Sexus (48 page)

He had stretched himself out full length, his hands folded over the mountain of flesh which was his stomach. His face was very pasty; it had the blanched look, his skin, of a man who has just returned from the water closet after straining himself to death. The body had the amorphous appearance of the helpless fat man who finds the efforts to raise himself to a sitting posture almost as difficult as it would be for a tortoise to right itself when it has been capsized. Whatever powers he possessed seemed to have deserted him. He flipped about restlessly for a few minutes, a human flounder weighing itself.

My exhortation to talk had paralyzed that faculty of speech which was his prime endowment. To begin with there was no longer any adversary before him to demolish. He was being asked to employ his wits against himself. He was to deliver and reveal—in a word, to
create
—and that was something he had never in his life attempted. He was to discover “the meaning of meaning” in a new way, and it was obvious that the thought of it terrified him.

After wriggling about, scratching himself, flopping from one side of the couch to the other, rubbing his eyes, coughing, sputtering, yawning, he opened his mouth as if to talk—but nothing came out. After a few grunts he raised himself on his elbow and turned his head in my direction. There was something piteous in the expression of his eyes.

“Can't you ask me a few questions?” he said. “I don't know where to begin.”

“It would be better if I didn't ask you any questions,” I said. “You will find your way if you take your time. Once you begin you'll go on like a cataract. Don't forget it.”

He flopped back to a prone position and sighed heavily. It would be wonderful to change places with him, I thought to myself. During the silences, my will in abeyance, I was enjoying the pleasure of making silent confession to some invisible superanalyst. I didn't feel the least bit timid or awkward or inexperienced. Indeed, once having decided to play the role I was thoroughly in it and ready for any eventuality. I realized at once that by the mere act of assuming the role of healer one becomes a healer in fact.

I had a pad in my hand ready for use should he drop anything of importance. As the silence prolonged itself I jotted down a few notes of an extratherapeutic nature. I remember putting down the names of Chesterton and Herriot, two Gargantuan figures who, like Kronski, were gifted with an extraordinary verbal facility. It occurred to me that I had often remarked this phenomenon
chez les gros hommes.
They were like the Medusas of the marine world—floating organs who swam in the sound of their own voice. Polyps outwardly, there was an acute, brilliant concentration noticeable in their mental faculties. Fat men were often most dynamic, most engaging, most charming and seductive. Their laziness and slovenliness were deceptive. In the brain they often carried a diamond. And, unlike the thin man, after washing down troughs of food their thoughts sparkled and scintillated. They were often at their best when the gustatory appetites were invoked. The thin man, on the other hand, also a great eater very frequently, tends to become sluggish and sleepy when his digestive apparatus is called into play. He is usually at his best on an empty stomach.

“It doesn't matter where you begin,” I said finally, fearing that he would go to sleep on me. “No matter what you lead off with you will always come back to the sore spot.” I paused a moment. Then in a soothing voice I said very deliberately: “You can take a nap too, if you like. Perhaps that would be good for you.”

In a flash he was wide awake and talking. The idea of paying me to take a nap electrified him. He was spilling over in all directions at once. That wasn't a bad stratagem, I thought to myself.

He began, as I say, with a rush, impelled by the frantic fear that he was wasting time. Then suddenly he appeared to have become so impressed by his own revelations that he wanted to draw me into a discussion of their import. Once again I firmly and gently refused the challenge. “Later,” I said, “when we have something to go on. You've only begun . . . only scratched the suface.”

“Are you making notes?” he asked, elated with himself.

“Don't worry about me,” I replied. “Think about yourself, about
your
problems. You're to have implicit confidence in me, remember that. Every minute you spend thinking about the
effect
you're producing is wasted. You're not to try to impress me—your task is to get sincere with yourself. There is no audience here—I am just a receptacle, a big ear. You can fill it with slush and nonsense, or you can drop pearls into it. Your vice is self-consciousness. Here we want only what is real and true and
felt
. . . .”

He became silent again, fidgeted about for a few moments, then grew quite still. His hands were now folded back of his head. He had propped the pillow up so as not to relapse into sleep.

“I've just been thinking,” he said in a more quiet, contemplative mood, “of a dream I had last night. I think I'll tell it to you. It may give us a clue . . .”

This little preamble meant only one thing—that he was still worrying about my end of the collaboration. He knew that in analysis one is expected to reveal one's dreams. That much of the technique he was sure of—it was orthodox. It was curious, I reflected, that no matter how much one knows
about
a subject, to act is another matter. He understood perfectly what went on, in analysis, between patient and analyst, but he had never once confronted himself with the realization of what it meant. Even now, though he hated to waste his money, he would have been tremendously relieved if, instead of going on with his dream, I had suggested that we discuss the therapeutic nature of these revelations. He would actually have preferred to invent a dream and then hash it to bits with me rather than unload himself quietly and sincerely. I felt that he was cursing himself—and me too, of course—for
having suggested a situation wherein he could only, as he imagined, allow himself to be tortured.

However, with much laboring and sweating, he did manage to unfold a coherent account of the dream. He paused, when he had finished, as if expecting me to make some comment, some sign of approval or disapproval. Since I said nothing he began to play with the idea of the significance of the dream. In the midst of these intellectual excursions he suddenly halted himself and, turning his head slightly, he murmured dejectedly: “I suppose I oughtn't to do that . . . that's
your
job, isn't it?”

“You can do anything you please,” I said quietly. “If you prefer to analyze yourself—
and pay me for it
—I have no objection. You realize, I suppose, that one of the things you've come to me for is to acquire confidence and trust in others. Your failure to recognize this is part of your illness.”

Immediately he started to bluster. He just had to defend himself against such imputations. It wasn't true that he lacked confidence and trust. I had said that only to pique him.

“It's also quite useless,” I interrupted, “to draw me into argument. If your only concern is to prove that you know more than I do then you will get nowhere. I credit you with knowing much more than I do—but that too is part of your illness—that you know too much. You will never know everything. If knowledge could save you, you wouldn't be lying there.”

“You're right,” he said meekly, accepting my statement as a chastisement that he merited. “Now let's see . . . where was I? I'm going to get to the bottom of things. . .”

At this point I casually glanced at my watch and discovered that the hour was up.

“Time's up,” I said, rising to my feet and going over to him.

“Wait a minute, won't you?” he said, looking up at me irritably and as if I had abused him. “It's just coming to me now what I wanted to tell you. Sit down a minute. . .”

“No,” I said, “we can't do that. You've had your chance—I've given you a full hour. Next time you'll probably do better.
It's the only way to learn.” And with that I yanked him to his feet.

He laughed in spite of himself. He held out his hand and shook hands with me warmly. “By God,” he said, “you're all right! You've got the technique down pat. I'd have done exactly the same had I been in your boots.”

I handed him his coat and hat, and started for the door to let him out.

“You're not rushing me off, are you?” he said. “Can't we have a bit of a chat first?”

“You'd like to discuss the situation, is that it?” I said, marching him to the door against his will. “That's out, Dr. Kronski. No discussions. I'll look for you tomorrow at the same hour.”

“But aren't you coming over to the house tonight?”

“NO, that's out too. Until you finish your analysis we will have no relation but that of doctor and patient. It's much better, you'll see.” I took his hand, which was hanging limp, raised it and shook him a vigorous goodbye. He backed out of the door as if dazed.

He came every other day for the first few weeks, then he begged for a stagger schedule, complaining that his money was giving out. I knew of course that it was a drain on him, because since he had given up his practice his only income was from the insurance company. He had probably salted a tidy sum away—before the accident. And his wife, to be sure, was working as a schoolteacher—I couldn't overlook that. The problem, however, was to rout him out of his state of dependency, drain him of every penny he owned, and restore the desire to earn a living again. One would hardly have believed it possible that a man of his energies, talents, powers, could deliberately castrate himself in order to get the better of an insurance company. Undoubtedly the injuries he had sustained in the automobile accident had impaired his health. For one thing he had become quite a monster. Deep down I was convinced that the accident had merely accelerated the weird metamorphosis. When he popped the idea of becoming an analyst I realized that there was still a spark of hope in him. I accepted the proposition at face
value, knowing that his pride would never permit him to confess that he had become a “case.” I used the word “illness” deliberately always—to give him a jolt, to make him admit that he needed help. I also knew that, if he gave himself half a chance, he would eventually break down and put himself in my hands completely.

It was taking a big gamble, however, to presume that I could break down his pride. There were layers of pride in him, just as there were layers of fat around his girdle. He was one vast defense system, and his energies were constantly being consumed in repairing the leaks which sprang up everywhere. With pride went suspicion. Above all, the suspicion that he may have misjudged my ability to handle the “case.” He had always flattered himself that he knew his friends' weak spots. Undoubtedly he did—it's not such a difficult thing to do. He kept alive the weaknesses of his friends in order to bolster the sense of his own superiority. Any improvement, any development, on the part of a friend he looked upon as a betrayal. It brought out the envious side of his nature. . . . In short, it was a vicious treadmill, his whole attitude towards others.

The accident had not essentially changed him. It had merely altered his appearance, exaggerated what was already there latent in his being. The monster which he had always been potentially was now a flesh-and-blood fact. He could look at himself every day in the mirror and see with his own eyes what he had made of himself. He could see in his wife's eyes the revulsion he created in others. Soon his children would begin to look at him strangely—that would be the last straw.

By attributing everything to the accident he had succeeded in gathering a few crumbs of comfort from the unwary. He also succeeded in concentrating attention upon his physique and not his psyche. But alone with himself he knew that it was a game which would soon peter out. He couldn't go on forever making a smoke screen of his enormous bundle of flesh.

When he lay on the couch unburdening himself it was curious that no matter from what point in the past he started
out he always saw himself as strange and monstrous.
Doomed
was more precisely the way he felt about himself. Doomed from the very beginning. A complete lack of confidence as to his private destiny. Naturally and inevitably he had imparted this feeling to others; in some way or other he would manage so to maneuver that his friend or sweetheart would fail him or betray him. He picked them with the same foreknowledge the Christ displayed in choosing Judas.

Kronski wanted a brilliant failure, a failure so brilliant that it would outshine success. He seemed to want to prove to the world that he could know as much and be as much as anybody, and at the same time prove that it was pointless—to be anything or to know anything. He seemed congenitally incapable of realizing that there is an inherent significance in everything. He wasted himself in an effort to prove that there could never be any final proofs, never for a moment conscious of the absurdity of defeating logic with logic. It reminded me, his attitude, of the youthful Céline saying with furious disgust: “She could go right ahead and be even lovelier, a hundred thousand times more luscious, she wouldn't get any change out of me—not a sigh, not a sausage. She could try every trick and wile imaginable, she could striptease for all she was worth to please me, rupture herself, or cut off three fingers of her hand,
she could sprinkle her short hairs with stars
—but never would I talk, never! Not the smallest whisper. I should say not!”

The variety of defense works with which the human being hedges himself in is just as astounding as the visible defense mechanisms in the animal and insect worlds. There is a texture and substance even to the psychic fortifications, as you discover when you begin to penetrate the forbidden precincts of the ego. The most difficult ones are not necessarily those who hide behind a plate of armor, be it of iron, steel, tin or zinc. Neither are they so difficult, though they offer greater resistance, who encase themselves in rubber and who,
mirabile dictu,
appear to have acquired the art of vulcanizing the perforated barriers of the soul. The most difficult ones are what I would call the “Piscean malingerers.” These are the fluid, solvent egos who lie still as a fetus in the uterine
marshes of their stagnant self. When you puncture the sac, when you think Ah! I've got you at last! you find nothing but clots of mucus in your hand. These are the baffling ones, in my opinion. They are like the “soluble fish” of surrealist metempsychology. They grow without a backbone; they dissolve at will. All you can ever lay hold of are the indissoluble, indestructible nuclei—the disease germs, so to say. About such individuals one feels that in body, mind and soul they are nothing but disease. They were born to illustrate the pages of textbooks. In the realm of the psyche they are the gynecological monsters whose only life is that of the pickled specimen which adorns the laboratory shelf.