All this business he broods over, X tells me, all these confessional phrases he collects, from what, for what, to concoct evidence of his inability to what, he says, trial is an obsolete word, to sit up like a duck for my silent judgement, judgement what an obsolete word, for the father’s judgement and the mother’s kitsch, he says. Accept it already and move on, he says, we know all this. A word in your ear, we don’t really talk like that anymore. It’s embarrassing, he says, and how embarrassing that he should have to feel embarrassed about my embarrassment. He should have got over it years ago, of course, it’ll only end in tears, grow a pair, lighten up. Maybe he just needs to get laid, he says, maybe I’m right, he feels old already, can I find him a girl? No, of course I can’t.
Everyone carries a room about inside him. This fact can even be proved by means of the sense of hearing. If someone walks fast and one pricks up one's ears and listens, say in the night, when everything round about is quiet, one hears, for instance, the rattling of a mirror not quite firmly fastened to the wall.
Notes for a fragmentary novel entitled The Moment, linked at the top of the page.
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