Jacqueline Rose

The​ language and conduct of Israel’s unceasing war against Gaza suggests that there is something more than the rational interests of a nation-state at play. The sheer extent of the carnage hints at a pleasure in destruction, not to speak of a drive towards absolute victory which is bound to be self-defeating. However shattered the force of Hamas, however long it takes the...

Rereading​ the work of the pioneering feminist literary critic Cora Kaplan, who died in November, I had two equally powerful but perhaps contradictory impressions: on the one hand, the sustained political energy of the writing, the refusal at any historical moment over the past forty years to relinquish the belief that cultural and literary analysis and production play a – sometimes

In response​ to the destruction of Gaza, it seems to be becoming almost impossible to lament more than one people at a time. When I signed Artists for Palestine’s statement last month, I looked for mention of the atrocities committed by Hamas against Israeli Jews on 7 October, and then decided to settle for the unambiguous condemnation of ‘every act of violence against...

The cast of EastEnders in the Queen Vic (1985).

In​ the first episode of EastEnders (19 February 1985), one of the longest running TV soap operas in the world, Reg Cox is found half-dead and stinking in a filthy garret after languishing there for days. For the next half an hour, the members of the community of Walford – the fictional East London borough where the show is set...

What is left of the inner life when the world turns more cruel, or appears to turn more cruel, than ever before? When it reels from inflicted blows – pandemic, war, starvation, climate devastation or all these together – what happens to the fabric of the mind? Is its only option defensive – to batten down the hatches, to haul up the drawbridge, or simply to survive? And does that leave room to grieve, not just for those who have been lost, but for the broken pieces and muddled fragments that make us who we are? Barely six months after the outbreak of the First World War, on Christmas Day 1914, Freud wrote to Ernest Jones to lament that the psychoanalytic movement ‘is now perishing in the strife of nations’ (the two men were on opposite sides in the war). ‘I do not delude myself,’ he wrote. ‘The springtime of our science has abruptly broken off . . . all we can do is to keep the fire flickering in a few hearths, until a more favourable wind makes it possible to light it again to full blaze.’ At a time of pandemic like the one we are living in today, is there room for anything like the complex reckoning with life and with death that is the unique domain of psychoanalysis?