Word: freudians
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...parlor singing can be bought at a record store, eliminating the need for any actual singing in the parlor, why not a night's recorded conversation, eliminating the need to talk? Possible titles: Sneer Along with Mort Sahl, Rant and Rave with Senator Eastland, Analyze with Famous Freudian and Moan and Groan with Joseph Alsop...
...criticism, Editor Scott Newhall says loftily: "The column is aimed at the American wife who is approaching a more mature age, and affords her a chance to restore some of the excitement she had in her younger years. Count Marco is writing around the brink of a great big Freudian abyss." Where Editor Newhall may be going wrong in his circulation drive is in mistaking a sewer for an abyss...
...contemporary scene to Mr. Feiffer can be best beheld from the windows of the Voice--big ones that look out on a wide prospect of Greenwich Avenue. His vision is far from universal: when he is not looking at his urban, liberal, Freudian, cultural (if not always cultured), ostentatiously enlightened milieu, he is looking at other things from its viewpoint. Anyone who belongs to this milieu, or who can temporarily or permanently assimilate into it (which is easy, after a few years at Harvard), will find both books full of old friends sensitively observed and old enemies devastatingly put down...
...world, justice is the result of direct action, not of elaborate legality. A man's fate depends on his own choices and capacities, not on the vast impersonal forces of society or science. His motives are clearly this or that, unsullied by psychologizing (except, of course, in the Freudian frontier yarns). Moreover a man cannot be hagridden; if he wants to get away from women, there is all outdoors to hide in. And he is not talk-ridden, for silence is strength. Says Sociologist Philip Rieff: "How long since you used your fists? How long since you called...
...that he is, swirls his sorrows into a big black cape and goes thundering about the countryside on a big black horse, looking somehow, as Actor Brynner keeps poking about unpleasantly with his riding crop, less and less like a Red Army officer and more and more like a Freudian interpretation of Ivan Skavinsky Skivar. Back in town, the major-hero toasts the heroine in vodka, then chews up the glass as a chaser, superbly indifferent to the blood that dribbles down his chin. Ekh, Tovarish! What does a man care for such scratches when his heart is bleeding...