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Sanity for the English gentleman is about appearing to be undisturbed by their most disturbing thoughts:

Freud gave us a language to redescribe these moments of stray thought, these spots of distraught time, in which we are unable to pigeonhole and padlock our more disagreeable reflections:

we are as good as talking to ourselves because for some reason we can’t speak these thoughts to others. 

I  am being addressed, but who is addressing me? I am talking to myself but who exactly is doing the talking, the strangely silent talking we call thinking;

and who, perhaps more perplexingly, is the listener when we are talking to ourselves? 

Again it is paternity/maternity that is at issue. Tietjens may not be the father of his son, but is he the father of his own thoughts? Something that belongs to you, something as intimate as your own thoughts

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