Steppenwolf
“I suppose this represents Man’s innate urge to destroy,” she said, kicking a ball of crumpled paper across the floor. “And next time he tries to bite you, it’ll be Man’s basic insecurity.”
“You don’t know what a bore you are when you try to be caustic. If you want me to get rid of him, I will. It’s easy enough.”
She bent to touch the animal, but it backed uneasily under the bunk. She stood up. “I don’t mind him. What I mind is you. He can’t help being a little horror, but he keeps reminding me that you could if you wanted.”
Her husband’s face assumed the impassivity that was characteristic of him when he was determined not to lose his temper. She knew he would wait to be angry until she was unprepared for his attack . He said nothing, tapping an insisting rhythm on the lid of a suitcase with his fingernails.
“Naturally I don’t mean you’re a horror,” she continued.
“Why not mean it?” he said, smiling pleasantly. “What’s wrong with criticism? Probably I am, to you. I like monkeys because I see them as little model men. You think men are something else, something spiritual or God knows what. Whatever it is, I notice you’re the one who’s being disillusioned and going around wondering how mankind can be so bestial. I think mankind’s fine.”
“Please don’t go on,” she said. “I know your theories. You’ll never convince yourself of them.”
Paul Bowles, Call at Corazón