It’s
the rare person I meet whom I don’t want to beat up. Others favor the interior
monologue, stream-of-consciousness, art and dreams. Not me. I like to beat
people up.
Now
some people, unaware of my purposes, play right into my hands, sit opposite me
in a grease joint, stay a while, pick their teeth, they want to eat.
Here’s
one now.
Notice
how swiftly I grab him by the collar. Pow! Then I do it again. Bam! Pow!
Then
I hang him on the coat rack. Unhang him. Hang him. Unhang him.
Then
I toss him on the table, hit him, kick him, choke him. I mean, I beat the shit
out of him.
Then
I spit on him. I flood him with my spit.
He
revives.
I
rinse him off, I stretch him out (by now I’m losing interest, this is going on
too long), I crumple him up, squeeze him dry, roll him into a ball which I drop
into my glass. Then I lift it in the air and spill it on the floor. “Waiter,
get me a clean glass, will you?”
But
I’m too fagged out, I pay the bill in a hurry and leave without another word.
–
Henri Michaux (“Mes Occupations”) translated by David Lehman. Published in Conduit.