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In speaking of his own past, Proust 1928 notes, “It is a labour in vain to attempt to recapture it: all the efforts of our intellect must prove futile. The past is hidden somewhere outside the realm, beyond the reach of intellect, in some material object (in the sensation which that material object will give us) which we do not suspect. And as for that object, it depends on chance whether we come upon it or not” (p. 34).
Proust is talking about how the taste of the crumb of madeleine soaked in “a decoction of lime-flowers which my aunt used to give me” (1928, p. 36) opened up many memories which took shape, grew solid, and sprang into being. Yet this past could quickly disappear and again go into a darkness from which it might never arise again. He was deterred from probing further; he felt an impulse to drink his tea and to think merely of the worries of today and of his hopes for tomorrow, “which let themselves be pondered over without effort or distress of mind” (p. 35). And yet one of the essences of psychoanalysis is to observe that past, how it persists, how it has changed its carrier over time, how it has been transformed, and what we can learn from it that can help us plan or direct our future. It is in that spirit that I am undertaking this task now. Some may say it is an impossible one—but I believe it must at least be begun if we are to know who we are, from where we have come, and where we will go. This is a time for reflection, for examination and reaffirmation.
The past fifty years have been filled with many changes—some events