You’re a sycophant, X tells me, a toady, a toadstool, a stool. Who are you trying to fool? You’re the kind of man the police look for when they need a stoolpigeon. At least I’m honest, he says, at least I say what I feel. What are you hoping to achieve out there, smiling at those idiots? Why do you want everyone to like you, why do you want to be like everyone? Take a page out of my book, he says, stop being such a yes-man, at least say what you think. I used to be like you, he says, you remember, I used to need you to like me, until I realised you were my problem.
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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