I just finished reading The
Impossible Profession by Janet Malcolm. It concerns the profession of
psychoanalysis. Psychoanalysis is not a subject I am well-studied in, but I
have enjoyed reading Jung and Freud, and have read somewhat of others in the
field.
I know Malcolm as a New Yorker writer (is/was she the dance
reviewer?), so I knew the book would be that
sort of book. I used to subscribe to The New Yorker, tho I never read it
cover to cover. New Yorker non-fiction follows a clear formula in which the
quizzical author gives overview of the subject and interviews salient subject
matter experts. The formula is a little superficial (or in the case of another
Malcolm (Gladwell), with his proto-seeming “philosophy”, moreso), but it can
lead the curious on.
The book’s title aint fooling, psychoanalysis as a
profession barely seems possible. Guarantees of success are zilch, the length
of an analysis, counted in years, is forbidding, the stern limits that the
analyst must maintain seem unbearable, cost is prohibitive, and the whole
strain on both analyst and analysand makes for a grueling marathon. And
apparently it doesn’t even work for narcissists and psychotics. I should mench
that the book was writ in the 80s, its views may be anachronistic.
Psychoanalysis hardly seems freed from the stock characterization
of some Viennese sex-obsessed loony studiously trying to unwrap the human mind.
And what the psychoanalyst does is, basically, nothing. An analyst does not
lead the patient (or client, is that the accepted term now?), the analyst
listens impassively (as much as possible) until the patient learns to hear what
they themselves say. Imagine the rigour needed by the analyst, as well as the
patient.
I avoided the subject of psychology and psychiatry—I’m not
sure how to separate the two terms—when I was of an age when I might’ve
developed interest. I had burgeoned enough as an artist to worry that reading
in this vale of concern might cause me to overthink. I don’t think I was wrong,
I needed a firmer foundation at the time, but neither do I believe that the same
would be true for everyone.
I know I read at least one pop psychology book in the day, I’m Okay, You’re Okay, but only because it
came to hand. It made sense, but it was simplistic. It offered the sort of
sensible advice that feels comfortable and goes nowhere.
It surprised me to discover when I finally maundered my way
to reading Freud that he was pretty easy to read. His writing, at least what I
read, was not loaded with jargon or scientific shoptalk. And depth was evident
in his work.
Later still, I read Jung. Jung invites me more than Freud. I
appreciate the weird, lively a;;-embracing extent that he goes. He reminds me
of Charles Olson. One doesn’t understand
them so much as take the ride.
Freud acted like a scientist (which status I, for one, am willing
to grant him). Jung acted like an artist. I make these assertions
descriptively, and accept that Freud had artistry and Jung had science.
Jung had his Red Book (a version of which you can now (Xmas
2014) get from Target for $27.16 !!!), and at one point, made it a practice to spend
an hour a day after lunch playing with toys. Plus he built a castle. Furthermore,
he wrote a snidely exacting and hilarious critique of the Book of Job featuring
God as a whiny-ass problem child, which a fair reading of that book can hardly
gainsay.
I have read other writers in the realm, with pleasure and
embrace, but Freud and Jung are the central figures for me. The thing they do,
in their yin/yang way, is descry a Buddhist position of still acceptance. We
are, finally, what we are. I am not wise enough, still enough, to believe those
words, but I can feel the tingle of their truth. We are all positrons seeking
electrons. We want a completion that is nothing but everything, and everything
but nothing.
Today is Christmas, a day that for some is an assertion of
promise and for others an inveiglement. Today more fully is one day that may be
the only day, if only we didn’t grasp at wisps.
