September 9, 2003 - Psychoanalysis, Culture, Buxbaum, Me and an Analyst-Cousin's Comment
Writing and reading about Edith Buxbaum has been important to an understanding of myself. She was someone I could never be - well-trained and studied from childhood; organized in her thinking, living and work; sophisticated culturally and socially.
"It seems, more than ever, in poetry as in life," writes the poet Rika Lesser, "I need/the warmth of lives fully lived" (p.23)*
It is not that my life has not been "fully lived," but it has been lived differently than I might have lived it had I known how to live it differently, had I lived an Edith Buxbaum kind of life. But this is silly, isn't it? We are born who we are and helped or hindered along by those we are born to and, further, by those we meet on the way to adulthood and more: to oldhood.
In addition to writing poetry, Lesser is a translator of poems from the Swedish and Finnish. She quotes the poet and literary critic, John Hollander: "Those who translate admit others' lives into their own, become, in that process, the others they cannot be" (p. 21). This is true in my on-the-page (and in-the-mind) relationship with Edith Buxbaum.
She lived a life I admire and look up to. From an early age, Buxbaum knew what she wanted to do and be in this life. She rarely hesitated in making decisions about her education and her work. Early on, as a young teenager, she knew she wanted to study psychoanalysis and use it in her life, love and work.
Psychoanalysis may have been all the rage in the Vienna of Buxbaum's youth - it was part of the culture - but she was of the educated children who grabbed hold of psychoanalysis and made it hers. That her mother was a classic hysteric (as she reported in a 1978 interview with Lawrence Schwartz) salt and peppered the pot. Psychoanalysis, including its intellectual and academic roots, was Edith Buxbaum's way of being in the world.
*Rika Lesser, All We Need of Hell: Poems, 1995
July 15, 2005 post-script
My way of being in the world may have contained introspection and reflection and watching out for others, out of a feeling of responsibility and, no doubt, fear, but the 1950s Baltimore, Maryland Jewish ghetto as I knew it contained not a lick of psychoanalytic thought or practice. While a psychoanalytic sensibility had always been a part of my intrinsic nature, psychoanalytic study did not come to me until I demanded it of myself, quite into middle age.
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