Confessions of a Crap Artist

The household was pervaded by this atmosphere of a calm adult woman and a man who gave into animal impulses. She reported to him in great detail what her analyst ... said about his binges and his hostility; she used Charley's money to pay Dr. Andrews to catalog his abnormalities. And of course Charley never heard anything directly from the doctor; he had no way of keeping her from reporting what served her and holding back what did not. The doctor, too, had no way of getting to the truth of what she told him; no doubt she only gave him the facts that suited her picture, so that the doctor's picture of Charley was based on what she wanted him to know. By the time she had edited both going and coming there was little of it outside her control.

She makes life over, he realized. She controls life, whereas I just sit on my can and let it happen to me.

On one hand she seems so agile, so athletic, and yet I've seen her appear so awkward that it embarrassed me. She gives the impression of a hard, worldly adroitness, and in some situations she's like an adolescent: rigid with ancient, middle class attitudes, unable to think for herself, falling back on old verities...victim of her family teaching, shocked by what shocks people, wanting what people usually want. She wants a home, a husband, and her idea of a husband is a man who earns a certain amount of money, helps around the garden, does the dishes...the idea of a good husband that's found in This Week magazine; a viewpoint from the most ordinary stratum, that great ubiquitous world of family life, transmitted from generation to generation. Despite her wild language.

There is certainly no hope left of getting away. And it isn't even terrible; it's possibly funny, if even that. It's embarrassing. That's all. A little embarrassing to realize that I no longer control my life, that the major decisions have already been made, long before I was conscious that any change was occurring.

But in the end I decided against it. The hell with the newspapers. Nobody reads the letters to the editor column except more nuts. The whole world is full of nuts. It's enough to get you down.

Llegué a la conclusión de que no había tenido conciencia (...), que sólo sabía que cuando regresara a casa (...) habría cambios importantes que él mismo se encargaría de provocar. Y dichos cambios afectarían a toda criatura viviente de la casa. Mató a los animales para demostrar que lo que hacía era importante. Que era capaz de hacer algo irreparable.

Siempre que hablaba de ti, en realidad, no describía nada. Como si nunca te viera realmente. Como si nadie fuera real de verdad para mí.

Posiblemente quiero que muera porque ya no lo quiero; ya no le necesito más. De forma deliberada me involucré contigo (...) sin mostrar ninguna preocupación por terceros, ni siquiera por ti, para conseguirte, porque eres un buen material como marido y yo necesito un marido nuevo ahora que he agotado al anterior. Y si te quedas conmigo, te trataré igual que lo traté a él. Volverá a ser lo mismo otra vez.

La diferencia entre nosotros y los animales es que nosotros podemos emplear palabras. ¿Correcto? Nosotros expandimos nuestro entorno. Aprendemos a través de la palabra escrita. Jamás llegaríamos a saber nada sobre lugares lejanos como Siam si no pudiéramos leer.