thing I had done.
When I am bad and rotten in small ways she can manage me herself: she has, you recall-I know I recall!-only to put me in my coat and galoshes-oh, nice touch, Morn, those galoshes!-lock me out of the house ( lock me out of the house! ) and announce through the door that she is never going to let me in again, so I might as well be off and into my new life; she has only to take that simple and swift course of action to get instantaneously a confession, a self-scorification, and, if she should want it, a signed warranty that I will be one hundred percent pure and good for the rest of my life-all this if only I am allowed back inside that door, where they happen to have my bed and my clothes and the refrigerator . But when I am really wicked, so evil that she can only raise her arms to God Almighty to ask Him what she has done to deserve such a child, at such times my father is called in to mete out justice; my mother is herself too sensitive, too fine a creature, it turns out, to administer corporal punishment: It hurts me, I hear her explain to my Aunt Clara, more than it hurts him. That's the kind of person I am. I can't do it, and that's that. Oh, poor Mother.
But look, what is going on here after all? Surely, Doctor, we can figure this thing out, two smart Jewish boys like ourselves . . . A terrible act has been committed, and it has been committed by either my father or me. The wrongdoer, in other words, is one of the two members of the family who owns a penis. Okay. So far so good. Now: did he fuck between those luscious legs the gentile cashier from the office, or have I eaten my sister's chocolate pudding? You see, she didn't want it at dinner, but apparently did want it saved so she could have it before she went to bed. Well, good Christ, how was I supposed to know all that, Hannah? Who looks into the fine points when he's hungry? I'm eight years old and chocolate pudding happens to get me hot. All I have to do is see that deep chocolatey surface gleaming out at me from the refrigerator, and my life isn't my own. Furthermore, I thought it was left over! And that's the truth! Jesus Christ, is that what this screaming and shrying is all about, that I ate that sad sack's chocolate pudding? Even if I did, I didn't mean it! I thought it was something else! I swear, I swear, I didn't mean to do it! . . . But is that me-or my father hollering out his defense before the jury? Sure, that's him -he did it, okay, okay, Sophie, leave me alone already, I did it, but I didn't mean it! Shit, the next thing he'll tell her is why he should be forgiven is because he didn't like it either. What do you mean, you didn't mean it, schmuck -you stuck it in there, didn't you? Then stick up for yourself now, like a man! Tell her, tell her: That's right, Sophie, I slipped it to the shikse , and what you think and don't think on the subject don't mean shit to me. Because the way it works, in case you ain't heard, is that I am the man around here, and I call the shots! And slug her if you have to! Deck her, Jake! Surely that's what a goy would do, would he not? Do you think one of those big-shot deer hunters with a gun collapses in a chair when he gets caught committing the seventh and starts weeping and begging his wife to be forgiven? -forgiven for what? What after all does it consist of? You put your dick some place and moved it back and forth and stuff came out the front. So, Jake, what's the big deal? How long did thewhole thing last that you should suffer such damnation from her mouth-such guilt, such recrimination and self-loathing! Poppa, why do we have to have such guilty deference to women, you and me- when we don't! We mustn't! Who should run the show, Poppa, is us! Daddy has done a terrible terrible thing, cries my mother- or is that my imagination? Isn't what she is saying more like, Oh, little Alex has done a terrible thing again, Daddy- Whatever, she lifts Hannah (of all people, Hannah!), who until that moment I
When I am bad and rotten in small ways she can manage me herself: she has, you recall-I know I recall!-only to put me in my coat and galoshes-oh, nice touch, Morn, those galoshes!-lock me out of the house ( lock me out of the house! ) and announce through the door that she is never going to let me in again, so I might as well be off and into my new life; she has only to take that simple and swift course of action to get instantaneously a confession, a self-scorification, and, if she should want it, a signed warranty that I will be one hundred percent pure and good for the rest of my life-all this if only I am allowed back inside that door, where they happen to have my bed and my clothes and the refrigerator . But when I am really wicked, so evil that she can only raise her arms to God Almighty to ask Him what she has done to deserve such a child, at such times my father is called in to mete out justice; my mother is herself too sensitive, too fine a creature, it turns out, to administer corporal punishment: It hurts me, I hear her explain to my Aunt Clara, more than it hurts him. That's the kind of person I am. I can't do it, and that's that. Oh, poor Mother.
But look, what is going on here after all? Surely, Doctor, we can figure this thing out, two smart Jewish boys like ourselves . . . A terrible act has been committed, and it has been committed by either my father or me. The wrongdoer, in other words, is one of the two members of the family who owns a penis. Okay. So far so good. Now: did he fuck between those luscious legs the gentile cashier from the office, or have I eaten my sister's chocolate pudding? You see, she didn't want it at dinner, but apparently did want it saved so she could have it before she went to bed. Well, good Christ, how was I supposed to know all that, Hannah? Who looks into the fine points when he's hungry? I'm eight years old and chocolate pudding happens to get me hot. All I have to do is see that deep chocolatey surface gleaming out at me from the refrigerator, and my life isn't my own. Furthermore, I thought it was left over! And that's the truth! Jesus Christ, is that what this screaming and shrying is all about, that I ate that sad sack's chocolate pudding? Even if I did, I didn't mean it! I thought it was something else! I swear, I swear, I didn't mean to do it! . . . But is that me-or my father hollering out his defense before the jury? Sure, that's him -he did it, okay, okay, Sophie, leave me alone already, I did it, but I didn't mean it! Shit, the next thing he'll tell her is why he should be forgiven is because he didn't like it either. What do you mean, you didn't mean it, schmuck -you stuck it in there, didn't you? Then stick up for yourself now, like a man! Tell her, tell her: That's right, Sophie, I slipped it to the shikse , and what you think and don't think on the subject don't mean shit to me. Because the way it works, in case you ain't heard, is that I am the man around here, and I call the shots! And slug her if you have to! Deck her, Jake! Surely that's what a goy would do, would he not? Do you think one of those big-shot deer hunters with a gun collapses in a chair when he gets caught committing the seventh and starts weeping and begging his wife to be forgiven? -forgiven for what? What after all does it consist of? You put your dick some place and moved it back and forth and stuff came out the front. So, Jake, what's the big deal? How long did thewhole thing last that you should suffer such damnation from her mouth-such guilt, such recrimination and self-loathing! Poppa, why do we have to have such guilty deference to women, you and me- when we don't! We mustn't! Who should run the show, Poppa, is us! Daddy has done a terrible terrible thing, cries my mother- or is that my imagination? Isn't what she is saying more like, Oh, little Alex has done a terrible thing again, Daddy- Whatever, she lifts Hannah (of all people, Hannah!), who until that moment I
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