Annette Baier on "Second Persons"

Quote lifted from my Dad's MA thesis: "The Gift and Labour of Gratitude". 

Gillian Rose, Love's Work

Jacqueline Rose, Mothers

Reading this book made me feel like I should read it annually.

Some reference notes and a passage: 

• Perfection and mother’s ambivalence - failure should not be seen as catastrophic but necessary and normal 
• Winnicott and healthy hating 
• Winnicott and the false self 
• Mothers as scapegoat
• Bettelheim and hating/blaming mothers for child’s destruction
• Birth/labour akin to war
• Clytemnestra pleading with her son Orestes to save her life by exposing her breast - an effort to remind him of their intimacy and her having fed and sustained him - which does not work and he kills her 
• Cultural and psychoanalytic ignoring of the mother’s erotic pleasure breastfeeding her baby (and the few sources that do address it)
• Erasure of mothers’ sexuality and the idealisation of mothers
• How can/should a mother bear her daughter’s protests without shattering? How can mothers really hear and listen to their children? 
• Hoping not that your child is happy but that they develop a rich, independent life
• Elena Ferrante and mothers with blurred margins

Vincenzo Latronico, Perfection

Rachel Cusk, Second Place

A mother's growing daughter... on loving and releasing. 

Selected passages from Sylvia Plath's Three Women

SECOND VOICE:
It is a world of snow now. I am not at home.
How white these sheets are. The faces have no features.
They are bald and impossible, like the faces of my children,
Those little sick ones that elude my arms.
Other children do not touch me: they are terrible.
They have too many colors, too much life. They are not quiet,
Quiet, like the little emptinesses I carry.

...

I did not look. But still the face was there,
The face of the unborn one that loved its perfections,
The face of the dead one that could only be perfect
In its easy peace, could only keep holy so.
And then there were other faces. The faces of nations,
Governments, parliaments, societies,
The faceless faces of important men.



---



FIRST VOICE:
Who is he, this blue, furious boy,
Shiny and strange, as if he had hurtled from a star?
He is looking so angrily!
He flew into the room, a shriek at his heel.
The blue color pales. He is human after all.
A red lotus opens in its bowl of blood;
They are stitching me up with silk, as if I were a material.

What did my fingers do before they held him?
What did my heart do, with its love?
I have never seen a thing so clear.
His lids are like the lilac-flower
And soft as a moth, his breath.
I shall not let go.
There is no guile or warp in him. May he keep so.



---



FIRST VOICE:
How long can I be a wall, keeping the wind off?
How long can I be
Gentling the sun with the shade of my hand,
Intercepting the blue bolts of a cold moon?
The voices of loneliness, the voices of sorrow
Lap at my back ineluctably.
How shall it soften them, this little lullaby?

How long can I be a wall around my green property?
How long can my hands
Be a bandage to his hurt, and my words
Bright birds in the sky, consoling, consoling?
It is a terrible thing
To be so open: it is as if my heart
Put on a face and walked into the world.

[Bold text my own.]

Never Done, Christine Smallwood (Harper’s, April 2018)

“A mother’s job is to love her child in such a way that he can love other people, specifically other people who treat him with kindness. It is an insane task to undertake, to give (almost) everything to someone who will, without thanks and probably with some rudeness, depart and go live his life elsewhere. It becomes easier to bear if one takes up [Jacqueline] Rose’s image, seeing the child not as a thing you own but as a person passing through, in need of temporary refuge. That you will fail at providing this refuge is part of the deal.”