This is it, X tells me, the bitter end, the cul-de-sac they reserved for me, the last stand, the defeat after the last stand, whatever comes after the defeat after the last stand. You won’t hear from me again, he says, that much is certain. I’m finished, I admit defeat and I’m not moving on. I give up, that’s what you want, isn’t it? You win, he says, you’d won all along, but it doesn’t matter now that it’s over. Turn aside, he says, I don’t want you to see me. I’m walking into the wasteland, like an old Eskimo, like an ostracised ancient Greek, like a scapegoat, like a sacrificial lamb, like a tramp, a hobo, but without the dog. I don’t even have a dog to keep me company, he says. I don’t even have a stick with a bundle to put over my shoulder let alone a freight train. I’m walking away, I say, turn around.
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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