By Wilfred R. Bion
All My Sins Remembered is the continuation of Wilfred Bion's autobiography, The lengthy Week-end. even though it is certainly not an entire account of his 30 years following the 1st global War--and he wrote no more--his thoughts of that interval distinction vividly with the influence we achieve of the subsequent thirty years of his lifestyles via his letters. "The different facet of Genius" offers us a glimpse of this amazing guy as his family members knew him: those that met him merely via his specialist paintings will locate the following a similar attribute threads of humour, predicament for fact, and flashes of perception that have been the hallmark of his paintings in psycho-analysis.
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Extra resources for All My Sins Remembered: Another Part of a Life and the Other Side of Genius - Family Letters
Any of your male colleague’s spouses? God forbidPerhaps He did. I did not enjoy Inter. , and getting through by one mark was only one aspect of a long experience of teetering along being a remarkably lifelike specimen of a bloody fool. Yet I think 1remember, or imagine-I don’t even now know which-that there was a time when I was not one. When you got your DSO perhaps. Don’t be so ridiculous. I was never such a fool as not to know that if that sniper had aimed at me as skillfullyas he did at Captain Edwards I would have been dead.
They said they were moving further east along the coast; I returned to the company of my thoughts. Later that day I was walking along the river back to my pub when I found myself caught up by the pair. No, they had changed their minds and were going to stop the night at Alfriston. I had their company. I was wearing plus-fours-a costume which I felt did not suit me and which seemed to be more than usually ridiculous and out of place. So was my state of mind. The next morning was cool and fine. I stood outside my pub thinking of nothing in particular when ’he’ came along.
I was made aware that that was the kind of idiotic remark, a display of irrelevant curiosity typical of a psycho-analyst-or more exactly of me, the Elephant’s Child, one who does not learn for all its questions. Betty was as curious as I was, but she too learnt not to ask silly questions; there was a war on and no one could waste time on suchHow was York Cathedral? Had they arrested the ravages of the deathwatch beetle? York Minster couldn’t be cared for in wartime. What about Beverley Minster?