Man, pull yourself together! All eyes are on you (on me is good! They’re on me like leeches). Show these intellectuals and viragos what you’re made of! Show ’em you’ve got a brain in your head too! Now’s the time to show your mettle, the moment of truth (Heil Hemingway! For Whom the Balls Tell). The existentialist has to realize himself every minute of his life, even in the outhouse. So roll up your intellectual sleeves and get down to business: the prerequisite for a constructive etc. etc.—so far so good—is our agreement . . . Here! There’s the catch: why “agreement”?—but that probably emerges later in the sentence; it has to or I wouldn’t have started it out that way—so go on: is our agreement on the existence of an object which, while not rationally comprehensible—absolutely right, I agree one hundred percent (this guy really knows his text, damn it all!)—so: while not rationally comprehensible, can be psychically experienced—well how the hell else than with the psyche? With the large intestine maybe? (Careful! If I say that out loud he’ll say I’m anal)—so “experienced” in any case, can’t argue with that, all the psychic conditions man has experienced up to now confirm it, a few dozen millennia of not just Catholic religious ecstasy look down upon you, Christian Soldiers! It’s just the old duality: light and darkness, Ormus and Ariman, Baldur and Schirach, all nicely transcendental, so that’s okay, and it’s psychologically necessary to enter into religious association with it (“religious association” is actually a pleonasm, but what the heck), a psychological necessity—just like when you did something bad as a kid: first you get down on your knees and pray they won’t find out, they usually do, but that’s just the way humans are put together—the bastard is right, damn it, he’s a scientist after all, PhD in head-shrinking, an inspector of underpants trained by Papa Freud, and they don’t hire just any clown at the university, he’s not a Nazi either or he wouldn’t be thick as thieves with Freud and the Tommies, an intellectual reconstructionist appointed by the military government—appointed for what? to drink their whiskey. . . but stay on track here, it’s so aggravating to have your thoughts drift off, it’s probably due to the damn schnapps—or rather whiskey (I can’t even be precise about a thing like that and I’m crossing swords with a scholar?!)—you shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach, the Golden Rule, but what’re you gonna do when you’ve got nothing to stuff your face with? let’s get back to his (or rather, my) sentence or they’re gonna think I’m completely soused or just nuts, or possibly they’ll blame it on my leg (who was it who brought that up anyway? They’re gonna be sorry they did!) what’s that supposed to prove anyway? a cripple’s psychology, trauma, amputee and only half a man . . . just because you were hit (to the right of the scrotum, thank God: a gentleman carries his on the left side) and not in a vital organ, doesn’t mean you’re obliged to choke down all this religious content to understand the meagre ideas of this bastard Hertzog (with tee-zee), what a joke, a bit of dialectics (all Teresas and Annalisas, Freudian prick prosthesis) . . . what were we talking about? the formation of a future state—what a joke!