Gorgias

He’s bouncing around the room, in his shorts, making aggressive movements towards me. A solid punch almost hits me dead in the face, but he stops before I can even lift my arms. He keeps on bouncing around. There’s no chance he’s going to stop doing this. The boxing gloves, old-fashioned ones, don’t help. They’re a slightly fluorescent red, and they keep moving around the room like hummingbirds on Ritalin.
— So, regarding Kant, he pants.
— Not Kant, please no Kant today.
— Don’t you just love that guy? Another punch that hits air. He’s so conflicted! Trying to make a universal rule out of something purely Christian.
— It’s not Christian, it’s already in a way universal… wait, you’re trying to engage me again by saying nonsense.
— No no no no no no no monsieur! He jumps and pulls his legs in, then lands heavily. I just want to talk about philosophy with my esteemed friend.
— That’s nice of you, but you know I hate talking about Kant.
— It’s not about Kant, it’s about – punch – universal ethics. In a way!
The room is very small. We always talk in here. Every week I come here, or when he wants me to, or when I want to. The reclining chair, the drinking cabinet, the book cases. I notice a bottle of scotch missing from the cabinet.
— Same difference, buddy. I’m not falling for it.
— Okay, okay, how about – kick and punch – a writer today, ummm, Pynchon?
— Pynchon, we’ve been over.
— Hardly.
— No really. Maybe we want to look at something a bit more attached to reality?
I realise how pointless that request is. My therapist is standing across the room from me, convinced he’s boxing with me. But who else am I going to find who likes talking about all this crap anyway, so I stay.
— Pynchon it is. Say, do you see…