Lipton’s Journal/February 10, 1955/557
For the analyst and the analysand part of the same process occurs. The analysand is delivering thoughts—at the very best they are so concerned with the thought that the “idea” is completely crude—“I wanna fuck my mudder . . . er . . I’m sorry . . . didn’t mean it . . . What do I mean? . . . I feel dizzy . . . er . . . glass balls . . . er . . . Chevrolet for ’55 . . . what a fucking quack you are . . . I’m sorry . . . didn’t mean it . . . What do I mean? . . . I feel dizzy . . . er . . .” And so forth. As a literary production it is close to zero—yet the internal process has been intense. Yet the analyst would be super-human if he were able to remind himself constantly that these grunts and phrases far from revealing how stupid people are beneath the surface, actually show that we are all close to genius once we open ourselves to the .