The first pages of Goethe’s autobiography, Truth and Fiction: Relating to My Life, and Freud’s short article, A Childhood Recollection from Dichtung Und Wahrheit, (which interprets this memory – the boy throws all the pottery he can get his hands on out of the window – by considering that, Goethe is trying to get rid of his newborn brother under the guise of washing up) is a pretext for reminding us that what cannot be said by ordinary means can be brought to light through fiction. It is fiction, in other words, that provides access to a hidden truth, a truth that dwells in the subject without his having direct access to it and that determines him without his knowing it: the “truth of the unconscious”. It is a fiction that we have shown can take the form of a personal myth or a fantasy – a myth and a fantasy whose combination, when unfolded here, allows us to read, beyond the memory, what was decisive for Goethe: the love of his mother, won through hard struggle by rejecting what he believed had been given to him. And, as Lacan famously put it, he didn’t want it!