I went to the Maagdenhuis to give a talk i.e to host a discussion about Coetzee’s “Elizabeth Costello” – to be precise, the penultimate chapter “At the gate”.

(Based on tweets some participants were first and foremost smitten with my socks.)

The last fifteen minutes we discussed this sentence: “For that, finally, is all it means to be alive: to be able to die.”

To be able to die.

Not: to be ready for death.

Not: to prepare for death.

No, to be able to die.

As if it is something you would put in a personal ad:

I’m able to fuck and I’m able to die.