Thought Refuge

My flat.

Here I am in your most private sanctuary. Your thought-refuge. Here’s where it all takes place.

You’re taking the piss.

You must think what you’re doing is really worthwhile. That must be your motivation.

I’ve got nothing better to do, that’s all.

Is that it?

I just wanted to find things to do alone in a room. Other than masturbate.

Don’t try and be funny. Don’t try to pass it off.

I don’t know what to do except write. Read and write. Even if I’m not very good at either. I think it’s because my life is essentially empty.

Or perhaps you want it empty – so you can do this. Whatever this is ….

I like staying in. I’m doing this because I don’t like it out there. Because I don’t like … what everyone else likes. Life, or whatever.

So this is a consolation.

You’re a consolation.

Do you mind me being here? Am I a distraction? Do I get in the way of your work? Ha – I quite like getting in the way of your work. What do you think about all day?

I think about you.

All of the time.

A lot of the time.

Do you fantasise?

Sure I fantasise.

What would like to do to me?

I’d like to fuck you.

That’s funny, because I fantasise about being fucked by you. I think about you all day. I’ve been waiting for this all day. It’s what I think about when I was fucking him.

Nice.

It’s true.

I want you. I wish you were around all the time.

Do you, though? I’d get on your nerves. I’d distract you from your important philosophical work. And, who knows, you’d distract me from my important organisational management work. Actually, I don’t actually do much organisational management work. Don’t tell anyone.

Your study. Your studio. And all your stuff. These are your books. These are your notebooks. Can I read your notebooks?

If you must.

I must. I want to get to know you, philosopher. Your mind …

Reading.

Silence.

Do you take advice, philosopher? Do you like it? Do you welcome feedback? Are you receptive to the thoughts of lesser philosophical mortals?

Do I have any choice?

You put a lot into this. Too much, maybe. Isn’t it a bit laboured? I mean, what are you trying to do? Who are you trying to be?

You should write something that’s closer to the way you speak. You don’t speak like this, do you? Just capture some of our tos and fros, for example. Everyday talk.

And there’s so much of it. So you write every day? Every – single – day? So you have that much to write?

I write anyway.

You must believe in yourself, in some fundamental way. You take yourself seriously. Someone, at some time, must have told you that you were great. That great things were expected of you. God, you have such confidence. Like the world wants to know your thoughts …

I wrote it for myself.

You wrote it for posterity. I can tell, and I’m merely a humble organisational manager. These aren’t just notes. You actually think you’re great – or could be. That all this is worth preserving. Like Francis Bacon’s studio, or whatever … I’m lucky to be here. To be admitted into the studio of a genius …

Face it, I’m just the interrupter of great work. A regular villainess. You’re so profound, so melancholic, so romantic … And I’m just shallow, selfish and full of basic needs.

And you, meanwhile are holding out for someone who’ll be perfectly fascinated by you. Be in awe of you and think you’re a real genius. Someone who doesn’t just want you for your body, like I do. But for your – mind. For what’s in your head.

I thought you just said you wanted to know what’s in my mind.

But I can’t understand it, can I? I’m not worthy of it. Whereas she – she’d be quite in awe of you. She wouldn’t disturb you when the Muse visited. When you needed to be alone to think. She’d be fascinated by your literariness. By your philosophicalness. She’d tiptoe around you. Of course, she’d have to be very young. Terribly young. With stars in her eyes. Are there girls like that anymore? I don’t think there are, unfortunately for you … Of course, the other unfortunate thing is that you probably aren’t a genius.

I’m definitely not a genius.

Which is very sad when what you want – what you need – is to be taken very, very seriously. For there to be, like, documentaries about you. Special editions of journals on your work. Conferences to be held in your honour.

But you know I think all that stuff is bullshit!

I can see it now, your vanity – which would pose as anti-vanity, of course. In a refusal to appear on camera. In keeping your head bowed at all times, like one of those monks who never looks up to the ceiling of his cell. You’d play all humble. Refuse all the accolades … Shake your head at the encomiums … But all the while secretly enjoying the attention …

You want to be some European throwback. A throwback to some culture you weren’t even part of. Philosophy’s something you’d like to be good at, but are never really sure you’re good at. What are you going to have to show for your life? Your notebooks. Your would-be poetic philosophy. The ruins of your magnum opus. It’s not much, is it?

I … I always wanted to write the perfect book, and then kill myself. The Work, I called it. Everything was about the Work.

The Work … a very plain title. So plain, that’s it’s the opposite of plain. That it’s pure melodrama …

And did you ever write it?

Maybe I’m writing it now.

So I read a few pages of the work. Isn’t that an honour? And are you going to kill yourself?

That’ll never happen. Because I’ll never write anything perfect. Or even any good.

And you’d like some young beauty to save you from your fate. Of course you do. Not me – I’m too cynical. And too old.

You’re not so old.

Old enough to see through all this. And to see through you.

What’s your study like? Do you have, like, a home office?

We actually have his and her studies. Not quite side by side.

How bourgeois. Mr and Mrs academic … And what do you get up to in your study?

We don’t fuck, if that’s what you mean. We used to. Once upon a time. Long, long ago. But actually, in my study, I devote myself to … learning German.

Is that right?

I’m rather good at it, actually. I’m going to become fluent. I’ll bet you think German’s wasted on me … All the Germanic things I could be reading … I’ll bet you don’t even speak German.

I read it.

But you don’t speak it, and that’s the difference …

You know what: I like you up here. I like you being here. This is where the real drama of your life is. You and your magnum opus. Wrestling with its very possibility. Or impossibility. That’s your drama. That’s what’s keeping you occupied.

And I like it in you, your determination. I even admire it. I like your intellect. There, I’ve said it. But I do. I like your dedication. I like the fact that you really want to do something. Even if I also like the idea of distracting you from doing anything.

I like your ambition, philosopher. I like your modesty. Because you are modest. I find comical. And charming. And admirable. I like that there might be Important Thoughts in that dome of yours. Which I, no doubt, will never understand.

And you know what else I like? Taking you in hand, philosopher. Touching you. I like taking you in my mouth. Like this. I like the fact that I can make you think of nothing else but fucking. It turns me on. And I like to be turned on …