For Jacques Lacan what we conceive of as the 'real' is, for him, almost the opposite of reality.
Reality for Lacan is just a low-grade place of fantasy in which we shelter from the terrors of the Real., a Soho or a Downtown of the mind.
For Lacan the natural state of the human animal is to live a phantasmal lie. Fantasy is not the opposite of reality: it is what plugs the void in our being so that the set of fictions we call reality are able to emerge.
Desire for us, the mythical 'fallen' from a preposterous notion of Eden/Heaven/Paradise, desire flows us from like blood seeping from an unstaunchable wound.
This wound, a psychic stigmata, persists within as the hard core of the self.
We endeavour to repress this trauma, yet it persists within us as the hard core of the self.
This thing, this essence of us, is the factor which ensures that as human subjects we never quite add up, we know it exists, but we also accept it is unknowalbe and if we reflect on it, we are throw subtly out of kilter
There is something missing inside us which seems makes us what we are. It is mute but present.
No amount psychoanalytical plumbing can unearth it. But this thing, this muteness, appears again and again, negative for us, in the fringes, the borderlands of our discourse. What the hell, is it?
I cannot represent this kernel to you, nor you to me, for it is somewhere in the fog of the human psyche and our representation of it crumble and fail.
Well, that was very poetical, but is it all nonsense? Discuss
Reality for Lacan is just a low-grade place of fantasy in which we shelter from the terrors of the Real., a Soho or a Downtown of the mind.
For Lacan the natural state of the human animal is to live a phantasmal lie. Fantasy is not the opposite of reality: it is what plugs the void in our being so that the set of fictions we call reality are able to emerge.
Desire for us, the mythical 'fallen' from a preposterous notion of Eden/Heaven/Paradise, desire flows us from like blood seeping from an unstaunchable wound.
This wound, a psychic stigmata, persists within as the hard core of the self.
We endeavour to repress this trauma, yet it persists within us as the hard core of the self.
This thing, this essence of us, is the factor which ensures that as human subjects we never quite add up, we know it exists, but we also accept it is unknowalbe and if we reflect on it, we are throw subtly out of kilter
There is something missing inside us which seems makes us what we are. It is mute but present.
No amount psychoanalytical plumbing can unearth it. But this thing, this muteness, appears again and again, negative for us, in the fringes, the borderlands of our discourse. What the hell, is it?
I cannot represent this kernel to you, nor you to me, for it is somewhere in the fog of the human psyche and our representation of it crumble and fail.
Well, that was very poetical, but is it all nonsense? Discuss
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