across the cage at his fiendish opponent, considering. His mind worked like a precision machine, a clockwork device ticking away at superfast speed. His thoughts raced, exploring strange new possibilities he had never conceived before.
Ego cogito sum—he considered. I have been reacting to his manipulations. Reactive behavior allows him to control the circumstance. Proactive behavior puts me in control. I should attack him, but attacking him is still reaction. Yet, if I don’t attack him, I cannot defeat him. How can I be proactive without being reactive?
Bug-Man wavered. His confusion manifested itself as a softening of his shell, a spreading pale discoloration of his metallic carapace. His mandibles began to shrink. His arms and legs began to plump out, seeking their previous shape. No! he shrieked to himself. No! Not yet! I haven’t killed him yet
Bug-Man felt himself weakening, growing ever more helpless in the face of his enemy. He felt shamed and embarrassed. He wanted to scuttle off and hide in the woodwork. His bowels let loose, his bladder emptied. His skin became soft and pallid again. He stood naked before Freud. Franz Kafka, superhero. But the Bug-Man was defeated, discredited—
No! said Kafka. No! I won’t have it. I am Franz Kafka, superhero! I don’t need to be a giant cockroach to destroy the malevolence of Freud! I can stop him with my bare hands.
—And then he knew!
“Your paradigm is invalid,” Kafka said. “It’s powerful, yes, but ultimately, it has no power over those who refuse to give it power; therefore, it is not an accurate map of the objective reality, only another word-game played out in language.” Freud’s eyes widened in surprise. Kafka took two steps toward him. “You’re just a middle-aged Viennese Jew who smokes too much, talks too much and suffers from—your word— agoraphobia. You can’t even cross the street without help! ” Freud held up a hand in protest, but Kafka kept advancing, continuing his unflinching verbal assault. “You’re a dirty old man. You can’t stop talking about sex, you want to kill your father and copulate with your mother—and you believe that everybody else feels the same thing, too! You’re despicable, Sigmund Freud!”
Freud’s chin trembled. “You—you don’t understand. You’re functioning as a paranoid schizophrenic with psychotic delusions. You’ve constructed a world view in which explanations are impossible—”
“That won’t work, Siggie. It’s just so much language. It’s just a load of psyche-babble. The distinctions you’ve drawn are arbitrary constructions that only have the meaning that we as humans invest them with. Well, I withdraw my investment. Your words are meaningless. I will not be psychologized . You are just a disgusting little man who likes to talk about penises!”
The old man made one last attempt to withstand the withering assault of Kafka’s logic. “But if you withdraw all meaning from the paradigm—” he protested, “—what meaning can you replace it with?”
“That’s just it!” exulted Kafka, delivering the death blow. “Life is empty and meaningless!”
Horrified, Freud collapsed to the floor of his parlor, clutching at his chest.
Kafka stood over him, triumphant. “It’s meaningless, you old fart!”
Freud moaned—
“It doesn’t mean anything! And it doesn’t even mean anything that it doesn’t mean anything! So we’re free to make it up any way we choose!”
“Please, no. Please, stop—”
But Kafka wasn’t finished. “Your way is just a possible way of being, Sigmund—but it isn’t the only way! The difference between you and me is that because I know the bindings of my language, I also know my freedom within those bindings! You have been focusing on the bindings, you old asshole, not the freedom.”
Freud was shuddering now, impaled on Kafka’s impeccable truths. He trembled uncontrollably on the patterned rug, sick and despairing at the chaotic
Ego cogito sum—he considered. I have been reacting to his manipulations. Reactive behavior allows him to control the circumstance. Proactive behavior puts me in control. I should attack him, but attacking him is still reaction. Yet, if I don’t attack him, I cannot defeat him. How can I be proactive without being reactive?
Bug-Man wavered. His confusion manifested itself as a softening of his shell, a spreading pale discoloration of his metallic carapace. His mandibles began to shrink. His arms and legs began to plump out, seeking their previous shape. No! he shrieked to himself. No! Not yet! I haven’t killed him yet
Bug-Man felt himself weakening, growing ever more helpless in the face of his enemy. He felt shamed and embarrassed. He wanted to scuttle off and hide in the woodwork. His bowels let loose, his bladder emptied. His skin became soft and pallid again. He stood naked before Freud. Franz Kafka, superhero. But the Bug-Man was defeated, discredited—
No! said Kafka. No! I won’t have it. I am Franz Kafka, superhero! I don’t need to be a giant cockroach to destroy the malevolence of Freud! I can stop him with my bare hands.
—And then he knew!
“Your paradigm is invalid,” Kafka said. “It’s powerful, yes, but ultimately, it has no power over those who refuse to give it power; therefore, it is not an accurate map of the objective reality, only another word-game played out in language.” Freud’s eyes widened in surprise. Kafka took two steps toward him. “You’re just a middle-aged Viennese Jew who smokes too much, talks too much and suffers from—your word— agoraphobia. You can’t even cross the street without help! ” Freud held up a hand in protest, but Kafka kept advancing, continuing his unflinching verbal assault. “You’re a dirty old man. You can’t stop talking about sex, you want to kill your father and copulate with your mother—and you believe that everybody else feels the same thing, too! You’re despicable, Sigmund Freud!”
Freud’s chin trembled. “You—you don’t understand. You’re functioning as a paranoid schizophrenic with psychotic delusions. You’ve constructed a world view in which explanations are impossible—”
“That won’t work, Siggie. It’s just so much language. It’s just a load of psyche-babble. The distinctions you’ve drawn are arbitrary constructions that only have the meaning that we as humans invest them with. Well, I withdraw my investment. Your words are meaningless. I will not be psychologized . You are just a disgusting little man who likes to talk about penises!”
The old man made one last attempt to withstand the withering assault of Kafka’s logic. “But if you withdraw all meaning from the paradigm—” he protested, “—what meaning can you replace it with?”
“That’s just it!” exulted Kafka, delivering the death blow. “Life is empty and meaningless!”
Horrified, Freud collapsed to the floor of his parlor, clutching at his chest.
Kafka stood over him, triumphant. “It’s meaningless, you old fart!”
Freud moaned—
“It doesn’t mean anything! And it doesn’t even mean anything that it doesn’t mean anything! So we’re free to make it up any way we choose!”
“Please, no. Please, stop—”
But Kafka wasn’t finished. “Your way is just a possible way of being, Sigmund—but it isn’t the only way! The difference between you and me is that because I know the bindings of my language, I also know my freedom within those bindings! You have been focusing on the bindings, you old asshole, not the freedom.”
Freud was shuddering now, impaled on Kafka’s impeccable truths. He trembled uncontrollably on the patterned rug, sick and despairing at the chaotic
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