I hole my pen like an ape, W. has always observed, and no doubt I type like an ape too, my fingers too large for the keys. And my book reads as though it was written by an ape, which is the worst thing of all, W. says. Once I was happy on my savannah, he says. I was happy romping about the whole horizon before me. What made me think I could read, let alone write? How did I end up mistaking myself for a writer?
Behold the idiot, that's what my book says, says W. Wouldn't you like go back to my savannah now? Wouldn't you like to hoot and romp with your fellow apes?