On lasting effects

Oh, yes, it brought a lasting effect, my 1% therapy last Sunday. The first consequence of the new stance is that you see your old self deeper down, that's logic. I've been throwing some of my old papers and notes, shamefully, and I still have to remove some older, weaker papers from this page. They make my image very improper indeed; nothing to boost about in the fact that I've written them. And the note on the cover of my new book -- mentioning that I've published 200 items or so -- is certainly a part of the ironic device of the whole. I've contributed -- oh, how generously -- to the 99% of shit. 
I've been trying to recuperate and consolidate some valuable part of my past production, translating some things into English. But the operation only reveals my nakedness, and the distance that was separating me from authentic international scholarship when I was writing those things. Sure enough, a gecko growing up to become a dragon cannot find the matter to foster this growth in the fat reserve of her own tail. 
And I've been facing problems with finishing the paper for Dublin I promised two months ago. Perhaps it should be the proper essay, well, after my therapy, the proper essays are the only things that really count. Today I'm busy, got to go to Orleans, but I do hope Friday and Saturday the things will arrange themselves somehow. On a crystal pinnacle, the only way left is up; the descent would be even more vertiginous and disastrous than climbing.
Oh yes, the 1% is not a funny thing. It brings me nightmares. This night I dreamed that I was in Poland, wearing a kind of dress of coarse linen, half an Arabic djellaba, half a clothe of poverty, clear brown colour and dirty. And I went to inquire how far my last degree was. The secretary of some dusty place showed me a big handwritten book, where my name stood, awaiting a couple of signatures. She said it will take a long time, a year or two, hard to say. And my mother had no such patience.
Clearly enough, I've got many decisions to take, and many things to leave behind. Step by step, I withdraw my attachments and my engagement. And I enter the wilderness, in this coarse dress of Arabs, or perhaps of early Christian eremites, which essentially means the same. 
And perhaps the difference between my 1 proper % and those 99 shitty ones is precisely this. The fact that my 200 publications are literally pulverised in my hands. I imagine many other people would be proud and consider themselves big professors, enormously distinguished. Wow, I've just had my 7th book, and 2nd this year, and it is five hundred fourteen standard pages, as my peer-reviewer stressed. And yet I'm naked, facing the desert thorns tearing my very flesh apart. Naked to my rattling bones.