ABSTRACT
What good are psychoanalysts at a time of distress oblivious to itself? I imagine a huge city with houses of glass and steel, reaching the sky, reflecting both the sky, itself and you. People cultivate their image, hurried and made up in the extreme, covered in gold, pearls, pure leather. In the streets, on every corner, the filth piles up and drugs accompany the slumber or rage of the outcasts…
This city could be New York. It resembles any big city of tomorrow, ours…
What does one do there? One thing only: buying and selling commodities or images (it all amounts to the same thing), for these are flat symbols without depth…. Those who can or who try to preserve a life which neutralizes the luxury as well as the horror will have to contrive an “interior”, a secret garden, a homely hearth or simply and more ambitiously: a psychological life.
