A question runs through the entire book. What is psychoanalysis without the experience of intimacy? Is that thread, that plot, that flash of insight linked to transference? To the experience of analysis? How? Since when? Gabriela Pedrotti insists on not falling into the logic of meaning, certain that what is said must happen, must unfold in another way. That is why her recourse to a poetic, measured discourse prevents her from closing the subject. It is a continuous, shifting landscape, with references and stops at crucial problems that interest psychoanalysis: the sinthome, the training of the analyst, their desire; and other more original ones such as despair, wonder, the instant...
But this book is also a paean to writing, to poetry, and to femininity. Because it writes about difference, complicates love and horror, and plays with a language for which the reader will be grateful, once they can appropriate it. That is her wager.