By then we’ll all be dead and gone (not him, of course; he’s thick as thieves with the Tommies); but me for example, all I need to do is catch my fucking crutch in a hole under the snow on my way home and I’ll be lying there like a bug on its back, Kafka my contemporary, and I can wiggle my legs until I’m frozen to the ground, requiescat in pace on Brahms Blvd., and I could give a shit about a future state, whatever it turns out to look like won’t matter to me, so if there’s a psychological necessity that can increase to the point of psychosis, then he’s absolutely right—after all, the man’s a psychiatrist, a professional—then he can serve up a state to his crazies that corresponds to their neuroses, a perfect metaphysical comfort station in harmonious accord with everybody who wants to participate, it’s just a shame that my buddies over there are all in on it, I thought they were my friends—but the way they all started attacking me! the dames were the nastiest, of course: “you know what we’re talking about”—what do I know? what the hell do they think? that I’m a spy for the East or something? some of ’em are Marxists themselves—but it’s not worth getting all riled up about, they’re just crazy, the whole lot of them, Hertzog’s patients from the word go, they’re right to get themselves a house psychiatrist, but they used to be so nice, they were once true friends, real buddies, hungry, no future state, just nice people, I liked hoofing it out here, even though it was hard with one leg gone, it sure wasn’t for their crappy turnip schnapps and their shitty hand-rolled smokes, what a pile of shit it all is, and now they’re gonna invite the savior too: Come Lord Jesus, be our guest, may the shit you’ve dished us now be blessed! and in the same breath they swear by Karl Marx, comrades hear the happy news: the baby Jesus is the real founder of the classless society, the model of a metaphysical need fulfilled: in constant, active contact with the transcendent Big Daddy while completely free of any Oedipus complex thanks to his virginal Mommy, what do I need them for anyway? best thing would be to just beat it—this guy here, the Germanic Führer with tee-zee—etymologically without tee: the “herzog,” the duke to these blond-bearded assholes, the arch-asshole—he just puts me in the shade, he’s made to order for them, hand-tailored by the providence of the immortal Führer, the stiffs got scared by their own daring, reorganizing the globe in accordance with their weltanschauung blew up in their faces, let’s stick with time-tested Western values, with all of them if possible, without regard to what we’re losing: when in doubt, the good, the beautiful, the noble, and the true are innate human needs, no question about it, if we lost sight of them it was collective guilt, just ask the military government, turn yourself over to a trained therapist, Hansel and Gretel get lost in the forest so easily—that’s how it is: