If I were - if I could be - just wouldn't worry about Chad Liu. 'Oh, Boaz, let it go, the feeling.' I just wouldn't worry about the Prudence Investment Management hedge fund returning 200 per cent to investors in its first two years. Dreaming of a new life; as Boaz Weinstein, I would set myself free. I wouldn't beat myself with angry fists into a coma.
Like a half-dead butterfly he lies on the ground, this Weinstein. Tragically, last year, only 10 per cent was returned by his Saba Capital Management. It seems Chad Liu is the big fat bumblebee, our hairy honey, humming wildly. I'd die and come back as a wasp, if I were Boaz Weinstein ... and had the freedom to choose any form.
I will never be Boaz Weinstein. This is all academic. But if I were - if God/Nature said I had to become - my tears would burn any bodies who disrespected me. I'd throw my wet handkerchief in their silly faces. The pain would make them understand, and appreciate: how hard it is to leave a Deutsche Bank trading desk!
Chess, blackjack, poker. Who cares? It's the game of life that matters. I play, he plays. If I could switch my life with another man's. Toss my soul into a new fleshy robot. Well, not new, not baby-fresh new, but a few years younger, with more hunger. I could find happiness inside someone less broken.
If I were, I am, an animal ... substantial, a black swan, I will surprise the world with a storm of horrors conjured up from the depths of our shared inhumanity. 'Shocking, so rare, abusive and instructive, a savage god! I'm waiting for you to open your eyes.' That's my scream in the ears of the dead. That's my blood and my fire.
There is no need for Boaz Weinstein. There is no need for Chad Liu. They can take their money. So can all the others. Now watch them run for the hills. And watch me, hot on their trail(s) with teeth sharper than a hellhound's teeth. I'll get them. They will be trophies on the wall. I'm performing a great service. Everyone wants to be remembered.
One day, I'll be a trophy, on God's wall. Hopefully, I'll be nailed up beside Picasso. Is it nice to have a dream? I'm not stretching my soul for a laugh. I'm not wearing myself out for a few pennies in the bank. Yes, I'll see all my friends - Kafka, Beckett, Rimbaud ... It's my will. A dream is nothing.
You have to be desperate. An empty life should be cherished. It's the gift that keeps on tearing away at your mind until action is the only escape. If I were Boaz Weinstein ... or anyone, every day would be a picnic in the park with the sun out. I wouldn't have to beg for crumbs in the dark. I'd be satisfied and practically finished as a writer.
