‘Freddie’ lightened his step towards Sanchez’s apartment, wishing to appear precocious and yet desirable to the swathes of women waiting outside. Not for him. He knew that; he was nearing 80 and starting to feel less certain than ever. The insatiable desire to be recognised and desired had left his intellectual harmony in shreds; his firm convictions had dwindled to ‘a death of a thousand qualifications’ as his trend of philosophy was lying dormant; nothing was as meaningful or meaningless as A or B, but rather the lines of morality, yes, of his own life, were much less defined. It was the only way to answer for his respected Oxonian persona and yet the fact that Jocelyn was no longer living with him. 11 years and counting. No language game could talk this proposition into meaning apart from dull pain.
