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Sometimes our baby’s perfection puts us in a rage (it is a secret rage, one of those great, powerful excitements we don’t know how to deal with). Our baby is perfect, but that we – compared to him – are the imperfect ones is not the only reason for our rage. It is more directed at ourselves, at the transformation we once underwent without intending to do so and without being able to prevent it: we were unable (like everyone else) to put a stop to our becoming, which led us away from perfection to where we now find ourselves silently shaken by this rage (invisibly, even to ourselves). The hustle and bustle of the world suddenly strikes us as one big rageful upheaval. We can see nothing else in it, no meaning and no purpose. (Good baby, you want to be held in our arms, to extinguish our rage, it’s a good thing no one noticed how we were seized by rage, good that no one now sees how you calm us down. Our rage must remain secret, liberate us from it secretly, you who are not its cause.) 



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