Confessions of a troubled mind

I remember her eyes, her sensual yet cold and uncompromising eyes. Her lips, frantically producing the theorems and equations for us two hundred something students are engraved in my mind. I remember feeling her loneliness, her desperate denial of meaning and sense.

It must have been through her that I became the economic man I am today. She must have been the mirror that made me aware of who I was. Slowly I must have recreated myself, perfected an image she offered the contours of. Her history became mine.

What is history of economics if not the final attempt to seduce the ones we loved in the past? Do we not in every textual utterance struggle only to understand ourselves?

As historian of economics I must confess a troubled mind.


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