“Ignatius, what’s all this trash on the floor?”
“That is my worldview that you see. It still must be
incorporated into a whole, so be careful where you step.”
“And all the shutters closed: Ignatius! It’s still light outside.”
“My being is not without its Proustian elements,” Ignatius said
from the bed, to which he had quickly returned.
“Oh, my stomach.” “It smells terrible in here.”
“Well, what do you expect? The human body, when confined,
produces certain odors which we tend to forget in this age of
deodorants and other perversions. Actually, I find the
atmosphere of this room rather comforting. Schiller needed the
scent of apples rotting in his desk in order to write. I, too, have
my needs. You may remember that Mark Twain preferred to lie
supinely in bed while composing those rather dated and boring
efforts which contemporary scholars try to prove meaningful.