Rank in Freud's School

Both of Owen's essays have a special meaning for me because they lead me into states of confusion, in which the minor literary scuffles of psychoanalytic writers play themselves out with inordinate clamor.1 In the time of Freud's great discoveries, when suddenly a new world opened, upon which we all dared merely to gaze shuddering and awestruck, and which only lone individuals, courageously enough, ventured into, one lacked the leisure to occupy oneself at the writing table with the childish game of the inkwell and blotter. But soon came the time of organized expeditions into the unexplored land, and all sorts of resolute people pressed forward to reconnoiter the outlandish territory.

Things essential and inessential were discovered and proclaimed, and it didn't take long before the entrance to the stupendous region was so circumscribed with cabinets full of paper that one dared to grant access to it only with special admission tickets. Passable roads were laid down, signs were erected with the wonderful magical phrase: “Forbidden,” or “Enter at your own risk.” A couple of recreational sites with lovely vistas were built, and the whole thing was then designated “Scientific Psychoanalysis.” Teaching and research institutes were established, and the surly spectator breathed a sigh of relief and thought, “Well, that blew over mercifully enough. That dangerous wretch, Freud, has become a schoolmaster and is busying himself with preparing a new primer of supplementary courses for his advanced students.”

For quite a while it really seemed as though psychoanalysis would fizzle out. But it only seemed that way. To be sure, there was a schoolroom with benches inside, and it contained as well a list of assigned seats and a class roster for noting merits and