ON FIRST meeting Adam Phillips, you might not think that he was a psychoanalyst. His office in Notting Hill is filled with books on every wall and in stacks on the floor. But instead of therapeutic manuals, you will find volumes of poetry by J.H. Prynne, Percy Bysshe Shelley and Geoffrey Hill. The complete “À la recherche du temps perdu” nestles into the wall. He would not be out of place as a tutor in an Oxford quad—where he studied English before training as a child psychotherapist in London.
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