Yesterday (Friday, I mean) I had time to phone my cousin; he left me an answerphone message about ten days ago, and I hadn’t been able to get to the phone at a reasonable hour to call him back. And you need plenty of time to spare if you want to talk to my cousin; he doesn’t share my phobia of telephones in the slightest and can rabbit on for hours, the way women do. When you try to suggest that you’re busy and need to hang up, he works in yet more topics of conversation. Ever since we were much younger, he’s been introducing me to his friends by saying, ‘This is my crazy cousin,’ and I introduce him in turn with exactly the same words. Although we’re very different in lots of ways, I’m sure we have a very similar psychological make-up. For now, what differentiates us is what you might call our awareness of the illness; my cousin almost completely lacks that awareness, and is convinced his problems are caused by things that have nothing to do with him, such as the situation in the country, and perhaps a set of circumstances that have come together by chance just to annoy him. I’m aware of what’s wrong with me and I fight against it – unsuccessfully, most of the time, though with the odd transient or temporary victory. But I carry on being aware of it, even if I can’t overcome it. I wonder how long this awareness will last, and these partial victories which, though fleeting, let me keep doing what I need to do to survive. It’s very likely that before too long I’ll find myself with no solution, restricting myself more and more by the day, and without a clue where my problems come from.