stage without once ever revealing my true self. Since my conviction was accompanied by an extremely naïve lack of experience, even though there was a lingering suspicion somewhere in my mind that I might be mistaken, I was still practically certain that all men embarked on life in just this way. I believed optimistically that once the performance was finished the curtain would fall and the audience would never see the actor without his make-up. My assumption that I would die young was also a factor in this belief. In the course of time, however, this optimism or, better said, this daydream was to suffer a cruel disillusionment.By way of precaution I should add that it is not the usual matter of "self-consciousness" to which I am referring here. Instead it is simply a matter of sex, of the role by means of which one attempts to conceal, often even from himself, the true nature of his sexual desires. For the present I do not intend to refer to anything beyond that.
Now it may well be that the so-called backward student is the product of heredity. I nevertheless wanted to receive regular promotions along with the rest of my generation in the school of life, and I hit upon a makeshift way of doing so. This device consisted, in brief, of copying my friends' answers during examinations, without any understanding of what I was writing, and handing in my paper with studied innocence. There are times when such a method, more stupid and shameless than cunning, reaps an outward success, and the pupil is promoted. In the grade to which he has advanced, however, he is presumed to have mastered the materials of the lower grades, and as the lessons progress in difficulty, he becomes completely lost. Even though he hears what the teacher says, he understands not a word of it. At this point only two courses are open to him: either he goes to the dogs, or else he bluffs his way through by pretending with all his might that he does understand. The choice between these two courses will be determined by the nature, not the quantity, of his weakness and boldness. Either course requires the same amount of boldness, or of weakness, and either requires a kind of lyrical and imperishable craving for laziness.
One day I joined a group of classmates who were walking along outside the school walls, noisily discussing the rumor that one of our friends, who was not present, had fallen in love with the conductress of a bus on which he went back and forth to school. Before long the gossip turned to a theoretical argument as to what one could find to like about bus conductresses.
At this point I spoke up, deliberately adopting a cold-blooded tone and speaking brusquely, as though flinging out the words :
"It's their uniforms! Because they fit so tight to their bodies."
Needless to say, I had never felt the slightest such sensual attraction toward bus conductresses as my words suggested. I had spoken by analogy—a perfect analogy, in which I saw the same sort of tight uniform on a different body—and also out of a desire, then very strong in me, to pose as a mature, cynical sensualist about everything.
The other boys reacted immediately. They were all of that type known as "honor students," of unimpeachable deportment, and—as was so often the case at my school—correspondingly prudish. Their shocked disapproval of my words was clear from their half-joking remarks:"Ugh! You know all about it, don't you?"
"Nobody'd dream of such a thing unless he'd been doing a lot he shouldn't."
"Hey, you're really awful, aren't you?"
Encountering such naïve, excited criticism, I feared my medicine had been a bit too effective. I reflected that I could probably have shown my profundity off to better advantage if, even in saying the same thing, I had used a little less sophisticated and startling way of speaking, that I ought to have been more reserved.
When a boy of fourteen or fifteen discovers that he is more given to introspection and consciousness of
Now it may well be that the so-called backward student is the product of heredity. I nevertheless wanted to receive regular promotions along with the rest of my generation in the school of life, and I hit upon a makeshift way of doing so. This device consisted, in brief, of copying my friends' answers during examinations, without any understanding of what I was writing, and handing in my paper with studied innocence. There are times when such a method, more stupid and shameless than cunning, reaps an outward success, and the pupil is promoted. In the grade to which he has advanced, however, he is presumed to have mastered the materials of the lower grades, and as the lessons progress in difficulty, he becomes completely lost. Even though he hears what the teacher says, he understands not a word of it. At this point only two courses are open to him: either he goes to the dogs, or else he bluffs his way through by pretending with all his might that he does understand. The choice between these two courses will be determined by the nature, not the quantity, of his weakness and boldness. Either course requires the same amount of boldness, or of weakness, and either requires a kind of lyrical and imperishable craving for laziness.
One day I joined a group of classmates who were walking along outside the school walls, noisily discussing the rumor that one of our friends, who was not present, had fallen in love with the conductress of a bus on which he went back and forth to school. Before long the gossip turned to a theoretical argument as to what one could find to like about bus conductresses.
At this point I spoke up, deliberately adopting a cold-blooded tone and speaking brusquely, as though flinging out the words :
"It's their uniforms! Because they fit so tight to their bodies."
Needless to say, I had never felt the slightest such sensual attraction toward bus conductresses as my words suggested. I had spoken by analogy—a perfect analogy, in which I saw the same sort of tight uniform on a different body—and also out of a desire, then very strong in me, to pose as a mature, cynical sensualist about everything.
The other boys reacted immediately. They were all of that type known as "honor students," of unimpeachable deportment, and—as was so often the case at my school—correspondingly prudish. Their shocked disapproval of my words was clear from their half-joking remarks:"Ugh! You know all about it, don't you?"
"Nobody'd dream of such a thing unless he'd been doing a lot he shouldn't."
"Hey, you're really awful, aren't you?"
Encountering such naïve, excited criticism, I feared my medicine had been a bit too effective. I reflected that I could probably have shown my profundity off to better advantage if, even in saying the same thing, I had used a little less sophisticated and startling way of speaking, that I ought to have been more reserved.
When a boy of fourteen or fifteen discovers that he is more given to introspection and consciousness of
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