On November 22, I went to the New York Public Library to listen to a conversation between George Prochnik and Adam Phillips.
The average age of the people in the audience came close to the average age of the reader of The New York Review of Books, which is always comforting. Nothing would be more disturbing than going to a discussion on the tender subject of psychoanalysis and finding yourself surrounded by sixteen year old girls screaming for a signed picture of the psychoanalyst.
Prochnik is writing a book about the friendship between Freud and Putnam and the last book by Phillips is called Going Sane. Subtitle: Maps of happiness.
But during the conversation, Phillips admitted that he was pressed by his US publisher to add the subtitle.
There are no maps in his book, and above all no maps of happiness.
I’m not easily intrigued by authors on book tour. Being one myself, I think I can see through their schemes, their too often repeated answers, their weaknesses, their vanity.
But I must admit I was intrigued by Adam Phillips. He seemed to be in control without becoming glib.
One of the more remarkable things he said was that nowadays psychoanalysis has become something like reading or writing poetry. A pastime for the devotee.
On being jealous, he commented that it might kill desire. But of course, that it also keeps desire alive.
For instance, I would argue that Proust’s work could be subtitled: In Praise of Being Jealous.
But even more intriguing, I found this remark by Mr. Phillips in his book Monogamy: “Perhaps we should take infidelity for granted, assume it with unharassed ease. Then we would be able to think about monogamy.” How would our world look when we take infidelity for granted? All our myths, of happiness, success, family, are somehow connected to the myth of monogamy.
I’m thinking of becoming one of Mr. Phillips’ patients.