premise of psycho-analysis; and it alone makes it possible for psycho-analysis to understand the pathological processes in mental life, which are as common as they are important, and to find a place for them in the framework of science.
Day Five.
My gerbils gave birth to premature babies. Instead of twenty-five days, it took them only five days to have babies.
Now I have eleven gerbils, and their names are Romeo, Juliet, Happy, Sleepy, Sneezy, Dopey, Grumpy, Bashful, Doc, Snow White, and Prince.
I also have a psychiatrist. His name is Freud. He is dead. But there is no need to be grossed out by that because with some psychiatrists it doesn't seem to matter much if they are alive or dead.
Day Twenty-five.
I have not written anything for a long time because I have felt very tired and it may be that I have a wasting disease. My dependent relations have no sympathy for someone with a wasting disease, I am sorry to say.
Here is what my psychiatrist says about dependent relations:
...the derivation of the super-ego from the first object-cathexes of the id, from the Oedipus complex, signifies even more for it. This derivation, as we have already shown, brings it into relation with the phylogenetic acquisitions of the id and makes it a reincarnation of former ego-structures which have left their precipitates behind in the id.
To identify my gerbils scientifically, I have colored their heads.
RED—ROMEO BROWN—GRUMPY
BLUE—JULIET BLACK—SLEEPY
YELLOW—HAPPY PINK—DOPEY
GREEN—SNEEZY TURQUOISE—SNOW WHITE
ORANGE—BASHFUL WHITE—PRINCE
PURPLE—DOC
This will make it easier for me to know who is who, in case one of them has babies or something.
To identify my psychiatrist, I have put a large MAGENTA spot on his head. (There is, of course, no chance that my psychiatrist will have babies.)
Day Twenty-nine.
My gerbils have disappeared.
My gerbil book says this about disappeared gerbils: "If, in the process of escaping, the gerbils have been frightened, it is best to just sit very still In the middle of the floor until the gerbils come out of hiding on their own."
But my scientific assistant, Sam, and I sat very still in the middle of the floor for one hour, and my scientific assistant fell sound asleep while we waited. But the gerbils never appeared.
I think that by now there are eleven gerbils loose all over the house. And if my mother sees even ONE of them she is likely to have a nervous breakdown.
My mother doesn't even know I HAVE eleven gerbils.
And my psychiatrist is no help at all. He has his
own
problems: a villain has painted his nose blue.
7
"Myron," said Mrs. Krupnik at dinner one night a month later, "I think I should make an appointment with the eye doctor. I think I need glasses."
"Really? I'm surprised. Your vision has always been perfect. I've always thought it was a shame that Anastasia inherited my astigmatism instead of your perfect vision."
"Don't feel bad, Dad," said Anastasia. "I don't mind wearing glasses. I used to think that I wanted contact lenses when I got older. But now I've decided that glasses make me look scholarly. I
like
looking scholarly."
Mrs. Krupnik, at the end of the table, held up a piece of chicken on her fork. She peered at it thoughtfully. "I can
see
all right. This piece of chicken is perfectly clear."
"How about across the room?" asked Anastasia. "If I take my glasses off, I can't tell if that painting on the wall is a landscape or a still life."
Her mother looked across the dining room at the painting. "I can see that just fine," she said.
"Then why do you think you need glasses?"
"It's strange. I've been noticing it for several weeks. Sometimes, out of the corner of my eye—I guess it's my peripheral vision—I see something move. It's just an instantaneous sensation, that something is moving very quickly. Then when I turn to look, nothing is there."
"It could be migraine," said Dr. Krupnik. "Migraine does that to people sometimes."
"It could be
Day Five.
My gerbils gave birth to premature babies. Instead of twenty-five days, it took them only five days to have babies.
Now I have eleven gerbils, and their names are Romeo, Juliet, Happy, Sleepy, Sneezy, Dopey, Grumpy, Bashful, Doc, Snow White, and Prince.
I also have a psychiatrist. His name is Freud. He is dead. But there is no need to be grossed out by that because with some psychiatrists it doesn't seem to matter much if they are alive or dead.
Day Twenty-five.
I have not written anything for a long time because I have felt very tired and it may be that I have a wasting disease. My dependent relations have no sympathy for someone with a wasting disease, I am sorry to say.
Here is what my psychiatrist says about dependent relations:
...the derivation of the super-ego from the first object-cathexes of the id, from the Oedipus complex, signifies even more for it. This derivation, as we have already shown, brings it into relation with the phylogenetic acquisitions of the id and makes it a reincarnation of former ego-structures which have left their precipitates behind in the id.
To identify my gerbils scientifically, I have colored their heads.
RED—ROMEO BROWN—GRUMPY
BLUE—JULIET BLACK—SLEEPY
YELLOW—HAPPY PINK—DOPEY
GREEN—SNEEZY TURQUOISE—SNOW WHITE
ORANGE—BASHFUL WHITE—PRINCE
PURPLE—DOC
This will make it easier for me to know who is who, in case one of them has babies or something.
To identify my psychiatrist, I have put a large MAGENTA spot on his head. (There is, of course, no chance that my psychiatrist will have babies.)
Day Twenty-nine.
My gerbils have disappeared.
My gerbil book says this about disappeared gerbils: "If, in the process of escaping, the gerbils have been frightened, it is best to just sit very still In the middle of the floor until the gerbils come out of hiding on their own."
But my scientific assistant, Sam, and I sat very still in the middle of the floor for one hour, and my scientific assistant fell sound asleep while we waited. But the gerbils never appeared.
I think that by now there are eleven gerbils loose all over the house. And if my mother sees even ONE of them she is likely to have a nervous breakdown.
My mother doesn't even know I HAVE eleven gerbils.
And my psychiatrist is no help at all. He has his
own
problems: a villain has painted his nose blue.
7
"Myron," said Mrs. Krupnik at dinner one night a month later, "I think I should make an appointment with the eye doctor. I think I need glasses."
"Really? I'm surprised. Your vision has always been perfect. I've always thought it was a shame that Anastasia inherited my astigmatism instead of your perfect vision."
"Don't feel bad, Dad," said Anastasia. "I don't mind wearing glasses. I used to think that I wanted contact lenses when I got older. But now I've decided that glasses make me look scholarly. I
like
looking scholarly."
Mrs. Krupnik, at the end of the table, held up a piece of chicken on her fork. She peered at it thoughtfully. "I can
see
all right. This piece of chicken is perfectly clear."
"How about across the room?" asked Anastasia. "If I take my glasses off, I can't tell if that painting on the wall is a landscape or a still life."
Her mother looked across the dining room at the painting. "I can see that just fine," she said.
"Then why do you think you need glasses?"
"It's strange. I've been noticing it for several weeks. Sometimes, out of the corner of my eye—I guess it's my peripheral vision—I see something move. It's just an instantaneous sensation, that something is moving very quickly. Then when I turn to look, nothing is there."
"It could be migraine," said Dr. Krupnik. "Migraine does that to people sometimes."
"It could be
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