In Memory of Paul Lippmann

Paul and I knew each other for more than 65 years and we were close friends for much of that time. Paul and his wife Fran have been not just family, but warm and generous family. There aren’t too many people, including good friends, one can feel free to call and say, “I want to come to Stockbridge and spend a few days with you,” and invariably receive “Of course” as a reply. It is difficult for me to write about Paul in any context other than that of a deep and loving friendship. So, I will write about Paul the person, the dear friend, more than Paul the author and psychoanalyst—although, of course, they are intertwined. I live in California. Therefore, much of our contact was by phone. During the last year of Paul’s life we spoke on the phone about three or four times a week. During that time, Paul’s remarkable courage in facing his deadly illness was matched by his continuing and undiminished zest for life. Although he did not deny death, he did not wait around for it. Virtually every time we spoke Paul would excitedly tell me about some new stimulating book or article he was reading or some interesting ideas with which he was playing. He was always enthusiastic and excited about something. Our conversations were not mainly about his illness and treatment. After Paul brought me up to date on these matters, we went on to talk about many things: ideas, projects, the latest joke, family news, and we engaged in playful zaniness. Playful. That is certainly a word that characterized Paul. If playfulness is a mark of a good life—and I think it is—Paul certainly knew how to lead a good life. I think Paul’s success as a therapist was, at least in part, attributable to his natural ability to be playful, to the freedom of his imagination.