2009 Ncspp Student Paper

66

TITLE

THE PECULIAR CASE HISTORY: FINDING PURLOINED MEANING IN SUBJECTIVE TEXTS* by Elizabeth Bradshaw, M.Sc.

“Let me caution you that this is an affair demanding the greatest secrecy, and that I should most probably lose the position I now hold, were it known that I confided it to anyone…the business is very simple indeed, and I make no doubt that we can manage it sufficiently well ourselves; but then I thought Dupin would like to hear the details of it, because it is so excessively odd.” — Monsieur G., in Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Purloined Letter” (1844)

In 1956, Jacques Lacan made public an interpretation of Edgar Allan Poe’s 1844 short story “The Purloined Letter” that raised questions for both literary theorists and psychoanalysts regarding the nature of expression and truth (Muller and Richardson, 1988). The case history, like Poe’s story, challenges the issues of representability and veracity. “The Purloined Letter” opens as two men — an unnamed narrator and his friend, the investigator, C. Auguste Dupin — are presented by the Parisian Chief of Police with an “exceedingly odd” case: a sensitive letter has been stolen in plain sight from the royal boudoir. Dupin suggests to the Chief of Police that perhaps the trouble in this case is not its complexity, but rather that it is “too plain … a little too self-evident.” Eventually, we discover the solution to the mystery of the purloined letter is indeed ingenious in its simplicity: the original thief had simply changed the outward appearance of the letter and hidden the document in plain sight. Dupin tests this theory, and proves triumphant, by disguising himself in order to find and steal the letter once again. His actions, however, shift the letter’s significance: once found, the letter is no longer purloined, and yet Dupin’s actions have transformed the letter again into stolen material.

I wish to thank Mr. Stephen Grosz and Maurice Marcus, M.D., and my colleagues Mr. Jakob Engel and Miss Lisa Riordan Seville for commenting on drafts of this paper. *

AUTHOR

67

In the literary and psychoanalytic worlds, Poe’s story has both provoked and served as the textual backbone of an interdisciplinary dialogue among psychoanalysts and theorists alike. It is a story of concealment and exposure, of contexts, and of shifting signifiers. Peculiarities of the psychoanalytic case history as a literary genre, like the purloined letter, are so fully in view that their implications often escape notice: they are inherently integrated into the structure of the writing itself — in plain sight. However, as clinical material is transformed into a written case, the complexity of such an action can often be left unaddressed. A case history creates meaning out of inherently subjective material. The analytic experience — the subject of the case history — only exists in a dyadic relationship within the consulting room, at a specific time. Once removed from this physical and psychic space, the case history becomes, like the manifest dream, a derivative production. Like the purloined letter, the case history is problematic in its very nature, for once it is found it can no longer be lost, and thus loses its most defining feature. However, like the purloined letter, the case history — when all of its problematic issues are conceived — can incite discussion and debate regarding clinical technique, the act of writing, and questions that lie at the foundation of psychoanalysis. As Lechte (1996) claims, that which is repeated in writing is “there when it is not there, is not there when it is there, and is found only as lost…. It is a purloined letter, with the emphasis on ‘purloined.’ Where is a letter that is essentially purloined to be found? Once found, is it no longer purloined?” (p. 19). The case history can only be found if we adequately address the inherent peculiarities as we begin the search for meaning. Case histories, then, like the purloined letter, do not represent objective “real world” information, but rather consist of multiple inherently subjective levels that are valuable in their own right. As both an object and a story, “The Purloined Letter” thus provides an apt metaphor for the peculiarities of the case history — disguise, consent, ratiocination, authorial authority, transference curiosity, countertransferential enactments, and the limits of language — as they apply to writing in psychoanalysis. How these idiosyncratic features function and how they set case histories apart from other genres is the subject of this essay.

68

TITLE

I. Methodological Peculiarities in Case Histories

“Well, the disclosure of the document to a third person, who shall be nameless, would bring in question the honor of a personage of most exalted station.” — Prefect, in E.A. Poe (1844), “The Purloined Letter,” p. 8

Even as he created the form, Freud expressed his concerns regarding the inherently problematic nature of writing psychoanalytic case histories. In the early years of writing his pivotal works — a canon within the canon, Patrick Mahony (1989) argues — Freud admitted to the methodological and theoretical problems involved in writing such cases. In his 1918 preface of “The Wolf Man,” Freud states: “I have abstained from writing a complete history of his illness, of his treatment, and of his recovery, because I recognized that such a task was technically impractical and socially impermissible” (p. 8). Although Freud claimed that his case histories revealed “the intimate connection between the story of the patient’s sufferings and the symptoms of his illness” (Breuer and Freud, 1895, p. 161), he further acknowledged that “no means has been found of in any way introducing into the reproduction of an analysis the sense of conviction that results from the analysis itself” (p. 13). The case history is meant to be a narrative account of what happened during the course of an analysis. Like Poe’s story, the case history consists of minute details and verbatim dialogue. However, it includes other layers of meaning such as the patient’s symptoms, their meaning, the patient’s life history, the words and actions of the analyst, the analytic process, the analyst’s intentions in writing up the case, as well as the reader (Michels, 2000). Like the story of “The Purloined Letter,” the case history attempts to simultaneously embody multiple dimensions of perspective and narrative in order to reflect the myriad complexities of real life. In his 1920 case of a homosexual woman, Freud sums up the complications inherent in attempting to address these numerous concerns in his comment that “linear presentation is not a very adequate means of describing complicated mental process going on in different layers of the mind” (p. 160). This echoed his 1908 letter to Jung in which he argued quite succinctly that “[a] real, complete case cannot be narrated but only described” (Wright, 1974, as quoted in Michels, 2000, p. 357).

AUTHOR

69

Another methodological oddity of analytic case histories — also found in perfect crimes — is the unknown identity of the central character. The need to protect analysands’ identities is potentially in conflict with the need to retain enough detail to render clinical accounts meaningful. Can an analystauthor both protect his patient’s identity and also effectively and accurately communicate the most relevant aspects of the analytic process without substantially altering the authenticity or intelligibility of a case? This conflict is intrinsic to case histories. Freud (1905) discussed the problem of maintaining confidentiality in the Prefatory Remarks to his Dora case. He described his fear of being “accused of giving information about [his] patients which ought not to be given” (p. 7). This fear drove him to change all names, wait four years to publish the case, and choose a patient from a remote area. His deliberate protections leant credulity to his assertion “that every case history … will be secured against their perspicacity by similar guarantees of secret” (p. 9). Even in Poe’s story, both the sensitive contents of the purloined letter, as well as the original perpetrator’s identity, are never revealed. Freud clearly addressed the matter of confidentially and disguise in his 1915 “A Case of Paranoia”: “I have altered the milieu of the case in order to preserve the incognito of the people concerned, but … I have altered nothing else” (p. 243). While Freud did consider it “wrong practice … to alter any detail in the presentation of a case,” he provided an example of an acceptable distortion in a 1924 footnote to Studies on Hysteria of “shifting the scene from one mountain to another” (Breuer and Freud, 1895, p. 134). Freud often addressed the fine line between disguising his patients and essentially creating fictional portraits. Goldberg (1997) picks up on this dilemma, writing that “we run a risk of essentially writing fiction if we become firm protectors of confidentiality, while we run a risk of moral transgression if we insist on a truthful presentation of our work” (p. 438); Stein argues that by protecting the patient’s identity, analysts “risk losing the individual by creating a fictional character” (p. 110). As Dupin solves the mystery by donning a costume and stealing the letter himself, does it render the resolution and narration of the case any less truthful or reliable? This issue remains controversial. According to Renik (1994), clinical facts, although deliberately altered, can still be considered to be factual. Michels (2000), in contrast, states that there is no consensus on how far a disguise should go. The ambiguous descriptions on how to accomplish confidentiality provided in the ethical guideline literature further complicate the

70

TITLE

issue of disguise. For example, The Principles of Medical Ethics with Annotations Especially Applicable to Psychiatry, from the American Psychiatric Association (1995), states that “[clinical] and other materials used in teaching and writing must be adequately disguised in order to preserve the anonymity of the individuals involved” (quoted in Scharff, 2000, p. 429). As Scharff also notes, it becomes apparent that there is no general rule about procedure; descriptions such as “adequately” leave clinicians attempting to write case histories much room for speculation and doubt. The question of patient consent dovetails with that of confidentiality. Although clearly an ethical issue, consent generates clinical repercussions as well. A case history that is published without consent could be seen as the revelation of details that might harm the pride of the patient and “bring to question the honor” of the analyst (Poe, p. 8). Publication of a case, therefore, without patient consent could be thought of as a sort of theft — an act thus rendering the contents of the case purloined. As such, the analyst deciding to reveal rather than disguise his intentions must consider the effect that seeking consent has on the patient, the analyst, and the analytic process. Freud (1905) claims that “[it] is … certain that to ask [patients] themselves for leave to publish their case would be quite unraveling” (p. 8). If brought up during the analysis, it clearly intrudes in the process, and yet if raised afterward impinges into the patient’s life (Michels, 2000). Others, such as Stoller (1988), question the viability of truly informed consent; Lipton (1991) wonders what the effect of consent would be on the patient’s transference, while Goldberg (1997) notes the difficulty of determining “just what ‘informed consent’ consists of here, inasmuch as one can never fully determine the consequences of such a request” (p. 435). Some analysts always ask permission prior to writing, while others do not. Those who ask on a case-by-case basis make their decision based on the analysand’s psychopathology, the state of both transference and countertransference, the extensiveness of the proposed case report, and their ethical position (Scharff, 2000). As no clear ethical guidelines exist, most analysts decide for themselves whether to request permission (Levine, 1990, quoted in Scharff, 2000). The legal privilege of the privacy of a treatment could be said to belong to the patient. But that begs the question of who does the treatment itself belong to? With such ambiguity involving ownership, the boundaries between privilege and pilfering may become blurred and lost. The introduction of a third party — the reader — potentially disrupts the

AUTHOR

71

analytic dyad. The reader of a case history is perhaps analogous to the person who stole and read the letter not intended for his eyes — a thief and coconspirator with the author/analyst. Shaprio (1998, in Scharff 2000) claims that the analyst’s need for the material the analysand provides functions in conjunction with the external reader as a third element that contaminates the space of the analytic dyad1. The analyst, then, is also a thief, presenting the reader with stolen goods. The presence of a research atmosphere and instrumentation further serve as disturbances of the analytic pair that may “introduce transference complexities which are at the very least difficult to evaluate” (Stein, 1998a, p. 109). It could be said that even mentally holding the intention, conscious or unconscious, of writing a case could intrude upon the psychic space of an analysis. Like Dupin, the analyst becomes intricately woven into the story, thereby altering the very fabric of the narrative itself. Dupin’s desire to solve the case drove him to literally enter into the narrative and rewrite the ending as he deemed fit. Writing and presenting case histories present further occasions for countertransferential disruptions to arise. Michels (2000) claims that any writing or even planned writing comprises the “countertransference theme of enactment,” and that any good case history is a “crystallization of the analyst’s countertransference” (p. 371). The case history can “enrich an audience’s understanding of what really happened in the treatment being recounted, and can convey more than the analyst knows” (pp. 371-372). Morrison (1990) further equates the impulse to write with a “countertransference reaction” and claims that the interest to write “serves to distance [the analyst] from the patient and the difficult affect she experiences” (p. 410). As a result of these complications, what repercussions exist for the analytic community? As clinicians we must continue to consider the impact of writing case histories upon our patients. Yet Scharff (2000) believes that too much concern might hamper analysts’ wishes to contribute to analytic literature, teach students, and provide colleagues with material for debate (p. 422).

1 The presence of a research atmosphere and recording instrumentation could also serve as disturbances of the analytic pair that may introduce transference complexities. See Stein, 1998 for a further discussion of the subject.

72

TITLE

Part II. Philosophical Peculiarities in Case Histories

“What is true of relation — of form and quantity…?’” — Dupin, in E.A. Poe (1844), “The Purloined Letter,” p. 18

Case histories come to embody the philosophical paradoxes inherent in psychoanalysis itself, and as a result become problematic in their recounting. Is it possible to present a coherent narrative of one’s clinical experience, while at the same time account for the multiple dimensions and ambiguities inherent in such real-life interactions? Furthermore, how would reading a case history be different from being in the consulting room, watching a video recording, or reading a transcript? A narrative without confusion or contradiction might mask the uncertainty and ambiguity of the real world, Michels (2000) argues, while the more intellectually, emotionally, and aesthetically satisfying a narrative, the less space it leaves for the audience to conceive alternative levels of narrative (Tuckett, 1993). The move from the consulting room to the world of publication highlights the subjectivity of observation. Renik (1994), for example, views clinical facts as composed largely of idiosyncratic inferences and are essentially interpretations. Though arrived at by logical inferences, clinical facts remain products of the authors’ subjectivity; they are influenced by the dynamic unconscious and are thus only detected by its impact on the author and then on the reader (Scharff, 2000, p. 425). The Prefect and Parisian police were not able to solve the case of the purloined letter through the process of objective ratiocintation; rather, they required Dupin to use his own subjective personage as the compass to guide and interpret the case. Dupin is only able to “right” the problem by “writing” the problem himself. Similarly, a psychoanalytic clinical report is nothing more than the writer’s subjective interpretation of what transpired during the here-and-now of the analysis. Freud (1925b) comments that “the reproduction of a perception as a presentation is not always a faithful one; it may be modified by omissions, or changed by the merging of various elements” (p. 237). No matter how an analyst presents the material, they undoubtedly filter it through their memories, prey to selective recall, distortion, and the limitations of comprehension. Freud (1925a) further highlights the connection between perception, memory, and permanence in the metaphor of the mystic writing-pad. He discussed how

AUTHOR

devices to aid our memory seem particularly imperfect, since our mental apparatus accomplishes precisely what they cannot: it has an unlimited receptive capacity for new perceptions and nevertheless lays down permanent — even though not unalterable — memory traces of them. (p. 227)

73

As Renik (1994) argues, we have to respect Einstein’s special theory of relativity as it applies to psychoanalysis: every observation involves taking into account the observer’s activity in relation to the thing observed (p. 1248). A purely objective clinical case report is thus not possible; previous experiences, biases, and theoretical orientation influence the analyst’s experience of the patient, and therefore shapes the subject matter portrayed. The concept of “narrative truth” within analytic writing has been utilized to justify some of the inherent issues of subjectivity and authenticity that are peculiar to the writing of case histories. Hanly (1996) argues that the term “narrative truth” necessarily means that the coherence of the analyst’s interpretations is the only criterion for validating a case history. However, this categorical denomination of case writing seems a particularly convenient way to sidestep the question of subjective validity within analytic writing. This hermeneutic perspective implies that in the process of analysis the analyst should aim to achieve a “story” agreed on by both the analyst and the patient. The result is that “ ‘narrative’ truth and ‘historical’ truth have been set up as mutually exclusive ideals” (Hanly, 1996, p. 44). However, does this imperative imply that historical truth is not a suitable criterion for interpretation in psychoanalysis? Hanly (1996) answers by claiming fiction and literary theory are inappropriate tools to answer questions regarding the uses of the past or of reconstruction in psychoanalysis; Kermode (1966), however, believes that meaningful patterns and a sense of cause and effect exist only in fiction. Fiction and literary theory, in other words, are problematic mechanisms of validation for psychoanalysis, in that the analytical process is inherently not rational, coherent, or linear. All we can glean is the subjective experience. To use the term “narrative” to denote clinical case histories provides another problematic element associated with the writing of clinical material. According to Hanly (1996), psychoanalysts who have most discussed “narrative” have not adequately described the debate on the topic as it has been conducted in the humanities and social sciences (see the works of Scholes, 1966; Genette, 1976; Mitchell, 1981.) Pure narrative, as described

74

TITLE

by Genette (1976), does not employ the first person and has no obvious bias on the part of the narrator. Pure narrative gives the impression that the tale told is what happened, and “in the strictest sense is distinguished by the exclusive use of the third person and of such forms as the preterit and pluperfect” (Genette, 1976, p. 11). Can we trust Dupin as a reliable narrator, particularly given that he writes the tale from the inside out? One must also question the possibility of this type of absolute coherence and consistency within the analytic experience, given the nature of the unconscious and of the analytic process. Using the word “narrative” to describe psychoanalytic case histories blurs many of the defining features of an analysis. Moreover, the term’s insistence on the third person and lack of bias is diametrically opposed to many of the totems of psychoanalysis. These include free association, with its disorganized, disconnected, and fragmentary components, the lack of a clear beginning-middle-end sequence, and silences and gaps whose content lie in the unconscious and the deeper structures of the psyche that are glimpsed through disjunctions in the associative processes (Hanly, 1996). The impulse to fit case histories into the designated genre of “narrative” requires manipulating associations that are not coherent into a cogent narrative (Spence, 1982). Ogden (1994), in a clear, logical, and chronologically ordered manner, recounts his “reverie” during an analytic session: he registers a letter — an “envelope that had been in plain view,” similar to the purloined letter. He notices the “vertical lines” at the bottom of the letter, ponders their significance, notes his feelings of “disappointment” as he associates to the friend who had written the letter, and later emerges out of his mental wanderings and consciously considers how his thoughts “might be related to what was currently going on between [himself] and the patient” (p. 5). His associations are logical, his connections clear, and the stream of thought proceeds uninterrupted and coherent. Is this description an accurate portrayal of what occurred psychically during the analytic hour? Were the inner workings of Ogden’s mind so coherent and linear? The fluid writing within case histories may resemble dream work, particularly “secondary revision,” in which the mechanisms of compression and disguise dominate in order to satisfy the mind’s demands for some coherence in the tale as it is finally experienced by consciousness (Stein, 1988a, p. 111). The narrative becomes the manifest dream. As such, the text has intrinsic value as a derivative of the latent material, but cannot substitute for it.

AUTHOR

Part III. Literary Peculiarities in Case Histories

75

“You have precisely what you demand to make the ascendancy complete — the robber’s knowledge of the loser’s knowledge of the robber.” — Dupin, in E.A. Poe (1844), “The Purloined Letter,” p. 9

“[S]trange that the case histories I write should read like short stories,” Freud wrote in 1895, “the nature of the subject [is] evidently responsible for this” (p. 160). Freud’s reflections linked literary fields to psychoanalytic writing since its inception. Stemming from this same comparative vein, Freud also contended that the poets discovered the unconscious before he did, while later literary critics — like Trilling — complement this claim by stating that Freud and the poets practiced on the same human nature (Skura, 1981, p. 33). Foucault, too, argues that psychoanalysis tends to fall within the realm of literature (1979, p. 149). As Skura (1981) states, “the resemblance between psychoanalysis and literature lies in their dynamic interaction … between the free-ranging play of mind and the organizing response to it, and the continuing play which they contradict or confirm” (p. 208). This relationship of literature and psychoanalysis perpetuates the issues involved in writing case histories. The peculiar issues involved in the writing and reading of literary texts may also apply to the publication and reception of clinical case histories. The tension between the surface narrative and the symbolic and allusive dynamics in literature, as exemplified by Poe’s story, exists in case histories, too. As with literary analysis, a complete consideration of a case history must address both the explicit analyst, patient, symptoms, illness, and analysis, as well as the implicit author/analyst, the relationship between the analysts and the patients, and the purpose in recounting the case. Like Dupin’s compound roles within “The Purloined Letter,” the author of a case history also holds a multifarious position. The multiple roles of author-analyst emanate from an unconscious level within the text, which becomes problematic if not addressed in the reading of a case history. Barthes (1979), commenting on the disjunction between the author-analyst and the analyst in the text, writes: “the I that writes the text is never, itself, anything more than a paper I” (p. 79). One can never know anything of the analyst aside from that which is presented on the written page. There exists a three-fold analyst: the analyst in the here-and-now, the analyst as

76

TITLE

author, and the constructed psychoanalyst portrayed within the clinical write-up. We readers have access to each of these personas only through the text. Foucault (1979) sees the author “pointing to the ‘figure’ that, at least in appearance, is outside it and antecedes it” (p. 141). The line between fiction and clinical case histories blur because we cannot rely on the information we receive. Because these case histories represent the foundations of psychoanalytic knowledge, the reliability of the narrator-analyst is of essence, yet it cannot be divorced from rhetorical strategies or the author’s intentions. The construction of meaning within the text depends upon the reader’s response to a written case. While literary critics focus their analysis on how the transference to the listener shapes a story, analysts are moreover similarly cognizant of the way in which countertransference colors their perception of a case. In the same way that Ogden’s letter — hidden in plain view — “had been physically present for weeks, [but] at that moment [of contemplation] it came to life as a psychological event,” (Ogden, 1994, p. 9) the meaning of a text changes based on the reader and the time of reading. Reader-response criticism approaches the understanding of literature by underlining the reader’s role in creating meaning and experience of a literary work (see Norman Holland, 1975, and Stanley Fish, 1980, on this subject). A text cannot exist objectively without taking into consideration both how it has been conceived by the author and received by the reader. Such factors at work when reading a clinical piece of writing include the following: ready-made transferences to the author or the author’s psychoanalytic position, resonance or agreement with the author’s claim, empathic responsiveness to the affective exchanges between analyst and patient, and the author’s intention (explicit or implicit) in writing (Coen, 2000, p. 462). Brooks (1994) makes the point in regards to Dora that the relation of teller to listener is as important as the content and structure of the tale itself…. the relation of teller to the listener inherently is part of the structure and the meaning of any narrative text. (p. 50)

In this sense, a reader must employ another dimension of interpretation in the reading of a case history — not only what transpires between the analyst-author and the patient, but also the dynamics between the text and the reader.

AUTHOR

Part IV. Found Meaning in Insolvable Peculiarities

77

To admit the author’s irreducible subjectivity requires the reader consider the question of meaning and accuracy in the publication of case histories. The value of case histories comes from the author’s attempt to communicate the here-and-now of the analytic experience (even if it is inherently subjective) in both a compelling and believable manner. Two spatio-temporal settings potentially exist within the paradigm of case histories: the clinical situation and the reading situation (Mahony, 1993, p. 1031). Not comprehensiveness, but rather the analysts’ writing makes a case history believable; the authors’ ability to somehow convey to readers the experience in the consulting room, the analytic atmosphere, and their encounter with the patient’s and their own unconscious lend credulity to the history. However, the innate qualities of the unconsciousness mean that it may not be linear, one-dimensional, or told by an omniscient and reliable narrator. Once the author communicates the off-stage experience of the analysis, he or she renders it subjective, multi-dimensional, and polyadic. It is then the task of the author to attempt to creatively express these qualities in writing. Although the information communicated through the reading and writing process is subjective and contains peculiarities involved in its conception, the story communicated is an experience that has its own intrinsic value. The question of contaminating the analytic experience, as well as that of veracity, arise from the nature of the clinical material itself. In the end, perhaps we must consider the peculiarities of case histories — unlike Dupin’s purloined letter — as a case we are unable to resolve. REFERENCES:

Barchilon, J. (1973). [Review of the book, Psychoanalysis and literary process], Psychoanalytic Quarterly, 42, 644-651 Barthes, R. (1979). Authors and writers. In J.V. Harari (Ed.), Textual Strategies (pp. 73-81). Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Bellin, E.H. (1990). [Review of the book, The purloined Poe. Lacan, Derrida, and psychoanalytic reading], Psychoanalytic Quarterly, 59, 473-479. Breuer, J., & Freud, S. (1895) Studies on hysteria. In J. Strachey (Ed. & Trans.), The standard edition of the complete psychological works of Sigmund Freud (Vol. 2). London: Hogarth Press. Brooks, P. (1994). Psychoanalysis and storytelling. Oxford and Cambridge, MA: Blackwell.

78

TITLE

Coen, S.J. (2000). Why we need to write openly about our clinical cases. Journal of American Psychoanalytic Association, 48, 449-470. Cohen, S. J. (1994). Between author and reader: A psychoanalytic approach to writing and reading. Columbia University Press: NY. Cox, M. (1983). [Review of the book, The literary use of the psychoanalytic process]. International Review of Psychoanalysis, 10, 246-248. Foucault, M. (1979). What is an author? In J.V. Harari (Ed.). Textual strategies (pp. 141160). Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Freud, S. (1905). Fragment of an analysis of a case of hysteria. The standard edition of the complete psychological works of Sigmund Freud (Vol. 8, pp. 1-122). London: Hogarth Press. (Original published in 1901) Freud, S. (1908/1959). Creative writers and day-dreaming. In J. Strachey (Ed. & Trans.), The standard edition of the complete psychological works of Sigmund Freud (Vol. 9, pp. 141-156). London: Hogarth Press. Freud, S. (1911). Psycho-Analytic notes on an autobiographical account of a case of paranoia (Dementia Paranoides). In J. Strachey (Ed. & Trans.), The standard edition of the complete psychological works of Sigmund Freud (Vol. 12, pp. 1-82). London: Hogarth Press. Freud, S. (1918/1955). From the history of an infantile neurosis. In J. Strachey (Ed. & Trans.), The standard edition of the complete psychological works of Sigmund Freud (Vol. 17, pp. 1-124). London: Hogarth Press. Freud, S. (1920). The psychogenesis of a case of homosexuality in a woman. In J. Strachey (Ed. & Trans.), The standard edition of the complete psychological works of Sigmund Freud (Vol. 18, pp. 145-172). London: Hogarth Press. Freud, S. (1925a). A note upon the mystic writing-pad. In J. Strachey (Ed. & Trans.), The standard edition of the complete psychological works of Sigmund Freud (Vol. 19, pp. 225-232). London: Hogarth Press. Freud, S. (1925b). Negation. In J. Strachey (Ed. & Trans.), The standard edition of the complete psychological works of Sigmund Freud Vol. 19, pp. 233-240). London: Hogarth Press. Gabbard, G.O. (1997). Case histories and confidentiality. International Journal of Psychoanalysis, 78, 820-821 Genette, G. (1976). Boundaries of narrative. New Literary History, 8, 1. Goldberg, A. (1997). Writing case histories. International Journal of Psychoanalysis, 78, 435-438. Hanly, M.F. (1996). Narrative, now and then: A critical realist approach. International Journal of Psychoanalysis, 77, 445-457. Kermode, F. (1966). The sense of an ending: Studies in the theory of fiction. London: Oxford University Press. Lechte, J. (1996). Editor’s introduction to on psychoanalysis and writing. In J. Lechte (Ed.), Writing and psychoanalysis: A reader (pp. 19-21). London: Arnold. Levine, H.B. (1990). Clinical issues in the analysis of analysands who were abused as children: Presentation of case material. In H.B. Levine (Ed.), Adult analysis and childhood sexual abuse (pp. 214-217). Hillsdale, NJ: Analytic Press.

AUTHOR

79

Lipton, E. L. (1991). The analyst’s use of clinical data, and other issues of confidentiality Journal of American Psychoanalytic Assocation, 39, 967-985. Mahony, P.J. (1993). Freud’s cases: Are they valuable today? International Journal of Psychoanalysis, 74, 1027-1035. McGuire, W. (1974). The Freud/Jung letters: The correspondence between Sigmund Freud and C. G. Jung. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Michels, R. (2000). The case history. Journal of American Psychological Association, 48, 355-375. Morrison, N.K. & Evaldson, J.R. (1990). Thoughts on the process of psychoanalyic writing. Contemporary Psychoanalysis, 26, 408-419. Muller, J.P., & Richardson, W.J. (Eds.) (1988). The purloined Poe: Lacan, Derrida, and psychoanalytic reading (p. vii-xiv). Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Ogden, T.H. (1994). The analytic third: Working with intersubjective clinical facts. International Journal of Psychoanalysis, 75, 3-19. Poe, E.A. (1988). The purloined letter. In J. Muller & W. Richardson (Eds.), The purloined Poe: Lacan, Derrida, and psychoanalytic reading (p. vii-xiv). Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press. (Original work published in 1844) Renik, O. (1994). Publication of clinical facts. International Journal of Psychoanalysis, 75, 1245-1250. Scharff, J.S. (2000). On writing from clinical experience. Journal of American Psychoanalytic Assocation, 48, 421-447. Skura, M.A. (1981). The literary use of the psychoanalytic process. New Haven: Yale University Press. Spence, D. (1982). Narrative truth and historical truth: meaning and interpretation in psychoanalysis. New York: Norton. Stein, M.H. (1988a). Writing about psychoanalysis: I. Analysts who write and those who do not. Journal of American Psychoanalytic Assocation, 36, 105-124. Stein, M.H. (1988b). Writing about psychoanalysis: II. Analysts who write, patients who read. Journal of American Psychoanalytic Assocation, 36, 393-408. Stoller, R.J. (1988). Patients’ responses to their own case reports. Journal of American Psychoanalytic Assocation, 36, 371-391. Strachey, J. (1953). Editor’s introduction in Freud. The standard edition of the complete psychological works of Sigmund Freud (Vol. 9). London: Hogarth Press. (Original work published in 1900) Tuckett, D. (1993). Some thoughts on the presentation and discussion of the clinical material of psychoanalysis. International Journal of Psychoanalysis, 74, 1175-1189. Elizabeth A. Bradshaw 572 Capell Street Oakland, CA 94601 (415) 734-1508 [email protected]