Abstract
So I was sitting across the table from this famous Lacanian psychoanalyst, eating Indian food. He had been going on for hours, telling us that Lacan was more of a feminist than feminists, more of an intellectual and political radical than intellectuals and political radicals, more of a god than God, using the most abstruse jargon to sneer at the use of incomprehensible jargon, and everyone had been dancing on step, playing the game, being duly impressed. But now was dinner time, and wine was having an effect on some of us. The dumb blonde at the table asked the genius pointblank, “Why do people go into analysis? Just to be told to enjoy their paranoia?”
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