The Mighty Angel by Pilch Jerzy

Author:Pilch, Jerzy [Pilch, Jerzy]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781934824474
Publisher: Open Letter
Published: 2011-02-28T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

Letter from the Alco Ward

[Beginning of manuscript illegible even for addressee. Paper of poor quality, squared, A4 format. Letter written with fountain pen, handwriting shaky, navy blue ink.]

. . . FOR A WHOLE five months. When I tell them I’m giving up my ruinous habit for you, they look at me with contempt. When I tell them I’m giving up my ruinous habit for us, they look at me with contempt; at such times I remain silent for a long time, because I know what those she-wolf therapists are after. I’m giving up my habit for myself, I say after pretending to reflect, and it’s just as well they can’t guess what I’m feeling as I see their approving smiles. They don’t know what I’m feeling, though they ought to; after all they’re past masters in the art of naming feelings and they teach us how to do it: how to name our feelings. Alcoholism is supposedly a sickness of the feelings. Alcoholics are unable either to define their feelings or to control them. In this one case it happens to be true about me: I’m unable to name the much-more-than-love that I feel for you. And I’m certain my addiction will drop from me the way the skin drops from the snake. Good Lord, if any of those she-therapists read the last sentence they’d be horrified.

“Nothing will happen on its own, no one will do it for you. You have to do it yourself.”

“That’s right, I’ll fight with my own weakness.”

“Fight? You’ll fight? With who? With a monster that’s stronger than you and is bound to defeat you? You have to submit. Who are you intending to fight? Gołota the heavyweight? Alcohol is like Gołota—when you tangle with it you don’t stand a chance, you have to submit before you even start.”

These are the kinds of exchanges you hear in this place; exclamations of this sort rise from here and ascend like supplicatory prayers into the cloudy July heavens. The catchphrases and favorite mantras of the she-therapists (alcohol is like Gołota, or alcohol is like Mike Tyson, or alcoholism is as irreversible as an amputated leg, or alcoholism is like democracy), the she-therapists’ favorite mantras, and the absolute, all-encompassing obsession with first-person narration. I, I, I. God forbid you should use an impersonal form. God forbid you should say “a person.” God forbid you should say “the demon.” God forbid the plural.

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