I had a medical student attached to me.
The first patient they saw together was
a young man brought to the hospital by the police with the blood of his girlfriend, whom he had just stabbed to death, still on his shoes. She had taunted him, he said, about his inferior performance as a lover compared with her last such, one of many, whom she had then telephoned to ask him to come and ‘sex her up’ because he — the murderer — was not up to it.
The patient, being a man
conditioned to believe by an over-sexualised culture that sexual performance was the only real measure of a human being, resorted to the kitchen knife and stabbed her not once, not twice, but thrice. Thereafter, he had called the police and taken the pills.
As the patient told his story, Dalrymple looked at his medical student,
an intelligent, sheltered young man (as young men ought to be). He learned more about human nature in that 10 minutes than in all the rest of his life put together. He aged, or perhaps I should say matured, visibly as he listened.
In the afternoon, they saw a man
who had strangled his girlfriend in her parents’ house, also in an access of jealousy.
Not for the medical student any longer
the shallow pieties of the sexual revolution.