TREES AND BABIES AND PAPAS AND MAMAS

Oh, damn the miserable baby with its complicated ping-pong table of an unconscious. I’m sure, dear reader, you’d rather have to listen to the brat howling in its crib than to me expounding its plexuses. As for “mixing those babies up,” I’d mix him up like a shot if I’d anything to mix him with. Unfortunately he’s my own anatomical specimen of a pickled rabbit, so there’s nothing to be done with the bits.

But he gets on my nerves. I come out solemnly with a pencil and an exercise book, and take my seat in all gravity at the foot of a large fir-tree, and wait for thoughts to come, gnawing like a squirrel on a nut. But the nut’s hollow.

I think there are too many