Why Psychoanalysis Matters

Then he tells her about a dream. In the dream his belly button was a Phillips head screw, and when he managed to unscrew it, his penis fell off. He picked it up and was looking around for the guy who could screw it back on when a bird swooped down, grabbed it in its beak, and flew away.

“What kind of bird?”

“I dunno, a seagull or something. I saw The Birds last week on cable. Do you think maybe that planted the idea?”

“A water bird . . . ? What about ducks?”

This is it—the moment of psychoanalytic insight, when the apparently random fragments of unconscious experience coalesce into consciousness with such illuminating force, it’s as if a meteor has just come careering out of nowhere into the earth’s atmosphere. Tony is shaken.

“Those goddamned ducks.”

“What is it about those ducks that meant so much to you?”

“I don’t know. It was just a trip having those wild creatures come into my pool and have their little babies . . . . ”

He tears up, reaches for a Kleenex. Then . . . bingo.

“I lost the ducks. That’s what I’m full of dread about. It’s always with me.”