To those of a certain temperament, there is nothing worse than the
thought of something hidden, secret, withheld from their knowing—
especially if they suspect that another knows about it and has even,
perhaps, connived at keeping it concealed.
D. H. Lawrence seems to have been irritated no end by the thought
that people were having sex and not telling him.
—Ah but then Freud arranged it so that everyone had to tell.
His psychoanalysis lights up the depths, makes our tangled web
transparent, to the point where I can see all the way down to It.
And the process moves outward in increasing rings:
The Master analyses his disciples. Who thereby—transparent
now—become masters and, in turn, take on others, patients or
disciples, to analyse.
So that eventually there are no secrets.
Except, of course, those of the first Master, the Self-Analysed.
Which is to say, the only private One, sole Unrevealed. Opaque
center of His universal panopticon.
While we see only His words, His daughter, His cigar.