ABSTRACT
Equal parts personal memoir and theoretical highlight reel, this essay frankly questions the possibility of any kind of straightforward project of self-accounting. Within this uncertainty, the author finds purchase in the indelibility of the human voice. He traces the ways in which key voices in his life––a dear and disturbing friend, a grizzled baseball coach, an erratic father, the strange brilliance of Lacan––threaded their sonorous and sensuous way through heart and mind. To what extent this text addresses the question of analytic identity, or “why I became an analyst,” is left for the reader to answer.
