One must keep open the wound where he or she who enters into the analytic adventure is located — a wound that the professional establishment, along with the cynicism of the times and of institutions, will soon manage to close up.
“Mistress mine, in what far land,
Where the myrtle bloweth sweet
Shall I weary with my way-fare,
Win to thee that art as day fair,
Lay my roses at thy feet?”