In Search Of The Soul Of Psychotherapy
R.D. Laing is a tweedy and pleasant-faced Scot who avoids the lingual tricks of the mind-change trade. With his Scottish accent (“Ego” for example becomes Egg-o, as in the waffles) and with his Oxfordian good looks, he comes across more like a doyen of English literature rather than one of the most controversial practitioners of psychotherapy in Great Britain and the United States.
What is consciousness? It is what you are after you ask that question and are waiting for the answer.
Father never sold a single painting. He gave them away. He walked the streets in the early morning haze, avoiding crowds and lighted avenues, and handed his work to a face he admired.
What is it that we come out here to find? Is it just knowing that the old familiar faces will smile when they see us and our old friends will call to us to come sit at their campfires and talk and laugh and sing songs together? Maybe we expect to find some of the parts of our lives that have gone away.
I sat in Mrs. Mcintosh’s first-grade class, a gap-toothed five-year-old. Mrs. Mcintosh wore her white hair pulled back in a bun as big as an apple. She assigned each of us a number according to the alphabetical order of our last names. My number was thirteen and I was secretly pleased with it.
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I hate getting out of bed, especially to the alarm. If I can’t trust my own erratic rhythms to tell me when to stop sleeping, then I feel I don’t own my life.
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