What brings one to undertake an analysis? It’s a question that echoes ceaselessly, each day, in the sessions with my analysands. Whom do they address? Indeed, there is something of being sought, for there is a speech flowing, and something important is in progress. Psychoanalysis, a theatrical unconscious dialectic, with several acts, and thoroughly about enjoyment, how paradoxical a notion that is. What does psychoanalysis seek to do? It seeks, in truth, the real of enjoyment. As an analyst, I listen to speech sometimes, and all other times I just listen. Speech presents as pleasure or as suffering, spoken from a place, depending on one’s subjective position, through nothing else but speech. The analysand finds solace in speaking. They are impelled to articulate their anguish, and then say some more. The analysand comes armed with words. He pours forth until certain analytical interventions strike certain chords, and then they come again the following day. They speak of dreams, they weave free associations around them, or make fragments as fantasies. These fragments of existence, or of lifelessness, spring to life and pulsate with a unique kind of joy, excitation or anxiety in the body, unlike any other setting or circumstance, as if the moment of suffering were lived out right there and then, upon my couch. The moment of life, a private moment which may become bearable. The analyst refrains from physical contact, and yet, neither do words touch, and yet, there exists a force in the tangible flesh of language, an essence that intersects with the analysand’s being. As a Persian speaker myself, I am compelled to borrow from this eloquent metaphorical language and express it as “jigar,” meaning liver. What a marvel this organ is. “You are the liver,” whispers the lover. This organ, the filter of life, coursing blood throughout any body. It is a universal flesh, one could say. Every body needs it. It rids the body of toxins and impurities, unwelcome guests in this sacred Persian sanctuary are walked out, banished through the body’s orifice. The liver, a creator of bile (and life), a fluid that purges waste. Thus, you see, it’s a tender term to address the Other as such, and when stripped of its bile, and the impurities, as just liver.