Upstairs in Foyles, looking through the philosophy books.

‘Do you think they’ll have our books here?’, W. asks, knowing the answer. ‘Of course not!’ His book went out of print as soon as it was published. Before it was published! His publisher went bust. And my books – my so-called books – appeared in the most obscure of imprints, by the most obscure of presses, at a price affordable only by the most prosperous libraries. Our books will have no effect whatsoever! They’ll have no readers!

Oh, he knows I find it funny, W. says. But he has trouble with the sheer anonymity of it all. No one’s going to pay any attention to us. No one’s going to care what either of us is going to write ...

Ah, but he still believes, deep in his heart, that our collaboration might lead to something great, W. says. That's what keeps him going, even if all the evidence is to the contrary. Why can’t I see it? Why have I given up on him? On us?

‘When are you going to take philosophy seriously?’, W. says. ‘You haven’t read anything in years. Are you retiring from philosophy?’, he asks. ‘Have you given up?’ I haven’t, I tell him. – ‘Then why don’t you write some philosophy? You have to externalise yourself. You have to experience your shortcomings’.