Frankfurt, in writing an essay on bullshit, had to face the question of whether what he had written was itself bullshit, the academic kind. (It was not.) I have written an essay on mindfucking, and the question will arise as to whether this essay is itself an exercise in mindfucking (although an exceptionally pedantic one). I do not think, however, that it could possibly be taken that way, because I have not sought to impart any radically new beliefs to my reader; I have simply tried to articulate what is implicit in our ordinary concepts (which is what analytic philosophers are supposed to do). Nor have I, I trust, caused any alarm or confusion in my reader, any mental disequilibrium (although maybe some linguistic discomfort). I do not think there are any great surprises in what I have tried to impart here: no paradigm shifts are on offer. I have simply tried to bring order and clarity to a neglected sector of our language, and show how reality is structured by that sector.

Have I been serious or is this all just an elaborate joke? Yes, I have been serious, although it is hard to resist some of the verbal humour that comes with a topic so named. So, no, I insist, this is not a mindfuck: it is an essay on mindfucking. It is a treatise on one aspect of human nature, an aspect fraught with personal and political meaning.