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Sample text

A woman with a whip waits for me to wake And fuck until I break. Te doorman of my building tells me she’s a fake. She doesn’t ride a horse—it’s a stationary bike, for Christ’s sake. She posts up and down on a stationary seat With her riding crop, looking for meat to beat. She’s not a dyke. She’s not a kike. What’s not to like? It’s not like she’s a dyke— Who would care anyway? It’s not like she’s a kike— Who even talks that way? Tat’s so old-time vile and evil. She’s the kind of woman I used to like to love.

But you know, you can’t write diferently, even if you want to. You just have to be able to notice when you are boring yourself. And I am fortunate, because I don’t have to earn my living by writing, so I really don’t have to think about it. I don’t mean it doesn’t impinge upon me, but I don’t have to be preoccupied by it. INT ERV IEW ER Now you’re writing a biography of Freud. I wonder what it is you think you might discover—which is a wrong question, because you don’t know. PHI LLI PS I don’t particularly want to discover anything, in that sense, about Freud.

INT ERV IEW ER What did you talk about? PHI LLI PS My parents were very lef-wing, so there was a lot of talk about politics. Tere was a lot of talk among the men about sport. Tere was a lot of talk about sex and food and money and relationships. And there was a lot of . . just sort of hilarity. I don’t want to give too pastoral a view of this—everyone was anxious all the time—but there were a lot of laughs. And we were encouraged to do jobs that contributed something good to the culture, to be a doctor or lawyer, 32 probably.

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