The objection I raise (morosely, I admit) is that in the meantime, I’ve had the opportunity on several occasions to become convinced of A.’s brilliant mind and extraordinary powers of observation—moreover, A. himself doesn’t regard the treatment that fell into our hands by such a peculiar accident as a sample of his talent. He says it was a playful attempt to present the producer Stoffel with something reminiscent of the era of Expressionist film (“National-Socialist Ufa Studios Star Astrid von Bürger as the Bride of Dr. Caligari”), a joke he played to see how the spanking new mogul of the silver screen would react. Besides, we have other examples of his linguistic agility and after all, the sum I suggested as an advance is not exactly earth-shaking—in short, all my bubbly efforts to defend my plan to lure A. into writing a book (which I’m very vexed at my obvious difficulties articulating, due to a heavy dose of gin and tonic on top of too much Allonal) is only water for Scherping’s mill. Not without sardonic asides about my condition (“Do you think it’s wise to smooth out your psychic ups and downs with self-administered substances? Or should I put in a good word for you with Professor Hertzog? The fellow has a great deal of sympathy for alcoholics”) he gives me a lecture “about the new situation in the publishing trade—in case all of us who still believe in the book as a means of education and communication—but also as the noblest of pastimes—don’t want to go miserably belly-up.”

Namely, the situation has changed drastically. (“You see that even I am following your fellow poet Gottfried Benn by recognizing it.”) We are approaching the dawn of a new age of bookselling, “in which belles lettres, what the Anglo-Saxons call ‘fiction”—you follow?—so, mainly novels, will to a great extent take a back seat to nonfiction, reportage, political analyses, celebrity memoirs—even literary criticism, philosophical essays, and similar kinds of what may strike you as bullshit from your seat astride Pegasus’s saddle.” (I have to struggle to conceal my trembling hands; what’s especially embarrassing is that in a “situation” like mine, my thirst becomes unbearable in the face of his hectoring. He seems to notice and gets even more lathered up.) “Don’t be blinded by the current fad for reading. You’ve got to cater to people’s need to make up for emotional lost time—are you with me?—especially vis-à-vis that old standby, love as the axis of the novel—with special circumstances, for example, the experience of war, as confirmed by the success of Nagel’s books. But in the long run that’ll probably also turn out to be old hat—actually, it’s already been old hat for ages.” (Suddenly, he lowers his voice.) “Unless of course—” (his face assumes an expression of vulpine cunning) “one approaches the subject from a somewhat more interesting point of view—I mean, love as a primal experience of pain.” (Another explosive bleat of billy-goat laughter.) “Because there’s one thing you’ll be good enough to concede: I may be a bumbler in Logos, but I’ve earned my spurs in Eros.”