from birth, tumbled down hopelessly under the impact of this colossal discovery.
I began then an odious process of trying to restore myself. I
unconsciously made a ludicrous attempt at introspection; I tried to
wriggle out of my predicament by endlessly talking to myself. I rehashed
in my mind all the possible rationales that would sup-Port my sense of
uniqueness, and then talked out loud to myself about them. I even
experienced something quite revolutionary to me: waking myself up many times by
my loud talking in my sleep, discoursing about my value and
distinctiveness.
Then, one horrifying day, I suffered another deadly blow. In the wee
hours of the night, I was woken up by an insistent knocking on my
door. It wasn't a mild, timid knock, but what my friends called
a "Gestapo knock." The door was about to come off its hinges. I
jumped out of bed and opened the peephole. The person who was
knocking on the door was my boss, the psychiatrist. My being his
younger brother's friend seemed to have created an avenue of communication with
him. He had befriended me without any hesitation, and there he was on my
doorstep. I turned on the light and opened the door.
"Please come in," I said. "What happened?"
It was three o'clock in the morning, and by his livid expression, and
his sunken eyes, I knew that he was deeply upset. He came in
and sat down. His pride and joy, his black mane of longish hair,
was falling all over his face. He didn't make any effort to comb his hair back,
the way he usually wore it. I liked him very much because he was an older
version of my friend in Los Angeles , with black, heavy eyebrows, penetrating brown
eyes, a square jaw, and thick lips. His upper lip seemed to have an
extra fold inside, which at times, when he smiled in a certain way, gave
the impression that he had a double upper lip. He always talked about the shape
of his nose, which he described as an impertinent, pushy nose. I
thought he was extremely sure of himself, and
opinionated beyond belief. He claimed that in his profession those qualities
were winning cards.
"What happened!" he repeated with a tone of mockery, his
double upper lip trembling uncontrollably. "Anyone can tell
that everything has happened to me tonight."
He sat down in a chair. He seemed dizzy, disoriented, looking for
words. He got up and went to the couch, slumping down on it.
"It's not only that I have the responsibility of my patients,"
he went on, "but my research grant, my wife and kids, and now
another fucking pressure has been added to it, and what burns me up is that it was my own fault, my own stupidity
for putting my trust in a stupid cunt!
"I'll tell you, Carlos," he continued, "there's nothing
more appalling, disgusting, fucking nauseating than the
insensitivity of women. I'm not a woman hater, you know that! But at this moment
it seems to me that every single cunt is just a cunt! Duplicitous and
vile!"
I didn't know what to say. Whatever he was telling me didn't need
affirmation or contradiction. I wouldn't have dared to contradict
him anyway. I didn't have the ammunition for it. I was very
tired. I wanted to go back to sleep, but he kept on talking as if his life
depended on it.
"You know Theresa Manning, don't you?" he asked me in a
forceful, accusatory manner.
For an instant, I believed that he was accusing me of having something
to do with his young, beautiful student-secretary. Without
giving me time to respond, he continued talking.
"Theresa Manning is an asshole. She's a schnook! A stupid,
inconsiderate woman who has no incentive in life other than balling
anyone with a bit of fame and notoriety. I thought she was intelligent
and sensitive. I thought she had something, some understanding, some empathy, something
that one would like to share, or hold as precious all to oneself. I don't know,
but that's the picture that she painted for me, when in reality she's lewd and
degenerate, and, I may add, incurably gross."
As he kept on talking, a strange
I began then an odious process of trying to restore myself. I
unconsciously made a ludicrous attempt at introspection; I tried to
wriggle out of my predicament by endlessly talking to myself. I rehashed
in my mind all the possible rationales that would sup-Port my sense of
uniqueness, and then talked out loud to myself about them. I even
experienced something quite revolutionary to me: waking myself up many times by
my loud talking in my sleep, discoursing about my value and
distinctiveness.
Then, one horrifying day, I suffered another deadly blow. In the wee
hours of the night, I was woken up by an insistent knocking on my
door. It wasn't a mild, timid knock, but what my friends called
a "Gestapo knock." The door was about to come off its hinges. I
jumped out of bed and opened the peephole. The person who was
knocking on the door was my boss, the psychiatrist. My being his
younger brother's friend seemed to have created an avenue of communication with
him. He had befriended me without any hesitation, and there he was on my
doorstep. I turned on the light and opened the door.
"Please come in," I said. "What happened?"
It was three o'clock in the morning, and by his livid expression, and
his sunken eyes, I knew that he was deeply upset. He came in
and sat down. His pride and joy, his black mane of longish hair,
was falling all over his face. He didn't make any effort to comb his hair back,
the way he usually wore it. I liked him very much because he was an older
version of my friend in Los Angeles , with black, heavy eyebrows, penetrating brown
eyes, a square jaw, and thick lips. His upper lip seemed to have an
extra fold inside, which at times, when he smiled in a certain way, gave
the impression that he had a double upper lip. He always talked about the shape
of his nose, which he described as an impertinent, pushy nose. I
thought he was extremely sure of himself, and
opinionated beyond belief. He claimed that in his profession those qualities
were winning cards.
"What happened!" he repeated with a tone of mockery, his
double upper lip trembling uncontrollably. "Anyone can tell
that everything has happened to me tonight."
He sat down in a chair. He seemed dizzy, disoriented, looking for
words. He got up and went to the couch, slumping down on it.
"It's not only that I have the responsibility of my patients,"
he went on, "but my research grant, my wife and kids, and now
another fucking pressure has been added to it, and what burns me up is that it was my own fault, my own stupidity
for putting my trust in a stupid cunt!
"I'll tell you, Carlos," he continued, "there's nothing
more appalling, disgusting, fucking nauseating than the
insensitivity of women. I'm not a woman hater, you know that! But at this moment
it seems to me that every single cunt is just a cunt! Duplicitous and
vile!"
I didn't know what to say. Whatever he was telling me didn't need
affirmation or contradiction. I wouldn't have dared to contradict
him anyway. I didn't have the ammunition for it. I was very
tired. I wanted to go back to sleep, but he kept on talking as if his life
depended on it.
"You know Theresa Manning, don't you?" he asked me in a
forceful, accusatory manner.
For an instant, I believed that he was accusing me of having something
to do with his young, beautiful student-secretary. Without
giving me time to respond, he continued talking.
"Theresa Manning is an asshole. She's a schnook! A stupid,
inconsiderate woman who has no incentive in life other than balling
anyone with a bit of fame and notoriety. I thought she was intelligent
and sensitive. I thought she had something, some understanding, some empathy, something
that one would like to share, or hold as precious all to oneself. I don't know,
but that's the picture that she painted for me, when in reality she's lewd and
degenerate, and, I may add, incurably gross."
As he kept on talking, a strange
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