Manifesto

Oh the soft voices, the gardens, the days ordered to no purpose, they have strangled me. I cannot live in a kennel. Observe the round collar I wear, like a parson’s, symbol of good manners, a serf ’s nevertheless. Yet I am a good dog. I’ll do my tricks when the crowd gathers.

Women above all! They batten on us and lecture us while our throats are being cut. (Perhaps the weakness is ours: every sailor dreams of the home he ran away from.) Ethics they know well; religion they have never understood. What can they guess of the wisdom of anarchy?

Look at this pure bride, her ready giggle and her stupid mouth sucked in. By her ignorance she makes her husband ashamed of himself. A little sheepish, she believes deep down that she’s in the right.

They reserve their perpetual hatred for those who can do without them. ‘There’s something about him not quite . . .’ – Or – ‘When you’re older you’ll know better.’

And the dear mothers! Their life is one long sacrifice. They laugh it off – ‘Oh, I just did what I can.’ Fascinated, their sons protect them; age only makes the attachment more spiritual.

We cannot drown the bitches. But at least we can make it clear that we see through them. They’ll soon come to heel whining.

Oh the houses, the nice suburban houses . . .

1948 (27)