Not one single breath does a baby draw, free from the imposition of the pure, unselfish, Botticelli-holy, detestable _love-will_ of the mother.

Always the _will_, the will, the love-will, the ideal will, directed from the ideal mind.

Always this stone, this scorpion of maternal nourishment.

Always this infernal self-conscious Madonna starving our living guts and bullying us to death with her love.
We have made the idea supplant both impulse and tradition.

We have no spark of wholeness.