The volatility of his intellect. He is hypersensitive to all impressions, most of which are lasting: he is surrounded by immediately available memories and is constantly in search of connections, of what he calls their meaning. What has kept him from writing up to now is the obsessive notion that he can only begin when he has found this meaning.

Sometimes he reveals himself. In drunken dialogue with S.: “And so you’re trying to persuade me to write a book—would it floor you to learn that in mortal terror I think of nothing else, dream of nothing else, wish for and expect nothing else . . .”

On the subject of Nagel: “He may well be destined for something great, good old Nagel, namely, for something not even remotely connected to writing—what do I know? Maybe as a leader of men, a politician. Just imagine what an immensely valuable role he could play at a party convention, a hobgoblin of the categorical imperative who puts the fear of God into the pilots of our state. Back in the days of our primal community, he often played that role in his notebook. But he’s not destined to be an artist. For that, he would have had to experience fewer bloody spectacles and more quiet, would have to see less and listen more—like the blind Homer, for instance. We all know that the Iliad includes not just the immediate reality of the battle for Troy, but also the core that partakes of the stillness of eternity: the discord of the gods . . . An artist needs ears to hear that, not GOD THE FATHER’S all-embracing love for mankind . . .”

And he added: “Your subtle smile tells me you think you know very well why I get so riled up—but believe me, it’s out of pure sympathy for our friend. Whoever wishes Nagel well ought to keep him from writing for the very reason that he probably has some talent for it and has the best intentions to do good. That’s exactly what will prevent him from fulfilling his greatest aspirations. He’ll remain a middling scribbler suffering the disastrous effects of success. For if there’s one thing that from the get-go stamps people who set out to write as second-rate and parasites on humanity, it’s their good intentions to uplift it—humanity—morally. Nagel’s an ethicist, that’s all there is to it, and he won’t be able to resist beating his readers over the head with it. Admittedly, he’s a mighty good pal, a most foursquare fellow with a crystal-clear character, the stoutest, most upright person, striving to do the impossible. He accomplishes things even with only a left hand. In person, sitting across from you with his white-toothed smile and his chesty drone, marvelously vital yet with a manly, gallant sensitivity—and all that in a compact format: five foot three in his socks, size seven shoes—he’s a jewel of a human being, a gem of the finest water. But on paper, alas, a character in a book for young readers. . .”