Mute Elation Part 01 - Little Girl Lost (Mute Elation - A Street Wolf Mystery)
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Three eggs scrambled with carved turkey and mayonnaise on a brioche bun. A medley of greens blended with blueberries and mango are part of the drink mix. Directly across the lab there is a sealed doorway that births its own persona. The steel door cloaks what I would assume to be the other scientists, but Roman would never answer questions about what it divides. Each passing day, I walk next to the door and grow more anxious to learn what world lies beyond. Brilliant minds, all of them ecstatic to discuss the progress of our work and how we have changed the world for the better.
I wondered if they all grew up in the lab like myself. Embryotic manipulation was fairly new at the time, but I doubt I am the only one here born this way. While my thoughts were raging with the idea of meeting others, the lab door began to rise. It opens with the usual click as it reaches the top. Important things needed to be done today; all will take precise measurements and calculations to complete successfully. The formula I am creating feeds the world by creating a crop with enough essential nutrients to sustain an individual for a full day.
The rebellion fights against the progression of science and modified plants. Nothing grows without modifications now. Roman, how was I as a child? It took much longer to develop your skillset than other scientists. It was quite rewarding to see you blossom in your studies, Marvin.
I know of the world, I know of the things in it, and I know that I want to be a part of it. My mission is all I seem to recall, though. I let silence fill the room as I adjust the final algorithm and send it to the R. A cheeky grin strikes my face as I imagine meeting my colleagues for the first time.
What is going on? The strobe bursts at a speed that makes everything around me come to life and then die in an instant. I scramble to the middle of my work station. Every step feels as if it remains in place until I collide into the table and then crawl underneath. Hiding now, I bring my knees to my chest and wait for the misery to end.
The strobe sends me into trance. The people around me…I know them all; my older brother, Aaron, my father, and my aunt are all cheering me on as I attempt to ride my bike without training wheels. My brother is keeping pace with me, just running by my side to keep motivating me and telling me not to be scared. My dad and aunt are cheering and smiling near the mailbox, the same one that has an indent from those teenage joyriders. The big hill is coming up and my brother warns me to stop before I get too far.
I hit the brakes only to find myself moving faster. Help me! The breaks are malfunctioning! The handlebars begin to wobble then jerk to the right as Aaron pulls me off and into a clover field. You gotta be okay with falling sometimes. The sound slowly becomes consumed as I roll over and spot a helicopter landing in the cul-de-sac one street past my aunts. Love ya, Marvy. Are you ready, sweetheart? The blades begin to rotate, reminding me of the alarm that starts pulling me back.
I can remember. I am real. Why did you lie to me? I trusted you, Roman. I scream as I bash the instruments into unusable scraps of glass, plastic, and metal. Every paper I could find multiplied with each rip. Finally, the flashing ceases and the noise fades. Dim lights flood the floor. While trying to catch my breath, a relief washes over me. Stomping my way down to the sleeping corridor, I turn and gaze as the red door begins to decompress and open. I finally get to meet them. I get to tell them how evil Roman is for enslaving me and filling my head with lies.
Elation pulses through me as if that cold red color gave me life. The door crept to the top inch by inch, taking longer than I wished to wait. Do you have anything to say for yourself? I have created food to feed the world. How is this murder? The crops you modified to feed the world went to cattle. Not just some, but all of them. The cattle became sick with Bloat. It began to wipe out the food supply.
The carcasses were diseased, so all that could be done was mass burnings. Cloud—due to an— unauthorized—breach of security. Nothing left but burning animal corpses while you were in here getting natural foods for every meal. People were killing their neighbors over moldy bread and cans of food, Marvin. People starved to death within three months. I was brought here and tricked into believing I was doing the right thing. Why would I take part in that? Why would we believe you? Why would we care, anyway? The pain in his voice is a slow poison infecting me with all of their struggles to survive.
My father died here, Marvin. He died trying to stop the evil that was being bred. Pieces of shit just like you that think the world is all yours. I have a father and a brother in Colorado, let me talk to them so they can… Aunt Malia! She is here. Did you kill them? Roman erased my past, he erased it! Gasping for air and equilibrium, I hear the door begin its descent. Earlier tonight I took our dog up behind the house, along the dirt track switch-backing up the tilted fault block. Rock fleshed like juniper bark: cooling in columns seventeen million years ago, hexagonal joints succumbing to lichen and brush.
When we walked up that track on snowy days last winter the wind whipped around the horst, shaking hands with the lonely juniper trees, rattling berried collars of snow and ice. Tonight there is no snow on the drive into town, just the neon red glow of the V. Hall, headlights flashing in the chrome of the motorcycles parked outside, and the drunks stumbling down Main Street towards the next escape.
I drive past abandoned buildings, boarded-up relics of a time when trains plundered the hills of pine and juniper behind the town, ferrying logs down to the sawmills floating on the briny water like pelicans, and I think of how lucky I am to be leaving tomorrow, racing tumbleweeds: extinguished lanterns blown north to the light. Daniel Yim Dusk. Dark geometry skims over late August fields: a symphony of eating, wild, graceful hunger. You never answered the question.
I sometimes feel as if I am losing my marbles. Darla slipped on them, broke her ankle. Slippery slope. Settling back in, paciGood. That is the difference. Ah memory. We are snakes in the garden of the world. End of play. Joshua Plack A thousand man-made suns scream off the windows of the Loews Hotel on Broad Street making me stumble back and lose myself for a moment.
I remember. I am meeting Bill Elliot from the police union at the Brasserie for highballs and turkey clubs. A young woman passes, stealing my gaze with the bobbing motions of round shadows. My stare holds a touch too long and she looks away fleeing my eyes. Girls have to do that, pretend to hate what they secretly love, especially when you have what I have. Across the street there stands an old man, looking lost, at me, in that tired, flannel uniform of old age that fills my nose with moth balls across four lanes of traffic.
I move out of his way but his movements mirror mine with perfect fluidity. When I reach the shop window I look at myself and remember that Broad only has two lanes. I touch I remember that wry smile of the woman who smelled of orange blossoms and wore sundresses no matter the weather. How she said no and how it drove me wild.
How she taught me to give up the weight of the world and carried it herself when the world felt cruel. How she took my name, and how that name came to be etched in marble on a stone behind the church we were married in. I remember how long it had been since I sat by that slab of granite and listened for the voice of the woman who carried my sons, saw them off to war and welcomed one home. My sons The clouds part and a thousand man-made suns scream off the windows of the Loews Hotel on Broad Street, making me stumble back and lose myself for a moment. Cursing, I dip my head under the faucet and turn it on hastily.
One of my limbs, forever vexed by gangly ungainliness, knocks over the can of Coors Light I had balanced on a domino-like stack of eyeshadow palettes. Looking at myself in the mirror, I see the scorching red burn just above my collar bone. If Robby saw me, would he want to talk to me? Do you think I should wear leggings or shorts? Sometimes for the worse. She looks up and grins, backlight of her cell phone glowing, face looking like a ghost prettied-up for a daguerreotype photograph.
He would save her" Joyce, , 33 and alternately being drowned by him: "He was drawing her into them: he would drown her" Joyce, , 34 leads her to refuse to escape with him. She thus returns to a much more regulated "circuit". Eveline uses the money she subtracts from her father to fulfill the needs of the family: she buys food. It is in such down to earth terms that she views her staying at home: "In her home anyway she had shelter and food; she had those whom she had known all her life around her" Joyce, , This description of her home shows how need is articulated to desire.
Yet the information gathered throughout the text belies her statement Topia, , Eveline is unprotected, save by God. The reader can perceive how she hides from herself the evidence of her "desire" to stay with her father, since she does not have all the people she had known all her life around her: her older brother is working outside Dublin and her other brother is dead She indeed contradicts herself a few lines later on: "And now she had nobody to protect her" Joyce, , As far as "shelter" is concerned, the threat of her father's drunken violence turns the house into a prison-house of domestic brutality.
As most critics have noted, she is waiting in a house whose contents she reviews hoping that Frank "[has] a home waiting for her" Joyce, , She would just be exchanging one patriarchal control for another in the hope of bettering her situation. In the end, the d evil you know will be better than the d evil you don't. Her "romance" with the sailor is belied by all the signs in the text that point towards a knowledge that "she" does not have; or does she?
Can the reader ascribe it to the character? In other words, the text's knowledge is assumed to be superior to the character's knowledge, yet the status of the "third person" blurs interpretation. She is a "she", a nonperson, all the more so since free indirect discourse is used throughout the text. According to Benveniste:. C'est bien L'absent" des grammairiens arabes. Eveline refuses the departing sailor a farewell and the reader infers that she herself will not "fare" well in the passage of life.
The text spells Eveline's desire in its own letter and in her proper name, a name echoed by the voices of the others. It is declined as "Miss Hill" Joyce, , 30 by her employer at the Stores; "she, Eveline" Joyce, , 30 by herself who then talks about herself in the third person like James Duffy , "Poppens", her nickname, and finally as the final cry of Frank the sailor: "Eveline!
The heroine had sexual intercourse with various members of her family, including fellatio with her father. The "double entendre", which allows a reading of Eveline's relationship with her father as raising the question of father-daughter incest, might have been evident to the readers at the time of publication The connotation also signals, even before the association with the sailor of the story, the possibility of sexual oppression, a duplication in her marriage to Frank of the harsh treatment she endures in the hands of her father, a doubling up of the married life her father and her mother might have lead.
Listen, Little Man!
Let us not forget that Eveline's last name is "Hill", like the infamous Fanny of John Cleland 's Memoirs 10 Eveline's founded fears that she might end up in the white slave trade in Argentina are supported by the father's remark: "I know these sailors chaps" Joyce, , 32 and by the association between Argentine and the white slave trade at the time. The name "Eveline" also enters a strange dialogue with the name of the main character of The Bohemian Girl, an opera the sailor she is supposed to leave with takes her to see: "Arline" A story of abduction and substitution, the opera ends in a final revelation where father and daughter are reunited.
Eveline is twice described as "leaning": "Her head was leaned against the window curtains and in her nostrils was the odour of dusty cretonne" Joyce, , Later her passivity "leaned" turns into action "leaning" : "She continued to sit by the window, leaning against the dusty curtains, inhaling the odour of dusty cretonne" Joyce, , This frenzied grip of the "iron" brings the reader mentally back to the father's blackthorn "stick" of the beginning of the story: "He used to stop the children's play and chase them out of the field when the mother was still alive: Her father used to hunt them in out of the field with his blackthorn stick" Joyce, , 29, my emphasis.
Eveline does not come. If one goes back to the first version, Joyce had written a less ambiguous sentence which did not reproduce the father's words: "Latterly he had begun to threaten her saying what he would do if it were not for her dead mother's sake" Joyce, , , my emphasis.
Ambiguity has been willingly introduced into the text by the omission of the negation that allows a double and contradictory reading of the sentence. Falling back under the law of the father with its incestuous overtones, Eveline resists her lover's call. Frank's words could be read as the appeal for an attempt at the fulfillment of sexual desire "Come" is repeated twice, dramatized as direct speech. Instead, the text inscribes paralysis as " jouissance ". She answers by total mis-recognition. Eveline does not cross the line. It is not farfetched to conjecture that this line divides the dreamed-up vision of her "new home in a distant country" 30 from the realization that sexual intercourse must and shall take place beyond that line.
The pun on her name also includes the line that links her from the first woman, the mother of us all, Eve, to the other women. Indeed, the position of Eveline's mother in relation to Eveline's own role as woman is paramount in an understanding of the text. Yet Eveline's problem is that she does not look "lively", another paronomasia of her name, as Miss Gavan from the Stores where she works insists: "'Miss Hill, don't you see that these ladies are waiting?
She is passive, lifeless. Instead of rushing, of waiting on her waiting clients, Eveline is delaying. Time is running out and Eveline's only "rushing" takes place when she must go back home after having bought a load of provisions for the household. She is also deferring the moment of decision, pondering her own desire: "She tried to weigh each side of the question" Joyce, , She is split. It is the narrator who informs the reader that "her time is running out", thus giving the reader a vantage-point on the character's attitude.
Frank is first called a "chap" or a "fellow" when Eveline reflects on what people will say about her at work. Like Eveline, Frank is caught in indirect discourse, except of course for the calls at the end of the text. His status is uncertain; he does not exist outside of the voices of the others, the inferred gossip or the father's words: "I know these sailors chaps" 32 and the final call from the boat: "He was shouted at to go on" Joyce, , The only "I" in the text is that of the father, uttering the law of male promiscuity, retaining Eveline under the "spell" of possible incest as I have suggested earlier on.
Consequently, it is that life which she will settle for at the end of the text, that life which she will be driven back to, to which she will hang on. A key sentence about her father: "He would miss her" Joyce, , 32 gradually unveils the opposite statement: "She would miss him" and "Miss Hill" returns to her father.
Hers is a case of the daughter's seduction in the sense that she cannot bring herself to leave the father bound as she is by the mother's promise which she "fulfills" A substitute mother, she takes care of the material management of the household and of the children left to her "charge" another version of the weighing, the pondering of the text. Yet this incest is also an unfulfilled promise on the part of the father; it will not take place.
The undecidability of how one must read the sentence "only for her dead mother's sake" is the heart of the text as well as the father s threat: "what he would do to her", a euphemism which might hide sexual intercourse, or might not, but surely points to male violence. The seduction theory is, as everybody knows, central to Freud's theory; it is the crux of the Oedipus complex.
I quote Gallop:. The seduction by the father is not only a mere fantasy, but its is the manifestation of a typical complex, one that is supposed to be universal, and therefore the law of Freudian theory. Gallop, , Although her reflections have started to stress his violence -when she was a child, and more recently, his drinking bouts and her growing fears- she gradually makes excuses for his behavior As times runs out" and as the text unfolds, she sees him in a more favorable light: "Sometimes he could be very nice" Joyce, , Divided between the past and the future, Eveline's thoughts are of "houses" and "home", a dichotomy which runs through the text, with at its center the word "heart".
The promise that she had made to her mother stresses this opposition. The sentence "to keep the home together as long as she could" Joyce, , 33 stands in stark contrast to the drab reality of "keeping the house together" Joyce, , 31 which implies "hard work" both outside and inside the house. Her promise to her mother was "to keep the home together", an impossible task from the start. The division "Eve-line" also echoes the sea voyages, ocean lines cf. She exemplifies the split subject whose very scission is constitutive of desire. Will she stay? Will she leave?
Her failure to liberate herself is inscribed in the story from the start. She is a melancholy subject "she listened to that melancholy air of Italy" [Joyce , 33] , attached to dust, caught in the ambivalence between what she states: "People would treat her with respect. She would not be treated as her mother had been" Joyce, , 30 and what can be inferred from the text. The mother's death pervades the text, as the dust invades the house, under the guise of other deaths, which crop up in the text. This first statement is indeed echoed by other deaths, departures, and returns: "The Waters had gone back to England" Joyce, , a strange statement, if taken literally, and in the perspective of the sea voyage, a passage which Eveline will never make to Liverpool, and beyond to Argentina.
I have already noted how her name paronomastically comes up as "lively" what she is not. When she remembers events in her life, the dividing line seems to be the death of her mother: "and besides, her mother was alive" Joyce, , Eveline does not look lively; Eveline looks dead, loves dust.
In the triangular relationship mother-father-child, the father is merged with the mother at several points in the text. She assimilates the father to the mother in her two memories of him. In the first one, Eveline is sick, she is in bed, the mother is dead. At that point, her father reads her ghost stories and feeds her. In the same way, she later pictures her mother on her sick bed in her memory of her The ghost of the mother -the mother as ghost- haunts the story.
Dead, she then comes back to haunt her daughter with words whose opacity spells horror, nonsense and the possibility of the ambivalence of sexual pleasure: "The end of pleasure is pain". But you think like this:. The Jews are avaricious and capitalistic. Can you distinguish them? The blood picture shows no difference; he does not look different from a Frenchman or Italian. And have you ever seen German Jews?
You have to do that because you really feel miserable. And you feel miserable because you are precisely that which you murder in the alleged Jew. This is only a tiny bit of the truth about you, Little Man. It is only recently that I have found that out. But I do not concede this right to you, be you a little Aryan or a little Jew. Only I and nobody else in this world has the right to determine who I am. I hear that in Palestine you did not want a Jewish technician because he is not circumcised. I have nothing more in common with Jewish Fascists than with any others.
Why, Little Jew, do you go back only to Sem, and not to the protoplasm? It took many million years to develop you from a jellyfish to a terrestrial biped. Your biological aberration, in the form of rigidity, has lasted only six thousand years. It will take a hundred or five hundred or maybe five thousand years before you rediscover nature in you, before you find the jellyfish in yourself again. I discovered the jellyfish in you and described it to you in dear language. When you heard about it the first time, you called me a new genius.
You will remember, it was in Scandinavia; at a time you were looking for a new Lenin. But I had more important things to do and declined this role. You have also proclaimed me to be a new Darwin, or Mary or Pasteur, or Freud. I told you long ago that you too would be able to talk and write like me, if you only would not always yell, Hail, Hail, Messiah! For this victorious yelling deadens your mind and paralyses your creative nature. The child Christ was born by a mother who had no marriage certificate. Thus, without having any idea of it, you venerate in the child Christ your longing for sexual freedom, you Little Henpecked Man.
But then, as the Apostle Paul, you began to persecute the children of true love and to give the children of true hatred the protection of your religious laws. You are a miserable Little Man! You run your automobiles and trains over the bridges, which the great Galileo invented. Do you know, Little Man, that the great Galileo had three children, without a marriage license?
And did you not torture Galileo for this reason also? And do you know that he himself had lived with his wife without a marriage license? Of all this you know nothing at all, for what is truth to you or history, or the fight for your freedom, and who are you, anyhow, to have an opinion of your own? You have no inkling of the fact that it is your pornographic mind and your sexual irresponsibility, which put you in the shackles of your marriage laws. You feel yourself miserable and small, stinking, impotent, rigid, lifeless and empty.
You are constipated and take laxatives. All your life you were bothered by your impotence. It invaded every thought of yours. It interfered with your work. Your wife left you because you were unable to give her love. You suffer from phobias, nervousness and palpitations. Your thoughts revolve around sexuality. Somebody tells you of sex-economy, which understands you and would like to help you. It would like to make you live your sexuality at night so that during the day you would be free of sexual thoughts and capable of doing your work.
It would like to see your wife happy in your arms instead of desperate. It would like to see your children rosy instead of pale, loving instead of cruel. There are other important things in life. You want to free the world from its sufferings. Down with capitalism! They listen, full of enthusiasm and hope. They crowd into your organizations because they expect to find me there.
But what do you do? It is the economic factors that count. When a great man set out to give your economic emancipation a scientific basis you let him starve. You killed the first inroad of truth against your deviation from the laws of life. When this first attempt of his was successful, you took over its administration and thus killed it a second time. The first time the great man dissolved your organization. The second time, he had died in the meantime and could no longer do anything against you.
You did not understand that he found, in your work, the living power, which creates values. You did not understand that his sociology wanted to protect your society against your state. A great, wise man worked himself to death to show you that you have to improve economic conditions if you want to enjoy your life; that hungry individuals are unable to further culture; that all conditions of life, without exception, belong here; that you have to emancipate yourself and your society from all tyranny. This true, great man made only one mistake when he tried to enlighten you: he believed in your capacity for emancipation.
He believed you were capable of securing your freedom once you had conquered it. And what did you, Little Man, do with the wealth of knowledge and ideas coming from this great man? Of all of it, only one word kept ringing in your ears: dictatorship! Of all that a great mind and a big warm heart had poured out, a word remained: dictatorship. Everything else you threw over board, freedom, clarity and truth, the solution of the problems of economic slavery, the method of thinking ahead; everything, but everything, went overboard.
Only one word, which had been unhappily chosen though well meant, stuck you: dictatorship! From this small negligence of a great man you have built a giant system of lies, persecution, torture, goalers, hangmen, secret police, espionage and denunciation, uniforms, Marshals and medals - but everything else you have thrown overboard. Do you begin to understand a little better how you are, Little Man?
Not yet? Have you not suffered it yourself, this idea of yours of the mother with ten children? There, you put it into resplendent uniforms and you created from your midst the little, impotent, mystical and sadistic official who led you into the Third Reich and led sixty million of your kind to the grave. And you keep yelling, Hail, Hail Hail!
But nobody dares tell you what you are like. For one is afraid of you and wants you to be small, Little Man. You devour your happiness. Never have you enjoyed happiness in full freedom. You were kept from learning to take care of your happiness, to nurture it as a gardener nurtures his flowers and the farms his crops. The great searchers and poets and sages fled from you because they wanted to take care of their happiness. In your proximity, Little Man, it is easy to devour happiness but difficult to protect it.
He has to carry the heavy burden of what is new all by himself. He has to suffer your stupidities, your erroneous little ideas and ideals, he has to comprehend and analyze them, and, finally, has to replace them by his deeds. In all this, you do not help him, Little Man. Not in the least. For a long time I have suffered from this and that, but I could not help myself. Now, can I help you to help me? You play cards, or you yell yourself hoarse at a prizefight, or you slave away dully in an office or a mine. But never do you come to help your helper. You know why? Because the discoverer, to begin with has nothing to offer but thoughts.
No profit, no higher wages, no union contract, no Christmas bonus and no easy way of living. But if you just stayed away, not offering or giving help, the discoverer would not feel unhappy about you. He does all this because his living functioning drives him to do it. The taking care of you and the pitying you he leaves to the party leaders and the churchmen. What he would like to see is that you finally become capable of taking care of yourself.
But you are not content with not helping; you disrupt and spit. When the discoverer finally, after long and hard work has come to understand why you are incapable of giving your wife happiness in love, you come and say that he is a sexual swine. You have no inkling of the fact that you say this because you have to keep down the sexual swine in yourself and that is why you are incapable of love.
To you, your professoria1 dignity, or your bank account or your connection with the radium industry means more than truth and learning. That is, not only do you not help, but you disturb maliciously work that is done for you or in your stead. Do you understand now why happiness escapes you? It wants to be worked for and wants to be earned. In the course of time, the discoverer succeeds in convincing many people that his discovery has practical value, that, it makes it possible to treat certain diseases, or to lift a weight, or to blast rocks, or to penetrate matter with rays so that the inside becomes visible.
You respect the one, who despises you, and you despise yourself; that is why you cannot trust your own senses. But when the discovery is written up in the newspapers, then you come, not walking, but running. If you are a physician, you will many more patients; you can help them much better than previously and can make much more money. But it is bad not to give back anything to the discovery, not to take care of it, but only to exploit it.
And that is precisely what you are doing. You do nothing to further the development of the discovery. You take it over mechanically, greedily, stupidly. You do not see its possibilities or its limitations. If, as a physician or bacteriologist you know typhoid a cholera to be infectious diseases, you look for a micro-organism in the cancer disease and.
Once a great man showed you that machines follow certain laws; then you build machines for killing, and you take the living to be a machine also. In this, you made a mistake not for three decades, but for three centuries; erroneous concepts became inextricably anchored in hundreds of thousands of scientific workers; more, life itself was severely damaged; for from this point on - because of your dignity, or your professorship, your religion, your bank account or your character amour - you persecuted, slandered and otherwise damaged anyone who really was on the track of the living function.
But you want a good genius, one with moderation and decorum, one without folly, in brief, a seemly, measured and adjusted genius, not an unruly, untamed genius which breaks down all your barriers and limitations You want a limited, wing-clipped and dressed-up genius whom without blushing, you can triumphantly parade through the streets of your towns. You are good at scooping up and ladling in, but you cannot create. You have no development and no chance for a new thought, because you have always only taken, only ladled in what somebody else has presented to you on a silver platter.
You can only ladle in and only take, and cannot create and cannot give, because your basic bodily attitude is that of holding back and of spite; because panic strikes you when the primordial movement of LOVE and of GIVING stirs in you. This is why you are afraid of giving. Your taking, basically, has only one meaning: You are forced continuously to gorge yourself with money, with happiness, with knowledge, because you feel yourself to be empty, starved, unhappy, not genuinely knowing nor desirous of knowledge. For the same reason you keep running away from the truth, Little Man: it might release the love reflex in you.
It would inevitably show you what I, inadequately, am trying to show you here. And that you do not want, Little Man. You only want to be a consumer and a patriot. He denies patriotism, the bulwark of the state and of its germ, the family! Something has to be done about it! You want to yell, Hurrah! I see fear in your eyes; this question seems to concern you deeply. You want to be free to like your own religion. Well and good. But you want more than that: you want your religion to be the only one.
You are tolerant as to your religion, but not tolerant as to others. You become rabid when somebody, instead of a personal God, adores nature and tries to understand it. You want a marital partner to sue the other, to accuse him or her of immorality or brutality when they no longer can live together. Divorce on the basis of mutual agreement you do not recognize, you little descendant of great rebels. For you are frightened by your own lascivity. Your chauvinism derives from your bodily rigidity, your psychic constipation, Little Man.
Take a look at your patriots: They do not walk; they march. They do not sing songs; they yell martial airs. There is nothing you can undertake against my truth, Little Man. All you can do is to slay me, as you have slain so many others of your true friends: Jesus, Rathenau, Karl Liebknecht, Lincoln, and many others. In the long run, it has put you down, by the millions. But you continue to be a patriot.
You long for love, you love your work and make a living from it, and your work lives on my knowledge and that of others. Love, work and knowledge know no fatherlands, no customs barriers, and no uniforms. They are international and comprise all humanity. But you want to be a little patriot, because you are afraid of genuine love, afraid of your responsibility for your own work, afraid of knowledge. This is why you can only exploit the love, work and knowledge of others but can never create yourself. This is why you steal your happiness like a thief in the night; this is why you cannot see happiness in others without getting green with envy.
He is a foreigner, an immigrant. You are and remain the eternal immigrant and emigrant. You have entered this world quite accidentally and will silently leave it again. You yell because you are afraid. You feel your body go rigid and gradually dry up. But your police has no power over my truth either. Even your policeman comes to me, complaining about his wife and his sick children. When he dons his uniform he hides the man in himself; but he cannot hide from me; I have seen him naked too. Are his papers in order? Has he paid his taxes? Investigate him.
He is a danger to the state and the honor of the nation! What you worry about is not the state or the honor of the nation. You tremble with fear lest I disclose your nature in public as I have sent it in my medical office. I know you, Little Man. They did the same thing with Socrates. But you never learn from history. You murdered Socrates, and because you still do not know that you did, you continue to remain in the morass.
You accused him of undermining your good morals. He still undermines them, poor Little Man. You murdered his body but you could not murder his mind. You could not look me in the eyes when you accuse me publicly of immorality. For you know which one of us is immoral, lascivious and pornographic. Somebody once said that among his numerous acquaintances there was only one he had never heard tell a dirty joke; I was the one. Little Man, whether you be a District Attorney, a judge or a chief of police, I know your little dirty jokes and I know the source from which they stem.
So, better keep quiet. Well, you might succeed in showing that my income tax payment was a hundred dollars short; or that I drove across a state line with a woman; or that I talked nicely with a child in the street. But it is in your mouth that each of these three sentences assumes its special timbre, the slippery, equivocal, mean sound of vile action.
And since you know of nothing else, you think that I am like you. No, Little Man, I am not like you and never was like you in these things. It does not matter whether you believe it or not. True, you have a revolver and I have knowledge. The roles are divided. You ruin your own existence, Little Man, in the following manner: In I suggested a scientific study of the human character.
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You were enthusiastic. In our work achieved its first tangible results. In I was to publish these results in book form, in your publishing house. Hitler had just come to power. I had learned to understand the fact that Hitler came to power because your character is armored. You refused to publish the book in your publishing house, the book which showed you how you produce a Hitler. The book appeared nonetheless, and you continued to be enthusiastic. He had also advised mothers to suppress the genital excitations of infants by means of holding the breath. For twelve years, then, you kept silent about the book, which aroused your enthusiasm.
In it was reissued. You still are enthusiastic about my book. Twenty-two long, anxious, eventful years have passed since I began to teach you that what is important is not individual treatment but the prevention of mental disorders. For twenty- two long years I taught you that people get into this or that frenzy, or remain stuck in this or that lamentation because their minds and bodies have become rigid and because they can neither give love nor enjoy it.
This, because their bodies, unlike that of other animals, cannot contract and expand in the love act. Twenty-two years after I had first said this, you now say to your friends that what is important is not individual treatment but the prevention of mental disorders. And you act again you have acted for thousands of years: you mention the big goal without saying how it could be reached. You fail to mention the love life of the masses of the people. That you can say; it is harmless and dignified. But you want to do it without tackling the prevailing sexual misery.
You do not even mention it; that is not allowed. And as a physician, you remain stuck in the morass. What would you think of a technician who reveals the technique of flying but fails to disclose the secrets of motor and the propeller. You are a coward. Have you never heard the plaints of young brides whose bodies had been violated by impotent husbands? Or the anguish of adolescents who burst with unfulfilled love?
Is your security still more important to you than your patient? How long are you going to continue putting your dignity in the place of your medical task? How long are you going to overlook the fact that your tactics cost the life of millions?
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You set security before the truth. How can it cure patients. Now as to your freedom giddiness. Nobody, Little Man, has ever asked you why you have not been able to get freedom for yourself, or why, if you did, you immediately surrendered it to some new master. He dares to doubt the revolutionary upsurge of the proletarians of the world, he dares to doubt democracy!
Silent Hill: Revelation
Down with the counter-revolutionary! I believe that your real freedom of the future depends more on the answer to this one question then on tens of thousands of resolutions of your Party Congresses. He sullies the honor of the nation and of the avant-garde of the revolutionary proletariat! Against the wall! For once, put yourself in front of a mirror. You were sitting in the orgone accumulator, naked. I called to you to take part in the observations. Whereupon you jumped out of the accumulator naked, amidst the girls and women, exposing yourself. I reprimanded you immediately, but you did not see why I should have.
I, on my part, could not understand why you did not see. Later, in an extended discussion you admitted that that had been precisely your concept of freedom in an Institute, which advocates sexual health. You soon found out that you had the deepest contempt for the Institute and its basic idea, and that was why you had behaved indecently. Another example, to show how again and again you gamble away your freedom. You know and I know, and everybody knows, that you go around in a perpetual state of sexual starvation; that you look greedily at every member of the other sex; that you talk with your friends about love in terms of dirty jokes; in brief, that you have a dirty, pornographic fantasy.
We want women! Concerned with your future, I built up organizations in which you might learn better to understand your misery in life and to do something about it. You and your friends came to these meetings in droves. Why was that, Little Man? At first I thought it was because of an honest, burning interest in improving your life. Only much later did I recognize what really motivated you.
You thought that here was a new kind of brothel, where one could get a girl easily and without shelling out money. Realizing that, I smashed these organizations, which were designed to help you with your life. Not because I think it is bad to find a girl in a meeting of such an organization, but because you approached it with a filthy mind. You wanted to say something? The Fuhrers of the proletariat will help. They are going to clean up the mess with a mailed fist.
Apart from that, the sexual problem of the proletariat is going to solve itself. The result was shown in Berlin, when the proletarian soldiers raped women all night long. You know that as a fact. Karl Marx has shown the people how they can be free economically. You have shown the people how they can be free sexually: you have told them: "Go out and fuck as much as you like. What I call the loving embrace becomes, in your life, a pornographic act.
This is why, again and again, you sink back into the morass. If you, Little Woman, by mere chance, without any special qualifications, have become a teacher, simply because you did not have children of your own, you do untold damage. Your job is to handle and educate children. But you are fat, awkward and unattractive. That alone is enough to make you hate every charming, alive body with deep and bitter hatred. What I am blaming you for is not that you are fat and unattractive; not that you have never enjoyed love no healthy man would give it to you ; not that you do not understand love in the children.
This is a crime, ugly Little Woman. The harmfulness of your existence consists in your alienating the affection of healthy children from their healthy fathers; in our considering the healthy love of a child a pathological symptom. It consists in your being barrel-shaped, your going around like a barrel, your thinking like a barrel, your educating like a barrel; in your not modestly retiring to a small corner of life, but, instead, trying to impose upon this life your barrel shape, your falseness, and your bitter hatred hidden behind your false smile.
And, Little Man, because you let such women handle your healthy children, let them drip their bitterness and their poison into healthy souls, are you what you are, live as you live, think as you think, and is the world as it is. Again, this is what you are like, Little Man: You come to me in order to learn what I, in hard work, had found out and had fought for. Without me, you would have become a small, unknown general practitioner in some small town or village.
I made you great by giving you my knowledge and my therapeutic technique. I taught you to see the manner in which freedom is suppressed, every minute of the day, and how lack of freedom is nurtured. Then you assume a responsible position as the exponent of my work in some other country. You are free in the full sense of the word.
I trust your honesty.
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But you feel inwardly dependant on me became you are unable to develop much out of yourself. You need me in order to drink knowledge from me, to get self-confidence, vision into the future, and, more than anything else, development. All this I give to you gladly, Little Man. I ask nothing in return.
You become fresh, in the belief of being free. But to confuse impudence with freedom has always been the sign of the slave. Pointing to your freedom, you refuse to send reports about your work. You feel yourself free - free from cooperation and responsibility. At first the eagle thinks that he will hatch little eagles whom he is going to bring up to be big eagles. But what comes out of the eggs is always nothing but little chicks. Desperately, the eagle keeps hoping that the chicks will turn into eagles after all. But no, at the end they are nothing but cackling hens.
When the eagle found out this, he had a hard time suppressing his impulse to eat up all the chicks and cackling hens. What kept him from doing so was a small hope. The hope, namely, that among the many cackling chicks there might be, one day, a little eagle capable of growing up into a big eagle, capable like himself, to look from his lofty perch into the far distance, in order to detect new worlds, new thoughts and new forms of living.
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It was only this small hope that kept the sad, lonely eagle from eating up all the cackling chicks and hens. They did not see that they were being hatched by an eagle. They did not see that they lived on a high, steep rock, far above the damp, dark valleys. They did not look into the distance like the lonely eagle. They only gobbled and gobbled and gobbled whatever the eagle brought home to them.
They let him warm them under his powerful wings when it rained and stormed outside, when he withstood the storm without any protection. Or, if things got tougher, they threw sharp little rocks at him from ambush, in order to hit and hurt him. When he realized this maliciousness his first impulse was to tear them to shreds. But he thought about it and began to pity them. Sometime, he hoped, there would be, there would have to be, among the many cackling, gobbling and short-sighted chickens, a little eagle capable of becoming like himself.
The lonely eagle, to this day, has not given up this hope. And so he continues to hatch little chickens. You do not want to become an eagle, Little Man, and that is why you get eaten by the vultures. You are afraid of the eagles, and so you live together in great herds, and are being eaten up in big herds. For some of your chickens have hatched the eggs of vultures. And the vultures have become your Fuhrers against the eagles, the eagles who wanted to lead you into farther, better distances. The vulture taught you to eat carrion and to be content with just a few grains of wheat.
All these things, Little Man, you have built on sand: your house, your life, your culture and civilization, your science and technic, your love and your education of children. What should I do? Help me! She tortures me, she has hysterical fits, and she runs around with a dozen men. What shall I do? Tell me! What should we do? Millions of people have nothing to eat, they starve, and they murder, steal, deteriorate, and give up all hope.
What should are do? The fate of great achievement, born from a way of living which sets truth before security, is this: to be greedily devoured by you and to be shit out again by you. A great many great, courageous and lonely men have told you long since what you should do. Again and again you have twisted their teachings, torn them apart and destroyed them. Again and again you tackled them from the wrong end, made the small error instead of the great truth the guiding line of your life, in Christianity, in the teaching of socialism, in the teaching of the sovereignty of the people, in absolutely everything you touched, Little Man.
Why do you do this, you ask? Jones, and what is Judge Smith going to say? They were lost in vast deserts, and the lonely criers perish in your dreadful desert emptiness, Little Man. You cried, Heil! You had the choice between the genuinely democratic constitution of Lenin and the dictatorship of Stalin. You chose the dictatorship of Stalin. You chose his cultural philosophy, which did not give you a leg to stand on, and forgot about the theory of sex. You had the choice between the majestic simplicity of Jesus and the celibacy of Paul for his priests and life-long compulsive marriage for yourself.
You forgot about the living in your work and chose the idea of the state. During the French Revolution, you had the choice between the cruel Robespierre and the great Danton. You chose cruelty and sent greatness and kindness to the gallows. In Germany, you had the choice between Goering and Himmler on the one hand and Liebknecht, Landau and Muhsam on the other.
You made Himmler your chief of police, and you murdered your true friends. You had the choice between Julius Streicher and Waiter Rathenau. You murdered Rathenau. You had the choice between Lodge and Wilson. You murdered Wilson. You had the choice between the cruel Inquisition and the truth of Galileo. You tortured to death the great Galileo, from whose discoveries you are profiting, by submitting him to utter humiliation.
In this twentieth century, you have again brought to flower the methods of the Inquisition. You had the choice between an understanding of mental disease and shock therapy. You chose shock therapy, in order not to have to realize the gigantic dimensions of your own misery, in order to continue to remain blind where only open, dear eyes can help.