bucolic idyll

I loathe children, with their sticky faces, scabby knees and noise (always their infernal noise). And that is to say nothing of the horrifying matter of giving birth, or the filthy business of copulation.

In any case, the curling paper tongue began to vex me, to the extent that I felt a tightening in my throat.

The designation of ‘whore’ was generally reserved for French actresses, who were doubly damned by virtue of being both actresses and French.

She did not, she told me, want to be Dorothy any longer. She thanked me and left my office with a lightness of step that I had not seen in her before.

I told her that if she was happy being ‘me’ she wouldn’t have sought the help of a therapist in the first place.

She was so thoroughly repressed that her entire way of being-in-the-world was a response to a wholly imaginary set of constraints.

It was easier for her to believe that she had no desires than that she herself was suppressing them.

We are the sum of these circumstances and our reactions to them.