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Quote by Sigmund Freud

“In his fight against the powers of the surrounding world his first weapon was magic, the first forerunner of our modern technology. We suppose that this confidence in magic is derived from the over-estimation of the individual’s own intellectual operations, from the belief in the ‘omnipotence of thoughts’, which, incidentally, we come across again in our obsessional neurotics.”

Book:New Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis

Work

New Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis

This book delves into the core principles of psychoanalysis, offering an in-depth exploration of the theories and methodologies developed by key figures in the field. It is designed as a foundational text for students and professionals seeking to understand the discipline's historical context and its contemporary applications. more

Author

Sigmund Freud

Sigmund Freud, born on May 6, 1856, in Moravia, and died on September 23, 1939, in London, was an Austrian neurologist and the founder of psychoanalysis. Known as the father of modern psychology, Freud made significant contributions to the understanding of human psychology, introducing concepts such as the unconscious mind, dream analysis, and sexual theory. more

“It was as if I were an oyster and somebody forced a grain of sand into my shell -- a grain of sand that I didn't know was there and didn't particularly welcome. Then a pearl started forming around the grain and it irritated me, made me angry, tortured me sometimes. But the oyster can't help becoming obsessed with the pearl.”

Writing Obsession

Author:Truman Capote

“Do not allow yourself to be obsessed on failures”

Life Truth Purpose Calling Obsession Obsessed Failures Obsess

Author:Sunday Adelaja

“If it weren‘t for Asperger‘s and obsessions there would be no Theory of Relativity, no Magic Flute, no Microsoft…and no Ghost Busters.”

Obsession Microsoft Theory Of Everything Asperger Syndrome

Book:Aspergirls

Source: Aspergirls

“Once or twice, at night, he planted himself in front of the type-writer, trying to get back to the book he'd come to New York to write. It was supposed to be about America, and freedom, and the kinship of time to pain, but in order to write about these things, he'd needed experience. Well, be careful what you wish for. For now all he seemed capable of producing was a string of sentences starting, Here was William. Here was William's courage, for example. And here was William's sadness, smallness of stature, size of hands. Here was his laugh in a dark movie theater, his unpunk love of the films of Woody Allen, not for any of the obvious ways they flattered his sensibility, but for something he called their tragic sense, which he compared to Chekhov's (whom Mercer knew he had not read). Here was the way he never asked Mercer about his work; the way he never talked about his own and yet seemed to carry it with him just beneath the skin; the way his skin looked in the sodium light from outside with the light off, with clothes off, in silver rain; the way he embodied qualities Mercer wanted to have, but without ruining them by wanting to have them; the way his genius overflowed its vessel, running off into the drain; the unfinished self-portrait; the hint of some trauma in his past, like the war a shell-shocked town never talks about; his terrible taste in friends; his complete lack of discipline; the inborn incapacity for certain basic things that made you want to mother him, fuck him, give your right and left arms for him, this man-child, this skinny American; and finally his wildness, his refusal to be imaginable by anyone.”