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A patient of mine, Dr. Genghis—himself a psychiatrist—launched into a perilous adventure. In 1982, he made an appointment with me on a whim after seeing me in a television interview on my latest book. He immediately decided that he'd do a stint with me. “Not just a stint,” he clarified, “but a proper course of treatment,” since the two previous therapies he'd undertaken—one with a male and the other with a female therapist—spanning a period of more than 10 years in all, had both ended rather badly.
“And why was that?” I inquired.
“Because I couldn't bear the confrontation that should have occurred,” he answered. “I fled in both cases.”
The reasons Genghis chose me were quite simple, he claimed. He had the impression that with me, confrontation would take place, whether he wanted it to or not—even if there was a chance it would drive him mad. He'd read all of my books, especially those on madness, and he knew I'd seen madness of all sorts. Genghis said he trusted me—though perhaps not fully, as he was risking a great deal by coming to see me. Yet he had no choice. Moreover, he felt I had integrity and sensitivity, and the list went on. In light of all his praise, it seemed apt to ask him what he'd found disturbing in my writings on madness.
He hadn't found them disturbing at all. That wasn't it. But one of the books, L'Enfant dans le grenier,1 had touched him deeply. I tried to steer the conversation to my other books, but my efforts were futile. He was interested in that one alone.
“Well, thank you,” I replied, “but I'd rather not talk about L'Enfant dans le grenier or about anything that concerns me so personally. I've pretty much had it with divulging the secrets of my personal life and don't really feel like getting into that again.”