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The Writing of AnxietyAnxiety at a Time of Crisis: Psychoanalysis and Wartime

The Writing of Anxiety: Anxiety at a Time of Crisis: Psychoanalysis and Wartime [Some time in the autumn of 1939, somewhere in London, a woman sits bolt upright in her bed gripped by anxiety. She blinks into the darkness searching for some familiar shape that might pull her back from the abyss of her dream world into the real world. But it is black, pitch black. Not for the first time, she curses the blackout. She hates the dark. Closing her eyes against the night, she fingers her throat and recalls her dream. It is a familiar dream: one of those arms that come to strangle her with regular monotony in the night is right now lying heavy across her thighs; it belongs to her husband who has not yet (why not?) been called away. Her analyst calls this persecutory anxiety. All she knows is that her head throbs and that all this has to end. It could end, were it not for this blackout. If there were no blackout then the bombs could come and find him — or her, it wouldn’t really matter who — and then it could end. She gently removes her husband’s arm from her body, clicks on the bedside light and makes her way towards the window.] http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png

The Writing of AnxietyAnxiety at a Time of Crisis: Psychoanalysis and Wartime

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References (1)

Publisher
Palgrave Macmillan UK
Copyright
© Palgrave Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited 2007
ISBN
978-1-349-28456-6
Pages
14 –32
DOI
10.1057/9780230592025_2
Publisher site
See Chapter on Publisher Site

Abstract

[Some time in the autumn of 1939, somewhere in London, a woman sits bolt upright in her bed gripped by anxiety. She blinks into the darkness searching for some familiar shape that might pull her back from the abyss of her dream world into the real world. But it is black, pitch black. Not for the first time, she curses the blackout. She hates the dark. Closing her eyes against the night, she fingers her throat and recalls her dream. It is a familiar dream: one of those arms that come to strangle her with regular monotony in the night is right now lying heavy across her thighs; it belongs to her husband who has not yet (why not?) been called away. Her analyst calls this persecutory anxiety. All she knows is that her head throbs and that all this has to end. It could end, were it not for this blackout. If there were no blackout then the bombs could come and find him — or her, it wouldn’t really matter who — and then it could end. She gently removes her husband’s arm from her body, clicks on the bedside light and makes her way towards the window.]

Published: Oct 6, 2015

Keywords: Real Danger; Night Terror; Psychic Life; Home Front; Modernist Painter

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