Open-Mouthed and Wide-Eyed: Psychoanalytic Reflections on Curiosity

I hope that all my readers are going to fall under the spell of some kind of curiosity. Reading a novel without curiosity is a deadly process—we all remember it from high school.

Allow me to begin this discourse on curiosity by recounting three personal experiences. All involve the manifestation of curiosity, though in considerably different contexts. Together these vignettes suggest the breadth of the terrain to be covered.

The first incident took place nearly thirty-five years ago. I was young, enjoying a Sunday morning by staying in bed late. My daughter, barely three at the time, was sitting on my chest. She said, “Can I ask you something?” I said, “Yes, of course.” She said, “Do boys do number two also standing up?” My daughter was curious.

The second incident involved an important birthday of a good friend that I had to miss due to an out-of-town speaking engagement. I felt bad about it and offered to take my friend and his wife out for a nice dinner upon my return. And indeed I did so. When dinner was over and the bill came, my friend made a gesture to split the payment but I declined, reminding him that it was my treat. I gave the waiter my credit card and within a minute or two excused myself to go to the restroom. As I was walking back to join my guests, I noticed that the waiter had placed the bill, along with the credit card, in a folder on the table; my

Plenary address, American Psychoanalytic Association, January 20, 2017. The author thanks Aisha Abbasi, April Fallon, Axel Hoffer, Rajnish Mago, Afaf Mahfouz, Barry Rovner, Achala Sharma, and Anderson Thompson Jr. for helpful suggestions regarding an earlier draft.

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friend's wife was lifting the corner of that folder to see what the tab came to. My friend's wife was curious.

In the fall of 1973 I was driving through rural Virginia and was lost in the beauty of the autumn foliage. A cop stopped me. He seemed younger than I was but stood tall and spoke with authori