“In the intention, the art itself, and the after-taste, thoughts of my father persist. And though such thoughts are a curse, my appetite for my hobby is overpowering, and I would not dream of forfeiting such pleasure even if it meant that I could discard my father from my mind. I knew as I left the headmaster’s study that my only escape route into peace of mind was through my wardrobe, and I hurried home, through the back lanes, avoiding the Johnson door. I tried to think of Parsons and what wou...ld happen to him. What was indefensible was not his perversion but his stupidity. At least I had involved no one else in my aberrations, and I had to fight down a strong feeling of self-righteousness. My father would have killed a man like Parsons. He had a pathological aversion to any trait in a man that could possibly be construed as womanish. Even gentleness did not become a man, a theory that all his life he managed to put into practice. I don’t want to think about him, but I cannot think of Parsons either, and as I quicken my pace towards my wardrobe, he voids my mind of all but himself; he pounds it as he pounded my chest as a child with a viciousness he hoped his paternity could confound.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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