Modern Psychoanalysis

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Tuesday, January 09, 2007

Note to Readers:

We'll be away until February this year - you may still post comments in the meantime, though they will not appear on the blog until we return.

Mise le meas,
James G. Fennessy

4 comments:

Anonymous said...

You have GOT to provide the translation for "Mise le meas".

I have made the assumption that it is a french phrase. Given that, I did a search and found that:

freetranslation.com provided the translation "put the meas"

babelfish provided "setting the meas"

wordreference.com lists mise as:
A) a nf (feminine noun) meaning "wager" or "placing"
B) the congugation of a v (miser) means "to rely on" or "to bid on"

No site (within my search) provided any meaning for "meas".

I am waiting with bated breath!
Until then, I guess I will have to "rely on my 'meas'!"

Jim said...

Irish complimentary closing -

roughly: "I am with respect."

Althea Hayton said...

(I thought this might amuse you!)


Larkin About

They take the rap, your Mum and Dad-
They do not mean to, but they do.
They fill up with the faults you had
And take the blame - for love of you.

But they were carried in their turn
By folks with quite a different brain,
And half the time tried to be firm
And half the time took on your pain.

Child hands on misery to Mum
And lets Dad carry all the shit.
Then he or she is innocent:
And that's about the size of it.

Althea

Anonymous said...

Just in case everyone who reads the blog doesn't recognize the reference in the previous post, here's the original:

"This Be The Verse" by Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Larkin catches something in his verse about anger and powerlessness in mid-century Britain and a related, bleaker re-imagining of what history is or can be made to mean. It's not very psychoanalytic--in fact, I'd say it's fairly contemptuous of psychoanalytic ideas about the family romance and any sentiment of the special value of each man's personal history--but still an undeniably smart bit of work. [The elevated line "It deepens like a coastal shelf" sticks out like a sore thumb--it's either an aesthetic breakthrough or a noble failure at wedding high and low styles, I can never decide which--the ambition is certainly admirable.]