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Thread: Winnicott and Psychoanalysis

  1. #1

    Default Winnicott and Psychoanalysis

    Is anyone farmiliar with this guy's texts? I never imagined psychoanalysis could be poetic, but Donald Winnicott's writing seems to have a kind of intuitive optimism toward existence... He discusses regression positively, and in this essay suggests that culture is rooted in the stage of development where a child begins using a transitional object. It's called "Playing and Reality"; I'd love to see what you all think of it. It makes me think of TB's as a lucky few who managed to retain an awareness of the "transitional phenomena" that Winnicott describes.


  2. #2


    Quote Originally Posted by rako2 View Post
    I never imagined psychoanalysis could be poetic,
    i wouldn't have said it was poetic (it containing neither rhyme nor rhythm), but i would say that it is too child-centric, as most freudian stuff is.
    the child-centricity bogs down any analysis of thought and emotion, in my opinion, and places too great an emphasis on the nurturing acts of the mother at the expense of a looking at how independent [of mind] we are, in infanthood and beyond.
    as you may or may not know, i don't consider most 'adults' to be adults: they're simply expanding their range of playful things and, crucially, playing at being adults. effectively, we never loose the sense of infanthood, we just get paid for our playing (jobs) and then spend all that money on newer, bigger and better toys (houses, cars, televisions, etc).
    and all that playing is also a crucial part of social bonding (with our blood relatives and peers), in a seeking of positive reassurance and sense of kinship, as if to say, "look, mummy. aren't i a big boy, now?"

    and i was going to rudely remark, 'what was Winnicott's day-job?', for a matter of context, but i shall phrase it another way with: wasn't Winnicott simply playing at being a doctor?
    in such a context, Winnicott was doing no different from any TB/AB, just acting out a later stage of childhood pretence. maybe that's why his musings were so eloquently written (as a plaything, to pleasure himself and his peers)?

    the strangest thing about his paper, for me, was that it was published in the year of his death, 1971, the year of my birth.

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