552
SUSAN SONTAG
make one frantic, furious, miserable, whenever there was a real con–
tact everything seemed justified."
"But he's a pig! My God, when I think of that appalling story you
told me about his asking you to-"
"Yes, yes ," the ex-pupil interrupts. "I know it's hard to
understand...." She sighs. "How can I explain? From the begin–
ning. . . the first time I ever saw Mr. Utterson, I sensed a deep bond
with him, a bond that grew stronger with the years.
It
was never a
hypnotic tie, believe me. Mr. Utterson's teaching helps one be free of
suggestion. This inner tie (I suppose you could call it a magnetic tie),
this invisible ·bond with him, made Mr. UUerson the person
nearest
to
one, in the true sense of the word. That proximity was . . . painful,
much of the time. Once in a while one got to see the 'real' Mr. Utter–
son, with whom one wished to stay forever. This was not the 'every–
day' Mr. Utterson, who sometimes was gentle and sometimes very
disagreeable, and whom you often wished to run away from.
"A clown," her friend interjects. "A drunk. A sadist. A charla-"
"But even then," continues the ex-pupil, "one stayed with him,
because one's Work depended on it."
"But finally you left," says the friend.
"Mr. Utterson made me leave. He said I had enough energy now,
and that I wasn't likely to have any more."
"You miss him."
"Of course," says the ex-pupil fiercely . "But I never want to see
him again as long as I live."
Meanwhile, on another day, Utterson is sitting in the great hall of
the Oyster Bay estate, giving fifteen minutes to Ron Newcomen, an
ex-Weatherman who has recently surfaced from underground and
has hitchhiked with all his possessions on his back from the Coast to
the Institute in the hope of being admitted as a pupil. Utterson is
(Continued on page 586)
