Uma, reading from my notebooks. Let us never adjust to this. Let us never accept this. Let it be a perpetual outrage. Let it never be allowed to complete its work on us.
Do you take advice, philosopher? Uma asks. Do you like it? Do you welcome feedback? Are you receptive to the thoughts of lesser unphilosophical mortals?
Do I have any choice? I ask.
You put a lot into this, Uma says. Too much, maybe. Isn’t it a bit laboured? You should write something that’s closer to the way you speak. You don’t speak like this, do you?
And there’s so much of it, Uma says. So you write every day? Every – single – day? Do you have that much to write?
I write anyway, I say.
You must really believe in yourself, Uma says. 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, I say.
You wrote it for posterity, Uma says. These aren’t just notes. You actually think your thoughts are worth preserving … I’m lucky to be here. To be admitted into the office of a genius ….
Work in Progress 