Juan.

17.
England. Southend, mate.
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"All right! I’ll take it away! He’ll be delivered from madness. What then? He’ll feel himself acceptable. What then? Do you think feelings like his can be simply re-attached, like plasters? Stuck onto other objects we select? Look at him!...My desire might be to make this boy an ardent husband- a caring citizen- a worshipper of an abstract and unifying God. My achievement, however, is more likely to make him a ghost...
I’ll heal the rash on his body. I’ll erase the welts cut into his mind by flying manes. When he’s done, I’ll set him on a nice mini-scooter and send him puttering off into the Normal world…I’ll give him the Normal world where we’re tethered beside them- blinking our nights away in a non-stop drench of cathode-ray over our shrivelling heads. I’ll take away his Field of Ha Ha, and give him Normal places for his ecstasy- multi-lane highways driven through the guts of cities, extinguishing Place altogether, even the idea of Place!...And one thing I promise you: he will never touch hide again!...Hopefully he’ll feel nothing but Approved Flesh. I doubt, however, with very much passion.
Passion, you see, can be destroyed by a doctor. It cannot be created.
You won’t gallop any more, Alan…You’ll save your pennies every week, till you can change the scooter in for a car, and put the odd fifty p on the gee-gees, quite forgetting that they were ever anything more to you than bearers of little profits and little losses.
You will, however, be without pain. More or less completely without pain."