There is no cure for the complete fusser. You might think that some
tremendous disaster--such as marrying a shrew who hated fussing, or
being cast on a desert island, or being imprisoned--would cure him.
But it would not. It would only cause a change in the symptoms; for
every human environment whatsoever gives occasion for fussiness to
the complete fusser. Even in the army, even in the lowest and most
order-ridden grades of the army, the complete fusser contrives to
flourish. And he is incurable because he is unconscious of being fussy.
What the world regards as fussiness he regards as wisdom essential to a
reasonable existence. He sincerely looks down upon the rest of mankind.
Spiritual pride puts him into the category of the hopeless case--along
with the alcoholic drunkard, the genuine kleptomaniac, and other
specimens whom he would chillingly despise.
Apparently the sole use of the complete fusser is to serve as a
terrible warning to those who are on the way to becoming complete
fussers themselves--a terrible warning to pull up.
That fussiness in its earlier stages can be cured is certain. But the
cure is very drastic in nature. There are lucid moments in the life
of the as yet incomplete fusser when he suspects his malady, when he
guiltily says to himself: ‘I know I am peculiar, but--’ Such a moment
must be seized, and immediate action taken. (The ‘but’ must be choked.
The ‘but’ may be full of wisdom, but it must be choked; the ‘but’ is
fatal.) If the fusser is anti-black let him proceed to the shopping
quarter at once. Let him not order a suit-to-measure of black. Let him
buy a ready-made suit. Let him put it on in the store or shop, and let
him have the other suit sent home. Let him then walk about the town in
black.... He is saved! No less thorough procedure will save him.
And similarly for all other varieties of fussiness.