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“[It is] … a brilliant book which stimulates the reader with a profundity almost masked by the unusual lucidity of its reasoning and language” (Lidz, 1977).
Psychoanalyst writers, like all writers, want to be understood. They strive for clear and vitalizing expression that will give the reader the satisfaction of a felt gain.
These are truisms. We write these truisms for those like us who often encounter writing in which the prose is so turgid, and the ideas so elusive, that one must stop and reread, again and again, in search of the meaning.
This obscurity is commonly taken for granted. To illustrate, let us examine Lidz's words above, What is he saying? The book is profound. Its profundity is almost masked. The masking agent is lucidity! To say it another way: Because the book is lucid, it is possible to miss its profundity. Clarity is a barrier. In psychoanalytic writing, clarity is the unexpected ingredient.
Why should this be the case? Psychoanalysts are “verbal” people, educated and trained in a verbal discipline. They have (like