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One of the most important yet overlooked features of the aesthetic experience is the fact that it very rarely kills us as we undergo it. Even if it leads us through anxiety or dread, it is accompanied by a guarantee that when the time comes to make our way back to the ordinary world, we will be able to do so unharmed. Thus, even if we lose ourselves in the moment, we will not lose ourselves permanently. The question that both Henry Markman and I are concerned with is whether the psychoanalytic experience, as portrayed by Bion, offers such a guarantee as well. To answer this question we need to trace the origins of Bion's unique outlook on his craft.
Throughout the corpus of his work, Bion repeatedly addresses his service as a young tank commander on the Western Front in World War I, describing in fine detail the terrifying—and at times grotesque—incidents he witnessed and endured. As Souter (2009) and Likierman (2012) point out, one particular incident, a certain battle, left a greater mark than the rest. Its echoes resonate not only in Bion's autobiographical works, but in his theoretical and fictional works as well. This incident took place on August 8, 1918, during the Battle of Amiens. Bion was ordered to lead a group of tanks at night to the Amiens-Roye road, where they would serve as part of the support force for the French Nancy Division. Bion was leading the force by foot, directing the tanks in the unfamiliar terrain. Yet before long, abnormally thick fog arose from a nearby river, making it impossible to see even one's own hand, let alone the route they were supposed to take. Soon the German forces followed with an expected yet overwhelming barrage, and Bion found himself lost in the dark fog without his tanks, taking cover in a shell crater with only a young runner