why nobody punishes me (this is based on nietzsche’s “why i write such good books”)

They could, but it would be silly. It would also, in its silly way, have unpredictable results. Regard:

The “Niqnaq” personality which we generally all know and ignore, skillfully manouevres just under the noise floor of serious insult. This is not just a matter of wordplay. Most of the repartee is driven by something not only infantile (in the tiresome sense) but also childlike (in the lovable sense), apparently related to the genuine love of the “Niqnaq” originator for Jewish women. One could even describe it as an unexpected case of mother and child reunion. No-one could make anything out of it that looks at all unhealthy, without inviting ridicule in return that would be more cutting than their own attempts at criticism. Whether it is Jewish in any yet known sense of the word, whether it is linguistically transgressive for the “Niqnaq” originator to describe himself as “spiritually Jewish” or “just Jewish anyway,” are questions which the various discrete and self-possessed Jewish communities of UKUSA are better off not answering. Intimate questions of identity are best not aired in public. But imo, the marriage feelers emanating from this peculiar individual should be supported. The natural ‘fit’ is obvious.

signed (deleted)

This anonymous and indeed fabricated memo from somewhere in the depths of Hell is intended to act as a figleaf, at least momentarily, while I prepare the next stage of my psychic striptease. Talking of this, I should like to reinforce a well-known traditional point about love, which is always brought against those who think that pornography is liberatory. The point is that, once he has seen the tiny bit that allows him to imagine all the rest (ahem), a man’s love for a woman is actually increased, the less he sees of her. That one glimpse will obsess him without respite until he wins the heart of his intended, if the time has come for him to be obsessed by such things. Awkward little questions like who lives in which continent, and who wants to stay there, just disappear in flashes of flame when the oven heat of his devouring passion reaches them. It’s quite uncanny. Here’s a bit from Nietzsche’s Ecce Homo, for comparison’s sake:

When Doctor Heinrich von Stein once honestly complained about not understanding a single word of my Zarathustra, I said to him that that was as it should be: that to have understood six sentences from it, to have lived them, raises one to a higher plane of the mortal than “modern” men could attain. How could I, with this feeling of distance, ever desire to be read by those whom I know?

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