Well, I suppose one might cast around yet again and rebuild the sense of what life might be about, what it might be to be human, say, as against a rat. Human-ness, rat-ness. We’re in this together or you’re on your own. Competition or co-operation. Which end of the room do we shuffle off to? Where in the political spectrum do we place our cross.
Deliriously overcome in the death group, Agnes shimmers before you, drawing you into her embrace. She is all beckoning promise. Behind the closed shutters she promises . . . what was that you said, full disclosure? Transparency?
I’m concerned, I shall have to start worrying about you.
And there is what Tom McCarthy has written about recently (LRB 19.6.2014): what writing is possible after Ulysses? Not much it seems, bits and pieces of nonsense. Full disclosure – don’t make me laugh or at least show me what it looks like.
Meanwhile the sun is hot, I’ll shut the shutters and retire into another dream and you can read the writing on the wall.
