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Idislike lectures until they're finished. The one I just gave, aimed at psychoanalysts, was entitled “Transference and Psychosis.” I had already forgotten what I'd just said, fascinated by the people watching me, all of them in absolute silence—all but one, fidgeting at the back of the room, shirt collar open.
He seemed to be talking to himself. I tried to catch his attention, yet he had an absent gaze. For the past two years, however, he had never failed to come to my rescue. This time, I was afraid he'd vanish, leaving me all alone in this absurd space.
Finally someone in the first row spoke up. In a low voice, he sighed and said in a bored tone, “What is this desire to analyze psychotics?”
I wasn't sure, I didn't know, I didn't want to know … and I didn't want to answer. I was in a void. Having so many highly qualified listeners before me made my head spin. Was I there as analyst or patient? I seemed to hear the man with the open collar mutter, “It's as though you were being told, ‘Wherever you are, you must have gotten there from somewhere else, and to that previous place from another place, and so on, ad infinitum.’”1
No one budged. I decided to take the plunge and risk getting in deeper. “What becomes of that desire when there's madness in the air? That's precisely the question I ask when I speak of psychotic transference. Perhaps you'll understand this better if I give some examples of specific cases. One of my patients claimed to be a voyeur—a label he held dear. He came to