There is very obviously huge room for artistic growth in the games industry, but at the same time there is a psychic and emotional need for wish fulfilment in the world, these crude and effective kicks that games provide. By effectively outlawing that you don't make the need disappear, you just frustrate it.
Great film that completely proves me wrong in what I said above. Particularly that section. I actually read the short story it's based on by... (I had to look it up) Pieyre de Mandiargues who also wrote Girl on a Motorcycle.E.g. mouth fetishism
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E.g. mouth fetishism
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Barty was telling me yesterday he's developed this inability to bring himself to orgasm without a kind of fist pump, yes! Just to get him over the finish line so to speak.
No, I never saw it. Had a quick look now. You said something up thread, and in Fantasies, about the cliché nature of fantasies. I've often said the unconscious manifests as cliché, that dreams are embarrassingly derivative and uninventive. Of course, there is the Jung archetype take on this. But beyond, not limited to this Jung-man's reading two questions crop up. Is the unconscious, its trite gnashing gimp mask tabloid power-sex nature, a reflection of traditional power structures' insidiousness or are these dominant forces in culture so because of our selfish and base selves? Neither prospect is a comfortable thought for 'liberals'.
I'm not here to protect the gentle dogmas of liberalism but do you think these are the only possible explanations?
When we say that we love a writer’s work, we are always stretching the truth: what we really mean is that we love about half of it. Sometimes rather more than half, sometimes rather less. The vast presence of Joyce relies pretty well entirely on “Ulysses,” with a little help from “Dubliners.” You could jettison Kafka’s three attempts at full-length fiction (unfinished by him, and unfinished by us) without muffling the impact of his seismic originality. George Eliot gave us one readable book, which turned out to be the central Anglophone novel. Every page of Dickens contains a paragraph to warm to and a paragraph to veer back from. Coleridge wrote a total of two major poems (and collaborated on a third). Milton consists of “Paradise Lost.” Even my favorite writer, William Shakespeare, who usually eludes all mortal limitations, succumbs to this law. Run your eye down the contents page and feel the slackness of your urge to reread the comedies (“As You Like It” is not as we like it); and who would voluntarily curl up with “King John” or “Henry VI, Part III”?One problem I run into with books is I struggle to say I like something if I think some of it's shit and I think there are shit bits in basically everything I've ever read.