Freud, in the last year of his life, would spit on the floor when walking up the stairs in his patient's house. The grumbling maid would hurry to clean up after him. He describes it in his diary with mild irritation and (to my mind) a degree of smugness and self-righteousness:
"On neither of these floors was there a spittoon; and the view I took was that the cleanliness of the stairs should not be maintained at my expense but should be made possible by the provision of a spittoon. The concierge, an elderly and surly woman (but of cleanly instincts as I was prepared to admit), looked at the matter in a different light. She would lie in wait for me to see whether I should again make free of the stairs, and, if she found that I did, I used to hear her grumbling audibly; and for several days afterwards she would omit the usual greeting when we met..."
"On neither of these floors was there a spittoon; and the view I took was that the cleanliness of the stairs should not be maintained at my expense but should be made possible by the provision of a spittoon. The concierge, an elderly and surly woman (but of cleanly instincts as I was prepared to admit), looked at the matter in a different light. She would lie in wait for me to see whether I should again make free of the stairs, and, if she found that I did, I used to hear her grumbling audibly; and for several days afterwards she would omit the usual greeting when we met..."
The figure of Freud is growing on me, especially since yesterday's visit to the Freud Museum in London (the fascination with antiquities betrays a kindred spirit; the creativity shines through and lights up the jungle). But oh, the spitting! The nauseating cancerous goo on the carpeted steps!
Loathsome corporeality: spitting, eating, sleeping, wanting, buying. I want to be free from the body, or at least get used to it: I should have, by now.
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| Wang Xingwei, Untitled (Spittoon) From http://arttattler.com/archivewangxingwei.html |
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