Two more flies had appeared on the windowsill to torment him. The swatter fell from his hand. While he stared dumbly at his empty fingers, the two flies, glued in love, darted from the sill and dropped smartly into his palm. He could have closed his fingers on them if he wanted, pulled their wings off if he wanted…. Part of him loathed the mating flies, part of him had no urge to crush them. Old man Jung felt as if he had finally plucked at the spool of a personal truth. And if he drew it to him, like Ariadne’s thread from the labyrinth, he would draw from oblivion not the slayer of the bull, but the bull monster instead. No child could do that. The infant knew only the dark life of the nipple, wanting it utterly and irrevocably. The warm nipple in his mouth to suck. The amber eyes. The smile. But in time even the dark nipple began to fade, a lost fragrance from her yielding self. So dim and vague a memory, he wondered if it had been real at all…. Then at last he became a grown-up boy of four.
