rock, a doubt, a paralysis; then it is as though clouds did part, briefly, in a place where the climate is always and always inimical. There are, of course, sadnesses that appear to consist of a stillness heaped upon a stillness, layers of apathy, over a base that is despair and lack of hope. Despair and lack of hope, because lack of hope is by no means incompatible with the cloudless and the free state. Witness Ben and the swami, and the people at the ashram, without hope but in a state of bliss. But if the state, the condition, the zone, the tenor of spirit, where no light shines lacks any ingredient either of calm or of expectation, there are also depressions of which the appearance is jaunty, counterdepressive. That is, the degree to which the creature is able to act, or to permit itself to be seen, reflects such a surface play of the energy, which, in its perfect conflict, has brought to the paralysis an almost convulsive force, that the energy appears active, liberated, even cheerful. Analysis has no access to this condition. It poses very radically, however, the question of what it is to be sincere.
You can see it from here; but just try to get to it.
What you want, don’t you see, what you want is, under the conscious pressures, a surprise within the rules.
We all find we cannot take on any more patients. We are all waiting for calls from superiors, pick up the phones each time hoping it is one of them, then find it is only another patient. The superiors of course think of us as patients and dread our calls.
Is it always the same story, then? Somebody loves and somebody doesn’t, or loves less, or loves someone else. Or someone is a good soul and someone a villain. And there are just these episodes, anecdotes, places, pauses, hailings of cabs, overcomings of obstacles, or instances of being overcome by them, illnesses, accidents, recoveries, wars, desires, welcomings, rebuffs, baskings (rare, not so long), pinings (more frequent, perhaps, and longer), actions, failures to act, hesitations, proliferations, endings of the line, until there is death. Well, no. I have a wonderful, fond memory, about love and trust and books. I mean, a dog wrote back to me. I mean, the book ended with an invitation to write letters to the dog, and contained, on its inside back cover, a packet of three sheets of paper and three envelopes. I wrote to the dog three times, and three times he wrote back. I also wrote again, and was a little disappointed when the days passed and no answer came. But it was explained to me, or I somehow understood it, or perhaps expected that someday, when he had time and got around to it, I would hear from him again. And of course by the time I realized I had not heard and would probably not hear again, I understood completely and also I had grown up. The contrast, after all, with Tom McDermott, the swimming instructor in Palm Beach who used to call himself Tom McDermowitz, which I, never having heard of Jews or knowing that we were Jews, did not understand; his writing me a note that enclosed an Intermediate card, which I already had in any event, and why, come to think of it, did he write to me at all, or why not send what he promised, the Junior Life Saving, or, looked at another way, why did he not realize that my parents, if they had been that sort of parents, might have made trouble for him at that Florida hotel. My father always said that it is a reasonable expectation of life that no one will go out of his way, against his own interest, to break his word or to hurt another person. And this turns out, not just in obvious cases, for example haters, pathological people and institutions, sadists, but in everyday life itself to be plain untrue. I wonder why. A reasonable expectation of life, I have found, is hardly ever quite borne out.
As I walk downstairs, and I see that the car is already at the far end of the driveway, I think, I am going to leave this country and this house. Maybe things will be
You can see it from here; but just try to get to it.
What you want, don’t you see, what you want is, under the conscious pressures, a surprise within the rules.
We all find we cannot take on any more patients. We are all waiting for calls from superiors, pick up the phones each time hoping it is one of them, then find it is only another patient. The superiors of course think of us as patients and dread our calls.
Is it always the same story, then? Somebody loves and somebody doesn’t, or loves less, or loves someone else. Or someone is a good soul and someone a villain. And there are just these episodes, anecdotes, places, pauses, hailings of cabs, overcomings of obstacles, or instances of being overcome by them, illnesses, accidents, recoveries, wars, desires, welcomings, rebuffs, baskings (rare, not so long), pinings (more frequent, perhaps, and longer), actions, failures to act, hesitations, proliferations, endings of the line, until there is death. Well, no. I have a wonderful, fond memory, about love and trust and books. I mean, a dog wrote back to me. I mean, the book ended with an invitation to write letters to the dog, and contained, on its inside back cover, a packet of three sheets of paper and three envelopes. I wrote to the dog three times, and three times he wrote back. I also wrote again, and was a little disappointed when the days passed and no answer came. But it was explained to me, or I somehow understood it, or perhaps expected that someday, when he had time and got around to it, I would hear from him again. And of course by the time I realized I had not heard and would probably not hear again, I understood completely and also I had grown up. The contrast, after all, with Tom McDermott, the swimming instructor in Palm Beach who used to call himself Tom McDermowitz, which I, never having heard of Jews or knowing that we were Jews, did not understand; his writing me a note that enclosed an Intermediate card, which I already had in any event, and why, come to think of it, did he write to me at all, or why not send what he promised, the Junior Life Saving, or, looked at another way, why did he not realize that my parents, if they had been that sort of parents, might have made trouble for him at that Florida hotel. My father always said that it is a reasonable expectation of life that no one will go out of his way, against his own interest, to break his word or to hurt another person. And this turns out, not just in obvious cases, for example haters, pathological people and institutions, sadists, but in everyday life itself to be plain untrue. I wonder why. A reasonable expectation of life, I have found, is hardly ever quite borne out.
As I walk downstairs, and I see that the car is already at the far end of the driveway, I think, I am going to leave this country and this house. Maybe things will be
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