A year ago, personally, I despised Freud, because I thought of what little I could read of The Interpretation of Dreams as erotica. It pinched me, nevertheless, that he shook the world.
Freud is an algorithm. It goes like this.
Snort. Tape the conversations with the patient. Would client sound better? Listen to him, or her - he had several more female patients that male ones. Play joker - the Freud kind: beard, cigar, cross-legged. If 1, 0; if 0, 1. And in every exception, admit that nature turns leaves now and then. Throw in a rhetoric, something in the lines of "What good is life if it were all predictable?". Record the moment. Get cash. Send the patient away. Score. Snort. Repeat to infinity.
Through the year, I have come to think that the life of Freud was one of mind-blowing humility. The man had direction.
It pinches to mortalise Freud. I must have written that Freud had direction, substituting "The man" with "Freud".
The root of paranoia, I have come to believe, is one's image of oneself. Das Es, das Ich, and das Uber Ich chaining themselves in Being and the World.
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This was Fiction. I am beginning to write after long. The warm up has begun.
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