The psychiatrist didn’t say a thing, but he took a fancy fountain pen out of his shirt pocket and held it out in front of him at arm’s length, as though presenting it. He just held it there. My friend, who was about twenty-six or twenty-seven at the time, got up from his chair, walked over to the psychiatrist, and took the pen. The shrink said, “Did you want that pen?” My friend said, “No, not really.” “Then why did you take it?” “I thought I was supposed to take it.” “The patients are holding out their troubles. They are not really asking you to take them. You should only take them if you
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