. There's nothing that doesn't set you off balance.

W. has always feared for my emotional balance, but it's getting worse. Take what happened on the way to the Jandek gig, he says. You thought we were lost, horribly lost, when we were actually not lost at all, he says. You were asking everyone where the gig was, he says, all those tramps. What do tramps know about Jandek?, says W. Why were you bothering them?

And then, on the brink of the venue, at its threshold, you collapsed, didn't you?, says W. It was a horrible spectacle, says W., a grown man who'd lost control. You were weeping at the threshold!, says W. with great emphasis. You wanted to turn back, didn't you? To get a taxi going the other way? W. was concerned, he says. It was never as bad as that, he says, not before. Weeping at the threshold! A grown man!

Still, he learned something about me from the whole episode. Or rather, it was reconfirmed for him exactly the kind of person I am. A flounderer and a weeper, says W. At the threshold.

I'm a terrible influence on W., everyone says that. Why does he hang out with me? What's in it for him? The great and the good are shaking their heads. Sometimes W. goes back to the high table and explains himself. I am something to explain, W. says. He has to account for me to everyone.

I don't feel I have to answer for myself, W. says, that's what it is. I've no real sense of shame. It must be something to do with my Hinduism, W. muses. You're an ancient people, but an innocent one, W. says, unburdened by shame. On the other hand, it could be simply due to my stupidity. I'm freer than him, W. acknowledges, but more stupid. It's an innocent kind of stupidity, but it's stupidity nonetheless.

It's been my great role in his life, W. says, helping him escape the high table. He's down among the low tables now, he says, in the chimps' enclosure.

W. says my horror of books is gleeful, unlike his horror, which is just horror. Bookshops fill me with a kind of gleeful joy, W. says, whereas he just feels sadness. The packages of review copies keep arriving, he says: his office is full of them and he can't bear to open them. All those books! It depresses him, he says, but no doubt it would fill me with gleeful joy.

I'm perfectly suited to the end times, W. says. It's a perfect fit. Glee, that's your Grundstimmung. I'm not capable of sadness, says W., not really. The apocalypse doesn't really perturb me. W. spends all day in his office, surrounded by books in parcels (which keep arriving, he says), mourning the end of civilisation, whereas I take glee in the coming end.

He's like the Fisher King, says W. He's wounded, mortally wounded, and there's nothing left for him to fish in the waters of the history of philosophy. Am I one of the knights who tries to cure you?, I ask W. Am I Percival? No, W. says, I am his wound and his impotence and his dream is someone will come along to save him from me.

W. is still lost in Cohen, he says. What's it all about? He could be reading in Dutch for all he knows. Nevertheless, he sends me some notes for my edification, he says. This is what real scholarship is all about, he says.

I read. Not the apparatus of knowledge itself, but in its outcomes, Ergebnis. Namely, science. And a little later, Unlike all the other fundamental concepts of Erkenntnistheorie, the concept of the infinitesimal does not have its roots in ancient thought.

I'm impressed, I tell W. You're always impressed!, W. says. Anything could impress you, monkey boy.

W. says he can only stand reading Cohen for two hours a day. Two hours, from dawn to six o'clock, then up for breakfast and into the office. He never understands a word, not really.

W.'s come to the section on conic sections, he says. Do you know what a conic section is?, he asks me. It's a transverse section through a cone, I say. It's something to do with Kepler. Now it's W.'s turn to be impressed. You have odd corners of knowledge, he says. Like the German for badger, for example. Remember when you told me when I asked the German word for badger? Der Dachs, I say to W., that's why you get dachshunds.

Anyway, W. says, there are three types of conic section: hyperbolic, parabolic and the other one – it isn't anything -bolic, it's just normal. I think that's what it's called: normal. Anyway, which one are you: hyperbolic or parabolic? Do you view yourself as a hyperbolic man or a parabolic man?

What is decisively new in Kant's conception of reality is that it does not exist in sensation nor even in pure intuition, but is a presupposition of thought and this is true also of the categories such as substance and causality. This is why reality is to be distinguished from actuality, Wirklichkeit.

Sometimes, W. dreams we will become mathematical thinkers, I the philosopher of infinitesimal calculus, he the philosopher of conic sections. 

Mathematics is the organon, says W. pedagogically. Do you know what organon means? He didn't know himself, W. says. It comes from Aristotle, and refers to an overall conceptual system – the categories and so on.

W. is growing increasingly certain that the route to religion is a mathematical one. Maths, that's what it's all about. Take Cohen, for example. And Rosenzweig. Of course no one can understand Rosenzweig on mathematics and religion, W. says.

For his part, W. has been reading his Hebrew Bible again, and wondering how to mathematise it. He's serious, he says. He is currently in an email exchange on the topic with one of his cleverer friends, he says.

The infinitesimally small is not a concept of thought, but of science, and the science of magnitudes, Groessen. But does not the idea of magnitude presuppose intuition? Thus there appears to be a contradiction between thought and intuition. How can the infinitesimal be a magnitude and at the same time not an intuition?

W. says he's since discovered that Groessen, in the last paragraph, can also be translated dimension. He's not sure what the implications of that might be, though.

How depressed are you?, W. asks me. Very, I tell him. W.'s in his office in the southwest of the country, and I am in mine in the northeast. W. says he's looking out of the window and thinking of his failure. How has it come to this?, he's thinking, over and over again.

Unopened parcels of review copies of books surround him, W. says. His office is thick with them. What can he do? W. says I am the only person who would be interested in such books. They sicken him W. says. They're like the ballast attached to a body to make sure it sinks, W. says. And he is sinking, he says.

It's different for you, W. acknowledges. You get some satisfaction from office work. It makes you think you've done something. W. can't bear it, though. Why does he come in, then?, I ask him. What's the point? He could take a few days leave. But W. feels something significant might happen in the office at any moment. He has to be there, W. says. What? What will happen? He doesn't know, says W. Something momentous.

We're bottom feeders, W. says as he often does. We live on scraps. Soon there will nothing for us, then what? I tell him the apocalypse will decide it all for us. It's coming, we agree. One of our intelligent friends says so. In 2014, wasn't it?, W. asks. 2012, I tell him. He's revised his estimate. Four years, says W. How will we survive until then? What will we do? Meanwhile, W.'s waiting in his office, the rain falling.  

Above all, W. admires my apocalypticism. When I speak in a calm and certain voice of the great disasters that are about to engulf us, he stops everything to listen. He clears space for me, stands back, and lets me speak as though I was a witch-doctor or a holy fool.

If there's one thing I'm right about it is the the slew of great disasters that are about to sweep us away, W. says. I've always been right on these matters, W. says, just as I am wrong on every other matter. In fact, it's my chief attribute, W. thinks, my sense of the apocalypse and the absolutely seriousness with which I talk of the apocalypse.

Sometimes, W. thinks he chooses his friends on the basis of their apocalypticism. If they manifest no apocalypticism, how can someone be his friend? One way to tell, says W., is their reaction to that song by Godspeed, what is it? oh yes, Dead Flag Blues. He plays it to everyone, W. says, and reminds me of the lyrics. These are truly the last days, says W. That's what you understand, isn't it? It's the only thing you really understand.

So what are you working on?, says W., knowing the answer. Nothing, nothing, I tell him, it's enough just to survive from day to day. I'm not like him, I tell W., I don't expect much from life, or from myself. I'm the troubled type!, I tell him. I'm perpetually troubled! W. finds this immensely funny. Your mighty oeuvre!, he exclaims. Your great contribution to humankind! How do you think you'll be remembered? What'll they put on your gravestone?

What's that name Hollywood directors use when they want to disclaim involvement with a film?, W. asks me. Alan Smithee, I say. That should be what we sign our work, says W. We're Alan Smithees! Nothing we intended to write was how it turned out! It wasn't our fault! It was everyone else's fault! It was the system's fault, for allowing us to write!  

What will he write about next?, W. muses. What'll be his next project? He's casting about, he admits it. Wasn't he supposed to learn Greek this summer? Protestant guilt keeps driving him into the office, he says. In he goes on the bus, thinking he ought to be doing something, but not quite sure what. He sits in the office among the parcels of review copies of books he keeps receiving. There are dozens of them, piled up all over the place. They depress him enormously. He can't bear to look at them.

For my part, W. notes, I still have a stupid excitement about books. It's because you're illiterate, W. says, because they're slightly above the level you can understand. Whenever I visit, I insist on opening the parcels and filling up W.'s shelves, reading him the funniest of the blurbs. It must be the bright covers that attract me, W. muses, whereas they depress him horribly. All these books!, he says, with weary horror. Look at them!

Conversation with W. Why has everything become so absurd?, I ask him. Why has it all come apart just at the moment when we might have got somewhere? But W. reminds me of what we both know: that any success we've had is premised upon exactly that absurdity.  

We're like captains of the Titanic, we tell each other. W.'s already steered his ship into the iceberg. It's wrecked – all hands lost. W. remains on the bridge, the last man standing, but there's not long left. It'll be your turn next, says W. How long do you think you'll last?

The iceberg's looming, I tell W. I'm mesmerised by it. So was he, says W. He knew it was coming and that it could only come. He knew that any success he had had was premised upon this greater and pre-ordained failure. He's dignified in defeat. Not like you, he says, gnashing your teeth and wailing from the rooftops.

In they come, depressive weather systems from the Atlantic, reaching W. first (in the southwest of England) before reaching me (in the northeast of England), bringing grey days with constant rain. The Westerlies are destroying us, we agree. When will it end?, W. asks.

This summer, he tells me, he's become even more stupid than usual. W.'s reading Cohen in German on the infinitesimal calculus. But he barely understands German! He barely understands maths! The English mathematical terms he finds in his dictionary to translate the German ones are equally opaque. What does it all mean?, W. wonders. 

For my part, I tell him, I've been thinking only of admin. It's my only concern, I tell him. It's taken me over. It's all I think about and all I dream about. I'm unable to read. I can't write. I haven't a thought in my head other than an administrative thought. What's happened to me? What am I becoming?