ABSTRACT
One afternoon I met in the studio of a friend—a studio filled with works of art—the poet and writer, B. On the previous evening we had arranged to meet in order to continue a conversation on dramatic art which we had begun in a cafe. I had succeeded in directing the discussion into psychoanalytic channels while B. was walking up and down the room. Suddenly he came to a stop before a lifesize bust of Ibsen. His face took on an expression of intense concentration, his brow contracted into wrinkles. I did not know what to make of B.’s reaction and waited for a word from him which would release my tension and his. After a moment of anxious reflection B. asked, pointing to the bust:
