I have to go for a walk after that. In a second she has gone from being someone I love, or think I could love, to someone who’s playing a role, and watching herself do it. I love Clémentine’s shimmer but it seems to me for the first time constructed, not natural; willed, not produced. She read the giddy parts of I Love Dick without the heavy stuff, the feelings of shame and failure, the marital estrangement. She missed the parts about what it takes to live with other people, the unsolvable problem of alienation between the self and the other, the constraints they place on you, the small spaces you have to occupy together. Kraus calls desire a claustrophobia inside your own skin – a need to get out of the body house, to jump inside someone else’s for a change. How does she account for that? She didn’t, she left that part out. There was still so much to talk about. I was left frustrated, as if there were soap left on my skin and the hot water had gone.