My Donald Meltzer

I began my analysis with Donald Meltzer about 30 years ago; I knew nothing about him and had been referred by Oliver Lyth, who had a more long-established local psychoanalytic practice. The choice was serendipitous, but the enduring course of my analysis was not. His consulting room was located upstairs in a small Victorian house, near the station, in a distinctly unsmart area of West Oxford. He and his wife, Martha Harris, who worked from a room at the front, shuttled between London and Oxford in an old Volvo Coupé, of which he was fond. At that time he lived in the Oxfordshire village of Brill. Among other things, he liked forestry, paintings, horses and Herman Melville. His couch was made from a piece of board, with a comfortable enough mattress on top, and he sat in a worn armchair, which I later discovered had belonged to his own analyst - Melanie Klein. His soft American accent had a kind of song-like quality, his voice seemed to hold and comfort, even as the content of what he said was starkly challenging. I soon began to appreciate the strength of his psychoanalytic conviction and uncompromising intellectual honesty.

Early on I dreamt that the consultant I was working with at Littlemore Hospital, Bertram Mandelbrote, had told me to go into his office and open up a parcel, as there was something inside for me. It turned out to be a gold and diamond encrusted watch with a lid that covered the dial. Apparently it had been given to Bertram by an American Drug Company. In the dream, my friend and colleague, Peter Agulnik (who had encouraged me to go into analysis), said, ‘It's bound to be good if that's where it comes from’. Clearly my enthusiasm for psychoanalysis, conveyed to me through Donald Meltzer, knew no bounds, yet it is interesting to note that the dial of the watch was covered up. It is as if the information, the knowledge conveyed by the watch-face, was obscured by a layer of idealization. Perhaps it is no coincidence