Spurious - Lars Iyer [28]
We push our way through the bushes. We’re halfway! But we still have half a dual carriageway to cross. It’s fearsome! We pause for a moment and then run like idiots, heads down and in fear of our lives to the other side of the road.
Only the pedestrian has the measure of the world, we agree. The pedestrian is the true proletarian. Drivers have always been mysterious to W. and I. What do we know of them? How can we understand what goes through their heads?
Sometimes drivers or their passengers shout abuse at him when they pass, W. says. It’s his hair, W. says, his ringlets. Drivers hate ringlets.
W.’s hair is very long now. It’s a year since he last had it cut. He looks leonine, I tell him, like the lion of Judah.
If you’re not going to be a thinker, you should at least look like a thinker, W. says. And if you’re not going to be religious, then you should at least look religious, that’s what W. believes. Genuine thinking and genuine religious belief might follow from looking like a genuine thinker and looking like a genuinely religious person.
‘Love’, says W., reclining on his sofa, ‘your favourite topic’. I’m not discussing love with him, I say. Forget it.—‘Why are you so afraid of love? Why?’
How many nights have passed like this, W. drunk and I half drunk, and both of us looking for a way to fill the empty hours until dawn?
Occasionally W. will speak of his love for Sal—this is always moving—but mostly he likes to probe me with questions, one after another.—‘What do you think love is?’; ‘What is love, for you?’; ‘Have you ever loved anyone?’; ‘What do you consider love to be?’; ‘Do you think you’ll ever be capable of love?’; ‘What is it, do you think, that prevents you from loving anyone?’
For his part, W. is eminently capable of love, and happy to say so. As for me, W. says, I remain eminently incapable of love.—‘You only love yourself’, he says.
‘Why do you think you’ve failed as a lover?’, asks W. ‘What do you think you lack? What’s missing in you? What crucial stage of development have you missed? You lack depth. You lack seriousness. You need a woman who abuses you’.
Sal has complete contempt for him, says W.—‘That’s how it should be. Your partner should always have contempt for you’.
Sal improves him, says W. She makes him better than he is. That’s what I need. And then, after thinking a little, W. says, ‘You have to feel proud of your partner. Of her achievements’. W. feels proud of Sal, he says.—‘Have you ever felt proud of someone?’, he asks me. ‘Are you proud of yourself?’
The living room is filled with examples of Sal’s glassware.—‘We could never do that sort of thing’, says W. ‘Look at us!’ But Sal, he says, has a natural gift.—‘She’s talented. Not like us’. He feels proud, he says.—‘All my friends prefer Sal to me. That’s a good sign’.
If it can’t be explained to Sal in the bath, then it’s not a genuine thought, says W. That’s his test: the bath, Sunday night, he tries to explain his thoughts to Sal. She’s merciless, says W. She demands that everything be absolutely clear. She doesn’t tolerate vagueness or prevarication, he says. She wants to understand, and if she doesn’t, it’s invariably his fault, W. says.
Do you remember what she called us when she heard us speak? Vague and boring, says W. You were vague, and I was boring. Or was it the other way round? Either way, she’s more intelligent than us, W. says. And she can actually do things, make things, he says. She’s got more to give to the world than we do.
In fact, all of his friends prefer Sal to him, W. says. Whenever they visit, their first question is always, Where’s Sal? They’re always disappointed when it’s just him, W. says. In fact, even he’s disappointed, says W. What is he without Sal? How would he think or write anything if it were not for their weekly bath?
We’ve dressed up for town.—‘My God, look at you! You’re so scruffy. That jacket! You think you