Winnicott Studies: No 11 (The Winnicott Studies Monograph Series)
However, his writings contain unexplored insights into sexuality and it is This volume in the Winnicott Studies series is dedicated to the life and work of Marion Milner and reflects, in varying ways, her unique use of Winnicott's work to shape her own thinking about art and creativity. Among the papers here are contemporary reviews of Milner's books by both Winnicott and This is the second monograph to be published under the auspices of Winnicott Studies, the Squiggle Foundation's renowned series of publications on contemporary applications of Winnicott's thought.
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Like its predecessor, which concentrated on the True and False Self, this volume focuses on a single The Squiggle Foundation has for many years produced Winnicott Studies, a journal which celebrates and reconsiders the work of Donald Winnicott, the groundbreaking pediatrician and psychoanalyst. This is the first time that a monograph has been produced by Winnicott Studies, with the aim of Laurence Spurling December 31, The Squiggle Foundation's aims are to study and disseminate the work of Winnicott, with a particular emphasis on application.
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Interpretation and Other Psychoanalytic Issues 1st Edition. Winnicottian Perspectives 1st Edition. The Elusive Child 1st Edition. The external world—the house, the sloping field, the light of the evening sun—strives to meet the individual's wishes, meeting resistance on the way. Even after the announcement of the Weltinnenraum in which all disparities, asperities, and awkward singularities will be dissolved, a mighty sadness remains. Something in the world clings to its sorrow even as the work of artistic representation is being praised, and, even as Rilke's own poetic act is reaching its moment of completion, the created order continues to weep.
Rilke's poetic form, the changing pressures of exclamation and interrogation, the word-play, the comparative and contrastive games that take place between the rhyme words, keep the whole texture of the work mobile and multiform. Paradox is rife, accepted not resolved—indeed, it is not merely accepted but made into the major instrument of poetic composition. Primitive psychic creativity is rediscovered in the "higher" activities of the poet at work with words, playing with syllables on the page. Her rustic theatricals recapitulate the whole of English history and, beyond that, in her fantasy at least, a much broader panorama of world-historical time.
Miss L a Trobe is Virginia Woolf's quaint and cranky alter ego. That was a ladder. A n d that a cloth roughly painted was a wall. A n d that a man with a hod on his back. Page the reporter, licking his pencil, noted: Any fool could grasp that. But then she had to keep expenses down. Suddenly the tune stopped. A waltz, was it? Something half known, half not. The swallows danced it. Round and round, in and out they skimmed. A n d the trees, O the trees, how gravely and sedately like senators in council, or the spaced pillars of some cathedral church.
The swallows—or martins were they? Yes, perched on the wall, they seemed to foretell what after all The Times was saying yesterday. Homes will be built. Each flat with its refrigerator, in the crannied wall. Each of us a free man; plates washed by machinery; not an aeroplane to vex us; all liberated; made whole..
These birds are reminiscent of Rilke's, of course, which fly right through us, in one side and out the other. Yet they are real birds that get caught up in the unreality of the pageant: A n d for a moment or two they dance to the all-too-human tune that accompanies the performance: The birds are real, yet belong to art. They are objects that refuse to be used, yet can still be used. They are figures of paradox. Their flight paths are a play superimposed upon a play, now merging with human contrivance, now winging their way clear of it.
When these birds return later in the novel, as the pageant moves to its close, and to its aftermath, they come to mark not just a temporal dimension, but a properly historical one. Each new appearance echoes and inflects its predecessors: Woolf's swallows—or are they martins? In both works, speculative activity, and the lively sense of variety, modulation, and metamorphosis that the artistic project triggers, take place under duress.
M y third passage is from Proust's In Search of Lost Time and has about it a similar air of extremity, of playing against the grain and against the odds. It is taken from the section of the novel called La Prisonniere [The Captive], and concerns the relationship between the narrator and Albertine: Such was my answer; amid the sensual expressions, others will be recognised that were peculiar to my grandmother and my mother. For, little by little, I was beginning to resemble all my relations: Otherwise Albertine could not but have been a reason for my going out, so as not to leave her on her own, beyond my control.
When we have passed a certain age, the soul of the child that we were and the souls of the dead from whom we sprang come and shower upon us their riches and their spells, asking to be allowed to contribute to the new emotions which we feel and in which, erasing their former image, we recast them in an original creation. Thus my whole past from my earliest years, and, beyond these, the past of my parents and relations, blended with my impure love for Albertine the tender charm of an affection at once filial and maternal.
We have to give hospitality, at a certain stage in our lives, to all our relatives who have journeyed so far and gathered round us. The answer is perhaps this: The references to Aunt Leonie and to the narrator's father's barometer-tapping take us back to the social comedy of "Combray" at the start of the book, 1, pages and more ago. The transmigration of souls to which the narrator refers is also a migration of images in space and time: Even when his attention turns to love-making, his ghosts still haunt him, his infant identifications still dictate the variable shapes that his sexual desire adopts.
There is a comedy of the grotesque in writing like this. These procedures are vastly expansive in space and time, built into grand syntactic edifices, and overseen by the narrator's boundless powers of self-irony. This is the space between lovers opened up into an arena, a speculative laboratory that, in principle at least, has no outer boundary. Winnicott's way of looking at things can tell us a great deal about the internal rhythms of a text like this, about the Zwischenraum that it inhabits, about its cult of transformation.
Other styles of psychoanalytic explanation, impatient with "the world between", are likely to give much flatter and less stimulating results. The troublesome power of paradox that begins to spring into prominence when one looks at Proust's novel through a Winnicott lens leads me back to his own writings, and to one of the most extraordinary of them, which I mentioned above—"The Use of an Object" read at a meeting of the N e w York Psychoanalytic Society in There are no showy stylistic feats here, only a very ordinary deployment of metaphor, no memorable maxims, no grace-notes or pirouettes, yet the whole thing is dense, daring, and memorable.
H e rotates a central conundrum, revealing new facets of it sentence by sentence: The subject says to the object: From now on the subject says: Here fantasy begins for the individual. The subject can now use the object that has survived. It is important to note that it is not only that the subject destroys the object because the object is placed outside the area of omnipotent control. It is equally significant to state this the other way round and to say that it is the destruction of the object that places the object outside the area of the subject's omnipotent control.
In these ways the object develops its own autonomy and life, and if its survives contributes-in to the subject, according to its own properties.
I have, of course, been cheating a little in speaking about Rilke, Woolf, and Proust, whose lives overlapped with Winnicott's early adulthood, and who breathed the same air of Europe at war or on the verge of war. For all of them, destructiveness was so visible on the external stage that the artist could not avoid making it his or her own internally. Being exposed naked to the paradoxes of love and hate was a condition of the times in which these writers and their pioneering psychoanalytic contemporary lived.
Winnicott's distinction between object-relating and object-use, however, takes us outwards to other times and places, to other media than the written word, and to the common territories that exist between artists at work on the materials of their trade and readers, hearers, and spectators at work on the art work, realizing in themselves all over again the play of mind from which that work sprang. There is no reason at all why Winnicottian lessons about art should be lessons about literature only, or about the Europe of his artistic contemporaries only. But alone among the great psychoanalysts, he does seem to understand the working conditions of excitement, uncertainty, and fear in which artists labour and into which their works may precipitate us.
One of the nicest paradoxes in this paradox-filled world is that an analyst who had so little to say about art explicitly, who was so modest in the comments he did make, so reluctant to employ rhetorical finery of his own, should open up a whole new world of dialogue in which artists, critics, art-lovers, and analysts can come together to use objects, and to play.
Freud, as one cannot help but notice, protested rather too much: Only today can I settle down to write you a letter, alarmed by the threat that you want to become my biographer, you, who have so much better and important things to do, you who can establish monarchs and who can survey the brutal folly of mankind from a lofty vantage point: Anyone who writes a biography is committed to lies, concealments, hypocrisy, flattery and even to hiding his own lack of understanding, for biographical truth does not exist, and if it did we could not use it.
Freud, ] The "threat" of a biography seems to put Freud in something akin to a panic. A s he justifies his resistance to the whole idea, he gets himself into a quandary about truth. Biographical truth doesn't exist, and if it did it couldn't be used. A n d then there is Hamlet: In Act 2, scene 2, Polonius introduces the actors to Hamlet, who gets them to recite something he has heard before in preparation for " T h e Murder of Gonzago". Impressed by the recitation, Hamlet says to Polonius: Do you hear, let them be well used, for they are the abstracts and brief chronicles of the time.
After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live. M y lord, I will use them according to their desert. Gods bodykins, man, much better. Use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping? The letter shares a nexus of preoccupations with the scene in the play.
If Polonius treats the actors according to their deserts, they will, in Hamlet's view, be treated punitively, with insufficient regard.
A s though they were biographers, Hamlet warns Polonius of the risk of not valuing them: The actor, like the biographer, has to imagine what it is like to be someone else. Hamlet will use the actors in the play to expose an unpleasant truth; as it were, to recover some biographical information; to get at the truth about his mother, his father, and his stepfather; and so, of course, about himself. A Challenge, Winnicott gave Polonius a walk-on part.
I think you will agree that there is nothing new about the central idea. Shakespeare, perhaps to avoid being smug, gathered together a bundle of truths and handed them out to us by the mouth of a crashing bore called Polonius. In this way we can take the advice: There is, as it were, a true account in you of who you really are, something in you that you can be true to. There is something there, in Winnicott's case, to betray, and in Freud's case, to misrepresent. You, or someone else, can be your own worst biographer.
Polonius' speech, both in and out of the context of the play, is, as Winnicott intimates, rather more complicated than it seems. Crashing bores promoting true selves, or crashing bores being used by Shakespeare, the poet, to promote true selves? Hamlet the character makes a mockery, in a sense, of Polonius's advice to his own son, Laertes, "to thine own self be true". A n d , by the same token, Hamlet himself predicts what critics of the play will want to do to him, when he says to Guildenstern, " W h y look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me.
Y o u would play upon me, you would seem to know my stops, you would pluck out the heart of my mystery" 3. A s if it were that simple. A n d , of course, perhaps the most sacred idea of all: A s we know, throughout his life Freud was interested in the mystery of who Shakespeare was, keen to work out the pertinent biographical truths.
When it came to Shakespeare, Freud seems to have made an exception. Shakespeare, along perhaps with Sophocles and Dostoevsky, was the ultimate, mysterious knower of what Freud thought of as probably universal, trans-historical, non-contingent, deep truths about human nature. But then, of course, if this were the case, the question arose of what exactly psychoanalysis had to contribute. What might Freud have meant? What could we do with it, or to it, now, that we could not do before? I am suggesting this not to disparage science, but to show something tiresomely obvious: Perhaps more interestingly, if, as Freud said on more than one occasion, "the poets and philosophers before me discovered the unconscious", before science—whatever that is and clearly it is not one thing, any more than art is —how did they do it?
Or, to put it another way, when psychoanalysts quote Shakespeare within the language of their own discipline, what are they doing? Or, to move the story forward, what is new about Winnicott compared to Freud? Y o u cannot after all, find words like transference, primary process, dream-work, masochism, repetition compulsion, castration, Oedipus complex anywhere in Shakespeare. There is, at least, a notable change of vocabulary.
Indeed, that we put Shakespeare and Freud together is itself of interest: But what is the question they have in common? One thing that is new about Winnicott is that after Winnicott we can ask: What are they using the play, and Hamlet as a character, to do? But to get from Freud to Winnicott—to get from Freud's Hamlet to Winnicott's Hamlet—we have to go via Ernest Jones's book, whose title, Hamlet and Oedipus, also leaves too little to be desired. Jones, as he says in his opening paragraph, does not "share the shyness or even aversion displayed by the world at large against too searching an analysis of a thing of beauty, the feeling expressed in Keats's lines on the prismatic study of the rainbow".
What Jones refers to, with not enough aversion, as "Keats's" lines on the prismatic study of the rainbow are not Keats's lines exactly, but the poet Haydon's account of Keats's and Lamb's lines in the "immortal dinner" of to celebrate his painting Jerusalem. Lamb got exceedingly merry and exquisitely witty. A n d then he and Keats agreed that he had destroyed all the poetry of the rainbow, by reducing it to the prismatic colours.
It was impossible to resist him and we all drank "Newton's health and confusion to mathematics". Does analysis lay down its arms as an act of worship like not going into church with your machine-gun on or as an act of acknowledged defeat? The creative artist has won, though what exactly the battle is for is not entirely clear: From a psychoanalytic point of view, it seems, the creative artist both could not be understood, and knew things in a way that could not be understood.
A s though the artist had a secret method, called who he or she happened to be, that was too enigmatic to be known. Or, more simply, unlike a neurosis or a dream, not subject to knowing. Something for which the method of analysis was inapplicable. But, somewhere, as Freud intimates and Jones concurs with his point about Keats , there is a war between psychoanalysis and the artists.
Freud's comment is, I think, a wish that reveals a fear: This fear, as Hamlet and Oedipus makes clear, was not a problem for Jones. For Jones, art—in this case Hamlet—is there, waiting to be understood. Understanding is referred to not as a self-evident good. Jones has some doubt about its value in relationship to art, but no apparent doubt as to its meaning. From Jones's point of view, we all know what understanding is, and psychoanalysis is, for him, a specially powerful modern form of it.
There is something that Hamlet, the character, does not understand that Freud and Jones do. Twice, rather obtrusively in his book, Jones uses the unusual Miltonic word "transpicuous", which means "that can be seen through". I read Freud's infamous remark, "Before the problem of the creative artist, analysis must, alas, lay down its arms", as saying: Winnicott, as we shall see, does not stage his Hamlet as someone lacking insight, but as someone caught, in Winnicott's odd language, between being and doing.
So the question becomes not, " D o we want a scientific or an artistic understanding?
Art, Creativity, Living (Winnicott Studies Monograph Series)
What does understanding do for Hamlet? It is the essential difference between prehistoric and civilized man; the difficulties with which the former had to contend came from without, those with which the latter has to contend really come from within. This inner conflict psychologists know as neurosis, and it is only by study of neurosis that one can learn the fundamental motives and instincts that move men. Here, as in so many other respects, Shakespeare was the first modern.
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Hamlet, unfortunately, was estranged from his own centre: Indeed, it is easy to read it—as I have been doing—in rather the same way as Jones reads Hamlet. From the position of the knowing knower, I am as much ahead of the game here as Jones thought he was. Reading Jones reading Hamlet, in other words, raises the question—which seems a psychoanalytic one—"What are the alternatives to reading or listening as the knowing knower?
One way of describing w h y Jones's book is poor, why Jones's Hamlet is so dull, is that Jones has not dared, in Winnicott's sense, to use the play, to make something sufficiently his own with it. It has not been dreamed enough. It is just not strange what the critic Harold Bloom would call a "strong misreading". Something is clarified, but nothing is perplexed. A n d this brings us, finally, to Winnicott's Hamlet, and his extraordinary reading of " T o be or not to be" as being about his sense of being and doing, of masculine and feminine elements.
A triumph, one might say, of what a cultural cliche—women are, men do—can be used to do. Through crude identification, we can live and speak the cliches about gender in the culture; through dream-work and object-usage, we can make something more idiosyncratic and strange out of what we find. Samuel Taylor Coleridge on Hamlet Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal. We are, as it were, antisocial in our dreams, able only to steal what belongs to us. In the second stage they b e g i n to wonder—yes, but is it true, is it real, h o w do w e k n o w? In the second stage the psychological teaching begins to separate out from the other as something that just can't be learnt.
It has to be felt as real, or else it is irritating or even m a d d e n i n g. As in Winnicott's description of object-usage, the students attack the subject with questions and find out what survives.
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As in Freud's account of dream-work, they find themselves turning the most unlikely bits into something surprising. It is in describing people using their own real in his sense knowledge that Winnicott brings in Hamlet, and once again truthfulness is at issue: Perhaps you have been teachers, or you have actually been parents, or you have had charge of people in an office or a factory. When you were so placed you could have stood a great deal of digging down into the psychology of your fellow human beings and of yourselves. The implied image is of a good fit, a non-compliant emotional attunement.
Once again, Hamlet is used to say something apparently self-evident that soon becomes enigmatic. It is a curious example for Winnicott to have chosen in this context, given how many well-placed speeches there are in Shakespeare. Whatever else it is about, Hamlet's soliloquy is about whether it is better to be alive or dead, and the reasons he comes up with for staying alive are not cheering.
With uncanny consistency, Hamlet turns up again, in British psychoanalysis, to complicate questions of truth and knowledge. If the question is asked, w h a t does the g i r l baby do w i t h the breast? Object-relating backed b y instinct drive belongs to the male element i n the personality. The classical statement i n regard to f i n d i n g , u s i n g , o r a l erotism, oral sadism, anal stages etc.
T o illustrate his idea, Winnicott brings i n H a m l e t: Psychoanalytic theory, one might say, is all about doing. So what else is there? If you don't kill your father or avenge his death, what ways of being, what kind of life is open to you? Do you then need to kill something in yourself, instead? Or, to take this in a slightly different direction, if being is another word for the female element, what is another word for being? And, similarly, for doing?
The first two words, as a question, are real to Winnicott; after that it is all downhill. For what Winnicott was calling around the same time the False Self, there was the opposite problem: One thing, anyway, is relatively clear: Winnicott was using Hamlet to stage what was, for him at least, an abiding opposition. It is perhaps worth adding that we do not see Hamlet doing much pure being in the play. Winnicott's Hamlet is paralysed neither by old-fashioned doubt nor by new-fashioned oedipal conflict; he is dissociated.
What would it be like, Winnicott implicitly asks us to imagine, to be a person who could not imagine an alternative to being? In this sense, one might say, Hamlet does not want to—cannot bear to—think of an alternative to being; the possibility of being has been lost. There is only doing for h i m now. But I am as interested here in the accuracy of, the evidence for, Winnicott's reading of Hamlet's soliloquy as in what he can let himself do with, and to, both the play itself and the previous psychoanalytic readings of it by Freud and Jones.
In the opening sentence of his preface to Hamlet and Oedipus, Jones writes: Unacknowledged by Winnicott—and, of course, he may not have read Jones's book—is a footnote in Hamlet and Oedipus which reads: This could be linked to Winnicott's formulation that Hamlet was searching for an alternative to "to be"; that is, an alternative to his own femaleness. That we cannot be sure whether Winnicott knew of this is, I think, integral to his method, about which, in an infamous statement, he was quite explicit. This, one could say, is a perfect description of the dream-work.
I gather this and that, here and there, during the dream day; settle d o w n to clinical experience, i. A n d then, of course, I interpret it, track its source, interest myself to see where I stole what. A n d then there is the object-usage method. H e hid his face i n his hands, paused, convulsed himself into visibility, and said, "It is no use, Masud, asking me to read anything! If it bores me I shall fall asleep on the first page, and if it interests me I will start rewriting it by the end of that page" Khan, , p.
The object-usage method entails destroying something in order to recreate it; as Winnicott does, silently, with Freud's and Jones's readings of Hamlet. H e uses them as he needs them, as if to say: It is not surprising that describing them as envious to the patient can be so dismaying. T w o ways of reading: T w o ways of doing something to oneself and an object.
But how can we describe an alternative—in psychoanalytic language—to doing? The central text is Shakespeare's Othello, which seems to me, in an important sense, to be about the thresholds between these words, what it is possible to " k n o w " without being "aware" of. The processes of becoming "aware", of acknowledging what, at some level, is " k n o w n " , are of course paramount in the practices of psychotherapy and psychoanalysis, and I use references to the work of D.
Winnicott and Christopher Bollas to elucidate. M y starting point is the heart-breaking moment in the fifth act of Othello when Emilia, Iago's wife, recognizes her own complicity in the tragedy: I thought so then. I'll kill myself for grief [5. A n d what she means by "I thought so then" is perhaps less that she " k n e w " than that she "felt" so then— a kind of apprehension in some senses less certain than knowing, but in other senses more secure.
The rest of the play seems to invite us to explore these ambivalences. Othello " k n o w s " his wife to be unfaithful; Emilia "feels" that she is not. Alternatively, Othello "feels" his wife to be unfaithful; Emilia " k n o w s " that she is not. What Iago "thinks", he "knows": Let me try to give illustrations of what I mean. The sensation happening in my mind is probably to do with coping with the social consequences of the sickness, not with feeling the sickness itself. Conversely, if I say to an opponent at a difficult stage in an argument, "I feel y o u are using the evidence unscrupulously there", I mean that I think that I see the rules of argument being twisted and that I have grounds for believing that my opponent is being dishonest.
Or, to take a more common-place example: I have a drink with a few colleagues at the end of a hard day. When I eventually arrive home, my partner is fuming. N o w we're going to be at least an hour late. I'll have to ring and tell them. Why can you never be on time? It means, "I feel the full force of your anger and the justice of your case, and can offer up in mitigation only my feeble sense that although in an intellectual way I know what my failings are, I feel powerless to do anything about them and I implore your indulgence just one more time in not forcing me to face the consequences of my lack of real knowledge of myself!
The Collected Works of D. W. Winnicott
C a n w e say that w h a t is occurring i n the analysis has i n its entirety ever been l i v e d before? I think that i n his discovery of psychoanalysis F r e u d created a situation, n o w w i t h the person's adult mental faculties present a n d functioning, i n w h i c h the i n d i v i d u a l c o u l d live through for the first time elements of psychic life that have not previously been thought. I turn quite naturally to Winnicott's concept of the true self to indicate what I believe this previously unlived something is.
However I quarrel with him slightly, in that I do not think this true self should be identified as the id and differentiated from the ego. At the very core of the concept of the unthought known, therefore, is Winnicott's theory of the true self and Freud's idea of the primary repressed unconscious.
We need a term to stand for that which is known but has not yet been thought, if by thought it is understood that we mean that which has been mentally processed accurately. I have a thought that is unknown to you unless I adopt some means to communicate it. It exists as a thought in my head, but it is as yet untransmitted to you. Shakespeare is also very interested in this notion, especially in Macbeth, the idea of private knowledge, of thoughts and feelings that are inexpressible except to oneself. But that does not help us to explore the much more difficult, even paradoxical, notion of something that I both know and yet have not thought.
It is paradoxical because in ordinary discourse you cannot know something that you have not thought; that would seem simply a matter of logic. One might attempt a number of paraphrases: I believe that there is a very Winnicottian set of resonances here. One set is to do with that characteristic preoccupation of his with what have been called interstitial states, blurred boundaries, transitional areas, the interplay of edges.
There is much to be said about that, though not here. Another set is to do with Winnicott's thinking about the process of psychoanalysis itself, the area where it takes place and the nature of the insights gained there. But I want to pick up just two examples from his own writing on different kinds of knowing, one from his clinical practice and the other from a short article he contributed to the Liberal Magazine in The patient, a woman of thirty-five, who has been in analysis for some years, is only just beginning to realize how ill she has been.
The nature of her illness was such that she need not know about it, and she has always protested that the analysis started long before she came to analysis, and that it has only helped her to continue a little further than she could have done alone what she has always been able to some extent to do. In particular she has never acknowledged that she has been unconscious of anything. When the very considerable changes occurred in her as a result of the analysis she always said when she became conscious of material that she was formerly unconscious of "I have always known that," and it is quite certain that she was not just lying as she is by character an extremely reliable person.
A n important step in her self-knowledge came as a result of what she had once said to an examiner.
She had replied to his question "I know but I have forgotten. A n d yet it was really the first admission of not knowing. In one sense it was a great advance on what she said to the examiner. To the examiner she in effect said this: She knew and she did not know, [n. In human affairs, however, thinking is but a snare and a delusion unless the unconscious is taken into account.
Unconscious feelings sway bodies of people at critical moments, and who is to say that this is bad or good? It is just a fact and one that has to be taken into account all the time by rational politicians if nasty shocks are to be avoided. In fact thinking men and women can only be safely turned loose in the field of planning if they have qualified in this matter of the true understanding of unconscious feelings.
But the intuitive method has its drawbacks, one of the greatest of which is that intuitive people are liable to be hopeless at talking about the things they "know" so easily. But when it comes to having our lives planned for us, heaven help us if the thinkers take over. The danger is partly that the thinkers make plans that look marvellous. I would suggest that healthy economics acknowledges the existence and value as well as the danger of personal and collective Greed, and tries to harness it.
Unsound economics, on the other hand, pretends that Greed is only to be found in certain pathological individuals or gangs of such individuals, and assumes that these individuals can be exterminated or locked up. Both of those passages offer insights into the way i n which Shakespeare has portrayed levels of knowledge i n Iago. Though Iago's first words i n the play—indeed, the first words of the p l a y — are a disclaimer of knowledge, " T u s h , never tell me", he protests to Roderigo that he knew nothing of Othello's marriage.
A n d he goes on to make many more disclaimers: A l l of these are pieces of manipulation. H i s consistent tactic with Othello is to imply that though he refuses to acknowledge what he knows, he in fact knows and understands much more comprehensively than anyone else. This honest creature doubtless Sees and knows more, much more than he unfolds. Treatments That Work Other.
Winnicott Highlight search term Print Email Share. Don't have an account? Sign in via your Institution. Sign in with your library card. By Recently Published Recently Published. Refine By Specialty [[missing key: Several alternative radio scripts are also reproduced. The volume includes three discursive essays: Volume 9, —, introduced by the Swedish training analyst and former president of the Swedish Society, Arne Jemstedt, contains a selection of letters from the last years of There are also topical pieces on the moon landing, the contraceptive pill and the building of the Berlin Wall.
Finally, this volume includes a section of various short notes and ideas which could not be reliably dated.
His two Tavistock publications, The Child and the Family, and The Child and the Outside World ; and his first collection of essays, Through Paediatrics to Psychoanalysis , were published during this time. In he married Clare Britton, with whom he had been working during the previous decade, and in he became President of the British Psychoanalytical Society. It was in this capacity that many of the large number of letters in this volume were composed, relating to the work of his analytical colleagues and the integration of the different training and theoretical groups within the BPAS.