By 1912, the letters between Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung had changed. What had begun as intellectually alive, shot through with mutual recognition had begun to curdle. Underneath the careful theoretical arguments, something else was audible. Sue Johnson would have known exactly what she was looking at.

Our biology insists on honesty even when our psychology does not. The flush rising in our cheeks, tears springing to our eyes, our voice breaking when we speak of what matters. We are, whether we like it or not, transparent.