Why are you so naive?

A couple of nights ago my neuronal cells collaborating with Delta and Gamma waves of my brain cooked up a fascinating dream. Usually I forget all the marvellous nonsense that happens during my nightly sleep adventures, but not this time. This time was different. Even though I slept like a bear in hibernation, the little homunculus inside my head was actively registering every movement of my soul. He did it to such a precise extent and in such an exact manner that even to this very day I can vividly recall the splendid fancies of my unconscious self.
Only one small unimportant warning before you wet your intellect into the strong liquor of my spirit. To preserve the truth, I have omitted all the sexual nuances, all the shameful details and all the other darker secrets of my past. For I don’t want that you get a wrong impression of me. Only truth matters. Only truth. So without further ado, enter my dream. My dream promptly enters on my command and narrates the following story:
I was sharing a delightful walk with one former greybeardish professor of mine in a familiar district of my native city. We were on very friendly, and dare I say, cordial terms -not a big surprise when two great minds meet – and so we were having a friendly chat about this, that and the other.
Suddenly the professor asked me: “Why are you so naive?”
“Well, I may look like a naive child and even behave like one but that is only a mask. I assure you.”, I sincerely informed my professor.
“And why do you need a mask?”, the professor kept on pressing me.
“So that other people would not ask me questions.”
As soon as I said that, at that very moment, I woke up.
Now,  that was that.  My dream ended then and there. And ever since then I have put away childish things.  I am not naive anymore. I do not wear any masks. I lead a life of complete serenity and happiness. Do you believe me?  I certainly do, said the dream while I slept further away from life.

The Artist and his Gloves

Here’s a quote I read a couple of days ago. I will quote it here in its entirety:

“The artist is originally a man who turns from reality because he cannot come to terms with the demand for the renunciation of instinctual satisfaction as it is first made, and who then in phantasy-life allows full play to his erotic and ambitious wishes. But he finds a way of return from this world of phantasy back to reality; with his special gifts he moulds his phantasies into a new kind of reality, and men concede them a justification as valuable reflections of actual life. Thus by a certain path he actually becomes the hero, king, creator, favourite he desired to be, without pursuing the circuitous path of creating real alterations in the outer world. But this he can only attain because other men feel the same dissatisfaction as he with the renunciation demanded by reality, and because this dissatisfaction, resulting from the displacement of the pleasure-principle by the reality principle, is itself a part of reality. ”

The cocktail theory of self

I read a little Freud today, but who gives a flying fish about what I – an anonymous monkey – or for that matter, any other Bugs Bunny reads or thinks about, right?