My older daughter is taking a course on Freud as a historical figure. There are at least four required texts and with her permission, I went out and bought them and told her I’d follow along; “Secrets of the Soul: A Social and Cultural History of Psychoanalysis” by Eli Zaretsky,“Revolution in Mind: The Creation of Psychoanalysis”, by George Makari, “Freud (The Routledge Philosophers)”, by Jonathan Lear, and “The Freud Reader” by old Sig himself. A week ago, I’d read the first assignments in each of them, according to the syllabus. This evening she’ referenced the next week’s reading and I realized I’d fallen behind. So, I started with the one and it was late by the time I’d properly caught up.
With only a surface knowledge of psychoanalysis, I found the Makari reading remarkable. Set back in the late nineteenth century, in Vienna and in Paris, here was a young mind, trying to work within an intellectual tradition and distinguish himself. He becomes fascinated with the possibilities of cocaine which he then rejects and commences a period of study alongside Jean-Martin Charcot, a practitioner of hypnosis. Later Charcot is discredited and Freud in a remarkable bit of intellectual gymnastics, manages a critique the work, defending parts of the tradition and suggesting as well and entirely new way to consider the unconscious. I don’t suppose I’ve ever properly considered what it might have been like as Freud, trying to assemble what 'Freudian' was. A number of the works reinforced this idea of psychoanalysis as a necessary corollary to the industrial revolution, when families and communities were broken down and society forced a different confrontation with the self.
Trump was acquitted again, today as we knew he would be. My wife said it depressed her. It was so obvious. How could it be? Perhaps more patriotic than I care to admit, I took it to ultimately be a sign of strength. The system held, against a tyrant. He’s out. He didn’t want to go. He’s gone. A flawed compromise, was for the thousandth time in the country’s history, fashioned, fifty-seven, to forty-three, to allow both sides to continue on. The citizenry watching compelled to make up their own minds. As intended, the American system, once again in a revolutionary cycle.
The team of House prosecutors were, in my opinion, heroic. I wanted to hug Jamie Raskin. His closing statement, invoking Thomas Paine, whom he’d named the son, who’d only just taken his life, after: “senators, this is “common sense,” rose, to my ears as a gripping crescendo. Everything about his intonation, the ferocity of his humility, the unflappable competence, seemed both noble and familiar. Stacey Plaskett, Joaquin Castro, Ted Lieu, I could sit down and enjoy a conversation with any of you. You and your colleagues all handled yourself with restraint, professionalism, grace. And then we had the tall and unconvincing Bruce Castor and the caricature-like performance by Michael van der Veen, who felt like middle school shop teacher or your neighbor's father, the football coach, gruff and dim, seemingly dancing on time, at the request of his client. They gloated. Of course they would. The schmucks. They gloated and it wasn’t impressive. No one seemed to think their victory was particularly well-earned.
I took a break to present my dad and my stepmom who came by some dumplings, that my wife had made for them. It’s Covid. They couldn’t stay. We chatted a bit. They drove back home about five minutes-drive from here. And when I went back into my office, the live stream of the trial had old Mitch McConnel on. There he was, finally saying all he should have said days ago, months ago, years ago. He has a deep voice. I enjoyed hearing it excoriate the former president, and then the stream was cut and now I was watching the gloat-twins again. It has switched before Mitch could utter his undignified “but.” The but that tried to let him have it both ways, where he could speak the truth about the former president’s behavior, finally, but still acquit him. Shameful.
Saturday, 02/13/21
No comments:
Post a Comment