He should take a course, X tells me, the writing’s on the wall, he should get involved in something bigger than himself, something real, move to Spain or South America, they’ll show him how to live, barbecues and dancing when the Latino spirit grabs you, move to a hot country, they’re happy there, he says, they have soul and eyes that are alive. Or get into sports again, get some team spirit, get over himself, get some scrapes and bruises. Or go and live in the country, get in touch with nature again, he says. Or do some good in the world, help the poor, stop being so hopelessly white and male. Or get laid, can I find him a girl? he asks. 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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