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if there were a backmasked secret order, however dark, instead of rage at emptiness.
if they suffered from anything it was precisely this lack of suffering, a kind of neuropathy that came from too much ease, too much sugar, a kind of existential gout?
the abyss of non-belief, the vacuum, cannot be filled with stuff
if I say that life is pain, that is true, profoundly so; so, too, that life is joy;
trauma is the collapse of experience as such.
a bone-deep—allergy to anything that smacked of mystification, to the way professional jargon—especially, but not only, of the analytical sort—could be deployed to dismiss women as hysterics;
he asked me to go to a dance. I was actually a very good dancer. But he wouldn’t dance himself. And he wouldn’t let anybody else dance with me.”
An intense but contentless optimism about the future was the only protection against the recent past, in which all the regimes of value had collapsed, irradiated or gassed.
That all desire in some Lacanian sense involves misidentification? That people project their own fears and desires
we thought that if we had a language for our feelings we might transcend them. More often we fed them.
