ABSTRACT
I order my copy of A Memoir of the Future on a Tuesday night last February, having been asked to write something by September. Knowing little about it, I vow, with true superego severity, not to read too much of Bion’s other writings, not to dig into secondary texts or the more directly autobiographical memoirs, but rather to approach the text as one does a patient—without memory or desire. I wonder, is it even possible to forgo the comfort of theory?
