At the threshold he paused, considering the rain in and the window, and, helplessly, it began again. A droplet clung to the eaves, out there, in the cottony gloom of winter, and she came back to him. Stained, faded, torn memories-a mouth, half open in semidarkness, the dry parted lips leading to a quieter, moister dimness. A gift, unwanted, resented, discarded, the strange pride of disappointment. The metaphor of slides in a projector is imperfect-slides have none of the faithlessness of these warped, distorted recollections. He thought then, and was certain, that any metaphor here would be solely useful to protect himself from a painful and rarely acknowledged truth. She was not fading so much as he was dying, cells withering, withdrawing into themselves like the leaves outside, she, for his (And only his) intents and purposes, would die with him, was dying with him. Behind his creased, red temple, in the fatty jungle of his mind, ponds were drying up, tracks turning upon them selves, temples succumbing to vines. The droplet fell, he farted, and began to cry.
“Generally speaking, there’s nothing to be had from women in analysis. A woman fallen into the hands of the psychoanalysts becomes absolutely unfit for use, as I’ve discovered time and again. This phenomenon should not be taken as a secondary effect of psychoanalysis, but rather as its principal goal. under the pretext of reconsntructing the ego psychoanalysts proceed, in reality, to a scandalous destruction of the human being. Innocence, generosity, purity….all such things are rapidly crushed by their uncouth hands. Handsomely remunerated, pretentious and stupid, psychoanalysts reduce to absolute zero any aptitude in their so-called patients for love, be it mental or physical; in fact they behave as true enemies of mankind. A ruthless school of egoism, psychoanalysis cynically lays into decent, slightly fucked-up young women and transforms them into vile scumbags of such delirious egocentrism as to warrant nothing but well-earned contempt. On no account must any confidence be placed in a woman who’s passed through the hands of the psychoanlysts. Pettiness, egoism, arrogant stupidity, complete lack of moral sense, a chronic inability to love: there you have an exhaustive portrait of the ‘analysed’ woman.
when the sense of humor stops being humorous is it still a sense of humor? the humor of irony becomes the humor of the irony of irony - are there double negatives?- endlessly folding in itself