The reading of Francoise Samson's book reveals, shortly after walking, a constant: a very precise and careful dialogue, without erasing nuances and deferences, between the texts of Freud and Lacan. Thus, the preparation it proposes does not predess this dialogue, a reading exercise which is increasingly carried out in a particular way. Between fiction and pulssion, the indegueration into Franz Kafka's texts chronicles a unique moment, with no return, escaping repetition, while work on Marguerite Duras's film shows, behind the splendors of Venice, in his insistence, his true face. For the author, the desert is a place where no one can make countenance. Reading the prints, interpreting them, are matters of life and death. Orienting yourself requires a know-how with the sharpest traces and this knowledge is only acquired by the journey of experience. In psychoanalysis, it's the same thing. According to Freud, samson adds, from a place founded on "love of truth, that is, to the recognition of reality that excludes all false countenances". Lacan says nothing different: "Neither the air nor the countenance's song suits the analyst." Two of the garments of the "object a" Freud use an expression that is related to the gaze and Lacan evokes the voice. Thus, the suspension of the gaze, as a arrival of another part, can sneak between the words of the Other. And then the analyst in that hollow that is the bed of object a, becomes his representation. How do you manage to slide to that place? For Freud, who follows the principle of the lycation of a certain hour, the analyst is not there as a person not as a subject; it's alquela for a while and in a space that's no longer yours. With Lacan, the analyst does not own that place, because when he inhabits a discipleship, it is that speech that commands it.