As I argued several years ago, my eighth seven-year cycle, which stretches from 1995 to 2002, can be defined by the word “art” (“The Seven-Year Life Cycle,” October 23, 2008). And so it can, no doubt, but a little bit of search through my Residua on the World Wide Web shows that other words define it pretty well. Take the word “cunt,” for instance. It appears not once in my writings before 1994 except in the addenda. Most of these were written in 1994 and 1999. And the usage of this word dwindles into insignificance after 2002. There are three peaks in its usage: the first is in 1994, the second in 1999, and the third in 2002. Perhaps more important, the peaks are ever less pronounced across time. For better or worse, this exercise in content analysis has thus given me a great deal of comfort. Whatever its connection to the word “art,” the word “cunt” is a thing of the past. Alleluia!

Addendum I (February 6, 2017)

Out of sheer curiosity, I just searched through my magnum opus on the World Wide Web for the word “cunt” once again. After this particular piece, it appears thrice in 2012, four times in 2013, six times in 2014, four times in 2015, and once in 2016. Although the incidence of this word keeps dwindling, there is a new peak in 2014. To my comfort, though, it has nearly vanished last year. I did not search my Residua for the word “art” this time around, but it is also dwindling in my writings. And how. This I know without searching, for my interest in the subject has nearly evaporated over the years. By now, it leaves me pretty cold. Be that as it may, the word “cunt” is a thing of the past, indeed. If I still use it on a rare occasion, it has long lost its punch. Which makes me no less than jubilant at this stage of my life. Enough is surely enough.

Addendum II (May 24, 2022)

Having written a piece about that hole that makes us all crazy, I searched my Residua for the word “cunt” one more time (“Tuti quanti semo mati per quell buso che semo nati,” May 24, 2022). As it turns out, it appears once in 2017 and 2018 each, as well as four times in 2019. Once again, I am comforted by these modest numbers. Slowly but surely, that word is disappearing from my writings. On top of my liberation, my age surely contributes to this trend (“On Liberation,” October 4, 2017). For crying out loud, I am seventy-six already! To my joy, my hormones are in tune with my wishes. Looking forward, I am delighted to be liberated from that craziness that has been shaking the entire world since times immemorial. And this is hardly an exaggeration. Who says that growing old is bad for you? Cut out his lying tongue!