I didn't know how to listen. I didn't observe boundaries; I'd slip into transference. I didn't believe in statistics or verifying theories The postulate of one personality to one person always struck me as overly minimalist. I had a tendency to blur what seemed clear and to question irrefutable arguments—it was a habit I had, a perverse mental yoga, the subtle pleasure of experiencing internal motion. I would examine with suspicion every judgment, turn each one over in my mouth, until finally I figured out what I'd expected: not a single one of them was right, they were all fakes, knockoffs. I didn't want to have set opinions, which were just excess baggage. In de bates, I'd be on one side one time and the other the next—which I know never endeared me to my interlocutors. I was witness to a strange phenomenon that occurred in my mind: the more I would
find arguments for something, the more arguments against it would occur to me, too, and the more I grew attached to those arguments in favor, the more alluring the opposition became.