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Lying on the couch this morning, I was staring up at the bookcase, all 24 weathered volumes of Freud, once so mysterious, now so familiar. “What are you feeling now?” my analyst asked. I lie rigidly in an arms-across-my-chest mummified position, so unmoving that often I get paralysed pins and needles in my right arm. “Nothing,” I said, truthfully. He must be exhausted by me, I think. “Well,” I said, “a minute ago I felt slightly nauseated by the smell of last night’s supper.” I have my daily sessions in the attic room of his house and can often smell…

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