Regarding the Author as Patient

Author(s): Phoebe C. Ellsworth

Source: New Literary History, Vol. 12, No. 1, Psychology and Literature: Some Contemporary
Directions (Autumn, 1980), pp. 187-197
Published by: The Johns Hopkins University Press
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Regarding the Author as Patient

Phoebe C. Ellsworth
has been said about the similaritiesbetween the psychoanalyst'sendeavor and thatof the literarycriticthat I feel I can
add little.The verbal textis theirmatter,interpretationis their
task,close reading is theirmethod. What the speaker saysis less significantthanhow he saysit,fantasiesare more significant
thanevents,the
is
more
than
the
unexpected always
significant
expected, unless one's
were
a
that
expectations
generated by theory
rejects ordinary asand
intuitions.
Genius
and
madness
share
sumptions
techniques.And
so on. The metaphor has been heuristicand certainlyproductive.
And yetlike most metaphors,even as it directsour attentiontowards
certain truths,it distractsus from others. There are importantdifferencesin the aim and the formof the two ventures,in the textsand
the contexts.
Imagine a poet or a noveliston the analyst'scouch, generatinga
text,furnishingmaterialfor the psychoanalysis,while the analystlistens,occasionallytakes a note, keeps trackof the slow progressof the
minute hand, and now and then asks a question or, more rarely,
venturesan interpretation.Imagine the same writeralone, writing,
generatinganother text,furnishingmaterial,he hopes,1for the literarycritic,and forhis privatevisionof the common reader, the person
who knows nothingof deconstruction,but who "is guided by an instinctto create for himself;out of whateverodds and ends he can
come by, some kind of whole."2 Rather than reviewingwhat these
eventsand theirproductsand consequences have in common, I would
like to discuss a fewof theirmost fundamentaldifferences.First,the
writerand the patient have differentaims and differentaudiences.
Likewise the psychoanalysthas differentaims than the literarycritic,
and looks to differentaudiences. Second, thereare differencesin the
texts themselves,and in the tools (and liberties)available to the interpreter,partlydue to the differencesin the aims of the speaker, and
partlydue to differencesin the formof the relationshipbetween the
two parties.
SO

MUCH

Copyright1980 byNew Literary

History,The Universityof Virginia

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I
To begin with,whyis the writerspeaking? What bringshim to put
words togetherin each setting?Of course, as severalof the authorsin
this issue point out, our writeris ambivalent,his motivesimpure. In
both settingshe vacillatesbetweenrevealingand concealingand often
does both in ways he can neither control nor understand. In each
but otherwisehis
settinghe both seeks and fears self-understanding,
fundamentalaims are different.As a patient,the writerseeks guidance in his search fora coherentself; an expert pointof viewthatwill
help him to organize and master the unruly mob of thoughts,and
impulses,and sensationsthat continuallythreatento swarmover his
poor defenses; protectionagainstchaos and pain: he seeks a storythat
willmake sense of itall. At the outsetof therapyhe strenuouslyresists
the analyst's(somewhat disingenuous) suggestionthat he must find
the answerswithinhimself.As a writerhe has a storyand he wantsto
tell it; he understandssomething;he himselfhas interpretedlife in a
new way, found a point of view that reveals new meanings,and he
seeks to communicate his insightsto others so as to transformtheir
lives. Even if he has created his firstdraftin the throesof forcesthat
seem beyond his control,he wantsto masterit himself,and he would
strenuouslyresist anyone's suggestion that he let another human
being provide the interpretation.
Of course, the distinctionbetweenneeding to findan interpretation
and wantingto impart an interpretationalready found is not always
clear. Some writers,perhaps particularlyin thisage of narcissism,and
perhaps most particularlyin their youth, may wish to broadcast
themselvesto a general public withoutofferinga general statement,
may feel thattheirprivatefumblingstowarda meaningfulvision are
themselves of such universal interest that they are worth communicatingto the world in all their genuine, unedited nakedness.
With self-consciousbravado theymimicthe voice of elemental cliche
that is the special province of PrimaryProcess. Thus some literary
textsmay now resemble psychoanalytictextsmore than theyused to.
This sortof blurringof the distinctionis common; the reversesortis
veryrare. A writerwho has a storyto tellor a visionto communicate,a
writerwho knows what his message is, does not choose to tell it to a
psychoanalyst.No matter how ambiguous or disturbingthe initial
himself,with
inspiration,the writerchooses to bring it to fulfillment
no interferencein the process of refinementand furtherinterpretation, and then to tell it to the world. During this process no live
audience can be trustedwithmore than fragments;onlyan imaginary
audience will do.

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REGARDING

THE AUTHOR

AS PATIENT

189

Next we can ask, whydoes the analystlisten?Are the analyst'saims

the same as those of the literarycritic? Both the analyst and the
psychoanalyticalcriticlisten in order to find the secret storythat is
ingeniouslyencoded in the narrative,to find the interpretationthat
the speaker has left unstated.3For psychoanalystswho care about
contributingto scholarlyjournals and for literarycriticsof a psychoanalyticalpersuasion, this process of discoverymay be enough. But
traditionallythe two professionshave carried with them additional
responsibilities.The patient comes to the analyst for help, and the
analystis theoreticallyunder some obligationto provideit. Before she
can writeup the case for her colleagues, the analystmust tryout her
interpretationagainst new informationelicitedfromthe patient.The
interpretationthat is hermeneuticallymost creative and interesting
may not be the one thatleads to progressin the therapy.For the sake
of the patient,the psychoanalystmay have to abandon an interesting
one. The literarycritichas no such retheoryfor a run-of-the-mill
sponsibility.
But traditionallythe critichas had another responsibility,
one quite
at odds withthe psychoanalyticenterprise,and thatis the evaluation
of the textunder consideration.The reader looks to the criticnot only
foran opinion about the meaning of a new workof literaturebut also
for an opinion about its quality. Is it worthreading? A masterpiece?
Entertainingtrash? A gallant attempt with moments of greatness
scatteredamong its near misses?Where does it fitwithinthe literary
tradition?
A literarycriticwho was guided by a fundamentalconcern forthe
author'swelfarewould be regarded as behavingas inappropriatelyas
a psychoanalystwho summed up her patient'srevelationsas "entertainingtrash."
The analystsand the criticswho have contributedto this issue are
silentabout both of these traditionalfunctions.The patientappears
onlysporadically,and thenas an objectof scorn.Anydisagreementby
the patientis taken as a resistance,nullifyingthe patient'sconsciousness; I had thoughtthatthiswas a view thatbelonged to the realm of
superficialcaricature. To espouse this view is to make the patient
more like a literarytext, incapable of responding to the critic'sinterpretation,and to make the analystmore like a critic,emphasizing
her hermeneutic skills at the expense of her therapeutic skills.
Likewise the criticwho avoids evaluation is free to be more like an
analyst.What is traditionallyvalued in literatureis the style,the story,
the meaning as revealed by the author; what is studied here is the
concealed meaning. Shakespeare, Whitman,and Hammett are more
alike at the level of the id than in any other way,since id impulses are

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HISTORY

universal; it is only by theirdisguises that theycan be evaluated, or

even distinguished.
There is of course a great deal of evidence fromthe psychological
research literaturethat one's goals and expectationsaffectwhat one
perceives,4and it seems that these critics'and analysts'perceptions
have converged as theyabandoned the goals thatdifferentiatedtheir
enterprises.
II
There is also a great deal of evidence in supportof the proposition
thatthe forcesthatmove a person to speak affectthe formof what he
says.5Thus having established that our writerhas differentmotives
for speaking in the psychoanalyst'sofficeand in his study,it follows
that he says differentthings.The text is not the same text.
Kohut, as interpretedhere by Wolf,argues thatthe textavailable to
the analystdiffersfromthatavailable to the literarycriticin that the
analytictextincludes sequences of free association,whereas the literary text hardlyever does. Although Schafer points out that what is
called "free association" is also, like most speech, a form of "rulegoverned narration,"it differsfrom more constrained speech and
even more so fromliteraturein the degree and source of itsorganization.
It maybe heuristicto imaginea communicationcontinuumranging
fromlesser to greaterorganization.Pure primaryprocess thinkingis
best observed in infantswho have not yet learned any language; it
consistsof immediate and direct attemptsto satisfyneeds, with no
regard forobstacles. It is simple and universal.By the time a child is
old enough to describe a dream he has had, manifestationsof pure
primaryprocess have become veryrare. The dream as reported is at
least two steps removed fromprimaryprocess-the firststep involving the distortionsand symbolizationsinvolved in the translationof
the latent(primaryprocess) contentto the manifestcontent,the second involving the distortions and symbolizationsinvolved in the
telling.
It is this tellingthat provides the text for the psychoanalystor the
literarycritic,thissecond set of distortionsthatcreates the difference
between the patient's narrativeand that of an author. It is not, as
Green implies,the primaryprocess itselfthat moves us in literature,
slippingout of the author'scontrolhere and there,but the interaction
between primaryprocess and secondaryprocess-the distortionsand
symbolizations.As Breuer argues, the artisthas a choice: "literatureis
... on the side of liberty."The author recognizesthe power and value

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REGARDING

THE AUTHOR

AS PATIENT

191

of dreams and fantasticimpulses and other first-stage

manifestations
of primaryprocess; he treasuresthem,and considersand reconsiders
how best to shape and set and preservethem in a way thatwillspeak
to manypeople on manylevels. The patientmay ruminatebeforethe
analyticalhour about how to describe his dream, but the process is
much less complete and the motivesdifferent.The author interprets
his own primaryprocess first,then rewritesthe manifestcontentto
bettercommunicatethe depths and intricaciesof thatinterpretation.
Having said it one way, the author can change his mind and rewrite
the passage. His motivesmay be partlyto conceal, but theymay also
be partlyto reveal. An apparent intrusionof primaryprocess may
instead be an intentionalclue, planted by the artistin order to engage
the reader's emotions.Or, in rewriting,he may leave out the episode
altogether,an option never available to the patient.The author may
decide thatthe emotional forceoriginallycommunicatedto himby his
primaryprocess visionhas been exploited more convincinglyin other
partsof the book or poem than in his reportof the visionitself.Surely
the psychodynamicsof thissortof omission are much differentfrom
those governingthe failureto mentionthe episode in the firstplace.
The greaterorganizationand intentionality
of a literarytextextends
even to what is not said.
Thus, although neither the patient nor the author provides the
analyst with much direct access to primaryprocess or even to the
manifestcontent of his visions, the author's narrative has moved
through many more steps before it is communicated. More complicated yet,some of thesesteps maymove the finaltextfartherfromthe
original vision, while others bring it closer. The idea of the act of
literarycomposition as a linear retreat from primaryprocess is an
obvious oversimplification.
Just as there is little direct manifestationof primary process in
eitherthe psychoanalyticpatient'snarrativeor thatof the author, so,
with the exception of a few modern writers,is there little of the
compulsive "free" association that characterizes certain types of
schizophrenicspeech. But, as with primaryprocess, the writermay
paradoxically be both more likelyand less likelyto engage in free
association. Consider the following sentence, writtenby a schizophrenicpatient:"I maybe a 'Blue Baby' but 'Social Baby' not,but yeta
blue heartbabycould be in the BlukeBook publishedbeforethe war."6
It sounds as though it could be literature;it does not sound as though
it could be the statementof a patient suitable for psychoanalysis.
While we expect the normal neuroticpatientto tryto report without
modificationwhatevercomes into his consciousness,we do not expect
him to take libertieswith form. The schizophreniccannot keep ir-

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HISTORY

relevant or unwanted associations from breaking and entering the

momenttheyreach the door of consciousness,and so, in a sense, he
"freeassociates"withoutcontrolover contentor form.The author,in
writingsuch a sentence, would use the associative fragmentationto
communicatehis message-perhaps, in thiscase, a message about the
mental, moral, and physical deterioration of the upper classesthroughformas well as content.As Green pointsout, it may be more
difficultto apply psychoanalytictechniques to modern authors who
make use of the idea that there is valuable method in all madness.
While Green seems to use the termmodernin a chronologicalsense, I
use it tautologically,so as to include examples such as the following:
Whateveris fickle,freckled(whoknowshow?)
Withswift,
slow;sweet,sour;adazzle,dim;7
-"for whathindrance,hurtor harm,doththelaudabledesireof knowledge bringto any man,ifeven froma sot,a pot,a fool,a stool,a winteran oylbottle,an
a trucklefora pully,thelidofa goldsmith's
crucible,
mittain,
old slipper,or a cane chair?"-I am thismomentsitting
upon one. Willyou
thisaffairofwitand judgment,
bythetwoknobson
givemeleavetoillustrate
the top of the back of it,-8

So one of the mostimportantdifferencesbetweenthe patient'stext

and the author's text is the enormouslyexpanded role of secondary
process in the latter. The concerns of the id and primaryprocess
thinkingare universal,and do not serve to distinguishShakespeare
from Hammett, Hopkins from Sterne. Whether the firststage of
symbolization,the translationof these impulses into consciousness,
varies with artisticabilityis an open question and, I think,a deeply
interestingone. Certainlymany people, and perhaps particularlyartists,can learn to attend to their dreams and visions,to notice them
more often,and to recognize theirimportance.Whetherthe visions
themselvesare differentfromthose of ordinarypeople is unknown.
The second stage of symbolization,the translationof the conscious
visions into narrative,is clearlyverydifferentin the author and the
patient,resultingin texts that are, in some ways,incomparable. To
treata poem as untranslatedmanifestcontent,or as the utteranceof a
patient in a psychoanalyticsession, is to leave the most distinctive
aspects of the writer'spsychicprocesses shrouded in mystery.
III
Another fundamental differencebetween the patient's text and
thatof the author is thatthe patient'stextis generatedin the presence

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REGARDING

THE AUTHOR

AS PATIENT

193

of the interpreter.There are at least threemajor consequences. First,

the literarycriticgenerates her interpretationon the basis of a completed whole, while the analystmust receive the text in installments.
Second, the analysthas available a running"commentary"of nonverbal cues to aid her in interpretation.And thirdand perhaps mostimportant,the analystparticipatesin the creationof the textshe analyzes.
She can, forexample, compensate forthe inconvenienceof receiving
her textin serial formby deciding whichepisode is the last.
Imagine a literarycriticfaced withthe taskof interpretingDickens
or Dumas or any other writerwho had to turnout a fixedquantityof
text at regular intervals,and imagine that she must begin to write
reviewsbeforethe workis done. (We need not assume thatthe author
or the world sees these reviews.)Her taskis now more similarto that
of the analyst,in that her early hypothesesmay have to be discarded
in the lightof later information;she mustbe prepared for surprises.
Ordinarily,the literarycritic'sonly surprisescome fromher own rereadingsof an already familiartext;theyare comfortablesurprisesin
that the rejectionof an old hypothesisis accompanied by a new and
deeper hypothesis.Surprises fromnew installmentsof the text itself
may force her to reject her old hypothesiswithoutyet having a new
one to replace it. She must acknowledge the tentativenature of interpretation,and she mustaccept additional criteriaforthe qualityof
her interpretation,knowingthat new evidence is forthcoming.
Her textis also a littledifferentfromthe novel or poem thatis first
seen fullyformed,a littlemore like a psychoanalytictext.Justas the
cooperative patient must speak for fiftyminuteswhetheror not he
feelshe has anythingto say,the successfulserial writermust produce
his fiftypages regardless of his sense of creative power. If a less
considered, less revised narrativeis more revealing than one subjected to more cyclingsthroughthe secondaryprocess,then the psychoanalyticcritic'stask should be simpler.Likewise,having published
an installment,the author cannot later decide to delete it but must
accept it as part of his story.While the serial textstilldiffersfromthe
psychoanalytictextin importantways,it also differsfromthe typical
literarytext in a direction apparently conducive to successful psychoanalyticinterpretation,and one would expect criticalanalyses to
reflectthis difference.
Second, the psychoanalystis not restrictedto the verbal textbut has
available nonverbal cues as well. Alternativelywe may say that the
patienthas nonverbal channels available as allies or betrayers,while
the author is safe fromthe betrayersbut has to create his allies with
style. Several of the authors in this issue have commented on the
special nature of nonverbal behavior, and as I have devoted a sub-

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HISTORY

stantialpartof myresearchto the studyof such behavior,I would like

to consider a few of theirremarks.
I am enormously puzzled by Giinther Buck's statementthat "the
hermeneuticsof actions appears possible only insofaras action is at
least linked to a verbal manifestation.""How should action be interpreted when it is not presentedthroughlanguage?" he asks. Much of
A smile
social life,I would argue, consistsofjust such interpretations.
lead
a
a
reluctant
hesitant
to
may
speaker approach,
speaker to conit
in
lead
a
infant
to
return.
smile
These retinue; may
preverbal
are
not
mere
are
a
the smile
as
function
both
of
reflexes, they
sponses
and the social context.Whetherthe recipientverbalizesthe interpretationor not,an interpretationhas been made. Sometimes,when the
behavior is unusual or unexpected, the observer will recognize it
consciouslyand willseek an interpretationin a process exactlyanalogous to the one Buck describes for the interpretationof speech: "In
speaking in sentences I make use, over and above the semanticdeterminationsof content,of additional perspectivesthat I formulate
hardly or not at all. And these are perceived explicitlyby the responder to my speech by means of observing the manner of my
speech-its diction, syntacticconstruction,etc.-only when comprehension is difficultor disturbed."
In normal social interactionnonverbal cues or the structureand
styleof speech are mattersforconsciousconsiderationonlywhen they
strikethe observer as unusual or perplexing. In psychoanalysisor
literarycriticismthe interpretermakes an a priori assumption that
theyare significant.They are additional informationemittedby the
author or patient,and as such not to be taken lightly.The literary
critichas only one of these sources; the psychoanalysthas both.
Nonverbal cues provide an additional source of information,but
theycannot be counted on to be less symbolicor more real as Durand
seems to imply.Facial expressionsof certainbasic emotionshave clear
meanings and are verylikelyinnate, although theycan of course be
mimicked voluntarily.Most nonverbal cues do not have invariant
meanings independent of context (far less so even than words, for
example), although theycan be quite influentialand meaningfulin a
givencontext.The gaze, forinstance,does not generallyimplyseduction, and in most cases it would be foolhardy for the receiver to
assume so. A directgaze can also be a threat:thisis typicallythe case
among lower primates,frequentlythe case among humans, and, I
expect, a more plausible interpretationof the Whitmanlines quoted
by Durand. The essence of the seductivegaze is probablythe lowering
of the lids, or the turningaway of the eyes afterthe initialcontact: a
withdrawal,but an instanttoo late to be persuasive. In addition,such

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REGARDING

THE AUTHOR

AS PATIENT

195

a gaze is oftenno more spontaneous (or "real") than the tenthdraftof

a billet-doux. People are powerfullyinfluenced by nonverbal cues,
and other people, recognizingthispower,have learned to use themas
tools.
Thus the analyst cannot count on the nonverbal channels as
pipelines to the unconscious. Most cues have multiplemeanings,and
most can be emitted consciously,unconsciously,or semiconsciously,
like verbal style.The analystcan safelyassume that the analysand,
communicating difficultmaterial extempore, is incapable of consciouslymanipulatingall channels-words, syntax,tone of voice, facial expression, gestures, etc.-simultaneously, but there is no
guarantee that any one of them is free of conscious control at any
given moment. Her advantage over the literarycriticis that she is
exposed to manymore channels,and thusin a much betterpositionto
detect inconsistenciesamong them. This extra informationis all the
more revealingin thatthe patienthas no opportunityto reviseor take
back an utterance.
The literarycriticmust seek these inconsistenciesin the structure,
the style,the syntax,and the rhythmof the narrative.The author,
however,having fewerchannels to control,is in a much betterposition to manipulate consciouslythese potentiallyrevealingchannels.
Finally,the textproduced by the patientis not merelygenerated in
the presence of the analyst;it is the productof an interactionbetween
the two. Most obviously,over the course of the analysis,the analyst
teaches the patientsome of her own language and inferentialrules of
interpretation,
shaping the formof the text.To be sure, thisteaching
is rarelyexplicit: it is conveyed by example, by verbal and nonverbal
signs of approval or quickened interestwhen the patient is on the
"righttrack,"and signs of withdrawalwhen the patient is not. The
transference,in the contextof low responsivenessthatis characteristic
of psychoanalytictechnique,assures thatthe patientis hypersensitive
to these signs. By the end of the analysisthe proportionof interpretive statementsmade by the patienthas increased enormously,as the
patientmastersthe analyst'stechniques.9The literarycriticdoes not
participatein the creation of the text.
This mustimply,I think,thatas texts,successfulpsychoanalysesare
less variable than literarytextsand more fullyexplicable in psychoanalyticterms.The analyst has a certain restrictedset of plots provided by psychoanalytictheory,and eventually the patient's story
comes to matchone of these plots,and the patientis able to verbalize
it himself.When he does, the analyst (in collaboration with the patient) declares the story finished. If the patient never accepts the
analyst'soutlook, the analysismay end in failure.An author may go

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HISTORY

less far than the successfulpatient,or farther.He may tell a whole

storyabout a single resistance;he may presenta varietyof levels of
interpretationin differentcharacters;he may,once in a while,plumb
the depths of the self and go on to generalize, to create a new
perspectiveon human behavior, as Freud did. The criticcannot assume that works of literature have the same boundaries as
psychoanalyses;in particular,the ending, whichinformsthe whole, is
out of the critic'scontrol.
I am aware that psychoanalystsoften tend to disclaim their own
agency in the psychoanalyticinteraction-in some practitionersthis
sortof disclaimingmaybe at least as pervasiveas thatof the patient,so
aptly described by Schafer. The progressof psychoanalysisdepends
in part on the mutual acceptance of the fictionthat the patient's
behaviorsare symptomaticof his own internalprocesses,and thatthe
analyst'sbehaviors are responsiveto the patient.The possibilitythat
the analyst'sbehaviorsare symptomaticof her own internalprocesses
or thatthe patient'sbehaviorsare responses to the analyst'sactions is
minimized. (In transference,the patient'sbehavior may be seen as
responsive to the analyst qua father, mother, or other significant
other,but not to the analystas herself.)Thus ifthe patientfidgets,itis
because of his own anxiety,not because the analyst appears to be
asleep; ifthe analystfidgets,itis because the patientis spinningout an
endless trivialevasion, not because the analystis worriedabout other
things.The patientis conditioned to see it this way, and the analyst
tends to share thisperspective.This sortof attributionalasymmetryis
true of a large varietyof unequal power relationships:the low status
person's negativebehaviorsare dispositional,the high statusperson's
reactive.0

IV
I thinkthatan interestingnext step for psychoanalyticliterarycriticismwould be to take account of some of these differences.As it is,
the critictypicallyconcentrateson one text at a time and offersno
explicitcriteriafor his choice of certainpassages as especiallysignificant or revealingof primaryprocess. I have argued thatliterarytexts
are much more carefullyorganized, much more likelyto have been
repeatedlycycled throughthe secondaryprocess than psychoanalytic
texts,much more informedby a coherent vision of the author's. It
seems to me thata literaryanalysisthattook account of both (or all) of
these levels would be much more interestingthan one whichoffersa

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REGARDING THE AUTHOR AS PATIENT

single,deep-level interpretationillustratedbya listof examples. What

is the author's conscious message, and which parts of the text are
designed to conveyit?What is the author'scovertmessage, and which
partsof the textreveal it? In judging a text,whatare the standardsby
whichwe distinguishthose passages thatare mostaffectedby primary
process fromthose thatare least affected?How do we tellan intrusion
froman intentionallyplanted clue?
In addition to seeing more of this sort of differentiationin the
analysisof a single text,I would like to see more differentiationbetween authors. To what extent are two differentauthors aware of
their covert messages and how is this awareness reflectedin their
writing?How do the secondary process techniques, the modes of
disguise,differfromone author to the next?Are worksfromthe turn
of the centurymore likelyto use the defense mechanismsdiscovered
by Freud in his contemporary patients, and if so, are they most
amenable to psychoanalyticanalyses?Whyis Hammettdifferentfrom
Shakespeare?
YALE UNIVERSITY

NOTES
1 In an attemptto keep mytextrelativelyfreeof both sexismand ineptitude,I have
adopted the conventionof using male pronouns to referto the author (or patient)and
female pronouns to referto the literarycritic(or psychoanalyst).
2 VirginiaWoolf,"The Common Reader," in The CommonReader (New York, 1925),
p. 1.
3 In psychoanalysis,the assumptionis thatthe interpretationis unstatedbecause it is
unrecognized by the patient. Psychoanalyticcriticsare often reticentin giving their
assumptionsabout the degree of the author's recognitionof latentmeanings.
4 See, e.g., D.J. Schneider, A. H. Hastorf, and P. C. Ellsworth,Person Perception
(Reading, Mass., 1979), for an introductoryreviewof this research.
5 See, for example, W. Mischel,Personality
and Assessment
(New York, 1968); M. T.
Orne, "The nature of hypnosis: Artifactand essence,"Journalof Abnormaland Social
58 (1959), 277-99.
Psychology,
6 Example taken from B. A. Maher, Principlesof Psychotherapy:
An Experimental
Approach(New York, 1966), p. 413.
7 Gerard Manley Hopkins, "Pied Beauty,"in The PoemsofGerardManleyHopkins,ed.
W. H. Gardner and N. H. MacKenzie, 4th ed. (London, 1970), p. 70.
8 Laurence Sterne,Tristram
Shandy,ed. James A. Work (Indianapolis, 1940), p. 200.
9 Nanette C. Auerhahn, "Interpretationin the PsychoanalyticNarrative: A TheoreticalFrameworkfor the AnalyticProcess," Diss. Yale 1980.
10 Nancy C. Horn, "AttributionBiases in Evaluative Situations,"Diss. Yale 1977.

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