scum

What I always found so spontaneously intriguing about Harry is his capacity to ignore whatever I tell him. Whatever I tell him, he ignores it. Whak, he says. That's all he says. Whak, whak, whak. I often tried to figure out what the sound meant. Harry sure had no part in the Trinity, thank god. Nature furthermore had given him a somewhat akward shape. He wasn't particularly what once through so many beloved scribblings and writings has been known to be a Greek god. Were you, Harry? See, that's what I always liked so very much about Harry: he ignores what I tell him, look, look at him, he simply ignores it, and, meanwhile, he looks at me with such a silly face as if I were, if I may say so, a goddess, and again he does. He always does. Don't you, Harry. And he did so for every single second of his unloved and unique live. Here we have what I admire about Harry. Me a goddess? Holy shit, thanks no. I have over a three hundred pounds of fat to elevate. But wouldn't it be fascinating to know more about me? That's precisely, I guess, why I am so fond of Harry: he stares at me as if he really wants to know all of it, having none of it or even less. Obvious, abvious, ubvious, ibvious, whatever you want to call it, say, why not call it ibilitious - that's what is so pleasing with Harry. I love him. Oh yes, I am so deeply in love with Harry. Did you hear what I told these people, Harry? Harry, don't look at me with such a silly face. Come on, silly, don't look at me like that. Aren't you pleased to have so many people humbled to hear me tell about what you really are? Scum, it's me, Fattie, don't say you haven't heard a thing.

At the age of twelve, should we not eagerly tell this, Harry, to that party reading pages radiating splendidly with spirit and comfortable, generous wit, not to mention anything else I generously could have offered, should we not eagerly tell this to all those mudheads out there getting on with ten o'clock tricks just as lousy as your unfortunate seemings: at the age of twelve Harry got confronted with some extraordinary gifts. During what very well may have been - what unquestionable must have been - his second encounter with the female sex organ, he took his head off. The night had been filled with beetles. A female riding two elephants sat on top of it. Take it easy, Harry, his father said. Harry nonetheless ate the head and got entangled in some theory on the remaining part. He ate that too. From the excrements a new human being came, named Harry. Harry bought a television set. He sat in front of it. And so I came in, The Being.