PHILIP ROTH
167
patience while I shed the last veil. This horrendous attempt to trans–
form me . It was ajob and I complied fully with what I thought were
significant changes , some of which I agreed with and some not. But
it was an outrageous debasement. I felt dirty and ashamed. He made
me feel like a whore, less than a whore , less deliberate, less mindful.
He detested my excessiveness. He detested my use of the English
language. Most painfully, he detested me. I said once how much
I loved Melina Mercouri and he was furious. "She's hysterical! A
woman like that is impossible!" He yelled at me so I yelled back . I
accused him of hating hysteria. Didn't come to him as a surprise. I
said, "You're fifty and you deserve it!" I screamed, "It wouldn't hurt
you to have a consultation with someone! I've been too good for too
long! I am sick and tired of pumping the brakes! Fucking the pump–
ing brakes! Anyone who goes near you is meaningless!" I don't know
how to argue or to win . "Eighty-five percent is as far as I go twisting
myself around! Under the dressing table in my bedroom, there's where
you'll find the remaining fifteen! Now if I die you'll know where to
look! " "No threats," he softly said, even as it occurred to me, what
difference could it possibly make what he or anybody thinks when I
have my mother to think about?
What I told him the first time was that this was all I had. I had
nothing else. I was not an intellectual experience. Reading those let–
ters over and over while sinking in waves of gratitude. Cramped,
stifled , restrained, and I have doggy gratitude! Always doing some–
thing someone else decrees! Now for the strange part. I liked what
I'd done for him. I had done something that was proper and correct.
I have shuddered sometimes to remember myself so completely asun–
der. It made me cringe. Not knowing all the time. I have no stan–
dards except what someone gives me . I believe the last person who
speaks even if he is an imbecile. Don't ask me why . I have feelings
and a will to please and I haven't got
judgment.
Everybody yelling at
me that I'm too easily influenced, and my crying, "Yes, yes, you're
right! " Anything to shut them up. I need only one person to shout at
me, to boom, and if there are two, I'm destroyed . The terrible apol–
ogy for oneself. I try washing it away the best I can, but I beg. A beg–
gar. I'm ashamed of this. Always I seem to be dealing with brokers:
they've got me coming and going on every lousy transaction. The
claws are always there. How can I know about bigger things? I have
no war with errors. I allow for imperfection. It's real. It's the truth .
The world is created and lacquered with imperfection . What's "ex-
