I think psychoanalysis is the last resort of the unfortunates who have failed to learn anything from life, love and experience.
I am not referring to reading Freud, Klien, Jung, Lacan or even psychoanalytic journals. I am only talking about the decision to spend unbelievable amounts of money and time lying on a couch talking about oneself, trying to resolve one's inner conflicts and lacunae. Do the analysands have no one to whom they can talk about their thoughts, no arms to cry into? Have they read no books, watched no films that jolt the very fundaments of their being? Have they never walked in a garden or a forest, listening until they listened no more?
The aim of psychoanalysis, as the books tell me, is to draw the attention of the analysand to the fact that s/he is mortal and insignificant, while simultaneously being both responsible and a mere spectator to his/her own life. Are we in an age where people have ceased to marvel, to observe, to savour the good and the bad that happens to them?
If so, I believe we have ceased to be human.