Psychoanalytic Inquiry, 30:146–154, 2010 Copyright © Melvin Bornstein, Joseph Lichtenberg, Donald Silver ISSN: 0735-1690 print/1940-9133 online DOI: 10.1080/07351690903203287
Patient–Analyst Interconnectedness: Personal Notes on Close Encounters of a New Dimension
Ofra Eshel, Psy.D.
BE(COM)ING A PSYCHOTHERAPIST
It is impossible to write about my personal development as a psychotherapist and psychoanalyst in Israel without relating to the powerful impact of the fate of the Jewish people on my family’s his- tory and therefore on mine. It is a history interwoven with narratives of loss and survival. My father was born in Poland, in the vicinity of Warsaw, to a wealthy family. When World War I reached that area, everybody ran for their lives, but my grandfather refused to abandon his lands and possessions. It was not until the very last moment that he decided to flee with his family, leav- ing his great wealth behind. My grandparents and their five small children made their way to Israel (then Palestine) with the money that my grandfather had managed to take with him, and mainly with the money obtained along the way from selling the jewelry my grandmother had received as a beautiful young bride and wife in this wealthy family. Years later, in my childhood, my grand- mother, although a widow of many years, was still mourning the loss of her jewelry that had been sold, and particularly a dearly loved pair of diamond earrings, which had been taken from her and sold for passage on the ship to Israel. When the family finally arrived in Israel, my grandfather again bought up large tracts of land to cultivate. One day, he discovered Arab shepherds and their flocks trespassing on his fields; running towards them shouting, he had a heart attack and died on the spot. My grandmother remained a young widow with five children, and my father, the first son after two daughters, had to drop out of school and go to work in order to help support the family. The story of my mother’s family was far more traumatic. Born in Latvia, then part of Poland, into an intellectual, Zionistic family, she was the only girl among four brothers. Her father was the headmaster of the Jewish school and the local Hebrew teacher. Her eldest brother immigrated to Israel as a pioneer on a kibbutz, and she was sent to join him because she was often ill with the flu and her doctor had recommended a sunny climate. This saved her from the brutal Nazi massacre of the rest of her family and the entire Jewish population in that region. Only my mother and her brother in Israel had survived the Holocaust, but not for long. My mother moved to Tel Aviv, worked hard to earn a living, and studied in a teacher’s seminar. She then met my father and they married. Her brother remained on the kibbutz. He was an intellectually brilliant but sad person, overwhelmed by the loss of his entire family, lonely in the intense socializing of the kibbutz. He worked hard all day long planting and developing the kibbutz’s orchard, and at night he read and
Ofra Eshel, Psy.D., is faculty, training and supervising analyst, the Israel Psychoanalytic Society and Institute; co-founder, former coordinator, and faculty at the Program of Psychoanalytic Psychotherapy for Advanced Psychothera- pists, the Israel Psychoanalytic Institute; co-founder, coordinator, and faculty at the Israel Winnicott Center; lecturer at the Program of Psychotherapy, Tel Aviv University, Faculty of Medicine; Book Review Editor of Sihot–Dialogue, Israel Jour- nal of Psychotherapy.
PATIENT–ANALYST INTERCONNECTEDNESS 147
wrote poetry. During guard duty on the kibbutz the day before Israel’s declaration of statehood in 1948, he was shot in the back of the head by a sniper from a nearby Arab village and died two days later. At his bedside, my mother told him about Israel’s declaration of statehood, but no one knew whether he had heard her. His funeral was held at night in “his” orchard on the kibbutz—a risky and furtive event because of the hostile Arab neighbors. His death was an unexpected blow and a profound tragedy for my mother. I was born and grew up during those agonizing years, in the shadow of his tragic death. Through all the years, every year, from then to the present, except when my brother (three- and-a-half years younger) and I were very young, our family would make the difficult day-long journey to his graveside on the kibbutz on Israel Memorial Day—the day Israel mourns its fallen soldiers. And because Israel Memorial Day ends on the eve of Independence Day, I was never able to participate, physically and emotionally, in Independence Day festivities. For years I tried to fathom this legendary, unknown uncle. I read his poetry and would gaze intently at the black-framed picture of him which, for years, had hung on our living room wall. His face was seri- ous, stern, ascetic, and sincere. He was the uncle I longed to know. My parents were very devoted to us and protective. My father had become a successful, self-made, wealthy steel merchant. In the decade before Israel’s War of Independence, he pur- chased much-needed steel and metal in Arab villages. It was a highly risky endeavor, but he main- tained that the Arabs respected him for his courage and would never hurt him. At his request, my mother stopped working and stayed home to raise the two children. We lived in an affluent neighborhood, in a house surrounded by trees, including a variety of fruit trees. There was a goldfish pond in front of our house and an enormous ficus tree that we and all the neighborhood children would climb and sit in for hours. We always had dogs and cats. But underneath it all lay unspoken, concealed, unrecovered mourning, trauma, and a deep fear and trepidation of what life might bring. The only demand my parents made of me was to excel at my studies, and I did. My mother was an avid reader; she bought almost every book that was published in Hebrew, complete sets of en- cyclopedias and classics (Tolstoy, Shakespeare, De Maupassant, Romain Rolland, Lion Feuchtwanger, Dickens, and others) from the salesmen who would come to the house, and she shared with us what she read. Although she was not religious, she loved the Bible, and would tell the Bible stories over and over, making them come alive, real and engrossing. I loved her stories and would listen to them for hours. I, too, became an avid reader from early childhood. I read all the classics, especially the Euro- pean ones (Russian, German, French, and English) that had been translated into Hebrew. Later, at university, I majored in literature and theater, in addition to psychology, and had to be familiar with two hundred plays for my B.A. examination in theater. In a way, I came into contact with life and pain through literature rather than through actual experience. This first changed when I did my army service, and more profoundly when, upon completing my M.A. in clinical psychology, my diagnostics professor offered me a position as a clinical psychologist in the psychiatric hospital where he was the chief psychologist. My work in a psychiatric hospital was a profound change for me. I plunged enthusiastically into therapeutic work with difficult patients. It provided me with the opportunity to use my- self—my knowledge, my vast reading, my thoughts, my fantasies, my feelings, my inner world, my mind-and-heart—in ways that made a real difference in other people’s lives, and also in my own.
148 OFRA ESHEL
My parents were apprehensive about my work. They were pleased with developments in my personal life (I had just married and left home) and my intellectual achievements, but working in a psychiatric hospital “with mad people” was too strange and anxiety-provoking for them. My fa- ther talked to me. His words are still etched in my memory. He said wistfully, “I worked hard all my life to provide you with a good life. So why get bogged down in the mud of all these people?” I was very attached to my father. I loved and appreciated him deeply, and when he spoke I poi- gnantly felt his deep concern and caring. But I could not give it up. I said, “Dad, it is very impor- tant and interesting to me. This is what I want to do.” Nothing more was said, but I believe he understood. Five years later, talking together in the hospital the day before he underwent heart surgery, which he did not survive, he asked me if I was happy with my work. I replied emphatically, “Yes!” and added that I was also successful, which I knew meant a great deal to him. It saddens me that he did not live to see further developments in my professional and personal life (especially my two children). Many years later, I read the beautiful dedication that Robert Hinshelwood wrote at the begin- ning of his Dictionary of Kleinian Thought (1991), and I felt I could write the very same touching words: “To my father, who did not understand very much of this way of thinking but who would have been proud of my effort.” I feel these words are true to his devoted spirit. I worked at Be’er Ya’acov Psychiatric Hospital for four years. They were four good years. It was the 1970s. The hospital was a large government facility whose medical staff knew very little about psychodynamic thinking. However, the clinical psychologists were a group of psycho- dynamically oriented, open, and curious therapists, and our weekly meetings were lively, thought-provoking, and engrossing. I was extremely fortunate to have been equipped with the teachings of Dr. Gideon Medini, my clinical professor and supervisor in my M.A. studies in clinical psychology. He came from New York and acquainted us with the writings of Sullivan, Sechehaye, Searles, Menninger, Frieda Fromm-Reichman, and Hannah Green’s (1964) I Never Promised You a Rose Garden, and in a dif- ferent vein, Haley’s writing on the “therapeutic paradox” in strategic therapy. I read them again and again, and also anything else I could find about psychotherapy, and they informed and en- riched my thinking and my clinical work. But the intense work with my patients was ultimately what taught and affected me most. I was working with severely disturbed patients—schizoid and borderline disorders, schizophrenics and psychopaths (the hospital was connected to two state penitentiaries), and I felt that I grew and learned something with each of them. I encountered much anxiety, fear, withdrawal, disconnectedness, and blankness, but with time I came to realize that even behind the perversion and psychosis there was much yearning, love, and gratitude. I still find myself thinking about these patients and my experiences with them. It is difficult to convey how deep and formative was the impact of these experiences on me. One of my patients brought me Robert Lindner’s book The Fifty-Minute Hour translated into Hebrew, which had appeared in the form of a cheap little pocket book. My enthusiastic and earnest naiveté as a young psychotherapist intertwined with Lindner’s compelling “true psychoanalytic tales” about psychoanalytic treatments that “illustrate something of the adventure of this fabulous profession, something of its romance, and much of its practical detail” (Lindner, 1999, p. ix). Dr. Lindner explored, struggled with, and cured four of his five difficult cases of impotence and com- munism; of nightmares, blackouts, psychopathy, and fascism; of bulimia and Oedipal wish fulfill- ment; and of a young physicist’s psychotic expeditions to planets in other galaxies, into whose
mad fantasy world Linder got totally drawn. He displayed what, a quarter of a century later, Eigen (1981) would describe as “the area of faith”—“a way of experiencing which is undertaken with one’s whole being, all out, ‘with all one’s heart, with all one’s soul, and with all one’s might’” (p.
413). The exciting encounter with this humane, compassionate, and daring agent of psychoana- lytic treatment became a landmark on my road to clinical psychoanalysis. As I felt I was too young to begin psychoanalytic training, which in Israel at the time was very classical, I first took, concurrently, the two three-year psychotherapy programs that were in exis- tence then: the Course of Psychoanalytically Oriented Psychotherapy at the Israel Psychoanalytic Institute in Jerusalem, and the Program of Psychotherapy at Sackler Faculty of Medicine, Tel Aviv University (which was established in 1971 by Professor Brill and Dr. E. Rosenberg of Tel Aviv University and Professor Alberta Shalita of Columbia University in New York). The different approaches of the two courses—the humanistic, interpersonal, existential ap- proach in Tel Aviv; and the classical, Freudian, psychoanalytic tradition in Jerusalem—had a powerful, enriching impact on my clinical thinking and therapeutic work. They complemented rather than contradicted each other, adding new interpersonal vistas to intrapsychic interpretive principles. This was reflected in my thesis on ““the silent patient,” which was submitted as part of the requirements for a diploma in psychotherapy at Tel Aviv University, and was awarded the Moshe Wulff Prize (1977). In it I described the first two years—two years of silence—in the treat- ment of a pedophile patient who underwent intensive psychotherapy (four times a week) with me in the psychiatric hospital, following a court order—a coerced treatment that, after his release three years later, became a voluntary treatment that lasted another ten years. It was a most signifi- cant treatment experience for us both.
BE(COM)ING A PSYCHOANALYST
In the following year, 1978, I began psychoanalytic training at the Israel Psychoanalytic Institute, which involved three supervised cases and (at the time) at least eight years of theoretical and clini- cal seminars. During this decade, psychoanalysis in Israel underwent an unexpected transition, which had a profound effect on my psychoanalytic development. The Psychoanalytic Society in Israel (then Palestine) was founded in 1933 by Dr. Max Eitingon, a Zionistically oriented psychoanalyst, one of Freud’s six closest disciples, who had es- tablished the first psychoanalytic institute in Berlin in 1920, and was a leading figure in the Inter- national Psychoanalytic Association. Perhaps only Eitingon could have succeeded in establishing a psychoanalytic center so far away from the European scene, at a time and in a world and country so immersed in political and economic turmoil. But he achieved this with the help of several emi- nent European psychoanalysts who had immigrated to Israel from Germany, Austria (Vienna), and Russia. The Palestine (later Israel) Institute of Psycho-Analysis was founded shortly after- wards, becoming (in 1934) the eleventh institute in the International Association (Moses, 1998). During the following decades, especially under the shadow of the trying political conditions and the many relentless wars—the 1948 War of Independence, the 1956 Sinai Campaign, the 1967 Six-Day War, and the 1973 Yom Kippur War—psychoanalysis in Israel developed as a closed, se- cluded, very classical European psychoanalytic “reserve.” It was only in the late 1970s that psy- choanalysis in Israel underwent significant transformation and became exposed to major develop-
ments that were occurring in the psychoanalytic world. But this had to come about through actual people. First there was exposure to Kleinian thought, via psychoanalysts who immigrated to Israel from South America, particularly Argentina. For me, it was Dr. Yolanda Gampel and Dr. Naomi Mibashan who had a profound impact on my professional and personal development. Then the 30th International Psychoanalytic Conference took place in Jerusalem, and it was fol- lowed by the establishment of the Sigmund Freud Chair of Psychoanalysis at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem in 1978—the first chair of psychoanalysis at any university. This brought to Israel lead- ing British psychoanalysts Joseph and Anne-Marie Sandler, with their wealth of theoretical and clinical knowledge, as Joseph Sandler became the first incumbent of the Freud chair. Anne-Marie, who followed Joseph to Israel in 1980, became my second analytic supervisor for some two-and-a-half years, from the very beginning to the end of her stay in Israel. Each week I would make the trip to Jerusalem for our supervision, until their return to London, where Joseph Sandler took up the Sigmund Freud chair of psychoanalysis at London University College. They continued to spend a weekend in Israel almost every month for another two years, and gave us group supervision. Anne-Marie’s contemporary Freudian approach was different from the classical Freudian tra- dition we were familiar with. The contemporary Freudians in London appeared to have been af- fected by the heavy emphasis on object-relations theory of the Kleinian and Independent (Middle) groups in the British Psychoanalytical Society. Anne-Marie concentrated, for example, on the in- terpretations and understanding of the here and now of the analytic situation and related to countertransference issues; my first supervisor had focused exclusively on transference and con- sidered countertransference an impediment to the analytic work. I understood later that the introduction of these new theoretical and clinical–technical voices into the Israel Psychoanalytic Society and Institute had aroused much controversy and resistance. But for me, as a young candidate, and for others of my generation, they were important and inspir- ing. They broadened our psychoanalytic world and encouraged us to establish connections and an interchange with the British Psychoanalytical Society and go to London for conferences and su- pervisory consultations. Subsequently, over the years, many leading British psychoanalysts from different schools came to Israel for lectures, weekend seminars, and workshops: Betty Joseph, Irma Brenman Pick and Eric Brenman, Elizabeth Bott Spillius, Ronald Britton, Hanna Segal, Christopher Bollas, Joan and Neville Symington, and Harold Stuart. Throughout those years, reading remained integral to my development. Winnicott’s deeply meaningful and creative writing opened up for me worlds of experience and meaning. Subse- quently, I read Masud Khan, Margaret Little, Marion Milner, and then expanded the scope of my reading to include Balint, Fairbairn, and Guntrip. I read Bion and became intrigued by his profound, groundbreaking ideas that forged a new communicative dimension within the massive pathological nature of Melanie Klein’s conceptual- ization of projective identification: first, by his formulation of the fundamental transformative ca- pacity of the object—the primal mother or the analyst (through reverie, alpha-function, and con- taining of the patient’s unbearable, projected experiences); and then by his later writing about the analyst’s “becoming” and “being” the unknown and unknowable ultimate psychic reality O, which involved substantial theoretical and technical innovations. Winnicott’s and Bion’s unique contributions, both rooted in the primacy of mother–infant re- latedness, became the cornerstones of my evolving clinical psychoanalytic thinking. “If I have seen further, it is by standing upon the shoulders of giants,” Isaac Newton once wrote. For me,
Winnicott and Bion are indeed these psychoanalytic giants. With time, I added Racker’s and Grotstein’s contributions, and, more recently, Ogden, Bollas, and Eigen, who evocatively inte- grated Winnicott’s and Bion’s ideas into their own compelling writings. Kohut’s self-psychology then reached Israel and gained great influence. His disciples, Anna and Paul Ornstein and Arnold Goldberg. also came to Israel for conferences. Later, Emanuel Berman introduced Ferenczi and New York relational psychoanalysis, and Stephen Mitchell, Lewis Aron, Jessica Benjamin, Robert Stolorow with his intersubjective self-psychology, and oth- ers arrived from the United States. Emmanuel Ghent could not come himself, but his ideas never- theless arrived. French psychoanalysis was represented by André Green, and recently by Julia Kristeva and J. B. Pontalis. Thus Israel, a secluded place twenty years ago, became a crossroads of many different ideas. Thus, I have embraced and absorbed many enriching influences, and over the years, particu- larly over the last twelve years, I have crystallized my own personal psychoanalytic thinking. Yet, the most profound, continuous, and critical impact on my way of thinking and working has been, and remains, the lived experience with my patients: “learning from experience” (in Bion’s [1962] words), the vibrant “experiencing experience” through and within the psychoanalytic situation, which keeps opening avenues for new qualities of being and relating.
THE BE(COM)ING OF A NEW DIMENSION: PATIENT–ANALYST INTERCONNECTEDNESS AND ESSENTIAL INSEPARABILITY
These accumulated theoretical, clinical, and personal influences underlay my growing readiness and capacity over the years (growing also in theoretical and clinical psychoanalytic thinking) to let myself yield to the grip of the analytic process with the patient, to work, learn, and think from within the depths of the treatment experience, even when it is harsh, strange, incomprehensible, and threatening. The psychoanalytic process has become, for me, a serendipitous process or journey which, by dint of experiencing and reflective ability, arrives unexpectedly and unpremeditatedly at a new knowledge, a new possibility. Thus, I went with my patients on a psychoanalytic serendipitous jour- ney through “black holes,” through feelings of deadness, sleepiness, dissociation, petrification and silences, yearnings and longings, into the depths of perversion, and the enigma of telepathic dreams (Eshel 1998a, 1998b, 2001, 2004a, 2004b, 2005b, 2006, 2008, 2009a, 2009b). Each of these papers grew out of an attempt to come to grips with a problem, a struggle, or a particular occurrence in my clinical experience. It meant pursuing the ontological (being) dimension of experience rather than the epistemological (interpretive) dimension, and drawing on experiential–developmental modes of being, relating, and becoming, in my analytic technique and therapeutic action. First, I proposed the notion of the analyst’s givenness to being present or presencing with-in as a fundamental therapeutic means. I began to develop this approach with regard to massive acting out, acting in and enactment, arguing that the fate of these acting situations in the therapeutic work is determined largely by the analyst’s willingness and ability to give himself or herself over to be- ing with-in there, staying with the intense impact of the acting situation and communing with it (Eshel, 1998a, 1998b). Later, I expanded these ideas to the treatment of difficult-to-reach schiz- oid, narcissistic, and severely perverse patients (Eshel, 2005b, 2007, 2008, 2009a) and to varied difficult treatment situations (2009b).
Presencing is essentially the analyst’s deep acceptance of the necessity of becoming an embed- ded, fundamental, and sustaining functioning presence within difficult treatment situations and enactments—thereby experiencing, withstanding, processing, and gradually transforming, from within, the repetitive cycle of pathological self–other relations and defenses. It is an intercon- nected rather than interactive relatedness, a primary quality of presence that provides experi- ence-near attunement, holding, containing, and protection, rather than interpreting patient–ana- lyst relationships and especially patient–analyst separateness. It seems to me closely related to what Ferro (2005) described as “the analyst’s way of being in the session … without any particular interpretive caesura” (p. 44). I also came to know that this presencing can at times be difficult, even overwhelming: “Is too much for the senses / Too crowding, too confusing / Too present to imagine” (Frost, 1942, p. 336). To my thinking, this way of being with-in embodies the search, the striving for, and the possibility of extending the reach of psychoanalytic treatment. Through the analyst’s presencing with-in and the evolving therapeutic regression (in Winnicott’s and Balint’s sense), patient and analyst enter another dimension of experience—the dimension of interconnectedness. They forge a deeper unity of experiential–emotional intercon- nectedness with interpenetrating impact upon each other. It is a cojoint, living therapeutic entity that goes beyond the mere participation of the analyst in the patient’s experience—thus transcend- ing the confines of their separate psychic existences and the simple summation of the two. It im- plies breaching and changing the patient’s (and analyst’s) psychic space—through the analyst’s readiness to be given over to this interconnection. Within the deep interconnected existence of their psyches, an actual, nonlinear (synergic and transcendent), new possibility is created and present, of getting in touch with, experiencing, knowing, containing, and effecting hitherto un- known, dissociated, unthinkable aspects of being and relating (Eshel 2001, 2002, 2004a, 2004b, 2005a, 2006, 2008, 2009a, 2009b). Viewed in this way, it is not a one-person or two-person psy- chology, but a process whereby patient and analyst become an emergent two-in-one new entity that is fundamentally inseparable into its two participants: an entity (unit or being) of interconnec- tedness, “twogetherness,” or “withness,” of essential inseparability. I have called this process quantum interconnectedness (drawn from physicist David Bohm’s phrase “the quantum interconnectedness of distant systems,” 1980) in order to convey the pro- found implications of this quantum-like psychoanalytic counterpart. For it evokes quantum phys- ics’ revolutionary ideas of inseparability of observer and observed, the crucial formative effect of the process itself, and the unbroken wholeness that underlies our perceived world of separateness, at the particle level (Kulka, 1997; Eshel, 2002, 2005a, 2006). As in quantum reality, treatment thus creates psychic reality, and goes beyond the exposing or deciphering of an existing repressed or concealed psychic reality. This point of view focuses predominantly on a different kind of knowl- edge, experience, and way of being in the analytic process—not that of a patient-centered one-per- son psychology or an interactive two-person psychology, but on the knowledge, experience, and powerful effects that come into being when the analyst/therapist interconnects with the patient’s psyche in going through the process. Over the last several years, I have attempted to explore, grasp, and encompass the true experi- ential scope and therapeutic significance of this dimension of patient–analyst interconnectedness in the psychoanalytic process and therapeutic action. It underlies my thinking on containing and on the becoming of a living change and fundamentally new experience during psychoanalytic treatment. It is my view that containing evolves through the interconnectedness of patient and ana- lyst’s psyches, whereby the analyst’s psyche is used as an area of experiencing and transformation for the patient’s projected, split-off, unbearable experiences (Eshel, 2004b). This new, actualized,
more able, and more daring interconnected psychic space becomes the venture zone of the change process, in which the analyst’s willingness and capacity to risk, feel, bear, and process the relived terrifying and painful experiences is crucial for actualizing a new emotional possibility (Eshel, 2004a, 2005a). In a later paper (Eshel, 2006), I referred to the mysterious occurrences of patients’ telepathic dreams in treatment as an enigmatic “impossible” extreme of this larger drama and mystery of pa- tient–analyst unconscious communication and psychic interconnectedness in the analytic process. That our reach exceeds our grasp is really the heart of the matter.
AFTERWORD
I have tried to capture significant landmarks in my years-long experience of becoming and being a psychotherapist and psychoanalyst. Looking back at over thirty years of therapeutic work, I still feel the love, the thrill, the unique- ness of this endeavor, my heart-and-mind involvement in the way I practice and imagine psycho- analysis. It has opened up for me worlds of experience and feeling, contact and caring, struggling, passionate faith, and redeeming hope—of close encounters with the richness and complexity of human life. Yet, at the same time, I have come to realize, wistfully, that it is also a heavy burden and responsibility that have to be carried along a long, agonizing road before true transformation is reached. Do I dare be the analyst who is truly being and becoming with-in? I am in.
REFERENCES
Bion, W. R. (1962), Learning From Experience. London: Mansfield Library. Bohm, D. (1980), Wholeness and the Implicate Order. London: Routledge. Eigen, M. (1981), The area of faith in Winnicott, Lacan, and Bion. Int. J. Psychoanal., 62:413–433. Eshel, O. (1998a), “Black holes,’” deadness, and existing analytically*. Int. J. Psychoanal.*, 9:1115–1130. —————. (1998b), Meeting acting out, acting in and enactment in psychoanalytic treatment, or: Going into the eye of the storm. *Sihot–Dialogue: Israel J. Psychother.*13:4–16. —————. (2001), Whose sleep is it, anyway? Or “Night Moves.” *Int. J. Psychoanal.,*82:545–562. —————. (2002), My use of concepts from modern physics in psychoanalysis. In: Between Sessions and Beyond the Couch, ed. J. Raphael-Leff. University of Essex, Colchester, UK: CPS Psychoanalytic Pub., pp. 173–176. —————. (2004a), From the “Green Woman” to “Scheherazade”: The becoming of a fundamentally new experience in psychoanalytic treatment. *Contemp. Psychoanal.,*40:527–556. —————. (2004b), Let it be and become me: Notes on containing, identification, and the possibility of being. Contemp. *Psychoanal.,*40:323–351. —————. (2005a), A bond of love, emotional risk, and daring: Commentary on paper by Stuart A. Pizer. Psychoanal. *Dial.,*15:717–725. —————. (2005b), Pentheus rather than Oedipus: On perversion, survival, and analytic “presencing.” Int. J. Psychoanal., 86: 1071–1097. —————. (2006), Where are you, my beloved? On absence, loss, and the enigma of the telepathic dreams. Int. J. Psychoanal., 87:1603–1627. —————. (2007), Do I dare be an analyst of a severely perverse patient? On being in there (“presencing”), daring (passion), and caring (compassion). Manuscript prepared for a panel on perversion, IPA Berlin. —————. (2008), Patient–analyst interconnectedness: The chimeric element. IAPP Conference, Tel Aviv. —————. (2009a), To be “included” in the silence: On the silent patient and the analyst’s “presencing.” Sihot–Dia- logue: Israel J. Psychother., 23:221–235.
—————. (2009b), “For you have returned my soul within me with compassion”: On compassion in states of despair and deadness in psychoanalytic treatment. *Shiot–Dialogue: Israel J. Psychother.,*24:49–56. Ferro, A. (2005), Some reflections on interpretation. EPF Psychoanal. in Europe, 59:44–45. Frost, R. (1942), Carpe diem. In: The Poetry of Robert Frost, ed. E. C. Lathem. New York: Owl Books, Henry Holt and Company, 1969, pp. 335–336. Green, H. (1964), I Never Promised You a Rose Garden. New York: Signet Books. Hinshelwood, R. D. (1991), A Dictionary of Kleinian Thought. London: Free Association Books. Kulka, R. (1997), Quantum selfhood: Commentary on paper by Beeber, Lachman, and Jaffe. Psychoanal. Dial., 7:183–187. Lindner, R. (1999), The Fifty-Minute Hour. New York: Other Press. Moses, R. (1998), A short history of psychoanalysis in Palestine and Israel. J. of the Amer. Academy of Psychoanal., 26:329–341.
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