I’d probably go with my mother, Sarah was more inclined toward her father. But after a while, the fighting became less frequent and when they came to the Nativity Play or the Harvest Festival together they were a good-looking couple and we were proud of them. They seemed younger and lighter on their feet than other parents.
I know people who remember a period in their childhood when they had no interest in the opposite sex. I was always interested in girls. If I wasn’t in love, which was rare, I was always curious about someone’s body. What would she look like naked? How would she smell? What would she feel like? How would it be to stroke her here … or there … or in between? Would she be warm and soft or would she have goose bumps?
From infancy to beyond puberty, some part of my body was always experiencing the itch of eczema. There was never a time when an outpost of the disease was not established somewhere, and every month or so, as if creeping from a grating, the disease would emerge and blossom forth. Usually, it would take
possession of my hands first, around the knuckles and between the fingers, and then spread to my elbows, the backs of my knees, and my ankles. The hands were the worst because they could not be hidden. The itch seemed to be only a millimetre below the surface, taunting me, demanding to be extinguished and then, when I tried to reach it, retreating deeper and deeper. More and larger scabs would then erupt, and vanity and curiosity required them to be picked off. Now when they re-formed, there would be dark, bloody gullies in their midst. The itch became so intense on my right ankle once that, using only my nails, I scratched away the flesh until I could see bone. Frequently, I would put my hands under a tap, turn the water on, and let it get hotter and hotter until, as I rubbed the fingers together vigorously, the water scalded the itch away. There was something erotic in this. As the pain of the itch became the pain of burning, there was a moment of intense relief, of delicious self-punishment. But, appropriately, this moment was followed almost immediately by sensations of shame and despair, because, having done this, I would usually bring on septicaemia. When I was twelve, I read Shakespeare’s sonnet about lust. For me, however, the poem did not evoke images of carnal lust, about which I was always shameless, but of this itch and my scrabbling around in my own flesh, abandoned to this futile and costly moment of relief.
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and until action, lust
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
Enjoyed no sooner, but despised straight,
Past reason hunted; and no sooner had,
Past reason hated, as a swallowed bait.
My mother took me to an allergist. When we went back for the results, he shrugged and shook his head and said, ‘I’m sorry, but this boy is allergic to life.’
Skin pain and skin ugliness made me eager to experience skin
pleasure and skin beauty. Until I was four, I often had scabs on my face. People smiled down at me in disgust. I fell in love the first time when I was three, with a girl whose name was Cherry. I remember sitting with her on a windowsill at Dartington, discussing the nearby woods. I remember there was almost no distinction between the woods as I saw them and the woods of fairy tales. I wanted to take Cherry to a woodcutter’s cottage, and live with her there forever in the glades. Whatever glades were. Our cots were next to each other in nursery school and when it was time to take a nap after lunch, I would climb the side of mine and drop down into hers. I wanted to touch her, to hold her, to feel her hot, soft skin. Once, when I found another boy there, I was furious and punched him on the nose. At this age the disease was so ferocious that at night my mother sometimes had to tie my hands to the bed or I would dig holes in myself while sleeping.
I know people who remember a period in their childhood when they had no interest in the opposite sex. I was always interested in girls. If I wasn’t in love, which was rare, I was always curious about someone’s body. What would she look like naked? How would she smell? What would she feel like? How would it be to stroke her here … or there … or in between? Would she be warm and soft or would she have goose bumps?
From infancy to beyond puberty, some part of my body was always experiencing the itch of eczema. There was never a time when an outpost of the disease was not established somewhere, and every month or so, as if creeping from a grating, the disease would emerge and blossom forth. Usually, it would take
possession of my hands first, around the knuckles and between the fingers, and then spread to my elbows, the backs of my knees, and my ankles. The hands were the worst because they could not be hidden. The itch seemed to be only a millimetre below the surface, taunting me, demanding to be extinguished and then, when I tried to reach it, retreating deeper and deeper. More and larger scabs would then erupt, and vanity and curiosity required them to be picked off. Now when they re-formed, there would be dark, bloody gullies in their midst. The itch became so intense on my right ankle once that, using only my nails, I scratched away the flesh until I could see bone. Frequently, I would put my hands under a tap, turn the water on, and let it get hotter and hotter until, as I rubbed the fingers together vigorously, the water scalded the itch away. There was something erotic in this. As the pain of the itch became the pain of burning, there was a moment of intense relief, of delicious self-punishment. But, appropriately, this moment was followed almost immediately by sensations of shame and despair, because, having done this, I would usually bring on septicaemia. When I was twelve, I read Shakespeare’s sonnet about lust. For me, however, the poem did not evoke images of carnal lust, about which I was always shameless, but of this itch and my scrabbling around in my own flesh, abandoned to this futile and costly moment of relief.
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and until action, lust
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
Enjoyed no sooner, but despised straight,
Past reason hunted; and no sooner had,
Past reason hated, as a swallowed bait.
My mother took me to an allergist. When we went back for the results, he shrugged and shook his head and said, ‘I’m sorry, but this boy is allergic to life.’
Skin pain and skin ugliness made me eager to experience skin
pleasure and skin beauty. Until I was four, I often had scabs on my face. People smiled down at me in disgust. I fell in love the first time when I was three, with a girl whose name was Cherry. I remember sitting with her on a windowsill at Dartington, discussing the nearby woods. I remember there was almost no distinction between the woods as I saw them and the woods of fairy tales. I wanted to take Cherry to a woodcutter’s cottage, and live with her there forever in the glades. Whatever glades were. Our cots were next to each other in nursery school and when it was time to take a nap after lunch, I would climb the side of mine and drop down into hers. I wanted to touch her, to hold her, to feel her hot, soft skin. Once, when I found another boy there, I was furious and punched him on the nose. At this age the disease was so ferocious that at night my mother sometimes had to tie my hands to the bed or I would dig holes in myself while sleeping.
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