How much lifetime has passed. This book was actually written near enough half-way through a nine-year analysis. By the time it went to press I might already have composed something of a variation. I was, in part, a different person, which is always the case with the making of new growth. However, the original assuredly had caught a moment which I was not prepared to scuttle on account of younger shoots. ‘If I cannot be myself in what I write, then my work would be nothing but lies and humbug’;* and now that some four years have passed since I left that Kleinian Home in a row of London houses, at the foot of a small hill, I know that I must try to capture a fragment of truth again, while knowing that it too, in time, will again be superseded.