Fantasy is a natural human activity. It certainly does not destroy or even insult Reason; and it does not either blunt the appetite for, nor obscure the perception of, scientific verity. On the contrary. The keener and the clearer is the reason, the better fantasy will it make. If men were ever in a state in which they did not want to know or could not perceive truth (facts or evidence), then Fantasy would languish until they were cured. If they ever get into that state (it would not seem at all impossible), Fantasy will perish, and become Morbid Delusion.
For creative Fantasy is founded upon the hard recognition that things are so in the world as it appears under the sun; on a recognition of fact, but not a slavery to it. So upon logic was founded the nonsense that displays itself in the tales and rhymes of Lewis Carroll. If men really could not distinguish between frogs and men, fairy-stories about frog-kings would not have arisen.
I’m writing a paper for my literary theory and criticism class called “From Courtly Love to Investigatory Essentialism to Friend Zoning: how Irene Adler and Slavoj Žižek Confront the Fedora of Sherlock Holmes” in which I basically rant about men’s right activists/fedoras through postmodern psychoanalysis.
I must read this because it sounds BRILLIANT.
But yeah, then we got home, and the only thing really different about the next few years, about all the years since that summer, is that I still wake at night, sure I’ve just heard the creak of leather, and I can close my eyes, sure, but then Elaine’s waiting for me at the top of the stairs, like she understands, her gashed open throat just white, not even bleeding.
The first girl I ever kissed.
The last girl I ever kissed.
What I’m waiting for now, I think, is for her to walk down in her nightgown, take me by the elbow and lead me back to that night the guy in the leather pants asked me if I knew what I had to do here, or if I wanted to be number five?
The first time I made that decision, I was twelve, and didn’t know I was going to have to live with it.
When my mom calls these days, she tells me I should consider getting a dog, maybe. That it would be good for me. A nice first step.
Thanks, Mom, but I’ve already got a dog, really.
His name is Matey. He lives in my head.
Maybe we’ll come see you one of these days.