"This is after all the heart of the matter, the place where everything -- not without difficulty, not without civil war, not without nailing down my tongue and drawing over it the serrated knife of one thing after another, not without learning to thank my torturers because it's been such a growth opportunity for all of us, not without betrayal always cutting its prices to meet the competition of feeling betrayed, not without the drive-by shootings of the desire for things which, let's face it, aren't going to happen, not without finding myself in the safety-deposit vaults with the unpinned grenade of involuntary memory, not without all the people I've hurt, been hurt by, and been hurt by being, scattering like cats' paws across an ocean of interstellar darkness, not without knowing that the things I mean most will be considered the most pretentious -- this is still the place where everything might be reconciled."
— Edward St. Aubyn (b. 1960)
Metaphor
"This is after all the heart of the matter, the place where everything -- not without difficulty, not without civil war, not without nailing down my tongue and drawing over it the serrated knife of one thing after another, not without learning to thank my torturers because it's been such a growth opportunity for all of us, not without betrayal always cutting its prices to meet the competition of feeling betrayed, not without the drive-by shootings of the desire for things which, let's face it, aren't going to happen, not without finding myself in the safety-deposit vaults with the unpinned grenade of involuntary memory, not without all the people I've hurt, been hurt by, and been hurt by being, scattering like cats' paws across an ocean of interstellar darkness, not without knowing that the things I mean most will be considered the most pretentious -- this is still the place where everything might be reconciled."
Metaphor in Context
The happy pills -- I don't begrudge their happiness, nor do I envy it -- are unopened on the shelf. I don't want any pills, shots, consoling books, or chats with chaplains. I just want to see if I can stay exactly where I am. This is after all the heart of the matter, the place where everything -- not without difficulty, not without civil war, not without nailing down my tongue and drawing over it the serrated knife of one thing after another, not without learning to thank my torturers because it's been such a growth opportunity for all of us, not without betrayal always cutting its prices to meet the competition of feeling betrayed, not without the drive-by shootings of the desire for things which, let's face it, aren't going to happen, not without finding myself in the safety-deposit vaults with the unpinned grenade of involuntary memory, not without all the people I've hurt, been hurt by, and been hurt by being, scattering like cats' paws across an ocean of interstellar darkness, not without knowing that the things I mean most will be considered the most pretentious -- this is still the place where everything might be reconciled. Reconciled by what? By the intolerable proximity of contradictions, by meltdown, by taking up residence in the Chernobyl of intimacy.
(p. 3)
