21 November 2011


Our prohibitions also bulwark our self-importance.

They fortify the construct that we adults are all initiates.

By conceit, we have earned access to an unwritten Talmud whose soul-shattering content we are sworn to conceal from "innocents" for their own good.

By pandering to this myth of the naif, we service our own legend.

Presumably we have looked the horror in the face, like staring into the naked eye of the sun, blistering into turbulent, corrupted creatures, enigmas to ourselves.

Gross with revelation, we would turn back the clock if we could, but there is no unknowing of this awful canon, no return to the blisfully insipid world of childhood, no choice but to shoulder this weighty black sagacity, whose finest purpose is to shelter our air-headed midgets from a glimpse of the abyss.

The sacrifice is flatteringly tragic.

What's a kid to find out? Presumably we lord over them an exclusive deed to sex, but this pretense flies so fantastically in the face of fact that it must result from some conspiratorial group amnesia.

To this day, some of my most intense sexual memories date back to before I was ten.

No, they have sex, too.

In truth, we are bigger, greedier versions of the same eating, shitting, rutting ruck, hell-bent on disguising from somebody, if only from a three-year-old, that pretty much all we do is eat and shit and rut.

Lionel Shriver We Need To Talk About Kevin (2003)