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I was also a prime candidate for anxiety. Or, really, for an anxiety about anxiety, which is what many anxieties eventually turn out to be. Bloom’s picture was convincing, yet profoundly troubling: behind each ostensible feeling of love, joy or excitement there lurked only more ambivalence, more repression. Nothing in art could be simply good or healthy. In fact, literature seemed so caught up in an essential unhealthiness, it amounted to disease—one self-deception after another, only resolvable by more strategies of evasion. The Bloomian poet was, in many respects, like one of Freud’s patients: a set of fragile structures desperately trying to evade collision with its own deep suspicions about itself. And every attempt to stare into that abyss—as Bloom claimed to do, as did Freud—could always be further reduced to yet another evasion, yet another way of coping with the anxiety the abyss provoked.，详情可参考WhatsApp网页版
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Thinking Beyond Unification