Friday 18 December 2015


The protagonist of this novel is a popular physician. The secret of his success:
Giving the patient twenty minutes of his time. Mind you, after sixty seconds I’ve seen all I need to know. The remaining nineteen minutes I fill with attention or, I should say, with the illusion of attention.
Compare that with the work of a psychologist probing your phobia. After years of digging and delving, something finally bobs to the surface: a mother lost in the supermarket, a snail in your tennis shoe, a funny uncle. Now, will that give you any more satisfaction that twenty minutes of attention?
Some men get their satisfaction from girl-watching:
A film slid over his eyes. In nature films, you see that sometimes with birds of prey. His lips parted. He was seeing something delicious. His mouth was already anticipating a tasty morsel.
Women, on the other hand, may get their satisfaction from securing a provider.
Women are the soccer stars of creation. At thirty-five they are ready for retirement. They have to make sure they’re home and dry before then. A roof over their head, a husband, children.

Sooner or later we are all ready for permanent retirement. So let’s have a good funeral. If you are an artist, there should be laughter and drinking and bad language at your wake. A real blowout. No weeping and wailing. Fuck, no! A bourgeois funeral is an artist’s worst nightmare.

Hope you haven't missed my quotes from Koch's novel Dinner in an earlier blog.

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