demands, says W. Of course, I would never say I would die for him, says W. He knows me. I’m incapable of that kind of sincerity. Or love. I’m incapable of love, W.’s always been insistent upon that.
In a moment, I would break the phalanx and be off somewhere else. I’d betray him straight away, W. says. Whereas he’s always been very careful to overpraise me to others, he says. You have to. There are enemies everywhere, he says. I have enemies and so does he. And then there’s the whole system, says W., which creates enemies instead of friends and enemies of friends. Betrayal is his greatest fear, says W.
How’s the damp?, W. asks me on the phone. The plumber says he’s seen nothing like it, I tell W. The brick’s crumbling, he said. And if it crumbles? The flat upstairs will come down on top of this one, that’s what he said. But then my flat is slowly tilting into a mineshaft, into which they might both disappear. It’s like being on a ship, I tell him, when it tilts one way as it rides the waves. But it never rights itself. It’s always leaning to starboard. In any case, I’m fit for nothing anymore, I tell W., except rocking back and forth as the mildew spores float around me and the slugs leave trails on the wooden floors.
Then there’s the leak below the house, I tell W. You can hear the water streaming. The plumber said it might be spraying up into the walls, and that that might be the cause of the damp. It’s like acid, the plumber said, it’s eating the brick away. I should do something about it.—‘Can you hear it?’, he said, turning off the stopcock, and going up to the flat above mine to turn off their stopcock. ‘Well, can you?’ And he’s right. There’s a great streaming, a rushing. Water somewhere close and rushing, spraying up into the wall and rotting it from within.
The plumber pitied me so much I had to press money on him, I tell W. He didn’t want to take it. He’d never seen anything like it, he said, standing, looking up at the ceiling. He seemed hypnotised. He wouldn’t leave, but just stood there, looking. And even when he went out the front door, he was still shaking his head.—‘Howay, it’s terrible, man’.
Meanwhile, I throw out my pots and pans, which are rusting in the kitchen. Nothing is salvageable. The tins in the cupboards rust into the shelves. The washing powder box has liquefied. The walls, once a new, replastered sand, have turned deep brown, and in places, green. All along the window ledge: deep green. What horror! And small snails sometimes fall through the hole in the ceiling, I tell W., but I don’t mind that.
And there’s mildew, mildew everywhere, spreading, its spores drifting through the air. Perhaps I’ll become tubercular, I tell W., and that will be the making of a true European intellectual. But in truth, when I cough—and I do have a hacking cough that won’t leave me—it drives the few thoughts I have from my head, I tell him. W., who is also ill, is likewise disappointed with his cough. He’s just ill, he says, and it doesn’t help with his thinking.
These are truly the last days, W. says, over honey beer in Cawsands. How long do we have left?—‘Oh, not long. We’re fucked, everything’s fucked’. This as we look out to sea.—‘But we’re essentially joyful’, says W., ‘that’s what will save us’. And then, ‘Actually, it won’t—we’re too stupid. We’ll be the first to go under’.
Where did it all go wrong?, muses W. We both know the answer: literature! If only we understood mathematics! If only we were mathematically inclined!
W. has books about maths, and every year he tries to read them.—‘I can never do differential equations’, he says. It’s like Greek: every year he tries to learn the language, but falls at the aorist.—‘The aorist breaks me every time’, says W. We list the names of our friends who are mathematically inclined, and sigh.—‘They’ll amount to something’,
In a moment, I would break the phalanx and be off somewhere else. I’d betray him straight away, W. says. Whereas he’s always been very careful to overpraise me to others, he says. You have to. There are enemies everywhere, he says. I have enemies and so does he. And then there’s the whole system, says W., which creates enemies instead of friends and enemies of friends. Betrayal is his greatest fear, says W.
How’s the damp?, W. asks me on the phone. The plumber says he’s seen nothing like it, I tell W. The brick’s crumbling, he said. And if it crumbles? The flat upstairs will come down on top of this one, that’s what he said. But then my flat is slowly tilting into a mineshaft, into which they might both disappear. It’s like being on a ship, I tell him, when it tilts one way as it rides the waves. But it never rights itself. It’s always leaning to starboard. In any case, I’m fit for nothing anymore, I tell W., except rocking back and forth as the mildew spores float around me and the slugs leave trails on the wooden floors.
Then there’s the leak below the house, I tell W. You can hear the water streaming. The plumber said it might be spraying up into the walls, and that that might be the cause of the damp. It’s like acid, the plumber said, it’s eating the brick away. I should do something about it.—‘Can you hear it?’, he said, turning off the stopcock, and going up to the flat above mine to turn off their stopcock. ‘Well, can you?’ And he’s right. There’s a great streaming, a rushing. Water somewhere close and rushing, spraying up into the wall and rotting it from within.
The plumber pitied me so much I had to press money on him, I tell W. He didn’t want to take it. He’d never seen anything like it, he said, standing, looking up at the ceiling. He seemed hypnotised. He wouldn’t leave, but just stood there, looking. And even when he went out the front door, he was still shaking his head.—‘Howay, it’s terrible, man’.
Meanwhile, I throw out my pots and pans, which are rusting in the kitchen. Nothing is salvageable. The tins in the cupboards rust into the shelves. The washing powder box has liquefied. The walls, once a new, replastered sand, have turned deep brown, and in places, green. All along the window ledge: deep green. What horror! And small snails sometimes fall through the hole in the ceiling, I tell W., but I don’t mind that.
And there’s mildew, mildew everywhere, spreading, its spores drifting through the air. Perhaps I’ll become tubercular, I tell W., and that will be the making of a true European intellectual. But in truth, when I cough—and I do have a hacking cough that won’t leave me—it drives the few thoughts I have from my head, I tell him. W., who is also ill, is likewise disappointed with his cough. He’s just ill, he says, and it doesn’t help with his thinking.
These are truly the last days, W. says, over honey beer in Cawsands. How long do we have left?—‘Oh, not long. We’re fucked, everything’s fucked’. This as we look out to sea.—‘But we’re essentially joyful’, says W., ‘that’s what will save us’. And then, ‘Actually, it won’t—we’re too stupid. We’ll be the first to go under’.
Where did it all go wrong?, muses W. We both know the answer: literature! If only we understood mathematics! If only we were mathematically inclined!
W. has books about maths, and every year he tries to read them.—‘I can never do differential equations’, he says. It’s like Greek: every year he tries to learn the language, but falls at the aorist.—‘The aorist breaks me every time’, says W. We list the names of our friends who are mathematically inclined, and sigh.—‘They’ll amount to something’,
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