Chessick’s philosophy is as pathomorphic as his psychoanalysis—not only does he restrict his theory of the mind to systems based purely on the investigation of deeply disturbed adults, but he also labels poets and patients with diagnoses ill supported in the text and controversial for many of us. "Although his father came the closest to fulfilling this [nurturing] function, Barry did not develop homosexual proclivities, but remained in search of the beloved one who never comes, as described by another narcissist, Rilke" (p. 55). Foreign words are rarely translated, Greek phrases are left in that alphabet and to the imagination of the average clinician, passionate love is caricatured as a vehicle "for a time enabling one to escape the constraints of reality" (p. 131), and the ability of loving others to soothe our ruffled affects is not cheered as a major joy of interpersonal intimacy but is consistently demeaned as a mere "selfobject" function worthy only of children or the child within the adult. "But no generalizations can be made about the function of falling in love beyond the fact that it tends to occur when there is a serious problem to be solved" (p. 140). As one reads the work of this truly gifted thinker, one becomes increasingly sad that he seems to believe that a fully mature human must live alone, fulfilled only by the pursuit of philosophical studies, which he proves must always be unsatisfying. No single work in my experience has so clearly explained the degree to which Freud’s great work was locked into and limited by nineteenth-century German philosophy.