We have invented the faggot.
I did not invent him.
Straight people invented him.
I have always known, have known since I was seventeen
years old, what you were describing was not me, and
what you were afraid of was not me. It had to be
something else. You had invented it.
So it had to be something you were afraid of
you invested me with. I learned this
because I had to learn it.
But you still think, I gather, that the faggot is necessary.
Well, it is not necessary to me.
So it must be necessary to you.
So I give you your problem back.
You are the faggot, baby.
It isn’t me.
There lies Peter Clutterbuck now
still fourteen, on Phillip Island
where he was sent, and where he died
in 1935 parentless and poor
to the Newhaven Homes for Problem Boys.
His sister could not move him from this grave
since with him is another child
named Victor Hardy, still eleven.
Years ago, when I was reading the philosophical works of Schopenhauer I heard a sudden eruption of laughter on the street. I looked up to see what the cause of this laughter was. Across the road, an old man extraordinarily obese, was heaving his immense body along the footpath. He used a cane to help balance himself as he walked and to relieve the strain on his back caused by the great bag of fat hanging from his stomach. It required considerable effort for him to walk only a short distance. I felt revulsion at the sight of this man. There were feelings of pity, too. I knew immediately there are no counter-motives to humiliation. We live by climbing over each other struggle to keep our heads above despair and try not to think of harm that’s done. I lowered the book and listened to the sounds of birds a howling dog, a small child in the street asking something of her parents — every voice repeating the inner nature of the world and I knew what trouble and pain was
still to come.