Because he he money Peterson answered an ad that said "Well pay you to be on TV if your opinions are strong enough or your personal experiences have a flavor of the unusual." He called the number and was told to e to Room 1551 in the Graybar Building on Lexington. This he did and after spending twenty minutes with a Miss Arbor who asked him if he had ever been in analysis was okayed for a program called Who Am I? "What do you have strong opinions about?" Miss Arbor asked. "Art," Peterson said, "life, money." "For instance?" "I believe," Peterson said, "that the learning ability of mice be lowered or increased by regulating the amount of serotonin in the brain. I believe that schizophrenics have a high ince of unusual fingerprints, including lihat make almost plete circles. I believe that the dreamer watches his dream in sleep, by moving his eyes." "Thats very iing!" Miss Arbor cried. "Its all in the World Almanac," Peterson replied.
"I see youre a sculptor," Miss Arbor said, "thats wonderful." "What is the nature of the program?" Peterson asked. "Ive never seen it." "Let me answer your question with another question," Miss Arbor said. "Mr. Peterson, are you absurd?" Her enormous lips were smeared with a glowing white cream. "I beg your pardon?" "I mean," Miss Arbor said early, "do you enter your owence as gratuitous? Do you feel de trap? Is there nausea?" "I have an enlarged liver," Peterson offered. "Thats excellent!" Miss Arbor exclaimed. "Thats a very good beginning! Who Am I? tries, Mr. Peterson, to discover eople really are. People today, we feel, are hidden away ihemselves, alienated, desperate, living in anguish, despair and bad faith. Why have we been thrown here, and abahats the questiory to answer, Mr. Peterson. Man stands alone in a featureless, anonymous landscape, in fear and trembling and siess unto death. God is dead. Nothingness everywhere. Dread. Estra. Finitude. Who Am I? approaches these problems in a root radical way." "On television?" "Were ied in basics, Mr. Peterson. We dont play around." "I see," Peterson said, w about the amount of the fee. "What I want to know now, Mr. Peterson, is this: are you ied in absurdity?" "Miss Arbor," he said, "to tell you the truth, I dont know. Im not sure I believe in it." "Oh, Mr. Peterson!" Miss Arbor said, shocked. "Dont say that! Youll be. . ." "Punished?" Peterson suggested. "You may not be ied in absurdity," she said firmly, "but absurdity is ied in you." "I have a lot of problems, if that helps," Peterson said. "Existence is problematic for you," Miss Arbor said, relieved. "The fee is two hundred dollars."
"Im going to be on television," Peterson said to his dealer. "A terrible shame," Jean-Claude responded. "Is it unavoidable?" "Its unavoidable," Peterson said, "if I want to eat." "How much?" Jean-Claude asked aerson said: "Two hundred." He looked around the gallery to see if any of his works were on display. "A ridiculous pensation sidering the infamy. Are you using your own name?" "You havent by any ce. . ." "No one is buying," Jean-Claude said. "Undoubtedly it is the weather. People are thinking in terms of -- what do you call those things? -- Chris-Crafts. To boat with. You would not sider again what I spoke to you about before?" "No," Peterson said, "I wouldnt sider it." "Two little ones would move much, much faster than a single huge big one," Jean-Claude said, looking away. "To saw it across the middle would be a very simple matter." "Its supposed to