If a love story is first and foremost a ghost story, the love that Sigmund Freud nurtured for the city of Rome seems to transcend that almost mystical sense of martyrdom that populates every love obsession. Dreamlike wanderingsuffering in not being able to go as far as the realization of that deep, unfathomable desire, Rome for the young Freud remained for a long time an intermittent and misty question mark, set like a sword hilt in the rock of his subconscious.
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