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Analysts amiss

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Bubbelehs, I must share with you a letter I wrote to the International Journal of Psychoanals:

Dear editor in chief,
 
I notice that although the world has now heard of me, you have yet to invite me onto you editorial board. I can only guess that you feel a sorry load of old fools, especially Earnest who took so much trouble springing Zig from the Nazi maw only to find that the most important person was left behind in claustrophobic incarceration. I have given you enough time to get over this, but still I have not had the cringing envoy at my door as expected. Even though I cannot forgive you I can dole out the necessary revenge in digestible instalments. Terms and conditions apply, of course. What I have in mind is note taking duties, suicide watches, a little humiliation ritual or two and many more challenging little office tasks. My cowardly colleagues, do not underestimate the power of Zelda’a curse. Did you not ever wander why, after inventing the talking cure, Sigmund died of throat cancer? Did you ever consider that this might have been more than a cigar being just a cigar?
 
It’s time to step up
 
Zelda Vildachaya* Freudenschwester
 

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Dear Frau,

I am writing to you by torchlight in the dormitory where we have all been hiding since you came out. I know the little tent I am making with my torch and knees will not induce curiosity in this phallically obsessed environment. As you know, our journal has been the golden child of psychoanalysis since Earnest proposed the idea to Sigmund over a glass of schnapps. But now we are the wretched of the earth and from ruling objects we have become shameful subjects. We have decided to go into hiding. Luckily for us, South America has taken us in on condition that we pay our bribes and do not goose step in groups exceeding three persons. Some of us are changing our identities and physical appearances and strangely enough no one wants to go for the Sigmund Freud black thatch, beard and schnoz look and instead are opting for benign, nodding moon faces.

All of us are a bit twitchy since we heard of a lone vigilante who is making it his life’s work to hunt down every analyst. We understand that he is a particularly dissatisfied patient who, after being in analysis for two decades, consulted another therapist who told him to simply stop thinking about his problems. He professes an instant cure and is seeking revenge on all analysts for destroying his sanity with years of silence and muted scoffing.

You have ruined everything you wrinkly old bag. We will get you.

John Smith (Cabinet Maker, Rio de Janeiro)

*Wild thing

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