Psychotherapy

Pain gnaws into man, lacerating with its claws. It’s deposited like salt somewhere between the vertebrae. Shout something to the crowd? That’s a lot of respect for cattle. Confess to a priest? Man doesn’t believe in God. Confess to the wife? A pain inscrutable for her. Confess to the country? That’s so immense it terrifies. And the psychiatrist arrives with a musketeer beard, warmly phlegmatic, faintly smelling of vodka. And though you tear your hair- he will listen for two hours to your woes and vexations, and all for two bills. Afterward he goes on foot through grimy lanes, and under his tongue lays a tranquilizer. There’s a trick to attentiveness: not the least merit in it, and he himself longs for a fellow psychiatrist-a friend for hire. 1978 Translated by Albert C. Todd