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The Monday Morning Memo

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Adam Phillips has been called “the Oliver Sacks of psychoanalysis,” and in his remarkable new book, Unforbidden Pleasures, he writes about agency and desire in an utterly transformative way.

Ileene Smith: Am I correct in thinking that unforbidden pleasures are often interior, and that your point is that… they are low-hanging fruit, there for the taking?

Adam Phillips: Most of the pleasures of our lives, I think, are in fact unforbidden. The whole range from enjoying one’s coffee in the morning to walking outside on a sunny day. I think that there’s a huge range of unforbidden pleasures but they are partly invisible—making a list of them might almost sound banal. So I would say that most of our pleasures, most of our real enjoyments, are actually unforbidden pleasures.

Oscar Wilde shows us the way the forbidden both excites pleasure and shapes our interest in it. Secondarily, though, he shows us the incredible unforbidden pleasure of interesting conversation between people. In other words, he shows us that maybe our primary unforbidden pleasure is conversation, is exchange.

See the full interview.

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Random Quote:

“One Sunday, as I waited to go on the air, a stranger dropped by KRAB’s rather ramshackle one-story wood-frame studio. Thin as a spaghetto, the guy had long, wild black hair, a pointy black beard, and wore a Mexican poncho across which like a bandolier was strapped a cheap guitar. In other words, he looked not unlike a thousand or more other skinny, hairy, ostensibly musical young men then yo-yoing up and down America’s West Coast. He talked like them, as well, scarcely introducing himself (he said his name was Charlie) before treating me to an earful of peace, love, and total liberation. Even as he mouthed the prevailing hippie philosophy, however, he did it with an articulation that was impressive and an intensity that was nothing short of galvanizing. . .

At any rate, the dude said he wrote songs and wished to perform a selection of them on Notes From the Underground, with which he was somewhat, somehow (he was not a local resident) familiar. Ordinarily, I would have consented, for while my shows were fairly well organized, it would have violated their spirit, the spirit of the times, not to be open to – even eager for – change and surprise. The following morning, however, I was leaving on a monthlong jaunt to Arizona and for that show only I’d scripted a program with a beginning, a middle, and an end. Any interruption of the Aristotelian flow would have sabotaged it, completely wrecking the desired cumulative effect. So, I turned Charlie down and sent him on his way.

Visibly disappointed but polite enough about it, he shuffled off into the summer night and vanished there. Two years would pass before I recognized his picture in the newspaper and realized that for better or for worse, I’d rejected – and tuned down an opportunity to tape a live performance by – Charles Manson.

 “

- Tom Robbins, Tibetan Peach Pie, p. 240-241

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