ABSTRACT
In 1967, a man was referred to me by a colleague for five-times-a-week psychoanalysis. I will give the first paragraph of the notes of my consultation with him exactly as I wrote it then; it still seems as vivid a picture of the man I slowly came to know so well as I would ever have written at any point since:
An eccentric individual. He arrived sweating, smelly, untidy and slightly late, and launched descriptively into his recent psychiatric life, with many strange grimaces and odd tremors in his voice, betraying, I suppose, anxiety. His long grey hair floated randomly about his face and head. One might have guessed his occupation from his appearance and manner; he is a University Reader in Philosophy.
