Psychoanalysis in Minor Language
Of the coordinates through which we order the world, time and space, psychoanalysis has explored mainly the first one. Inside each analytical cure, the history– that expression of time – and especially “what is absent in the history¹” plays a key role. Analytical experience unfolds between cronos and kairos, between chronology and opportunity. The dimension of time is also present in the way in which we build knowledge in psychoanalysis, which is never merely cumulative but is referenced in authors, in masters who inaugurate theoretical and epistemic fields[1]. Time in psychoanalysis is a complex issue that is better understood from that radical breakdown which implies the idea of Freudian Nachträglichkeit or that can be represented in the tempest with which Walter Benjamin identifies the so-called “Progress”, which takes the Angel of History towards the future, while it stares at the past with a terrified face as if it were a heap of ruins.
Psychoanalysts, beyond our differences, feel relatively comfortable in relation to time. However, it is in relation to space where we can expect more provocative interpellation. Deleuze has stated this accurately: “ We think too much in terms of history, either personal or universal, but becomings belong to Geography.”[2] It is perhaps in Geography where a great deal of the future of psychoanalysis is at stake, not only in relation to its politics – to the way in which it can reach China or the countries that were behind the Iron Curtain – but also in its theoretical future if we think about how Geography – that of the mind and that of analytical practice – interpellates its essential concepts.
Of course, as in everything, it depends on what you do with Geography, how we conceive the world. We can conceive it as a vast territory to be conquered or colonised theoretically, as a catalogue of exotic places where to take the psychoanalytical good news, be it in its more classical or contemporary versions, be it with English or French accent. Or we can conceive it in terms of seeking out to meet the Other, the Foreign which, as I hope to be able to demonstrate, is the way to rediscover psychoanalysis in its most original and revolutionary side. As the poet Edmond Jabès wrote, it is a foreigner who can reveal my own foreignness, that which inaugurates – in our own house – the unconscious that dwells in us.
Probably those who are here do not agree with that evangelising way of transmission that implies taking concepts and practices, in an acritical way, from a more developed territory to a more virgin one. Yet there are subtle ways to do it, far from any explicit colonising intention.
The encounter with the Other can interpellate us in the field of contents: the variants of the Oedipus complex, for instance. Or also in the field of forms: the rituals of the analysis change, the setting is not the same in different cultures.
Now, the risk is that we talk of the variations in terms of folklor, that we think about the world unexplored by psychoanalysis with the signature of the called World Music, an exotic touch, a personal touch that broaden the borders but do not touch – with exceptions, of course – the musicians of the metropolis very much. Of course this can be done seriously or in a caricatural way, but the starting point – more or less ethnocentric – is the same.
A question that underlies is that of the statute of analytical practice. Is it a protocol, based on a century of experiences shared by the community of analysts that has agreed in a kind of “manual of procedures” of good practice, as if it were another medical speciality? If it were like that, if it were a protocol of intervention over the psyche from that perspective, it would be considered how to adapt it to different contexts, or in any case it would be accepted that not in all the geographies are there enough conditions for its implementation comme il faut.
It is just that I doubt that psychoanalysis can be considered like dermatology or surgery. I doubt that there is consensus – beyond some crucial technical rules and theoretical tenets – as to what is considered a “good practice.” And I also doubt that the psychoanalysis practised in the metropolis, in major language, be the best and the most faithful to its irreverent and subversive origins. After all, the technical rules proposed by Freud are few: a way of listening – in free floating and abstinent attention – and just one principle[3], that of free association. Those are the foundations of the method, which allows a way of speaking unheard-of with a striking technological indigence (just a silent place and little furniture) and that resists a great deal of disimilar theoretical approaches.
I understand that there is another question that can be posed connected to the place of the analyst and to what extent that place is affected by the space in which the analytical experience happens. Lorena Preta has proposed this in terms of Exile[4], which seems to be – considering the history of psychoanalysis and its diasporic dissemination – a more structural than accidental note. The figure correlative to that of the Exile is that of the Foreigner, which is the one that suits the psychoanalyst best.
Psychoanalysis cannot survive in terms of autochthony. It could not have been inventend in any other place but in the kaiserliche and königliche Vienna, capital of an Austro-Hungarian Empire in decomposition whose sovereign[5] addressed his peoples – like that, in the plural – and whose national anthem was sung in eleven different languages, a centre of a Mitteleuropa which was at the same time German – Magyar – Slav – Romance- Hebraic… Then it was not thanks to any autochthony that it was in Vienna that the innovation that gathers us was rocked and coined, but for its cosmopolitan reverse, for having been able, even in spite of them, to host and foster the crossed fertilizers – between languages, knowledge and ethnic groups – that mixed there. It was not thanks to the Viennese but to the foreigners that dwelled it that psychoanalysis was invented there. Freud, like Kafka or Walter Benjamin, was one of those “men from abroad”[6] that could discover what he discovered thanks to the distance that separated him from any autochthonous idea of identity.
The place of the psychoanalyst – that topos outopos[7], that place out of place – requires in some way to be in the own language as a foreigner[8] and all the exhausting process of training of a psychoanalyst could be seen in those terms: how to become a foreigner, even without having left your own city.
Before coming to NY, I have spoken about this in Tehran, “land of barbarians”. “Barbarians” as Herodotus depicted when he made the chronicles of the Greco-Persian Wars. By the way, Herodotus had a method quite similar to our way of listening (“I actually ignore – said Herodotus – if this is true, I just write what they tell”), lending an ear in the same way to a fable or to objective data, to the little anecdote or to the epic tale.
The concept of barbarian – like that of exile or foreignness – is relative; not essences but positions are at stake there: the barbarians are the others, the others designed in this case by whom spoke Greek, the lingua franca at that time. Barbarians were those who did not speak Greek. That is how the foreign language was understood by the Greek, as bar bar, that is blablabla; from that homophony comes the word barbarian, from that which – for those who ignored the others’ language – they considered just babbling.
Speaking of the barbarians here, in a cosmopolitan city like few others, may sound strange. Though perhaps not so much: no doubt you know that Freud -who felt a strong ambivalence towards the U.S.- called it “the land of the dollar barbarians”[9].
There is a phrase by him that circulates as a myth in Latin America and Europe: apparently, when in 1909 they were arriving by ship to give the conferences in the Clark University in Worcester, Freud might have told Jung and Ferenczi, his travelling companions: “they do not know that we are bringing them the pest.” That pest to which he was referring was about the subversive character of the Freudian discovery, the way in which his discovery blatantly interpellated the culture’s masquerades and the ego’s self-indu(á)lgence. He supposed, apparently, that the pest that had penetrated Victorian Europe would also infect the North American colossus.
It is not clear whether that has happened or not. And Freud did not say what he supposedly said either. It was Lacan who remarked in 1955 that he had heard that from Jung, but Elisabeth Roudinesco, the great historian of psychoanalysis, says that such phrase was never uttered[10]. It was another enunciation through which Lacan himself, like a ventriloquist, made Freud speak. Because it was him who equalled psychoanalysis to a pest[11].
Maybe you are in a better position than me to say to what extent psychoanalysis has been able to touch the “American way of life” or part of its heretical, iconoclastic and maladaptive potential has become another thing here.
However it is true that some battles have taken place more harshly in the U.S. than in other places. One, that of profane psychoanalysis, is exemplary. Since Freudian psychoanalysis is the profane pychoanalysis, and it took a very long time to uproot our discipline from the medical patrimony. But let me go back to the barbarians…
You might be familiar with Shakespeare’s tragedy called The Tempest. There is certain tension in it between Prospero, who embodies British purity, and a character called Caliban, twisted and capable of any kind of horrors, who never learns to speak English correctly but that – just like myself – babbles.
Caliban, a word derived from the carib indigenous people and at the same time an anagram of cannibal, embodies a possible image of the Other. The character represents the vision held, in XVII century England, of the native inhabitants of Latin America, the barbarians from the Extreme West. The native embodied by Caliban is not capable of producing knowledge, incapable of thinking or speaking correctly. His discourse as heard by Prospero, who has unsuccessfully attempted to teach him to speak English, is incoherent, he just gabbles or babbles[12].
Just like Europe builds an image of the East, the same happens with the Extreme West to which I belong. With the exception that the East has been there since forever, from the origin. America, instead, is new. You know that it was discovered accidentally. Cristopher Columbus “crashed” with it while he was trying to reach the East Indies. In a way, Columbus’ discovery was a failure that seemed to be a Freudian lapse and we may have to trace certain place of “failure” that works as a birthmark for us and that appears in the version that Shakespeare depicts of Caliban.
We belong to that strange continent. It is strange because in the capital city of my country, a marginal country located to the south of the south, psychoanalysis has spread like in few other places of the world, perhaps as much as or even more than in NY… There is a strong presence of psychoanalysis in the media, at universities and hospitals there; Freud is a common reference not only in intellectual environments and people in the street speak using the psychoanalytical jargon – phrases such as “don’t repress yourself” or “betrayal of the unconscious” can be heard in any table at a café. Psychoanalysis is not a secret or embarrassing practice there and it is not unusual to hear somebody interrupt a conversation to “go to the analyst”. Although we are not experiencing the heyday that psychoanalysis had during the ’60s, when brilliant pioneers trained in Europe spread it throughout Latin America, Argentina is not a terra incognita for psychoanalysis. With the ups and downs of a Third World country, there is enough work for all the analysts that have worked towards a good training, and there are many of them. In certain social sectors, it is difficult to find somebody who has never had a psychoanalytical consultation at least once.
Argentina could produce strangeness in particular: How is it possible that there have been more Kleinian analysts, and even more orthodox ones, in Buenos Aires than in London for many years? How can there be more readers of Lacan in Argentine analytical societies than in the French ones nowadays?
Our authors are not very well-known outside our continent. Besides, although E. Pichon-Rivière has theorised in the same direction and at the same time that René Käes or Luisa Álvarez de Toledo before John Austin, or Heinrich Racker has worked on countertransference in the same sense and contemporary to Paula Heimann, we ourselves usually quote Käes, Austin or Heimann. Latin Americans do not go down in history unless we emigrate[13], which does not happen the other way around since a European who emigrated to Latin America[14] has a position of prestige assured for them. It is strange, or perhaps not so much, that in Latin America we ourselves ignore important theorists from neighbouring countries and at the same time we keep up with the European trends; or that books written in English or French immediately have their versions in Spanish or Portuguese when that does not happen between our own languages. And this is not because we lack a tradition since some of our publications were set up more than eighty-five years ago.
I am far from making any kind of complaint and further from any chauvinism, I am just interested in highlighting certain strange situation. We can only understand it if we include in the conversation – like the Freudian mitsprechen, through which the body symptoms entered the discursiveness of the cure – the geography of colonisation, with regard to the cartography of the dissemination of ideas and also to the intimate map of the mind. This geography forces us to think in terms of centre and margins.
Appealing perhaps to certain schematicism, our psychoanalytical tradition ranges between two extreme positions:
One of them focuses on the fussy learning and even the mimesis of Prospero’s language. In that sense the practice of psychoanalysis in many Latin American cities is not so different from that of an analyst in Park Avenue in New York or in the Quartier Latin in Paris. What works here is certain imaginary geography[15] and for an analyst working like that, it is a mere accident to live in Sao Paulo or Bogotá and not in London.
Although this way of appropriation of psychoanalysis has allowed us to assume ownership over strict standards of training and work that undoubtedly enrich and qualify us, they can, on the other hand, make us derail even towards parody. In my continent amazing situations take place such as eating nougat candy, caramel coated peanuts or almonds and other hypercaloric food during our Christmas holidays, which are more suitable for boreal winter though for us those holidays happen during scorching summers. Similarly, we build houses with pitched roof where it never rains or expensive bow windows, which are suitable for the horrible English weather, in places where there is plenty of light. Those are effects of the mimesis, of the acritical way in which the habits of the metropolis are adopted in the former colonies.
Another psychoanalytical position present in Latin America attempts to pay attention to the local, to honour our masters, to read our publications, to meet in Latin American congresses where analysts can be thousands[16]. In this way, we try to use our minor languages (Spanish and Portuguese) to produce knowledge that takes root in the peculiarity in which we dwell. Wrong would it be for a discipline which considers the uniqueness of those who consult us its privileged quest, to deny the uniqueness of the context where it is practised.
As we were saying, there is not much interest in translating Latin American authors into European major languages, which makes us think that what Elisabeth Roudinesco claimed might be true[17]. She said that Latin American analysts had surpassed the European ones in clinic – which is not strange if we consider the great dissemination and liveliness of psychoanalysis as a clinical practice in Latin America – though Europe continued underestimating them.
These two extreme positions – both the mimesis and the fascination for metropolis and the localist and self-satisfied isolation – end up being impoverishing.
There is perhaps a third way, of appropriation and production of knowledge of the Caliban that lives in us, which is interesting to highlight and which drifts us apart from the usual place kept for the barbarian, just as a producer of raw materials which will be processed in the metropolis[18]. To describe it I have to tell you a story, a story of cannibals:
It was 1556 – just half a century before Shakespeare published The Tempest – when bishop Sardinha, who had recently arrived from Portugal in order to evangelize the natives, shipwrecked together with other ninety men on the Brazilian coast. They were collected by the natives who, in fact, were not very interested in being evangelized. The result of this “encounter between cultures” was that the bishop and his men became a feast served and enjoyed by the tupi[19]. The fate of who happened to be the first Brazilian bishop did not prevent that the fact Brazil was a prominent Portuguese colony converted – including even rich syncretism – into the catholic faith.
This episode of cannibalism is taken as the foundations by a movement of Brazilian writers and artists of the decade of ’20s of last century, who, parodying Shakespeare and redeeming the natives, recited tupi or not tupi, rebelled against any kind of catechesis and, heavily quoting Freud, laid the foundations of the modernist movement and of a novel way of producing knowledge: they attempted to gobble down any foreign knowledge, cannibalise it, in order to – after having processed it and having left a unique mark from their own geography on it – export it.
I consider that this anthropophagic way allows us, in a disrespectful way (bold is one of the original meanings of the word cannibal) from the side of the barbarians, not to be trapped with impoverishing antinomies (or the acritical mimesis or the brutalizing isolation) but to be able to take everything from the Other, gulp all the sources, without resigning either to the own enunciation or to the enrichment favoured by the exchange.
This way implies the de-identification with the image of the Other – with which we ourselves feel identified – it becomes ours, that one which – derogatory as in The Tempest o fascinated by our alleged “magical realism”[20] – is only reducing our possibilities of thinking.
This implies questioning also the perspective called – mainly in the world of business – glocal (that is, thinking in global terms but producing local adaptations) to imagine, why not, a reverse process: to imagine the local marking the universal, the psychoanalytical practice from the margins influencing the standards of the metropolis, Prospero learning even from Caliban.
You know that Freud had his legendary divan[21]covered with a Shiraz tapestry. It is interesting that something from foreignness is present in the place where those who lie down on it to find the foreignness that, through the unconscious, encourages them.
On that same divan, some years ago, a Latin American artist called Santiago Borja made an intervention in Freud’s Museum in London[22]. He had another tapestry knitted in Mexico by the natives Huicholes – who in their cosmovision give dreams a place that Freud would not have disliked – and he put it on the old divan, replacing the original Persian one. The effect was to redouble foreignness, to make it appear there where habit threatened to dilute it. That is how I like to conceive psychoanalysis, as a divan – at this point a Freudian icon almost universal – that can be covered by different kinds of tapestries, tapestries that not only tell stories but also let those who are talking lying there tell themselves their own story.
Analysis might be compared with the process of knitting a carpet, even better: undoing the knitting and, with the same threads, building a new one. Many times the possibility of cure lies in being able to tell your own story in a different way. And that way, as the Greek poet Pindar said, having become who you are.
I love storytelling. Perhaps that is one of the resources that abound in the margins of the developed world. Walter Benjamin said that we are living in a time when the spirit of Narration is in crisis and the “community of listeners” in danger. A time when information is more important than narration[23]. In that sense, psychoanalysis can be conceived as a practice of resistance[24] that also restores the experience that seems to have been lost in contemporaneity.
Those stories can only be told in an intimate language, related to the emergency of the unconscious and one that only a foreign listening can arouse.
In passing I have talked so far of “minor language” and “major language.” Perhaps it would be convenient to elaborate more on this distinction which I actually took from a book quite critical with psychoanalysis, written by G. Deleuze and F. Guattari[25]. They use the terms “minor” language and literature to refer to the special accent that an oppressed, marginal language gives to a “major” language. It is not so much about a minor language but about what a minority writes within a major language, such as the English spoken by African Americans in the U.S. or Irish literature in the English language, or the Czech Jews’ German like Kafka`s, probably very close to Freud’s one.
The minor language is the language of foreignness, not of autochthony. It is the language that introduces difference, that which distances from the unavoidable use of English as the lingua franca of our time and that – like ancient Greek – tends to hear the other languages as babbling and to see those who speak it as barbarians.
Well, in minor language the language “is affected by a strong coefficient of de-territorialization”[26], it becomes diasporic, it is surprised at itself, Just as it happened to me when I read my paper written in a language that is not mine, English[27]. That oddness is the same that allows an analytical listening and I think that analysts must listen to their patients as if they spoke a foreign language, even when they speak their own.
Reading the authors in the original language, when it is possible, is usually desirable and in some cases, like in poetry, essential. Only that way can we access the nuances of thought, the pleats of writing. It is usually understood, justifiably, that translation is about faithfulness to the text and to the author. Perhaps it is worth stopping in what has happened with the translation of Freud.
It is known that the canonical version of his complete works was standardised by James Strachey in English. Beyond the undeniable seriousness of his work, it was proposed as a “standard” to follow, something at least controversial since it implied reducing part of the fruitful disorder of the Freudian prose, removing its impurities and even its romantic spirit, to translate it into a less ambiguous language, more medical and technical aligned with Ernest Jones’ scientificist ambition, but also less intriguing and faithful to the Freudian humanist spirit. To such an extent this version works as a standard that, even in Germany, many people prefer reading Strachey’s Standard Edition instead of Freud’s original in German since they consider it more understandable and correct[28](!). I cannot think of a better example of psychoanalysis in major language, and we could contrast it with a minor use of the same language, like it happens with the new ongoing translation of Freud’s work into English, directed by Adam Phillips. In this case, they abandoned any aspiration to standardisation, different non-psychoanalytical translators did the work, they respected the dark zones and the prolific untidiness which, while it shows a thought under construction, favours new readings. The explicit interest was to see “what remains from Freud after his writing has gone through the mill of psychoanalytical institutions and universities”[29].
However, when I talk about major language I do not necessarily refer to a specific language, as English could be nowadays. In any case I refer to an English not tensed by the differences, by the nuances, to the aseptic and descriptive English that, after its chance of common understanding and dissemination of psychoanalysis internationally, is opposed to a minor language’s potential. And this does not mean that it is not a beautiful and essential language. Rather because it implies – of course in a neopositivist aspect, in its aspiration of pure and hard universal communication, in its version unpolluted by minor languages – an ideal of transmission without cracks, without misunderstandings. It implies a way of thinking psychoanalysis (a language is a way of thinking, a matrix that shapes the way in which thoughts can be formulated for whom thinks them) that levels out and standardises, apart from placing those who do not have it as a mother tongue at a disadvantage. In its evident practicality, however, it reduces psychoanalysis.
Furthermore, if we convert it into a general leveling rod, universal, we get a language of exchange in which part of our specificity, that which nests in the foreignness of the minor language, is lost.
If we think in terms of minor language, another way of conceiving translation works[30], one which consists in arousing not proximity but strangeness, since strangeness makes us conscious of the other culture and above all of our own culture as Other. Foreignness works as a Möebius strip: the most foreign and the nearest, the most intimate or – to take Lacan’s neologism – the Extimate, are substituted without solution of continuity.
Here we are not any longer in the field of faithfulness but that of betrayal, which perhaps are not so opposed to each other, as that verse by Paul Celan reminds: there is not bigger faithful than that of the traitor since only starting from certain act of betrayal an original flash can appear. We always challenge ourselves to read correctly, but I think that we should not despise what has been named misreadings, the wrong creative readings of which Harold Bloom spoke. Caliban babbles, he can only read incorrectly, but in that process – and there lies the mark of his anthropophagic nature – his unique reading appears.
This way, perhaps, by not reading well, the barbarian might read something new, which avoids mere repetition. There, luckily enough, Caliban’s babbling could show Prospero dark unexplored zones of his own thoughts, or reveal impostures, or question presuppositions. It is from that point that the encounter with the Other, the psychoanalysis of the margins, can interpellate creatively that of the metropolis. In fact, let’s remember that if Columbus discovered America, that was for having misread the cartography of his time.
Minor languages – Deleuze and Guattari continue here – fertilize the major ones and their omni-explanatory desires, they make them incomplete, they give them their suitable “coefficient of underdevelopment.” In them, everything is political and at the same time everything acquires a collective value and, more than masters demanding faithfulness, “collective mechanisms of enunciation” are generated.
Speaking in minor language could be doing it in Portuguese facing the imperialist presence of Spanish in Latin America, or the resistance with which the “French exception” still opposes English. Or the effort implied in thinking and speaking Spanish or Italian in the context of European psychoanalysis.
I imagine that Freud’s German had many of those traits, as much as Melanie Klein or Anna Freud’s English or of the troika of analysts emigrated to the U.S. who founded the Ego Psychology must have had that foreign accent, that mark of minor language that interpellates the major one, revealing its seams. The minor language is the mark of foreignness in language.
I think that psychoanalysis should always be practised and written in minor language. Deleuze and Guattari go beyond when they propose that, even “he who has had the misfortune of being born in the country of a major literature must write in its language, just as a Czech Jew writes in German, or a Ouzbekian writes in Russian. Writing like a dog digging a hole, a rat digging its burrow” and to do that “find his own point of underdevelopment, his own patois, his own third world, his own desert”[31].
As you, we in Latin America are an effect of the diaspora of anaylsts from Central Europe, not very autochthonous, eternal foreigners. But foreigners that practise psychoanalysis in the land of anthropophagia and it is that particular omnivorous way of appropriation of all knowledge that marks us.
As a good cannibal, I devour (diváuer) all I can, even what happens in this city, like a movie that has taught me a lot. Perhaps you have seen it: A Couch in New York. It was a minor romantic comedy that told about home exchange between a New York orthodox analyst, starring William Hurt and a young bohemian Parisian, a character starred by Juliette Binoche. The director was able to catch a vital feature of the place of the analyst. What is interesting here is that she does not do it through the character of the psychoanalyst, neat and respectful of the rules of the profession, but through the other one, that of the ignorant intrusive Frenchwoman.
What happens? Well, Juliette Binoche’s character, once settled in the Manhattan home-office, finds herself positioned in the place of the analyst by a hurried patient. The young woman honestly tries to tell the patient, who has already lain in a divan and started to talk, that she is not an analyst and that the person that the neurotic sufferer is looking for is in Paris…, which does not prevent the patient from unfolding his tortuous phantasies with Binoche, who sits in the couch behind the divan. After that patient comes another one, and another, and another. Even new patients who are not willing to wait for the renowned analyst to come back, and who at that time, unaware of everything, is still in Paris.
The profane analyst, since this is what she is at this point, has known in the meantime how to get swept away by the patients to a place of special listening where she neither advises nor talks about herself. Just as it happened to Freud with his first hysterics, she allows the patients to teach her, she allows herself to be taken to the place that is convenient to the analyst and, helped by her discreet silence and her rudimentary mastery of English, she finds herself producing therapeutic effects. Her -at this point- analysands improve, they shake off certain drowsiness, they get excited without missing, apparently, the disappeared abstinent analyst. Unaware of any cannon of analytical behaviour and of any kind of training, just with her foreign listening, in terms of nationality and language of course, but also in terms of an active, naive way of listening, Binoche’s character is able to establish an intense transference and surprising therapeutic effects.
The movie is a fable, but as such, it teaches something that has to do with the effectiveness of the analyst’s position, which has nothing to do with the professional investiture, or with the solidity of his theories, or with his technical knowledge, but, I tend to believe, with certain foreignness introduced like a virus into the cures that she inadvertently conducts.
To conclude, I think that we could leave up in the air this question, which I also took –paraphrasing them- from the cannibalised French authors: “How can we tear from our own language a minor psychoanalysis, capable of mining the language and making it escape through a sober revolutionary line? How can we become the nomad and the immigrant and the gypsy of our own language?”[32].
Mariano Horenstein
[1] Foucault, Michel, ¿Qué es un autor?, Ediciones literales/El cuenco de plata, Bs. As., 2010.
[2] Diálogos con Claire Parnet, Pretextos, Valencia, 1980, p. 4.
[3] The others are just advices.
[4] Preta, Lorena, Maps of psychoanalysis and mind, Psiche, 2010.
[5] According to Claudio Magris.
[6] Wolhfarth, I., Hombres del extranjero. Walter Benjamin y el Parnaso judeoalemán, Taurus, México D.F., 1999.
[7] De Freitas Giovanetti, Márcio, Sobre a natureza e funçao do currículo na formaçao analítica, Jornal de Psicanálise, Sao Paulo, v. 43 (79): 181-‐185, 2010.
[8] G. Deleuze, F. Guattari, Kafka. Por una literatura menor, Era, México D. F., 1975.
[9] Freud to Ferenczi, 19 September 1926, Falzeder & Brabant, 2000, in Loewenberg, P. & Thompson, N., 100 Years of the IPA. The centenary history of the IPA 1910-2010, Evolution and change, Karnac, London, 2011.
[10] É. Roudinesco, M. Plon, Diccionario de psicoanálisis, Paidós, Bs. As., p. 814; É. Roudinesco, Lacan. Esbozo de una vida, historia de un sistema de pensamiento, FCE, Bs. As., p. 389-90.
[11] Esa frase entonces forma parte del panteón de frases que pertenecen al saber común sin haber sido jamás pronunciadas: desde el “elemental Watson” de Sherlock Holmes hasta el “ladran Sancho, señal que cabalgamos” de Don Quijote o aún el “play it again, Sam” supuestamente dicho por Humphrey Bogart en Casablanca. Pero no hay confundir la realidad fáctica con la estructura ficcional de la verdad, y sabemos por nuestra práctica que la verdad suele mostrarse mejor como ficción.
[12] Achugar, Hugo, Pluralidad incontrolable de discursos y balbuceo teórico, Docta-Revista de Psicoanálisis, n. 0, Año 1, Asociación Psicoanalítica de Córdoba, Córdoba, Primavera 2003.
[13] Like Ignacio Matte Blanco.
[14] Like Ángel Garma or Marie Langer or the Baranger couple.
[15] Said, Edward, Orientalismo, Libertarias, Barcelona, 1990, p. 80.
[16] At least one third of the IPA`s analysts belong to Latin America, where there is a higher rate of growth than in other regions. This does not include the vast presence of analysts affiliated to other institutions.
[17] In an interview published in Calibán, Revista Latinoamericana de Psicoanálisis, vol. 12, n. 1, 2014.
[18] Said, op. cit., p 68.
[19] Some versions suggest another tribe, the caeté.
[20] With that name the Latin American literary “boom” -which, with authors such as G. García Márquez, J. Cortázar and M. Vargas Llosa, broke into Europe fifty years ago- was identified. His most famous author, G. García Márquez, warned that this was a misleading category: where Europeans saw magical realism, in Latin America, a continent linked to excess, it was hardly realism.
[21] Word of Persian origin, which refers to meeting.
[22] http://www.freud.org.uk/exhibitions/72952/divan-‐free-‐floating-‐attention-‐piece/
[23] Benjamin, W., El narrador, Ediciones/Metales pesados, Santiago de Chile, 2008.
[24] Viñar, M., Inquietudes en la clínica psicoanalítica actual, Brasil, 2006.
[25] G. Deleuze, F. Guattari, op. cit.
[26] G. Deleuze, F. Guattari, op. cit., p. 28.
[27] And doubly foreign when I saw it translated and transliterated into another language, Farsi, which is even written with different characters…
[28] Luís Carlos Menezes, Reencontrando las raíces: Nuevos aires, Calibán – Revista Latinoamericana de Psicoanálisis, vol. 11 n. 1, 2013, pp. 139-‐144, published by Fepal, Montevideo, 2013.
[29] Phillips, A. , Depois de Strachey, Ide, 31 (46), 115-‐121, in Menezes, L. C., op. cit.
[30] Zohar, Evan, entrevista, Babelia 779, Madrid.
[31] G. Deleuze, F. Guattari, op. cit.., p. 31.
[32] G. Deleuze, F. Guattari, op. cit.., p. 33.