to something [ ] The proper name only resonates, and at the same time is instantly lost, at the moment it becomes

its own remains, when it is broken, scrambled, or jammed by its contact with the signature. (Jacques Derrida, Glas)4 The dream is an angel, a messenger who, in the nick of time, brings news of a word. For a long time he has been trying to take wing in order to alight on a confused and nameless situation which it is the purpose of his advent to articul ate. That is how it comes about that we wake up with the word in our head, and sudden ly see everything in a new light. I realized one morning that a silver dish held out to me in a dream, then struck and violently twisted all this is taking place in Hungary was telling me that the dream was to be opened with a Hungarian key, and that the word silver spoken in Hungarian but heard in French would render it intelligible. That was the gosp el (l vangile; eu-angelion) or the annunciation of that night. The angel that explained Melanie also came from a Hungarian landscape, and brought the same kind of key. I only met Melanie Klein or Little, as that s what Klein means in German (little Melanie?) once in my life and then completely one-sidedly, at the International Congress in 1957. As she made her way through the crowd of people selling Freud medallions and distributing programmes there was something about her that reminded me of the pleasure-boats that ploughed up and down the Danube at Budapest. Her dress was like a black muslin sail, and at her breast she wore a brooch big enough for everyone to notice it and to wonder, discreetly but distin ctly, whether she was wearing it on her good breast or her bad breast. Her appearance as she entered seemed designed to emphasize both breast and blackness. As with the black sails of her dress, there was something as dark and serious about her look, like the waters of the Danube between the Black Forest and the Black Mothe r (Melanie-melanos-black ship?). She did not know me: I was reading her work, but I did not have the courage to speak to her. If I had done it would certainly have been in Hungarian, as I knew she had spent a number of years in Hungary.5 I woul d have felt awkward at embarrassing her with what might have been inappropriate memories there at the Congress, when she was about to explain, in Vienneseinflec ted English, that under the influence of the death drive, in phantasy, and by all the means sadism could devise, babies attacked the breast. It did not occur to me that death would claim Melanie so soon, three years after that Congress, in 1960 and right under her brooch, in her heart without my having had a chance to talk to her. I was thirty-two, she was sto something [ ] Th e proper name only resonates, and at the same time is instantly lost, at the moment it becomes its own remains, when it is broken, scrambled, or jammed by its contact with the signature. (Jacques Derrida, Glas)4 The dream is an angel, a messenger who, in the nick of time, brings news of a word. For a long time he has been trying to take wing in order to alight on a confused and nameless situation which it is the purpose of his advent to articul ate. That is how it comes about that we wake up with the word in our head, and sudden ly see everything in a new light. I realized one morning that a silver dish held out to me in a dream, then struck and

violently twisted all this is taking place in Hungary was telling me that the dream was to be opened with a Hungarian key, and that the word silver spoken in Hungarian but heard in French would render it intelligible. That was the gosp el (l vangile; eu-angelion) or the annunciation of that night. The angel that explained Melanie also came from a Hungarian landscape, and brought the same kind of key. I only met Melanie Klein or Little, as that s what Klein means in German (little Melanie?) once in my life and then completely one-sidedly, at the International Congress in 1957. As she made her way through the crowd of people selling Freud medallions and distributing programmes there was something about her that reminded me of the pleasure-boats that ploughed up and down the Danube at Budapest. Her dress was like a black muslin sail, and at her breast she wore a brooch big enough for everyone to notice it and to wonder, discreetly but distin ctly, whether she was wearing it on her good breast or her bad breast. Her appearance as she entered seemed designed to emphasize both breast and blackness. As with the black sails of her dress, there was something as dark and serious about her look, like the waters of the Danube between the Black Forest and the Black Mothe r (Melanie-melanos-black ship?). She did not know me: I was reading her work, but I did not have the courage to speak to her. If I had done it would certainly have been in Hungarian, as I knew she had spent a number of years in Hungary.5 I woul d have felt awkward at embarrassing her with what might have been inappropriate memories there at the Congress, when she was about to explain, in Vienneseinflec ted English, that under the influence of the death drive, in phantasy, and by all the means sadism could devise, babies attacked the breast. It did not occur to me that death would claim Melanie so soon, three years after that Congress, in 1960 and right under her brooch, in her heart without my having had a chance to talk to her. I was thirty-two, she was seventy-five. Yet I must have had some presentiment of it, because as I listened to her I kept think ing the same thing. If some Herculean arm would only brush aside the medallion merchants and the showmen of holy writ, I would go up to the boat and rock it with the words I so much wanted to say: What was the Danube like when you crossed it to visit Ferenczi? Melanie of the Danube, Melanie of the Stomach, Melanie of the Penis, Melanie of the Breast what is your real name? eventy-five. Yet I must have had some presentiment of it, because as I listened to her I kept think ing the same thing. If some Herculean arm would only brush aside the medallion merchants and the showmen of holy writ, I would go up to the boat and rock it with the words I so much wanted to say: What was the Danube like when you crossed it to visit Ferenczi? Melanie of the Danube, Melanie of the Stomach, Melanie of the Penis, Melanie of the Breast what is your real name?