But he had the impression the purely instinctive impression that psychoanalysis was shutting sexuality up in a bizarre sort of box painted with bourgeois motifs, in a kind of rather repugnant artifical triangle, thereby stifling the whole of sexuality as production of desire so as to recast it along entirely different lines, making of it a dirty little secret, the dirty little family secret, a private theater rather than the fantastic factory of Nature and Production.