Conversation with W., who, inspired by Deleuze and Guattari, makes sure he is always reading something from outside his disciplinary expertise. A book on mathematics, on infinity, on economics ... This is admirable, and W. is certainly right to insist that this is the least that the authors of Anti-Oedipus would ask from us. But then I'm still sore that W. agreed with me that we ought to be content to write ragged books, to write quickly, on the hoof (his example was Klossowski's Nietzsche and the Vicious Circle) and yet is still polishing his book, nearly a year after I submitted mine to the publisher.
Of course, W. was right: my book is a mess, a living afront. I now have my own copy and I'm flayed daily on the hooks of it's typographical errors. W.'s book, proofread by a colleague, is immaculate ...