I’d be reminded of the false self, the pseudophilosophical self, or the naif, or simply remember, in a flash, a scene in a bar, or in bed with some man, and what a phony I’d been, or how afraid, or repulsed; how I grasped desperately for admiration, or pity, and lied to get it, and I’d burn all over again, with embarrassment, and find myself unable to go on.
