Many years ago I got cornered at a party by a couple who'd just been to see
The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover (which means it was probably about twenty-three years ago, since the film, Wikipedia tells me, came out in 1989). Anyway, although I'd said I didn't want to see it because it sounded so horrible, they proceeded to give me a minutely detailed account of the film, especially its gruesome bits, (perhaps there were only gruesome bits), leading me to shudder and later to have nightmares, (quite possibly my imagination produced even more dreadful images than Greenaway had actually managed on celluloid). As they spewed out all there frightful memories, it became clear to me that what they were doing was using me as therapy. The poor pets were in shock. They were suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome. They were unburdening themselves on me.
In a similar manner, working on the old theory that a problem shared is a problem halved, I present this letter that I just read in the
London Review of Books. The second part of it is so revolting that I cannot suffer a minute more with the knowledge of it on my own:
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