there ought to be a translation for people who stutter
‘I arrive at the bottom of a high white wall; it’s run through, fairly high overhead, with a large opening (future window or bay window) at the edge of which are two tillers, a man and a woman. I think I know them; in any case, they know me, because the woman asks me whether the third printing of Things* has come out, then thanks me for having written the book, then tells me that, while we’re at it, there ought to be a translation for people who stutter. This idea amuses me greatly.
I move forward—reciting to myself, laughing, the first few sentences of Things while stuttering—sinking imperceptibly (but with a very distinct sensation) into the fresh cement.
*the English translation is Things: A Story of the Sixties (published as a two volume with A Man Asleep (Verba Mundi)