pince-nez. “Well, providing it doesn’t distract him.”
Asher’s expression became resolute. “Don’t worry. I won’t let it.”
“Good,” said the professor. “Then there’s nothing to worry about, eh?”
He raised his hand to get the waiter’s attention and called, “Two more coffees and some more of these splendid cakes.”
“Oh, by the way,” said Asher. “The Katzer girl… she has a project you might be interested in. She’s trying to raise funds for a Jewish women’s hostel in Leopoldstadt.”
The professor turned and, looking over his pince-nez again, said, “Is she, indeed?”
20
F ROM THE JOURNAL OF Dr. Max Liebermann
Last night I dreamed of Amelia Lydgate, and what a dream it was: a wild, strange dream. Quite unnerving. As I sit here in my apartment, surrounded by familiar things, it seems, by way of contrast, even stranger. Something of the dream has stayed with me all day. I had fancied that writing it down might be cathartic; however, now that the time has come, I find that I am curiously reluctant. I am experiencing what Professor Freud would call resistance, and therefore I can be certain that the dream contains uncomfortable truths.
Am I embarrassed, I wonder? Ashamed? Professor Freud did not balk at intimate self-disclosure when he was writing his dream book. He was perfectly content to describe a boil the size of an apple rising at the base of his scrotum, merely to illustrate the point that the physical state of the body can influence what appears in dreams. Why should I be so coy? What am I afraid of? Writing this journal is not unlike the process of free association in psychoanalysis. I must suspend the urge to censor.
So: we were in a garden, Miss Lydgate and I. A place of extraordinary lushness and beauty. Tropical. Humid. We were surrounded by brightly colored exotic flowers—orange amaryllises, yellow orchids, and purple lilies. They were all oversize. Long filaments drooped under the weight of anthers, heavy with pollen, and a conspicuously phallic spadix rose up from the center of a bright red anthurium. Pink lotus blossoms floated on a lake, the surface of which shimmered with colonies of emerald algae. The colors were so vivid, the light so strong, everything seemed newly made—primordial. Dew-drops had collected on the petals. They resembled pieces from a chandelier, and each glassy fragment contained a captive miniature sun. The air was warm and perfumed with fragrances of exquisite, intoxicating sweetness. I could hear bird-song, and something that sounded like glissandi played on many harps.
Miss Lydgate was standing next to me—naked. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders and breasts, but it did not descend far enough to conceal her sex. Her mons veneris was covered with fiery curls, and her skin was an unblemished white. She looked at me and said, with some anger, “I will not lie below. I am also made from the earth and therefore must be considered your equal.” I responded with some indignation, and we began to argue. Although I cannot remember exactly what was said, the meaning of our heated exchange was quite clear and concerned coital “superiority.”
Then, unexpectedly, she pronounced my father’s name. I turned and saw that he was sitting close by on a throne. As is so often the way in dreams, his presence in our paradisal garden did not strike me as in any way remarkable. My father said, “It is not good for a man to be alone.” I protested, “I am not alone.” However, when I gestured toward Miss Lydgate, she had vanished.
In this instance I can hardly disagree with Professor Freud with respect to his views on the predominance of sexual content in dreams. That Miss Lydgate should appear naked obviously suggests the fulfillment of a “forbidden” wish. But what of our argument concerning coital superiority? An idea suggests itself: Amelia Lydgate is an extraordinary woman, endowed with remarkable intellectual gifts. Yet, would
Asher’s expression became resolute. “Don’t worry. I won’t let it.”
“Good,” said the professor. “Then there’s nothing to worry about, eh?”
He raised his hand to get the waiter’s attention and called, “Two more coffees and some more of these splendid cakes.”
“Oh, by the way,” said Asher. “The Katzer girl… she has a project you might be interested in. She’s trying to raise funds for a Jewish women’s hostel in Leopoldstadt.”
The professor turned and, looking over his pince-nez again, said, “Is she, indeed?”
20
F ROM THE JOURNAL OF Dr. Max Liebermann
Last night I dreamed of Amelia Lydgate, and what a dream it was: a wild, strange dream. Quite unnerving. As I sit here in my apartment, surrounded by familiar things, it seems, by way of contrast, even stranger. Something of the dream has stayed with me all day. I had fancied that writing it down might be cathartic; however, now that the time has come, I find that I am curiously reluctant. I am experiencing what Professor Freud would call resistance, and therefore I can be certain that the dream contains uncomfortable truths.
Am I embarrassed, I wonder? Ashamed? Professor Freud did not balk at intimate self-disclosure when he was writing his dream book. He was perfectly content to describe a boil the size of an apple rising at the base of his scrotum, merely to illustrate the point that the physical state of the body can influence what appears in dreams. Why should I be so coy? What am I afraid of? Writing this journal is not unlike the process of free association in psychoanalysis. I must suspend the urge to censor.
So: we were in a garden, Miss Lydgate and I. A place of extraordinary lushness and beauty. Tropical. Humid. We were surrounded by brightly colored exotic flowers—orange amaryllises, yellow orchids, and purple lilies. They were all oversize. Long filaments drooped under the weight of anthers, heavy with pollen, and a conspicuously phallic spadix rose up from the center of a bright red anthurium. Pink lotus blossoms floated on a lake, the surface of which shimmered with colonies of emerald algae. The colors were so vivid, the light so strong, everything seemed newly made—primordial. Dew-drops had collected on the petals. They resembled pieces from a chandelier, and each glassy fragment contained a captive miniature sun. The air was warm and perfumed with fragrances of exquisite, intoxicating sweetness. I could hear bird-song, and something that sounded like glissandi played on many harps.
Miss Lydgate was standing next to me—naked. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders and breasts, but it did not descend far enough to conceal her sex. Her mons veneris was covered with fiery curls, and her skin was an unblemished white. She looked at me and said, with some anger, “I will not lie below. I am also made from the earth and therefore must be considered your equal.” I responded with some indignation, and we began to argue. Although I cannot remember exactly what was said, the meaning of our heated exchange was quite clear and concerned coital “superiority.”
Then, unexpectedly, she pronounced my father’s name. I turned and saw that he was sitting close by on a throne. As is so often the way in dreams, his presence in our paradisal garden did not strike me as in any way remarkable. My father said, “It is not good for a man to be alone.” I protested, “I am not alone.” However, when I gestured toward Miss Lydgate, she had vanished.
In this instance I can hardly disagree with Professor Freud with respect to his views on the predominance of sexual content in dreams. That Miss Lydgate should appear naked obviously suggests the fulfillment of a “forbidden” wish. But what of our argument concerning coital superiority? An idea suggests itself: Amelia Lydgate is an extraordinary woman, endowed with remarkable intellectual gifts. Yet, would
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