Dogma

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You should never learn from your mistakes, W. says. He never has, he says, which is why he associates with me. And nor have I learned from my mistakes, in all the years of our collaboration. Because I am incapable of learning.

Table manners, the art of conversation: what hasn’t he tried to teach me? But I have barely learnt to keep my trousers on, W. says. I have barely learnt to sip my tea.

Even today, as we walk through the gorse towards the shore, he feels as though he’s taking a lunatic out on day release, W. says. Listing my shortcomings above the sound of the breakers, he knows I’ve already forgotten everything he’s said.

The roaring of the sea is like the roaring of my stupidity, W. says. It’s a terrible sound, but a magnificent one, too. It’s the sound of unlearning, he says. It’s the sound of Lars, of the chaos that undoes every idea.

My stupidity: that’s what saves him, W. says. If it weren’t for my stupidity, where would he be? He wouldn’t have learnt the fundamental lesson, W. says. He wouldn’t have understood that the great tasks of thought must begin from a kind of non-thought, that achievement — real achievement — is only possible once you’ve passed through the most abject of failures.

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