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On Friday X's anxiety was far more marked: he hated me, or felt I was not what he thought me; he was disillusioned; my practice had gone; I was ill or dying. But these disjointed scraps were at least possible interpretations about a real man; I could see that he could hold such a view about facts that might be observed by him. Why was this?
It was a kind of disjointed rage, a fragmented hatred, but said with fear. This is the importance of the father, and this is the importance of the mother. He can get inside her as a tank from which the father can be attacked. The patient retreats into a state of mind, e.g. insanity, from which he can launch his attacks.
Where then is his common sense? Why blood? Blood is not faeces. It is essential to his life – like common sense. It has become bad outside him; not turned to faces inside him, but bad and dangerous outside.
The blood – common sense – the semen in which he sits, is dangerous and bad. It is laughter, sexual laughter; noise, horns, drills, banging. It is all the bizarre objects. It is a kind of orgasm that cannot be contained within a disciplined framework. The disciplined framework is reason, mathematics, logic. The analyst becomes a very frightening, aggressive object who takes control of the genitalia so as to give effect to, to fulfil a violent oedipal assault of a murderous kind on the father and mother. “I am going to make you shoot your mother. Look what I've got! The penis and balls with which I shall make you shoot your mother!”
The violence seems to be related to a kind of greed in which no choice can be made because nothing can be discarded. This operates against any advance in analysis; no cure can take place because no infantile mechanism is to be given up. And nothing can be taken in because of the conflicting aim to take something else in. Cigars and breast milk, pap and caviar. Projective identification of food: asceticism and gormandizing.
Megalomania. A matter of having to be as well as have everything.