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PARTISAN REVIEW
All over. What kind of morbid stuff do you read, anyway?" The doc–
tor's room was full of books.
"I read the best literature, science and philosophy," Dr. Tamkin
said proudly. Wilhelm had observed that in his room even the TV
aerial was set upon a pile of volumes. "Korzybski, Aristotle, Freud,
W. H. Sheldon, and all the great poets. You answer me like a layman.
You haven't applied your mind strictly to this."
"Very interesting," said Wilhelm. He was aware that he hadn't
applied his mind strictly to anything. "You don't have to think I'm a
dummy, though. I have ideas, too." A glance at the clock told him that
the market would soon open. They could spare a few minutes yet. There
were still more things he wanted to hear from Tamkin. He realized
that Tamkin spoke faultily, but then scientific men were not always
strictly literate. It was the description of the two souls that had awed
him. In Tommy he saw the pretender. And even Wilky might not be
himself. Might the name of his true soul be the one by which his old
grandfather h ad called him-Velvel? The name of a soul, however,
must be only that-soul. What did it look like? Does my soul look like
me? I s there a soul that looks like Dad? Like T amkin? Where does the
true soul gets its strength? Why does it have to love truth? Wilhelm was
tormented, but tried to be oblivious to his torment. Secretly, he prayed
the doctor would give him some useful advice and transform his life.
"Yes, I understand you," he said. "It isn't lost on me."
"I never said you weren't intelligent, but only you just haven't
made a study of it all. As a matter of fact you're a profound personality
with very profound creative capacities but also disturbances. I 've been
concerned with you, and for some time I've been treating you."
"Without my knowing it? I haven't felt you doing anything. What
do you mean? I don't think I like being treated without my knowledge.
I'm of two minds ... What's the matter, don't you think I'm normal?"
And he really was divided in mind. That the doctor cared abou t him
pleased him. This was what he craved, that someone should care about
him, wish him well. Kindness, mercy, he wanted. But-and here he
retracted his heavy shoulders in his peculiar way, drawing his hands up
into his sleeves; his feet moved uneasily under the table-but he was
worried, too, and even somewhat indignant. For what right had Tamkin
to meddle without being asked? What kind of privileged life did this
man lead ? He took other people's money and speculated with it. Every–
body came under his care. No one could have secrets from him.
The doctor looked at him with his deadly, brown, heavy impene–
trable eyes, his naked shining head, his red hanging underlip, and said,
"You have lots of guilt in you."
Wilhelm helplessly admitted, as he felt the heat rise to his wide
face, "Yes, I think so too. But personally," he added, "I don't feel like
a murderer. I always try to layoff. It's the others who get me. You
know-make me feel oppressed. And if you don't mind, and it's all the
same to you, I would rather know it when you start to treat me. And
now, Tamkin, for Christ's sake, they're putting out the lunch menus
already. Will you sign the check, and let's go !"
