Malice Remains Its Animating Impulse.

All Analyses End Badly. Each 'termination' Leaves The Participants With The Taste Of Ashes In Their Mouths; Each Is Absurd; Each Is A Small, Pointless Death. Psychoanalysis Cannot Tolerate Happy Endings; It Casts Them Off The Way The Body's Immunological System Casts Off Transplanted Organs.

Poets And Novelists And Playwrights Make Themselves, Against Terrible Resistances, Give Over What The Rest Of Us Keep Safely Locked Within Our Hearts.

I Was Always Trying To Take Art Photographs, But The Most Interesting Pictures Were The Snapshots. The Artsy Pictures Were Boring, Always.

Analysts Keep Having To Pick Away At The Scab That The Patient Tries To Form Between Himself And The Analyst To Cover Over His Wounds. The Analyst Keeps The Surface Raw, So That The Wound Will Heal Properly.

Society Mediates Between The Extremes Of, On The One Hand, Intolerably Strict Morality And, On The Other, Dangerously Anarchic Permissiveness Through An Unspoken Agreement Whereby We Are Given Leave To Bend The Rules Of The Strictest Morality, Provided We Do So Quietly And Discreetly. Hypocrisy Is The Grease That Keeps Society Functioning In An Agreeable Way, By Allowing For Human Fallibility And Reconciling The Seemingly Irreconcilable Human Needs For Order And Pleasure.