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  • The Sinthome: The Seminar of Jacques Lacan, Book XXIII

    The Sinthome by Lacan, Jacques; Miller, Jacques–Alain;

    The Seminar of Jacques Lacan, Book XXIII

      • GET 20% OFF

      • The discount is only available for 'Alert of Favourite Topics' newsletter recipients.
      • Publisher's listprice GBP 55.00
      • The price is estimated because at the time of ordering we do not know what conversion rates will apply to HUF / product currency when the book arrives. In case HUF is weaker, the price increases slightly, in case HUF is stronger, the price goes lower slightly.

        26 276 Ft (25 025 Ft + 5% VAT)
      • Discount 20% (cc. 5 255 Ft off)
      • Discounted price 21 021 Ft (20 020 Ft + 5% VAT)

    26 276 Ft

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    Availability

    Estimated delivery time: In stock at the publisher, but not at Prospero's office. Delivery time approx. 3-5 weeks.
    Not in stock at Prospero.

    Why don't you give exact delivery time?

    Delivery time is estimated on our previous experiences. We give estimations only, because we order from outside Hungary, and the delivery time mainly depends on how quickly the publisher supplies the book. Faster or slower deliveries both happen, but we do our best to supply as quickly as possible.

    Product details:

    • Edition number 1. Auflage
    • Publisher Polity Press
    • Date of Publication 2 September 2016

    • ISBN 9781509510009
    • Binding Hardback
    • No. of pages224 pages
    • Size 229x152x17 mm
    • Weight 446 g
    • Language English
    • 0

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    Short description:

    Ten times, an elderly grey–haired man gets up on the stage. Ten times puffing and sighing. Ten times slowly tracing out strange multi–coloured arabesques that interweave, curling with the meanders of his speech, by turns fluid and uneasy.

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    Long description:

    'Ten times, an elderly grey-haired man gets up on the stage. Ten times puffing and sighing. Ten times slowly tracing out strange multi-coloured arabesques that interweave, curling with the meanders of his speech, by turns fluid and uneasy. A whole crowd looks on, transfixed by this enigma-made-man, absorbing the ipse dixit and anticipating some illumination that is taking its time to appear.
    Non lucet. It's shady in here, and the Théodores go hunting for their matches. Still, they say, cuicumque in sua arte perito credendum est, whosoever is expert in his art is to be lent credence. At what point is a person mad? The master himself poses the question.
    That was back in the day. Those were the mysteries of Paris forty years hence.
    A Dante clasping Virgil's hand to be led through the circles of the Inferno, Lacan took the hand of James Joyce, the unreadable Irishman, and, in the wake of this slender Commander of the Faithless, made with heavy and faltering step onto the incandescent zone where symptomatic women and ravaging men burn and writhe.
    An equivocal troupe was in the struggling audience: his son-in-law; a dishevelled writer, young and just as unreadable back then; two dialoguing mathematicians; and a professor from Lyon vouching for the seriousness of the whole affair. A discreet Pasiphaë was being put to work backstage.
    Smirk then, my good fellows! Be my guest. Make fun of it all! That's what our comic illusion is for. That way, you shall know nothing of what is happening right before your very eyes: the most carefully considered, the most lucid, and the most intrepid calling into question of the art that Freud invented, better known under its pseudonym: psychoanalysis'.

    Jacques-Alain Miller

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