Contributors

Sébastien Smirou
Contributor History

Biography
Sébastien Smirou is the author of three poetry volumes: Un temps pour s’étreindre (2011), Beau voir (2008), and Mon Laurent (2003), all from P. O. L. A psychoanalyst, he has authored prefaces to new translations of Winnicott’s La haine dans le contre-transfert (2014), Ferenczi’s Un petit home-coque (2012), and Freud’s Le petit Hans (2011). His translations of Italian psychoanalytical texts include Antonino Ferro’s Rêveries (2012) and Domenico Chianese and Andreina Fontana’s Immaginando (2014), both from Éditions Ithaque. Smirou codirects the journal LIGNE 13 and has just completed a book on photographer Robert Capa. Conjunctions2008 publication of an excerpt from Smirou’s My Lorenzo 3: The Tournament appeared from Burning Deck in 2012. The 2015 publication of Smirou’s “The Dodo” is one of eight chapters from See About, which has been supported by an NEA translation fellowship for Andrew Zawacki and will appear in 2016 from La Presse.

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In Print

Vol. 82
Works & Days
Spring 2024
Bradford Morrow

Online

June 19, 2024
I am sorry for not writing sooner. To be completely frank, I was afraid of receiving a response and knowing for certain that you’re finished with me. I am very troubled by the way we’ve left things.
 
June 12, 2024
It took place in London at the end of the seventeenth century—a man was spending the evening at home, often thinking of a friend of his, a woman, who was very ill, worrying about her, hoping she would live, when there was a knock on the door, and she entered, looking fine, thriving, in fact, and sat down in a normal way and began a normal conversation, though she seemed a little more serious than usual until he began to cry, at which she continued quietly, discussing things of the soul, aspects of time, and he began to sob, and she continued speaking quietly, as he sobbed and sobbed, and when he finally looked up she was gone.
June 5, 2024
I’ll just speak for myself. This seems to be the best plan. When you try to speak on behalf of others you run into trouble. See? Already I has become you, but I cannot be you. But you can come along with me, at my side if you like, even if my walk is a bit awkward and you probably want to move more quickly over the terrain. Probably you wouldn’t say “terrain.” You would say ground or path or street. These choices don’t amount to a disagreement, just a different habit of mind. The mind’s terrain. Just now my mind’s terrain is a bit foggy, a bit dreary. It feels, inside of this fog, quite empty, as if, when the fog lifts, there will be nothing but an expanse uninflected by things to see or do, undisturbed by names and places, recollections and glimpses into other times and other places.