Time of Plague

Psychoanalysis in Time of Plague

Jamieson Webster

Bridgeman Images

Émile François Chambon: Sleeper on her back, 1966–1968

Freud’s daughter Sophie died of septic pneumonia as a result of the Spanish Flu. On January 29, 1920, he wrote to his friend and fellow psychoanalyst, Sándor Ferenczi, “wafted away, nothing to say,” ending the letter, “And with us? My wife is very shaken. I think: La séance continue. But it was a bit much for one week.” One might find Freud’s tone rather heartless and cruel, but that would miss the spirit of tragic-irony particular to Freud, very much present in his parting words. They are not so unlike the statement he made when forced to say he was treated well by the Nazis when allowed to leave Austria: “I can most highly recommend the Gestapo to everyone.” And the particularity of the tone is psychoanalysis at its best—nothing to say. We’ll speak again at your next session. It’s time. /.../

I go and read Paul Celan’s love poem titled Corona:

Autumn eats its leaf out of my hand: we are friends.
From the nuts we shell time and we teach it to walk:
then time returns to the shell.

In the mirror it’s Sunday,
in dream there is room for sleeping,
our mouths speak the truth.

My eye moves down to the sex of my loved one:
we look at each other,
we exchange dark words,
we love each other like poppy and recollection,
we sleep like wine in the conches,
like the sea in the moon’s blood ray.

We stand by the window embracing, and people look up from
the street:
it is time they knew!
It is time the stone made an effort to flower,
time unrest had a beating heart.
It is time it were time.

It is time.

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