Thoughts of Love
Thoughts of Love
Edited by
Gary Peters and Fiona Peters
Thoughts of Love,
Edited by Gary Peters and Fiona Peters
This book first published 2013
Cambridge Scholars Publishing
12 Back Chapman Street, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2XX, UK
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Copyright © 2013 by Gary Peters and Fiona Peters and contributors
All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
ISBN (10): 1-4438-4871-9, ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-4871-8
CONTENTS
Chapter One ................................................................................................ 1
Thoughts of Love
Gary Peters
Chapter Two ............................................................................................. 10
Little Love Affairs: Psychoanalysis, Transference and Love
Fiona Peters
Chapter Three ........................................................................................... 28
Dangerous Ethics: Exploring Attachment and Destructiveness
through the work of Judith Butler and Jessica Benjamin
Polona Curk
Chapter Four ............................................................................................. 47
Eros and Its Discontents: On the Taming (and Un-Taming)
of Love’s Wild, Dangerously Unscripted Future
Richard Ganis
Chapter Five ............................................................................................. 66
Love, Paranoia and the Constitution of the Hegelian Subject:
From the Erotic to Master and Slave, Soldier and Philosopher
Jane Connell
Chapter Six ............................................................................................... 88
From the Works to the Problem of Love:
The Aporia of the Neighbour in Kierkegaard
George Tsagdis
Chapter Seven......................................................................................... 107
I Want You to Be: Love as a Precondition of Freedom
in the Thought of Hannah Arendt
Rachel Paine
vi
Contents
Chapter Eight .......................................................................................... 124
The Art and Truth of Love: Foucault (and Lacan) on Plato’s
Symposium
Sanna Tirkkonen
Chapter Nine........................................................................................... 141
Love and the Preciousness of the Individual
Elizabeth Drummond Young
Chapter Ten ............................................................................................ 155
Love and Sympathy: Building on the Legacy of Max Scheler
Aleksandar Fatić
Chapter Eleven ....................................................................................... 176
Love through Proximity and Distance in Goethe and Benjamin
Sonia Arribas
Chapter Twelve ...................................................................................... 192
“Excuse Me, Sir, What Does it Mean, ‘To Kiss’”?
Thinking Beyond Universalism and Eurocentric Ideas of Love
Sarah Lawson Welsh
Chapter Thirteen ..................................................................................... 207
A Stroll through Hell in Search of Love:
Discovering Polish Responses to a Century of Suffering
Gavin Cologne-Brooks
Contributors ............................................................................................ 221
Index ....................................................................................................... 224
CHAPTER ONE
THOUGHTS OF LOVE
GARY PETERS
Love is a fickle thing, fickle because it is not a thing. Love flows; we
pour forth our admissions of love, are in turn swept away by its sometimes
cruel and sometimes unloving intensity. One lover melts into the arms of
another, a simultaneous emergence and dissolution of subjectivity and
objectivity—one can never be an object of love, one can never be
subjected to love—a dissolution that renders all dualism bereft. Badiou is
right: love is a “procedure” to the extent that something proceeds, but he is
also wrong: it is not exclusively a “two scene” (Badiou 2001: 51). He is
right to resist the dialectical sublation of the two into the one, but the
fidelity to two-ness understood as an eventual truth procedure needs itself
to be resisted, not in the name of the one, but in the name of love, the
poignancy of which is precisely the coexistence of two-ness and one-ness,
as all young lovers will testify to (our conclusion).
But why does love have such a good name? Does it have a good name?
Surely its fickleness contradicts the honour it receives? Could one imagine
a more unworthy recipient of such valorisation, of such glorification? Of
such passionate commitment (the passion for love)? In truth, love is
neither true nor false; it deserves neither a good nor a bad name. Love
cannot be named, nor can it be evaluated, nor can it be judged: love is not
of the order of truth, goodness or beauty (or passion), hence its resistance
to philosophy and (vice-versa) philosophy’s resistance to it. Who would
join a philosophy class to learn the secrets of love?1
But still we talk and write, make claims that are as grandiose as they
are mystifying—“love is all”, “love is stronger than death”, “all you need
is love” (a favourite…it’s my age), “love makes the world go round”—
why do we so love to speak of love, of that which is not of the order of
speech? Is there a danger that our love of speaking will displace the very
thing that we are speaking of? Yes, there is that danger, but then perhaps it
is a necessary risk, one that has to be taken if we are to ensure that silence
2
Chapter One
is not inadvertently permitted to lord it over the radically inarticulate
domain of love. Derrida repeatedly says the same when finding himself
standing beside the dead bodies of his friends, one by one, and required to
speak of his love for them and (of course) of their own writing and
speaking (always in that order, it’s Derrida, remember). He speaks in order
to keep the silence, ever-ready to impose its own unspeakable regime, at
bay. The solemn profundity of silence is as much a sham as the clichéd,
sentimental chit-chat that is also always available to impose its own form
of mystification and obfuscation. Standing beside and speaking of/to his
departed friend Althusser, Derrida speaks thus, and rather beautifully:
Forgive me for reading, and for reading not what I believe I should say –
does anyone ever know what to say at such times? – but just enough to
prevent silence from completely taking over, a few shreds of what I was
able to tear away from the silence within which I, like you, no doubt, might
be tempted to take refuge at the moment….It is almost indecent to speak
right now…but silence too is unbearable. I cannot bear the thought of
silence, as if you in me could not bear the thought. (Derrida 2001: 114)
Turning this around, love, like speech, is itself “almost indecent”, but,
and this is the point, only almost. Through the pure force of its own
dubious rhetoric, language is forever in danger of forcing love into the
sterile chiasmus of an indecency of speech and the perceived decency of
silence. Thus, most philosophical discourses on love reflect this very
chiasmus and, as a consequence, perpetually restage the drama of love as a
conflict of indecent and decent forces, a re-production that almost captures
its theme—but not quite! But what is the nature and status of this
“almost”, this “not quite”? Counter-intuitively perhaps, silence says too
much while speaking/writing says too little: Barthes writes something
similar in A Lover’s Discourse:
My expressive needs oscillate between the mild little haiku summarizing a
huge situation, and a great flood of banalities. I am both too big and too
weak for writing: I am alongside it, for writing is always dense, violent,
indifferent to the infantile ego that solicits it. Love has of course a
complicity with my language (which maintains it), but it cannot be lodged
in my writing. (Barthes 2002: 98)
So, why put our thoughts of love into writing then? Indeed, why collect
the writings of others on love, and to what end? Each of the writers here in
this volume could, no doubt, provide their own answers to these semirhetorical questions, even if their writings do not—why should they?
Writing is not just about answering questions! Jean-Luc Marion, who has
Thoughts of Love
3
of course achieved his recent fame thanks to his writings on love, declares
that philosophers have largely ignored the subject of love (Marion 2007:
1), so at least the present work, alongside his own, might signal something
of a sea change—but what exactly is likely to change? Will more writing
on love bring us closer to its essence, can we “know” love, as the cliché “I
have known love”2 would suggest? Indeed is there any kind of relation
between love and knowledge? Or perhaps knowing and knowledge must
be distinguished in the case of love, and indeed not only there, which
might make love a model, an exemplar of being—of being-with—that is
irreducible to the lover’s (or any other) discourse, including this one.3
Of course, the essays collected here are not lover’s discourses; they are
about love not the expression of love (that would be weird). But, having
said that, the title of this collection—Thoughts of Love—consciously
replaces the word “on” with “of” as a gesture (perhaps empty) intended to
capture the fact that, whether consciously or not, intended or not, to write
on love (in any way that is remotely meaningful) is to write from out of
love. As in the French “de”, to write of love is to write from: love is
originary. This, of course, begins to bring us close to the Heidegger of
Being and Time who installs “care” as a “primordial structural totality”
that is ontologically prior to, and constitutive of the human and humanistic
existential categories of (for example) love and devotion. (Heidegger
1962: 238) But typically, as Marion would no doubt point out if he
referenced other philosophers (which he explicitly, and rather annoyingly,
does not), Heidegger conspicuously avoids the subject of love; there is
only one reference to it in Being and Time and then only in a footnote on
the anxiety associated with the love of God. (1962: 492: iv). As an
existential category, love is far too ontical for him; too much of “the
They”, too human. This is a pity because, for all of the richness of his
account of “care” it misses, and thus fails to ontologically ground the
molten core of true love, which, apart from anything else, is capable of
extraordinary care-freeness (and, as we know, terrible care-less-ness).
Judith Butler is no stranger to Heidegger, in fact she uses the related
(very Heideggerian) concept of “conscience” in her own reflections on
love as it relates to the Althusserian ideological “interpellation”. Butler’s
view is that the turn to respond to the “call” of the law (remember, the
metaphorical “call” comes from a policeman) bespeaks a love of the law
that, as ideologically constitutive of subjectivity, amounts to a love of
being—a desire to be. In this sense, all thoughts on love (indeed all
thought) would be, ontologically speaking, thoughts of love: to repeat,
love here is originary. And yet, as Butler acknowledges, Mladin Dolar in
his critique of Althusserian “interpellation” claims love as an outside of
4
Chapter One
the law and resistant to the “call” of ideology, a moment of passionate
autonomy. Faithful to her mentors Althusser and Foucault, Butler is
reluctant to accept at face value Dolar’s claim that love is what is “leftover” and “beyond” interpellation. (Butler 1995: 23), and yet she is clearly
attracted by the idea that there might be some possibility of imagining a
non-ideological space of true or pure love. The problem to be confronted
though is that, if one can imagine a non-ideological love then it would
have to be a love devoid of—or dissolving of—subjectivity itself, given
Butler’s continued adherence to an Althusserian model of subjectconstitution. It is this concept of love, on the very edge of being and nonbeing that is so often ignored or repressed in philosophical discourse, even
where love is the topic, as in Alain Badiou’s In Praise of Love, where the
identity of “the two” lovers in their resistance to “the one” is always
already assumed. But then his philosophy is, of course, set against the
ontology of being, so the love of being or non-being is hardly an issue for
his own mathmatico-erotico concerns.
Butler’s consideration of a love that does not desire to be leads her into
Nietzschean territory which, if nothing else (already a lot), directs the
thought of love away from the moral and religious domains that, together,
dominate what little philosophical reflection there is on the subject. Prior
to the moralisation of the erotic, prior to the spiritualisation of the agapic,
there is here identified (by Nietzsche/Butler) a raw willing of being that,
Janus-like, faces both ways: the love of being/the dissolution of being; the
love of the law/the dissolution of the law; the constitution of the
subject/the de-constitution of the subject. Maybe this, the autodestructiveness/constructiveness of the amorous will, can replace the
sterile philosophical chiasmus of decency and indecency passed over and
above and rightly mocked by Nietzsche. But smirking at the “resentiment” and hypocrisy of the moral majority (“herd”) and exposing the
malicious self-hate that necessitates the “death of God”, while
philosophically entertaining, still does not sufficiently address the
difficulty that remains here: how can this love be spoken, written,
delivered in such a way that the silence, so dignified by morality and
religion alike, can itself be silenced by another language of love.
To be fair to Nietzsche, no one could have been more aware of the
dead-weight of language and the “spirit of gravity” that would weighdown any communicative flights, whether amorous or not. But, that said,
he was by all accounts very inexperienced in love, a view to be treated,
however, with some considerable scepticism (he was certainly inexperienced
in sex, quite a different thing). But, experienced or inexperienced, he does
perhaps offer a way forward (or should we say backward?) in his
Thoughts of Love
5
promotion of, if not young love, then certainly youth. And, significantly,
he does in fact mention love in his promotion of the “unhistoricality” of
the young.
We know, indeed, what history can do when it gains a certain ascendancy,
we know it only too well: it can cut off the strongest instincts of youth, its
fire, its defiance, unselfishness and love, at the roots…(Nietzsche 1983:
115):
The sign that guarantees the superior robustness of its own health shall be
that this youth can itself discover no concept or slogan in the contemporary
currency of words and concepts to describe its own nature, but is only
aware of the existence within it of an active power that fights, excludes and
divides and of an ever more intense feeling of life (1983: 121).
Where Heidegger places his emphasis on the remembering of a
forgotten being, Nietzsche proposes, indeed demands, a forgetting of an
all-too-remembered history. In truth, they are of course both speaking of,
if not the same (Nietzsche is no ontologist), then of very similar things: the
need to forget in order to remember. But what does Nietzsche wish to
remember? Above all he wants to re-connect (or re-root) his thought in the
destructive-creative force of the will; a will that is strangled by history and
silenced by language (concepts/slogans). But, more than this, and prior to
the originary act of the will that creates and destroys the infinite becoming
of being, Nietzsche’s love of youth is itself an attempt to remember a
youthful love that makes possible the self-creative/destructive act:
For it is only in love, only when shaded by the illusion produced by love,
that is to say in the unconditional faith in right and perfection, that man is
creative. Anything that constrains a man to love less than unconditionally
has severed the roots of his strength: he will wither away (1983: 95).
But, as Butler would no doubt remind us, how can we forget the very
discourses of love that have allowed us to “know” what love is in the
name of a pre-linguistic, pre-cultural, pre-ideological (and thus presubjective) will to be/not be that is “left-over” once this masterful voice
has spoken? Maybe we can’t; although Butler’s response to this aporia is
to suggest a different mode of occupying such discourses, one that
highlights the performativity of language through the parodic, the ironic
and the deconstructive. She has been criticised for certain idealism in this
respect— and to be sure it is certainly easier said than done! But then so is
everything concerned with academe.
Chapter One
6
A different, if somewhat ingenuous (i.e. non-“philosophical”) approach,
might be to actually look at young love and its own faltering attempts to
avoid the concepts and slogans of its own historical repression: why not? So,
in conclusion, here are some passages from an anonymous, but genuine love
letter written by one young person to another.
Dear X
I know this is really lame writing a letter, but I feel it’s the only way I
can tell you how I really feel.
I think I always had a soft spot for you…
You’ve made me truely (sic) believe that I am worth someone’s time…
I really don’t know how to express how I feel about you, have felt and
will always feel, without it sounding too cliché, so I will try my best to do it
in the least lame way…
I just love looking at you, every single outline of you is perfect and you
create this perfect shape of presence…
I’m completely terrified of considering what the future will be like, it’s
too difficult for me to lose you, but I know it’s what you want, for there to
be no us…
It’s almost as if you have helped me expand my mind and to be a better
person, I feel like my dreams will be so much more colourful and vivid now
that you’ve helped me see things. But without you, I know those dreams
will crash in on themselves and I’ll be stuck in a continuous loop of
sadness…
I know this letter may seem really jumbled up and confusing, but I just
put pen to paper and wrote exactly how I feel (I probably still haven’t
finished)…
You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, nothing can ever
come close.
I’ll never forget you or how you’ve made me feel.
I love you
From Y
Like speaking of the dead, there is something indecent about reading
other people’s love letters and, worse still, plundering them for
philosophical gain or the gratification of an academic audience keen to
“wanna know what love is”.4 But then if, as Butler suggests, “conscience
makes subjects of us all”, then the feelings of guilt that will inevitably
accompany the following remarks might be understood as themselves
constitutive of a subjectivity that is here attempting to comprehend its own
Thoughts of Love
7
“love of the law”, its own desire “to be”—a likely story (but a story
nonetheless, and one necessary to bring these thoughts to a close).
Back to the love letter: don’t ever say that young love is full of joy and
optimism! This letter is almost overwhelming in the tragic balance it
strikes between hope and regret, happiness and sadness, dreams and
reality. It is young, so innocent, and yet already old, already dying at the
moment of its beautiful birth. If there be any doubts about the intensity
and searing pain associated with the ironic-parodic predicament played out
within Butler’s notion of performativity, then here would be a good place
to start. The very writing of this love-affair — by such a young hand — a
writing already dependent upon age-old clichés and the lameness of a
world-weary code,5 is itself the originary force that, through its very
pronouncement, establishes the thing which can now be lost. So, unlike
words addressed to the dead, words drawn forth from a place of loss, these
words passed from one young lover to another originate in an
overpowering fullness; the gain rather than the loss of the other, the
“perfect shape of presence” (what a beautiful phrase!) rather than the
absence of the departed. But, to say again, this presence is at its birth
already haunted by its own absence, a gain full of loss, a beautiful “now”
under the curse of its own future. Thus, to be accurate, the birth of young
love is a sublime rather than a beautiful moment, it is always a pleasure
filled with pain. If, as Dolar maintains, love is in excess of the
“interpellation” of the ideological state apparatuses, it is also in excess of
itself: the spatial alterity of the loved-one; the temporal alterity of an
anxious, because terrifyingly uncertain, futurity. “I’ll never forget you or
how you’ve made me feel”: such is the future-loss already in excess of the
beautiful moments of love and the lover’s presence. This, perhaps better
than anything, demonstrates the manner in which, as Nietzsche has shown,
the love necessary to create, indeed to create itself, must have the strength
to suffer the necessary destruction that accompanies the creative act. It is
precisely love that creates the possibility of its own loss, without love
there would be nothing to lose: this is the heart-rending discovery of
young love. To witness this realisation, as we do above—accepting the
guilt that such an intrusion brings with it—is a moving but also sobering
experience.
“I have always had a soft spot for you”: what could be more clichéd,
what could be lamer than that? And yet, like all clichés, such a phrase, one
bordering on the trivial, speaks volumes. And not only that: it simply
speaks, and speaks simply when philosophers (and not only them) have
preferred to stay silent. Of course, silence has many forms, philosophical
discourse (very occasionally on love) being one of them. But in the end
8
Chapter One
the “softness” of love is what makes it so hard to articulate, so hard to
predict and so hard to bear. The melting beauty of love and the terrifying
sublimity of the experience produced or created by its infinite movement
is not something unique to the young, but it is ontologically youthful to the
extent that it is only here that we catch a glimpse of an originary desire “to
be”, to “expand”, to be “better”, to be “valued”, and (if the infinite
willingness of love is to be protected) the desire (filled with pain) “not to
be”. And one last reminder, if one were needed, of the power of the cliché:
the final “I love you”, with all of its hopeless hope, is “truely” (sic) true,
and truly unbearable.
If nothing else, it would be good to think that the essays collected here
and the thought that originated them (and was, in turn, originated by them)
share a common love of love’s eternal youthfulness and the thinking that
such a thought might allow.
References
Badiou, Alain (2012): In Praise of Love, trans. Peters Bush. London:
Serpent’s Tale.
Barthes, Roland (2002): A Lover’s Discourse, trans. Richard Howard.
London: Vintage Books.
Butler, Judith (1995): ‘Conscience Doth Make Subjects of Us All’ in,
Yale French Studies, No. 88.
Derrida, Jacques (2001): The Work of Mourning. Chicago: The
University of
Chicago Press.
Heidegger, Martin (1962): Being and Time, trans. John Macquarrie &
Edward Robinson. Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
Marion, Jean Luc (2007): The Erotic Phenomena, trans. Stephen E.
Lewis. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press.
Nietzsche, Friedrich (1983): ‘On the Uses and Disadvantages of
History for Life’, in Untimely Meditations, trans. R.J. Hollingdale.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Thoughts of Love
9
Notes
1
2
The same people who take a six-month course on ‘the Blues’ perhaps.
Silver Apples, I Have Known Love, Kapp Records, 1969.
I have known love and love has won.
I burned my fingers on the sun.
I’ve been imprisoned on the moon.
I have learned what truth denies.
I drank the teardrops from her eyes.
I surrendered much too soon…..we can safely skip the rest!
3
Barthes’s point of course.
I Want to Know What Love Is is a 1984 power ballad recorded by the BritishAmerican rock band Foreigner. The song hit #1 in both the United Kingdom and
the United States and is the group's biggest hit to date.
4
I wanna know what love is
I want you to show me
I wanna feel what love is
I know you can show me
5
Who said hyphenation was a dying art?
CHAPTER TWO
LITTLE LOVE AFFAIRS:
PSYCHOANALYSIS, TRANSFERENCE AND LOVE
FIONA PETERS
This chapter aims to investigate some of the ways in which the
psychoanalyst articulates the discourse of love. Traditionally at least,
psychoanalysis as a discourse has not been particularly vocal about the
question of love, concentrating instead on attempts to understand desire
and sexuality in their various intertwined (and pathological) formulations.
Indeed, many of Freud’s critics critiqued (and continue to critique) him as
being ‘obsessed’ with sex, ignoring the ways in which both the theoretical
and clinical aspects of Freudianism work together to undermine and
challenge the conception of sexuality as being “about” sex in the generally
accepted genital meaning of the term.
However, on closer reading it is clear that psychoanalysis is in fact all
about love, from the first manifestations of subjectivity as narcissistic to
the “love affair” of transference that dominates the analytic situation.
Importantly, the existence of the transference first manifested itself within
a proto-analytic situation, in 1882 (the “Anna O” case history) from the
patient herself, emerging as (at the time) a surprising and unwelcome
development out of the ‘safer’ hypnosis therapy. Transference (and
counter-transference) is pivotal to the analytic situation, showing that the
experience of therapy is in fact a love relation that echoes (and hopefully
alleviates) the strain of the vicissitudes of the patient’s other relationships,
past and present. According to Adam Phillips:
The technique is a calling up, an evoking of the patient’s desire, and then
instead of acting on her desire the patient must be encouraged, against
enormous resistance, to understand it. Like the analyst, she must speak but
not touch. Psychoanalysis is about what two people can say to each other if
they agree not to have sex (Bersani & Phillips 2008: 112).
Little Love Affairs: Psychoanalysis, Transference and Love
11
This chapter will take up the question of the role and function of sexual
love in Lacanian psychoanalysis, and then continue to outline the
centrality of transference within the psychoanalytic situation. Lacan argues
that love touches the other in the Real. This does not mean however, that
for Lacan love has a “true” reality, on the contrary he means that it is
something always tantalisingly beyond our grasp as human subjects
trapped within a world of symbols and words.
Love, for Lacan, is the condition that reveals most about the
impossibility of the sexual relation insofar as it reveals both the desire to
engulf and dominate the object into the self, and the ways in which the
loved one can never “live up” to the projected fantasy invented by the
besotted lover. As Lacan puts it: “I love you, but because inexplicably I
love in you something more than you – the objet petit a – I mutilate you”
(Lacan 1981: 74). Here, love becomes inexorably bound not to any
transcendent aspects of the loved one, but remains on the side of the
“victim” of the “sickness” that Freud believed constitutes “falling in love.”
As Slavoj Žižek puts it: …"man’s love for a woman – his very ‘spiritual’,
‘pure’ love as opposed to sexual longing – is a thoroughly narcissistic
phenomenon: in his love of a woman, man loves only himself, his own
ideal image” (Žižek 2007: 199). These examples illustrate a masculine
relationship to love within a Lacanian framework; the paper will conclude
by explicating the different relations of the masculine and the feminine to
the paradox of love.
The conception of love that Freud offers needs to be separated from the
notion of the drive, itself distinct from the purely biological instinct. The
concept of the drive in Freud brings us closest to a recognition of the
workings of the unconscious – insofar as the drive “drives us” – the
impulsive nature of the drive reminds us that it can lead the conscious
mind to places that it doesn’t want to go – where control is lost – a drive
without some form of violence or aggression is a contradiction in terms.
Freud makes a distinction between drive and instinct – drives being
specifically human, and in his 1915 paper ‘Instincts and Their
Vicissitudes’ he outlines the four components of the drive, pressure,
source, aim and object. By 1920 in ‘Beyond the Pleasure Principle’, when
he introduces the concept of the death drive, Freud realises that what he
had presumed prior to that, that human beings’ drives are purely towards
pleasure, or attainment of the object (always part objects) are continuously
disturbed by an internal contradiction – opposed to the pleasure principle
and yet at the same time aligned to Eros. This will lead Freud towards the
theorisation of masochism and sadism as erotic positions, reinforce his
belief that there can be no “normal” sexuality and also influence his work
12
Chapter Two
on repetition (of painful situations) and the ways in which self-destructive
tendencies thwart the pursuit of happiness, leading to his argument in his
late (1937) paper ‘Analysis Terminable and Interminable’, that, at the
“completion” of an analytic treatment “…if a patient who has been
restored to heath in this way never again presents a disorder that puts him
in need of analysis, you never know how much of this immunity may be
due to his good luck in not having to face any tests that are too hard for
him” (Freud 2002a: 177). In this paper Freud uses the term “transference
love”, but how does he discuss love more generally? Freud tentatively
works through problems such as why the human being cannot merely
follow the path that the pleasure principle might be seen to lead us on – for
gratification, immediate and at all costs. He developed beyond the pleasure
principle to begin to explore the self-imposed limits on this, forever
restricting our attempts for love to keep us together.
Freud speaks most often of love in his papers on technique – those that
set out and deal with the practice of psychoanalysis – the analytic
situation. He came upon the phenomenon that he called transference (and
its necessary correlate, counter-transference) through his colleague
Breuer’s patient Anna O, who was initially treated by hypnosis but came
to speak of her treatment as her “talking cure” as Breuer allowed and
encouraged her to speak of her distress in the form of stories she told him giving rise to the new practice of psychoanalysis. During the course of her
treatment she apparently “fell in love” with her doctor who, caught
between his patient and his jealous wife, abandoned the “talking cure” and
left the incipient birth of psychoanalysis to Freud. Even at this early stage
in the long history of psychoanalysis we can see the recognition of what
we could term the “public”, structural dimension of love that Žižek points
out is essential if it is not to implode: “The more we progress from the
outside to the inside, i.e. the more a love-relationship loses its support in
the external symbolic texture, the more it is doomed to fail and even
acquires a lethal dimension” (Žižek 1992a: 102).
In the paper on technique ‘On the Dynamics of Transference’ (1915)
Freud remarks that this “…almost inexhaustible topic” allows the analyst
to trace the particularity of the symptom as it is displaced into the
relationship established between analyst and patient. As in his analysis of
the drives, Freud argues that this can manifest itself both positively or
negatively, in other words through a transfer of feelings that are
affectionate or hostile – transference can be “about” the aggression that
exists at the heart of every love relation, as Freud sees it. However the
transference that is manifested in each particular analysis, is always a
reworking, according to Freud, of that which psychoanalysis holds to be
Little Love Affairs: Psychoanalysis, Transference and Love
13
the primary and overwhelming love relationship, that of the child and the
mother.
That primacy of the dyadic relation with the mother (or first object) is
maintained by Freud – and later by Lacan – as one of the first principles of
psychoanalysis. It is useful when thinking about love, especially sexual
love, insofar as it “haunts” our subsequent object choices in ways that, it
can be argued, reiterate the idea that love is viewed in psychoanalysis as
an exemplar of the impossible striving that Lacan labels desire. In Lacan’s
reworking of, or “return to” Freud, he takes Freud’s ideas, developed
partly from the experiences of transference, to theorise the child’s move
from the all-encompassing totality of its demand for the mother, and no
one else, to becoming a human subject within a world where exclusive
ownership of another exists only within the realms of fantasy and
pathology.
Clearly, the child must develop an identity separate from the mother to
become a subject, to enter into culture and civilization, and to transform its
bodily drives and the misrecognition and narcissism of the Imaginary into
inter-subjective relationships that at least attempt to gain recognition. The
problem is, we never fully achieve this, and this is what Lacan means by
“there is no sexual relationship”. The separation from the mother that the
fort-da game in ‘Beyond the Pleasure Principle’ illustrates, builds on the
loss instigated by and through the mirror stage. Thus psychoanalysis is
fundamentally a tragic discourse, all about a loss that can never be refound, it is the condition of being human and it can be explained perhaps
most comprehensively with the example of sexuality, desire and love. This
leads onto Lacan’s concepts of Need, Demand and Desire, corresponding
roughly to Freud’s notion of the Oedipal and Castration complexes. Need,
that which the child is born with, as every other baby animal (for food,
comfort etc.) are satisfiable (e.g. with the breast) which also strengthens
the dyadic bond. There is however no sense for the child at this point that
the care giver is distinguishable from itself (it has no self) and it has no
sense of itself as a discrete object in the world (it is everything). It is need
and these needs can be satisfied.
But in order to move from being a baby animal to a human it has to
separate from this attachment and enter the world of discrete identities.
This is what involves loss. At the point of the mirror stage the child,
initiated into the state of loss, begins to demand more than the mother can
ever provide. This demand is not for food, to be changed, cuddled and so
on, but is for the absolute, unconditional and dyadic love that is an
impossible thing according to Lacan. This is often illustrated as a
concurrent awareness that the child is not all to the mother, that the mother
14
Chapter Two
has other concerns as well as it; in Lacanian terms the third term, the third
element that splits the dyadic unity forever. This aligns to Freud’s
castration complex and the internalisation of the prohibitions that form the
super-ego. The child sees in the mirror its “ideal ego” an object, a perfect
and whole object, while it still feels all over the place. This is the source of
the fictive nature of wholeness and also the belief that we can somehow
find the “other” part of us in the love object (you complete me…). We see
ourselves as whole but we are not. So, as a consequence, human demand is
for total love that is ultimately impossible.
Desire emerges where physical need is subtracted from impossible
demand. So, needs can be satisfied, demand is total, that place between the
immediate satisfactions and demand is what Lacan terms desire, and it is
itself impossible—sexuality finds its place here. Lacan argues at this point
in his work that the death drive is operable in the speaking being as a
reminder of what we are not, of what is lacking in us. The notion of the
Thing takes its place here, as that which is both life giving and deadly and
that reminds us of the Real and its continuing presence in our everyday
lives. “The Thing is that which in the real, the primordial real, I will say,
suffers from the signifier, and presents itself to the analyst in the gap
produced by the signifying cut” (Lacan 1981: 205). What does Lacan
mean? Well, that there are objects that cut in and remind us that we are
simply not all-knowing and that the Symbolic cannot encompass all. The
cotton reel, as Belsey explains is an example of what stands in for the
Real, and Lacan develops the concept of object a to demonstrate that this
is never achievable. The object of our love is only ever a replacement and
an inadequate one, for the lost Real.
Lacan argues in ‘The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis’
that, contra desire, love exists as a drive, inherently attached to the death
drive:
You will now understand that – for the same reason that it is through the
lure that the sexed living being is induced into his sexual realization – the
drive, the partial drive, is profoundly a death drive, and represents in itself
the portion of death in the sexed living being (205).
In his seminar on Freud’s papers on technique, he goes so far as to
argue that “we are all agreed that love is a form of suicide” (Lacan 1998:
149). He refers here to Freud’s concept of the death drive and its necessary
link to both the arena of love and sexuality, and the impetus towards a
return to an inorganic state that exists as the underbelly of the pleasure
principle.1 Lacan echoes Freud’s belief that “being in love” is a sickness
Little Love Affairs: Psychoanalysis, Transference and Love
15
wherein the stricken person “impoverishes” his ego through the elevation
of the favoured object, the beloved.
The links between death, love and the Real are highlighted here.
Alenka Zupancic performs a psychoanalytic reading from Lacan of “love
as comedy” that argues that “In love, we do not find satisfaction in the
other that we aim at, we find it in the space, or gap, between, to put it
bluntly, what we see and what we get” (Zupancic 2002: 77). She takes
Lacan’s argument that ‘sublimation raises, or elevates, an object to the
dignity of the Thing, Freudian ‘das Ding’ (62), insofar as “sublimation is
identified with the act of ‘producing’ the Thing in its very transcendence,
inaccessibility, as well as in its horrifying and/or inhuman aspect” (62).
This indicates that as the so called pure object of love is raised to a higher
level this is an example of forcing the inaccessibility that I have shown
marks the Thing (otherwise known as putting somebody “on a pedestal”).
She then argues that Lacan surprisingly claims, in his unpublished
seminar on anxiety: “Only love-sublimation makes it possible for
jouissance to condescend to desire” (62). Lacan, according to Zupancic,
relates this linkage of love and de-sublimation to his statement that “love
is a comic feeling” (62), and that “In relation to comedy we can actually
say that it involves a certain condescension of the Thing to the level of the
object” (62). “The object of love cannot give me what I demand of him
since he doesn’t possess it, since it is an excess in its very heart” (58), this
stresses the idea that it is precisely the gap that allows a place for a form of
exchange, as Lacan puts it:
What the one lacks is not what is hidden within the other—the only thing
left to the beloved is thus to proceed to a kind of exchange of places, to
change from the object into the subject of love, in short: to return love
(58).
We can read in Lacan’s work the extent to which the loss inherent in
the assumption of sexual difference leans towards a construction of the
“One”, both holding out the promise of totalisation and concurrently
withdrawing it:
Love is impotent, though mutual, because it is not aware that it is but the
desire to be One, which leads to the impossibility of establishing the
relationship between “them-two” (la relation d’eux). The relationship
between them-two what? Them-two sexes Lacan 1998: 6).
Suzanne Barnard points out that the desire not for, but to be One that
the sexually differentiated subject experiences (usually categorised as the
16
Chapter Two
phallic signifier): “stands ultimately for the impossibility of signifying sex.
As such, it can be understood to represent both a traumatic failure of
meaning and the impossibility of ever fundamentally anchoring or
positivizing the subject” (Barnard & Fink 2002: 2). Thus “ever achieving
one’s gender or ever accomplishing one’s sexuality” (11) is barred from
the subject as a loss that is inherent rather than a more or less pathological
aberration. As Paul Verhaeghe points out, the desire for an imaginary dual
relationship may persist but it can never succeed:
The imaginary dual relationship is based on the conviction that it is
possible to give/find/get “it”. In practice, this turns into misery and torture,
with the result that there is often a swing to the other extreme, the
conviction that nothing is possible, that there is no point in anything, and
that everything is the same. This reaction remains within the dual
imaginary relationship, although it is now tinged with bitterness and
disappointment instead of hope and expectation (Verhaeghe 2011: 68).
For Lacan, in his radical return to Freud, love is related to the status
and centrality of what he terms the “big Other” – the symbolic substance
to life, the set of unwritten rules that regulate our speech and our acts –
what we believe to be true. This big Other is established within the
Symbolic realm and, according to Lacan, there is no love outside speech:
“Love emerges out of speech as a demand that is not linked to any need.
Love is a demand that constitutes itself as such only because the subject is
the subject of the signifier” (Salecl 2000: 17). As a subject in the gendered
Symbolic realm in which the subject is always already constituted and
marked by lack, the object cause of desire lies precisely within that lack or
gap. This object is thus both what the subject lacks and also at the same
time what is believed to fill that lack. The demand of love thus attempts to
find the “truth” of oneself within the other, or as Renata Salecl puts it:
“What love as a demand targets in the other is therefore the object within
him - or herself, the real, non-symbolizable kernel around which the
subject organises his or her desire” (18).
So, for Lacan, the status of the big Other is the ultimate guarantee of
Truth, even when (perhaps especially when) lying. He talks of this as the
quilting point – master signifier that guarantees consistency of the big
Other – revealed by Lacan to be a fake – we act as if the Other knows
what we don’t. The point of psychoanalysis for Lacan is to enable the
patient to break with the reliance on the master signifier. In his later work
he moves from the concept of the symptom, to be uncovered through
analysis, to that of the sinthome. Lacan developed the concept of the
sinthome during the latter phase of his work, specifically in his un-
Little Love Affairs: Psychoanalysis, Transference and Love
17
translated ‘Seminar on James Joyce’ (1975). Prior to that point, he had
concentrated on the triad of Symbolic, Imaginary and Real, which
emphasises the role of “decoding” insofar as the “traditional”
psychoanalytic symptom was able to be traced, or deciphered, through the
process of analysis. In the late phase of his work, Lacan shifts the
emphasis from the realms of the Imaginary and the Symbolic, and
concentrates instead on the place of the Real, a move that pulls in its wake
the new concept of the sinthome. The sinthome is introduced through a
reading of a literary writer; thus it is marked from its instigation as a
concept related to art or representation: “The whole problem is there –
how can an art, in an expressly divinatory fashion, aim to embody the
sinthome, in its consistence, but equally in its ex-sistence and in its hole?”2
In this Seminar Lacan brings, through Joyce, the notion of the
sinthome into the previously triadic structure of the Borromean knot, a
diagram he had recently begun to utilize, having first introduced it in
1972: “How was someone able to aim, through his art, to render this fourth
term, which is essential to the Borromean knot, as such, to the point of
approaching it as closely as possible?”3 So the sinthome at this point joins
the diagram of the Borromean knot (the inter-linking Imaginary, Symbolic
and Real) as a “floating” fourth element that drapes over and through each
of the other strands of the knot. This four stranded knot of the Seminar
allows Lacan to both introduce and pay due attention to the specificity of
the artistic experience and effect, while at the same time refusing the
category of “artist as suffering”, in other words reading the artist as a
conglomeration of his/her symptoms. As Philip Dravers points out, it is the
singularity of the artist that comes to the fore with the concept of the
sinthome. He argues that in this seminar:
Lacan uses art, and above all the question of what artists do with their
symptoms, to supplement the logic that unfolds from the analytic discourse
in the form of R.S.I. in order to explore how they each hold together at the
level of a quite singular experience, while at the same time deriving a new
kind of consistency at the level of their knotting.4
The sinthome is introduced as a lingering residue of the symptom
while at the same time working to keep the other elements of the knot
together. As Dravers states above, the R.S.I. triad represents an analytic
discourse; the sinthome, while resistant to interpretation, keeps together
the possibility of this type of communicative discursive practice. Yet the
sinthome is not definable or reducible, but instead “leeches” onto each of
the other three elements in a singular and individualistic manner. Art,
according to Dravers, “brings out the very texture of the knot by casting
18
Chapter Two
the subtle ray of its light-spun thread across rings which would otherwise
have only the substance of shadow and in so doing it helps us to pick out
the essential fourth element woven by its artistry.”5 Lacan identifies
jouissance, or enjoyment, as the key element of the binding together of the
four strands of the knot, an enjoyment that compensates for an originary
“failure” of the triad Real, Symbolic and Imaginary. According to Dravers,
the sinthome is a supplement that allows the creative subject, in this case
Joyce, to secure an identity through artistic production:
For such is Lacan’s thesis in his seminar, that, through his art, Joyce
managed to construct his own supplementary means of securing R.S.I. in
order to compensate for a specific mode of failure at the level of their
original knotting – and, as we shall see, he did so by using his own quite
singular artistry with the letter to spin a supplementary thread from the
jouissance inscribed in lalangue which he then threads through the gaps
and holes of the knot, according to the logic of his symptom and the fault it
answers to.6
This lengthy sentence is worth quoting in full since Dravers gets to the
heart of what the sinthome represents, specifically in relation to the writer.
Lalangue, the language of the symptom, becomes melded with enjoyment,
and weaves through the holes and gaps of the triad Real, Symbolic and
Imaginary, to produce the specific sinthome that enthralls and fascinates
the reader, while being irreducible to any set of tools, whether
psychoanalytic, linguistic or biographical. Josephina Ayerza highlights the
irreducibility of the sinthome:
Always trying to get hold of the unspeakable, Lacan designated by
sinthome what is irreducible to significance. Non-signifiable, however
symbolized, the non-signifying will stipulate the condition of the split
speaking being, the specificity of its jouissance (Ayerza 1990: 3).
While I agree that the sinthome is “irreducible to significance”, it nonethe-less supports a consistency of signification by manoeuvring
jouissance7 or enjoyment, through the communicative structure of the
other three interrelated elements of the knot. The moment at which Lacan
introduces the concept of the Borromean knot is also the point when he
shifts in his writing from an emphasis on the Other, or communication
(although that is never completely lost), and moves towards the realm of
enjoyment (as desire or jouissance). The concept of the sinthome is linked
to and developed from the psychoanalytic symptom; it shifts from this in
the ways in which it loses the correlation of cause and effect, becoming
not the representation of the manifestation of a trauma, a symbolic means
Little Love Affairs: Psychoanalysis, Transference and Love
19
of allowing the trauma to be read, but rather a means expressing the
pleasure of non-representation. Sarah Kay explains that “the symptom
becomes the sinthome, the manifestation of the subject’s enjoyment which
he cannot give up but should embrace as ‘what is in him more than
himself’, its symbolic dimension declines and the subjects’ imaginary
relation with enjoyment correspondingly increases in importance” (Kay
2003: 80).
The concept of the sinthome in Lacan’s work remains largely unexplored
in current academic discourse; part of the reason for this, in the Englishspeaking academic community at least, is the problem of its nontranslation/translatability into English and the forbidding difficulty of
reading Seminar XX111 Le Sinthome in the original. Žižek, however,
utilises the sinthome regularly throughout his writing, often in relation to
the writer Patricia Highsmith. What he does not do is explain it as I have
done in the previous section. It is Žižek rather than Lacan who begins to
utilise the concept in relation to popular culture, and he never claims that
the sinthome is something peculiar to Highsmith. In fact he often evokes it
as Hitchcockian, highlighting the ways in which Alfred Hitchcock denies
the viewer of his filmic texts the “deep” meanings that he appears to be
constructing, but instead develops his own genre out of a “level of material
signs that resist meaning” (Žižek 2001: 199) and which “relate in a kind of
pre-symbolic cross-resonance” (199). Žižek argues that these films exemplify
the ways in which sinthomes slide away from meaning: “in contrast to
symptom which is a cipher of some repressed meaning, sinthome has no
determinate meaning; it just gives body, in its repetitive pattern, to some
elementary matrix of jouissance, of excessive enjoyment (199).
One of Žižek’s clearest uses of the sinthome in relation to Hitchcock
can be found in the chapter ‘Why is Reality Always Multiple?’ (from
Žižek 1992). Here he points to the “unique dimension” of the Hitchcock
film as he perceives it, arguing that Hitchcock introduces motifs into his
films that appear to provide meaning or depth, while in fact these cover a
void that substitutes for meaningful explication. In other words, the
enigma of the Hitchcock film is precisely its ambiguity of meaning, which
enables different interpretations to be constantly read into it. He argues
that Hitchcock: “invented stories in order to be able to shoot a certain kind
of scene. And, while the narratives of his films provide a funny and often
perceptive comment on our times, it is in his sinthomes that Hitchcock
lives forever. They are the true cause of why his films continue to function
as objects of our desire” (200). The key point to extrapolate from this
reading of the sinthome is the way in which the argument revolves around
the element of pleasure to be gained from the sinthome precisely in its lack
20
Chapter Two
of hidden meaning. After all, who would want to reveal an absolute hidden
meaning in Vertigo or Psycho? The pleasure lies in the nothingness which
at the same time appears full of promise: “…yet this nothing was not an
empty nothing, but the fullness of libidinal investment, a tic that gave
body to a cipher of enjoyment” (200).
‘The Undergrowth of Enjoyment’ and ‘The Ideological Sinthome’
chapters from Looking Awry (Žižek 1992b) represent a clear link between
Žižek’s abiding interest in both the sinthome and Highsmith’s writing. In
‘The Undergrowth of Enjoyment’, his reading of the sinthome is less
narrowly defined than when writing exclusively on the specific effects of
the Hitchcock film. Also, it becomes clearer in these texts to see how the
sinthome need not be exclusively considered as a device that must be held
within the text; instead, it may function as a ‘glue’ for sustaining an
individual’s sanity, or warding off psychosis, in the sense already shown
in respect of Lacan’s formulation. The sinthome is thus written here as a
dilemma “for the subject, who is caught in the either/or, the Thing
embodying impossible enjoyment or the Symbolic that excludes it”
(Wright & Wright 1999: 13). As I have shown in relation to Lacan, the
belief that analysis would resolve this impasse is replaced at the end of his
work by another form of resolution: “For the late Lacan, this resolution
comes about through identification with the sinthome, through a
recognition of the singularity of this element, the particular form of one’s
own enjoyment” (13).
Žižek chooses Patricia Highsmith’s short stories as one of the ways to
elucidate the “invisible kernel, that meaningless fragment of the Real” (12)
that constitutes the sinthome. He argues that her stories focus on forces
that are unexplained, and are at the same time both attractive and repellent.
One of the stories he cites, ‘The Mysterious Cemetery’, provides him with
the title of his paper; the ‘undergrowth of enjoyment’ of the story
consisting of the strange growths that appear in a graveyard behind a
hospital after experiments involving radiation are carried out on dying
patients. Instead of being repulsed by these, as might be expected, the
local people not only get used to them, but “poems are written about the
uncanny and irrepressible ‘undergrowth of enjoyment’” (Žižek 1999: 31).
By utilising films and stories such as Highsmith’s, Žižek in this article
tries to explicate the ways in which the sinthome functions within popular
culture, and how and why we as readers or viewers are “drawn in” to these
particular subversions wrought by the sinthome. As an element of the
Real, adrift within each subject, it holds the subject, or an inter-subjective
community, together precisely because, as in the Highsmith text, it appears
as something that a rational (or unequivocally Symbolic) universe would
Little Love Affairs: Psychoanalysis, Transference and Love
21
exclude or negate. The community of ‘The Mysterious Cemetery’, for
example, is reassured and held together by the sinthome of the strange
growths (which in themselves, of course, mean nothing).
Weaving between Žižek’s examples from popular culture to aid him in
explaining the ways in which the sinthome functions, is also a
concentration on the individual and his/her attempts to avoid psychotic
breakdown by constructing an individual sinthome that prevents the
Symbolic from splitting apart: “The paranoid construction…is already an
attempt to heal ourselves, to pull ourselves out of the real ‘illness’, the
psychotic breakdown – the ‘end of the world’, the falling apart of the
symbolic universe – with the help of a substitute-formation” (22). In this
sense literary texts can exhibit both vacuity and discomfort along with a
specific and powerful enjoyment that echoes Žižek’s claim for the
sinthome as the One that evades even the residue of meaning that Lacan
retains for object petit a.
To indicate the specificity of this One, Lacan coined the neologism le
sinthome: the point which functions as the ultimate support of the subject’s
consistency, the point of “thou art that”, the point marking the dimensions
of “what is in the subject more than itself” and what it therefore loves
“more than in itself”, that point which is none the less neither symptom
(the coded message in which the subject receives from the Other its own
message in reverse form, the truth of its desire) nor fantasy (the imaginary
scenario which, with its fascinating presence, screens off the lack in the
Other, the radical consistency of the symbolic order) (30).
Žižek asks the above in his conception of the sinthome, instead of the
symptom seen as compromise: “the analysis is over when we achieve a
certain distance in relation to the fantasy and identify precisely with the
pathological singularity on which hangs the consistency of our enjoyment”
(32). He argues that, contra objet petit a, the sinthome is instead a “certain
psychotic kernel evading the discursive network” (132). The key point
here is that there is no possibility of its inclusion within the Symbolic or
the social order; in other words, it remains One, not articulated within the
discourse of the Other (Lacan’s previous articulation of the theory and
purpose of psychoanalytic discourse). Žižek defines this as follows: “In
the field of the signifier as differential, every One is defined by the bundle
of its differential relations to its Other, i.e. every One is in advance
conceived as ‘one-among-the-others”’ (132). Objet petit a is in a sense a
particle adrift within the boundaries of this configuration, the sinthome is
not. Instead it is a particular One “that is not one-among-the-others, that
does not yet partake of the articulation proper to the order of the Other”
(132). Žižek takes this further in claiming that the sinthome is “a psychotic
22
Chapter Two
kernel [that] can neither be interpreted (as symptom) nor ‘traversed’ (as
fantasy)” (137). It must then, as Lacan argues in his final theorisation of
the psychoanalytic process, constitute something to identify with: “The
sinthome, then, represents the final limit of the psychoanalytic process, the
reef on which psychoanalysis is grounded. But, on the other hand, is not
this radical impossibility of the sinthome the ultimate proof that the
psychoanalytic process is brought to its end?” (137).
Both Lacan and Žižek relate the big Other/phallus/masculine logic of
Law) to the sinthome as “feminine” logic; that is, only symptoms and the
Law retain the logic of the one. The sinthome is not pathological - it loses
the correlation between cause and effect – becoming not the manifestation
of a trauma, a symbolic means of allowing the trauma to be read – but
rather a means of non-representation that allows and elevates a perverse
enjoyment. Sarah Kay explains: “the symptom becomes the sinthome, the
manifestation of the subject’s enjoyment which he cannot give up but
should embrace as ‘what is in him more than himself’ …its symbolic
dimension declines, and the subject’s imaginary relation with enjoyment
correspondingly increases in importance (Kay 2003: 80). Žižek evokes the
notion of sinthome in relation to Hitchcock – highlighting the ways in
which the director denies the viewer of his films the deep meanings that he
appears to be constructing, but instead develops his own genre out of “a
level of material signs that resist meaning” and which “relate in a kind of
pre-symbolic cross-resonance”. The sinthomes slide away from meaning:
“in contrast to symptom which is a cipher of some repressed meaning,
sinthome has no determinate meaning; it just gives body, in its repetitive
pattern, to some elementary matrix of jouissance, of excessive enjoyment”
(80).
The fundamental point of psychoanalysis is that desire is not
something given in advance, but something that has to be constructed –
and it is precisely the role of fantasy to give the co-ordinates of the
subject’s desire, to specify its object, to locate the position the subject
assumes in it. It is only through fantasy that the subject is constituted as
desiring: “through fantasy, we learn how to desire” (Žižek 1992b: 23). The
sinthome is neither symptom nor fantasy – instead “the One of jouis-sense,
of the signifier not yet enchained but still floating freely, permeated with
enjoyment: the enjoyment that prevents it from being articulated in a
chain” (23), that is, evades the signifying process. The ultimate moment of
psychoanalysis may well be the identification with the sinthome, what it is
that in each of us (differently) acts as our particular sinthome (love,
writing, work…etc.).
Little Love Affairs: Psychoanalysis, Transference and Love
23
So, a sinthome is not an object of desire but the artificial symbolic
framework by which means we preserve our sanity – by conferring
narrative consistency on our experience. Our existence is held together by
our sinthomes which are “little pieces of the Real.” Therefore, when Lacan
argues that ‘the question I should consider is not if my love is a true one. I
should ask for the truth of my love, which is something really different,’
he is saying that love is hidden in the subject and what sinthome
constitutes the particularity of our desire.
In Lacanian psychoanalysis, when somebody loves me they also
threaten me – I am reduced to a mere object, the object of the other’s
fantasy:
I feel the inherent abject dimension of that object when I do not want to
respond to the other’s demand for love. Then, when the other is attacking
me with her/his desire, I am bothered, humiliated even. But love emerges
when, from the very position of being reduced to mere object, I begin to
long for the other. The confrontation with the fact that I am nothing but the
object of the desire of the other is, then, neutralized or oppressed by my
own desire, i.e. my love for my beloved Lacan (Lacan Undated: no page
numbers).
For Lacan then, love has the same structure as transference, as it does
for Freud. He argues that when a patient enters analysis, he or she
positions themselves as the object of the other’s (analyst’s) desire – the
desire to be helped, either to recognize one’s symptom or, in the late
Lacan, to understand that the sinthome, rather than constituting a
pathological barrier to fulfilment, becomes instead something to embrace
as “what is in him more than himself”, its symbolic dimension declining as
the subject’s “imaginary relation with enjoyment correspondingly
increases in importance”(Kay: 2003: 80). The analysis allows the subject
to trace back the path to his or her relation with love – and Lacan argues
that the analyst has to recognize that he/she is involved in a love affair,
one that nonetheless refuses the analyst his or her own pleasure and desire.
And in the arena of masculinity and femininity Lacan introduces the
notion of the “act” in Seminar 15 (1967/68) where he uses it to theorise a
turning point in the notion of the analytic cure. The “cure” is complete
supposedly when the patient realizes that he is the subject of the desire of
the Other, or that he is in fact the lack of the other’s desire, refusing to be
“the one” or, in fact to return love. Becoming an analyst himself is at this
moment constitutes the “psychoanalytic act”, insofar as when one
becomes an analyst one recognizes one’s place as the “empty” cipher of
24
Chapter Two
the other’s desire. In The Fragile Absolute Žižek argues that it is only
women who can make this move, through their act:
Lacan proposed as (one of) the definitions of a ‘true woman’ a certain
radical act: the act of taking from man, her partner, of obliterating – even
destroying – that which is ‘in him more than himself’, that which ‘means
everything to him and which is more important to him than his own life,
the precious amalgam around which his life revolves (Žižek 2009: 151).
Žižek explains that the situation the woman finds herself in, as the
object of masculine desire, can free her by and through the “psychoanalytic
act”, thus recognizing other Lacanian claims, that “woman does not exist”
and “woman is a symptom of man.” By this he means that woman can
challenge and subject the “phallic economy” which he believes forces the
symptom. The sinthome and concurrent radically feminine act thus refuse
to “give body” to the ways in which “man’s love for a woman – his very
“spiritual”, “pure love” as opposed to sexual longing – is a thoroughly
narcissistic phenomenon: “in his love of a woman, man loves only
himself, his own ideal image” (Žižek 1994: 99).
The symptom is a manifestation of trauma, in Freud’s times often
“written on the body”, the sinthome loses the correlation between cause
and effect, saturated by jouissance it manifests the centrality of enjoyment
that both disturbs yet supports the subject’s relationship to her reality. It
cannot be “worked through” and we must, according to Lacan and Žižek,
learn to “enjoy our sinthomes” It is, according to Žižek: “the point
marking the dimensions of ‘what is in the subject more than itself’, and
what it therefore loves ‘more than in itself…the imaginary scenario which,
with its fascinating presence, screens off the lack in the Other, the radical
consistency of the symbolic order” (Žižek 1999: 30). It is, according to
Žižek, “a psychotic kernel that can neither be interpreted (as symptom) nor
traversed (as fantasy)” (Žižek 1999b: 137)—the final limit of the
psychoanalytic process, the refusal of the workings of fantasy.
The workings of fantasy dominated Breuer’s “analysis” of Bertha
Pappenheim (Anna O) in 1881-2. To repeat, it was she who coined the
term “talking cure” and shifted her treatment from the previously used
hypnosis to “speaking out” her symptoms. As mentioned above, she also
“fell in love” with Breuer, imagining herself pregnant with his baby,
amongst other symptoms. This is the first instance of a transference
relationship and marked the “birth” of psychoanalysis, while at the same
time signalled Breuer’s horrified departure from the new discipline.
As indicated earlier, Freud analysed Ida Bauer (Dora) in 1900
(published in 1905), his “failure” in the case allowed him to recognise the
Little Love Affairs: Psychoanalysis, Transference and Love
25
centrality of both transference and counter-transference (the recognition of
the analyst of her/his own place and role within the analytic situation. So
transference relates to the relationship between analyst and patient, which
Freud at first viewed as a resistance, an obstacle to the treatment, as in the
“Dora” case). He then came to realise that it is both a positive, and more
importantly a necessary part of the treatment. Within the analytic situation,
early relationships, the loves and hates addressed especially but not
exclusively towards the parents (the “family romance”) are repeated and
then transferred onto the person of the analyst. In ‘Observations of Love in
Transference’ Freud describes what could be viewed as a kind of “power
play” within the analytic situation:
At first sight, infatuation in transference seems unlikely to bring anything
of benefit to the course of therapy. Even the most cooperative patient
suddenly no longer understands the treatment and takes no further interest
in it, and does not want to talk or hear about anything apart from her love,
to which she demands a response. Having given up her symptoms or
neglected them, she even declares herself healthy. The scene changes
completely, as though a game has suddenly been replaced by the sudden
eruption of reality, or the fire alarm sounded in the middle of a theatre
performance. When you experience this for the first time as a doctor, it is
hard to hold onto the analytic situation and escape the delusion that the
treatment really is over (Freud 2002b: 69).
An analysis with transference is impossible, however this is not to say
that analysis creates transference, but instead that it exists, unrecognised
and chaotic, within other institutions: “In other institutions where analysis
is not the treatment on offer for neurotics, you can observe the most
intense and degrading form of transference, verging on sexual dependence,
and taking on the most overtly erotic coloration” (Freud 2002c: 23).
However, it is within the analysis that transference is uncovered for what it
is; revealing the repetition, displacement and transferral of emotions and
feelings, since it provides a secure environment for the “playing out” of
what otherwise may thwart the patient’s emotional and/or sexual
development.
But what sort of “love” is displayed in a transference?8 Lacan argues
that: “Freud is so little concerned to evade the phenomenon of love, of
passionate love, in its most concrete sense, that he goes so far as to say
that there is no real essential distinction between transference and what, in
everyday life, we call love” (Lacan 1988: 909). He goes on to claim that
the emotions of love and hate are affects that can manifest through
transference, but transference is actually the structure of any intersubjective relationship. He states that while transference appears as love, it
26
Chapter Two
is always the love of knowledge (savoir, the knowledge of the subject, as
opposed to connaisance, the knowledge of the ego) that it is primarily
concerned with. In his 1964 Seminar XI The Four Fundamental Concepts
of Psycho-Analysis, Lacan speaks of transference as linked inevitably to
that of the “subject supposed to know” – “As soon as the subject supposed
to know exists somewhere, there is transference” (Lacan 1981: 232).
For Lacan, then, as for Freud, transference is an essential structure
revealed by and through the analytic situation, and as such, is, each time, a
“little love affair.”
References
Ayerza, Yosephina (1990): ‘To Resume Again…’, in Lacanian Ink 2.
Barnard, Suzanne and Fink, Bruce (eds.) (2002): Reading Seminar XX:
Lacan’s Major Work on Love, Knowledge and Feminine Sexuality.
Albany: SUNY Press.
Bersani, Leo and Phillips, Adam (2008): Intimacies. Chicago: The
Chicago University Press.
Freud, Sigmund (2002a): ‘Analysis Interminable and in Indeterminable’,
in Adam Phillips (ed.), Wild Analysis. London: Penguin.
—. (2002b): ‘Observations of Love in Transference, in Adam Phillips
(ed.), Wild Analysis. London: Penguin.
—. (2002c): ‘On the Dynamics of Transference, in Adam Phillips (ed.),
Wild Analysis. London: Penguin.
Kay, Sarah (2003): Žižek: A Critical Introduction. Cambridge: Polity Press.
Lacan, Jacques (undated): The Seminar of Jacques Lacan: Book VIII
Transference 1960-1961, trans. Cormac Gallagher from unedited
French typescripts. London: Karnac Books.
—. (1981): Seminar XI—The Four Fundamental Concepts of PsychoAnalysis, trans. A. Sheridan. New York: Norton.
—. (1988): The Seminar of Jacques Lacan, Book 1: Freud’s Papers on
Technique 1953-1954, trans. John Forester. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press.
—. (1998): The Seminar of Jacques Lacan: Book XX, Encore 1972-1973,
trans. Bruce Fink. New York: Norton.
Laplanche, J. & Pontalis, J.B. (1985): The Language of Psycho-Analysis,
trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith. London: The Hogarth Press.
Salecl, Renata (2000): (per) versions of love and hate. London: Verso.
Verhaeghe, Paul (2011): Love in a Time of Loneliness: Three Essays on
Drive and Desire. London: Karnac Books.
Little Love Affairs: Psychoanalysis, Transference and Love
27
Wright, Elizabeth and Edmund (1999): Introduction to Slavoj Žižek, ‘The
Undergrowth of Enjoyment’, in The Žižek Reader. Oxford: Blackwell.
Žižek, Slavoj (1991): Looking Awry: An Introduction to Jacques Lacan
Through Popular Culture. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press.
—. (1992a): Everything You Wanted to Know about Lacan but were
Afraid to ask Hitchcock. London: Verso.
—. (1992b): Looking Awry: An Introduction to Jacques Lacan through
Popular Culture. Massachusetts: MIT Press.
—. (1994): ‘Otto Weininger, or, “Woman Doesn’t Exist”,’ in New
Formations 23.
—. (1999): ‘The Undergrowth of Enjoyment; How Popular Culture can
Serve as an Introduction to Lacan’, in Elizabeth & Edmund Wright
(eds.). The Žižek Reader. Oxford: Blackwell.
—. (2007): Enjoy Your Symptom! Jacques Lacan in Hollywood and Out.
New York: Routledge.
—. (2009): The Fragile Absolute: Or, Why is the Christian Legacy Worth
Fighting For? London: Verso.
Zupancic, Alenka (2002): ‘On Love and Comedy’, in Lacanian Ink 20.
Notes
1
“In fact what Freud was explicitly seeking to express by the term ‘death instinct’
was the most fundamental aspect of instinctual life: the return to an earlier state
and, in the last reckoning, the return to the absolute repose of the inorganic”.
(Laplanche & Pontalis 1985: 102).
2
Jacques Lacan, quoted in Philip Dravers, ‘Joyce & the Sinthome: Aiming at the
Fourth Term of the Knot’, from Psychoanalytic Notebooks of the LSNLS 13, Lacan
with Joyce, p.1. www.londonsociety-nls.org.uk.
3
Ibid., p.1.
4
Ibid., p. 2.
5
Ibid., p.3.
6
Ibid., p.5.
7
This term is used in the original French because, although it could be translated
as pleasure, Lacan means it in a slightly but crucially different sense; as pleasure
intermingled with pain.
8
Transference need not be “positive” or in other works consist of loving feelings.
Freud considers the emotions within transference to be ambivalent, and if the
capacity for transference becomes completely negative then the analysis cannot
continue.
CHAPTER THREE
DANGEROUS ETHICS:
EXPLORING ATTACHMENT
AND DESTRUCTIVENESS
THROUGH THE WORK OF JUDITH BUTLER
AND JESSICA BENJAMIN
POLONA CURK
According to psychoanalytic conceptualisations, the other is constitutive
of the self; in fact, subjectivity is seen as founded through a relationship of
passionate attachment to another. But the same other is also ultimately
unknowable, irreconcilable to the self, and potentially radically threatening
to the self. This ambivalence at the core of the self accounts for a curious
foundation for love and compels us to think about it in relation to ethics,
and the latter as something to do with managing the link between
attachment and destructiveness.
In this essay I analyse this link through the psychoanalyticphilosophical dialogue between the works of Jessica Benjamin and Judith
Butler. Two of the most seminal theorists working at this intersection in
recent decades, Benjamin and Butler’s respective positions on the concept
of destruction are, I think, particularly interesting for several reasons. For
one, it would seem that the two theorists are talking about different levels
of destructiveness, and, if one was to simplify the discussions on
destructiveness into one question: “how can one survive the horror of
another’s threat?” it would also seem that they give opposing answers.
Benjamin’s view is perhaps most directly expressed in her 2002 paper
‘Terror and Guilt’ writing after the September 11 attacks, where she
quotes Fonagy’s reflection that perhaps civilization depends for its
existence on a universal splitting off of the inconceivable (Benjamin 2002:
481). Perhaps we need, she argues, a certain “veil of denial” over the
fundamental threat from the other in everyday life. Butler, on the other
hand, has argued in several works (for example, 2000, 2003, 2004) that it
Dangerous Ethics
29
is through the acknowledgment of destruction and vulnerability that the
possibility of a bridge between the self and the other can emerge.
Another reason why the two positions are interesting is due to
disciplinary fields that the two theorists come from. Benjamin is a
practising psychoanalyst who bases her psychoanalytic theorizing in
philosophy, whilst Butler is a philosopher whose work holds a special
affinity with psychoanalysis. Are their apparently different views in their
respective work an expression of ways of thinking in different disciplines?
In a direct theoretical exchange between the two theorists published in
Studies in Gender and Sexuality (2000), Butler argued that Benjamin’s
seminal dialectic of mutual recognition was too hopeful, implying that it
does not take into account the real depth and extent of destructiveness
(Butler 2000). Benjamin’s reply, rejecting the view that her account does
not give destructiveness its proper weight, attributes their theoretical
differences to the gap between psychoanalytic and philosophical language,
context and discipline; the gap between psychoanalytic practice and
psychoanalytic theory as it is deployed in the Humanities; and the
familiarity with clinical contexts (Benjamin 2000: 299-300).
Although there are some differences in their use of terminology, it
would be too simple, I think, to attribute them to the interdisciplinary gap
in language or (un)familiarity with the clinical contexts of psychoanalysis.
A close analysis of their accounts exposes instead something inherently
and imminently dangerous to the self in the character of ethical
responsibility. Benjamin’s and Butler’s theoretical disagreements in effect
consist of different answers to what response to this danger we should/can
have.
In this essay I want to look at the gap that I argue exists between
theorizing ethics, which feels right, needed, worthy, even moral in itself,
and ethical acts that can feel dangerous and unpleasant. The effect of this
danger on the ability to act ethically is not usually explored in detail in
theoretical accounts on ethics. In addition, taking ethical responsibility for
someone inherently brings you into a somewhat intimately close
relationship with them. The main difference between the two theorists, I
argue, lies in the way they assess what is possible in a position requiring
an ethical response. But the way we are involved with a particular position
is ultimately essential for thinking about its ethics. The argument here is,
that intentions are often not enough and that the focus on how being
ethical in a particular position, in practice, feels is needed in order to better
understand what motivates ethical responsibility and to be able to initiate a
shift in bringing it into practice.
I draw on two short film vignettes to illustrate parts of my argument.
30
Chapter Three
Founded in Passionate Love
Both Benjamin and Butler base their theoretical accounts within
psychoanalytic understandings of the development of the subject. In her
(1997) book, The Psychic Life of Power, Butler theorizes the child’s
original passionate attachment to another as “love [that] is prior to
judgement and decision” (Butler 1997: 8; added emphasis). This love is
unavoidable as “there is no possibility of not loving, where love is bound
up with the requirements for life” (1997: 8). Thus, ultimately love is
connected to subordination/subjection at the foundational levels of
subjectivity: the nascent “mental state” of the subject is characterised by
the first “desire” as a desire to survive in a sense of ‘“I would rather exist
in subordination than not exist”’ (Butler 1997: 7). In other words,
subordination being a function of survival prior to any reflection Butler
speaks of the subject’s attachment to subordination itself.
There is a fundamental vulnerability in the child’s being so profoundly
exposed to another that she is compelled to love them. Yet as is
characteristic of psychoanalytically informed theories, Butler’s account
understands multi-layered meanings and paradoxes: subjection also
inaugurates the subject. The subordinating power is transformed into a
psychic form that becomes part of the subject’s self-identity and the source
of agency.
Subjection consists precisely in this fundamental dependency on a
discourse we never chose but that, paradoxically, initiates and sustains our
agency. “Subjection” signifies the process of becoming subordinated by
power as well as the process of becoming a subject. (Butler 1997: 2). In
other words, that fundamental vulnerability to another is actually agencysustaining. This paradox is mirrored in the nascent subject’s love. A child
can discriminate between those she loves only after the formative
requirements have been satisfied; whilst the primary passion is the effect
of power. If we take into account psychoanalytic understanding of love as
including identificatory processes, when we cannot choose whom to love
we can also not choose who, what kind of subject, we will become.
Primary love is thus described as so ambivalent as to be immediately
denied1. In other words, subjectivity emerges through repression of the
primary passionate attachment:
If the effect of autonomy is conditioned by subordination and that founding
subordination or dependency is rigorously repressed, the subject emerges
in tandem with the unconscious. (Butler 1997: 7)
Dangerous Ethics
31
The infamous psychoanalytic split, a foreclosure2, establishes the
subject as a bar to its desire and at the same time condemns it to repeatedly
re-enact in displacements that love which is the love of its own
dissolution. The subject’s inauguration is a moment when the self’s and
the other’s survivals are not in opposition: “I” survive if the other survives.
The unconscious ambivalence at the core of subjectivity is for Butler not a
sign of a fatal self-contradiction but a sign that the subject is not finally
constrained by the working of power, the excess that allows for and forms
the subject’s own agency.
Butler’s account about a child—a developmental account one might
say, although different from any classic psychoanalytic treatment of this
theme—is in line with another important psychoanalytic viewpoint:
subordination does not only form the subject but is considered as
providing the subject’s continuing conditions of possibility. In other
words, passionate attachments continue to be part of the subject’s
existence, continue to be necessary for psychological survival. If primary
passion is an effect of power, and exploiting it, as Butler notes, is an
abuse, then, importantly, adults continue to be vulnerable to such abuse. If
this vulnerability is understood precisely as a condition of, and even for,
human subjectivity, it is not subjection/subordination itself that is
problematic but its abuse. Here lies the need to look for analyses of
destructiveness and I will look at Jessica Benjamin’s exploration of
destructiveness as part of, and sometimes failure of, recognition, before I
compare her and Butler’s accounts of destructiveness.
Representing a shift towards intersubjectivity in psychoanalysis in that
she refers to the capacity to represent another person as a subject,
Benjamin’s early work was rooted in the Hegelian idea of the search for
the “surviving other” to recognize us (Benjamin 1988). Importantly,
Benjamin avoids seeing this dialectical search as necessarily collapsing
into domination and submission. She theorizes the tension of
interdependency as capable of restoration. Joining philosophical ideas with
Donald Winnicott’s psychoanalytic work, which proposes that the
attempts at destruction of the object in fantasy are important as the process
through which the infant manages to establish the mother as something
external to his mind, Benjamin develops a theory of mutual recognition.
Mutual recognition is considered a capacity developed through a
particular response to destruction by the m/other. Following Winnicott
(2005/1971), Benjamin describes the role of the mother in creating the
conditions for mutual recognition by her survival of destructiveness,
defined as a particular way of neither giving in nor retaliating in response
to the infant’s destructive impulses. This allows the child to recognize
32
Chapter Three
another’s mind as a separate centre of subjectivity, external to and
independent of his fantasies. Benjamin considers this an equally important
developmental step as separation. Here, the first important type of
“destructiveness” emerges, a destructiveness of the child’s fantasy through
which she tests and establishes externality and the limits to her own mind.
To a certain extent, this kind of destructiveness continues to take place
between adult minds, as Benjamin points out. However, perhaps “mutual”
recognition is not the best way to name this dialectic, as mutual implies
symmetry. Benjamin does not elaborate on how the important asymmetry
of this first relationship in her model transfers to adult relationships. The
asymmetry determines the priority of recognition, which proves significant
for theories of destructiveness and ethics. In her model, we have one
person who already knows destructiveness, who is, hopefully, mostly able
to withold it in her relation to the child, as well as to withstand the child’s
destructiveness, a person who recognizes first in order to enable the
child’s ability to recognize and to develop; and then we have another
person who is just learning to become a human subject. What makes the
first person maternal is her “deferral” to the child's needs (including a
suitable response to destructiveness) which enables the space for
recognition. And the maternal position’s power in comparison to a
vulnerable child creates a space safe enough for her to do this, to
withstand the child’s sometimes destructive testing of the other’s mind.
Benjamin’s move to adult intersubjective relationships exposes the
roles each party in this model plays in restoring the dialectic, and its
problems. If recognition is achieved through surviving destruction, who is
to play the part of the “surviving” maternal subject, offering recognition
first? How are we to survive “adult” types of destructiveness? The human
subject’s real flesh-and-blood existence opens the key question of how we
can survive, and love, a destructive adult, who is both more dangerous and
provokes more hatred than a destructive child. Who doesn’t only throw a
tantrum but can also take lives; who ought to and claims to understand
responsibility yet is often compelled to act in destructive ways; who
continues to need intersubjective support but is a master of covering this
need with ever more destructiveness.
Benjamin’s later work does approach these questions. In her The
Shadow of the Other, ten years after her first seminal work, she argues for
alternation in expressing and receiving support (1998, especially 29).
Further, she explores the adult’s ability to keep the fantasy origins of
destructiveness in coexistence rather than fusion with reality (in other
words, being able to separate fantasy and reality in one’s mind) (Benjamin
1994: 2004). Similarly to what Winnicott also believed (2005/1971), this
Dangerous Ethics
33
ability could be taken as a key component of adulthood as certain
psychological maturity.
However, Benjamin’s intersubjective dialectic that can lead to mutual
recognition is still a platform of power dynamics. Even an adult generally
capable of keeping fantasy and reality in co-existence, is certainly not
necessarily keen to admit or analyse this in critical moments of power
struggle. In intersubjective negotiations the fantasy-reality dialectic is
crucial for what is accepted as shared reality. In other words, the nature of
subjectivity is such that the other’s perceived reality depends on this
negotiation. When one’s destructive fantasy gives one (albeit undue)
influence over the other’s reality, how willing will one be to admit to
one’s fantasy beliefs and give up this influence? Will one be willing to
stop at destruction only in fantasy?
Longing For Recognition
This is the concern that Butler expresses in her exchange with Benjamin:
is destruction then something that is relatively easily survived or is
intersubjective recognition a rare experience? Butler argues:
Although Benjamin clearly makes the point that recognition risks falling
into destruction, it seems to me that she still holds out for an ideal of
recognition in which destruction is an occasional and lamentable
occurrence, one that is reversed and overcome in the therapeutic situation
and that does not turn out to constitute recognition essentially. (Butler
2000: 273)
If, according to Butler’s reading of Benjamin, risk is a negation that is
not necessarily destructive, then an intersubjective couple are able to
handle the tension in a way that when aggression does end in breakdown,
the task between them will be “to strive for the triumph of recognition
over aggression” (Butler 2000: 274). This view, Butler maintains, presents
destructiveness as an occasional, unfortunate occurrence that can be
overcome.
Benjamin does seem to argue that in a safe protected environment of
therapy, destructiveness can somehow be neutralised:
[T]raumatic, destructive experiences have to present themselves in full
force in the microcosm of therapy. If such full-force destructiveness is met,
then recognition is not an idealized, protected experience but one sturdy
enough to face trauma. (Benjamin 2000: 298; my emphasis).
34
Chapter Three
Benjamin theorizes an important provision for meeting destructiveness
and restoration of mutual recognition, which she terms a space of
“thirdness”: a co-created site between two partners that is a kind of
“buffer” space against destructiveness, a container that “expands and
collapses, depending on the quality of the destruction…” (Benjamin 2000:
300). Her ideas of thirdness are further elaborated in her 2004 paper
‘Beyond Doer and Done to’ and linked to the notion of “surrender” as a
certain letting go of the self and freedom from intent to control or coerce
the other. The main task is and the real challenge of intersubjective theory,
according to her, is to get out of complementary symmetry, “which is the
formal or structural pattern of all impasses between two partners”
(Benjamin 2004: 9). This complementary-ness, formulated as either/or:
“Either I’m crazy or you are” (10), can be overcome in therapy where
positions can be analysed and dismantled. If, for example, an analyst
admits the inevitability of hurting the patient she might be able to hold up
both parties’ positions without destroying or giving in to the patient. The
hope is that this might generate something cooperative from the patient
and re-establish the space of “thirdness”.
Benjamin’s detailed analysis is insightful and the “I’ll go first” of the
analyst has a great potential to create “a position of forgiveness and
generosity” (40). It forms a useful guideline for all intersubjective
relationships. However, there are limitations to such principles outside
particular contexts (such as therapeutic settings), in relationships that are,
instead, mired in the subjects’ unmediated social, cultural and historical
situations in the world. Most importantly, everyday life lacks the basic
premise of any therapeutic setting, which is a safe space for all parties.
The risk of “I’ll go first” may also be a risk of abuse, pain and even death.
There is also no supervision to fall back on, to, as Benjamin puts it in
another paper, help “break up clinches in the dyadic complementarity”
(Benjamin 1999: 204) and no careful attention to fantasy’s and reality’s
work. The values of therapeutic settings such as acceptance of uncertainty,
humility, and compassion, avoidance of exchange of blame (Benjamin
2004: 33-34), which would allow for such attention, are not universally
accepted; in fact, even a therapist might be ambivalent about their
consistent applicability in everyday life. These values and analyses require
safe spaces, mental energy, reflexivity, and even simply focused
mindfulness. Instead, psychoanalytic postulations on destructiveness bring
to mind other considerations including an enjoyment in triumph over the
other and a defensive violence that negates one’s own position of
helplessness in its enjoyment of inflicting it on others (what Freud might
call sadism). It is clear from Benjamin’s detailed account, how difficult
Dangerous Ethics
35
such surrender is even for the analyst. In fact, if certain parallels can be
drawn here between a therapeutic response and an ethical one, meeting
destructiveness is hard painful work. But in addition, outside specific
protected contexts destructiveness is often also outside the space of
thinking altogether. The request for it to be met with some kind of ethical
response, such as recognition, is asking for something quite extraordinary.
Benjamin is thus asking for something perhaps limited in everyday
life. On the one hand, she seems to be aware of this: as mentioned in the
introduction, she contemplates a certain splitting off of the inconceivable
destructiveness, a certain “veil of denial” (Benjamin 2002) over the
fundamental threat from the other in everyday life. On the other hand, her
reply to Butler that “recognition is sustained only through survival of
destruction” (Benjamin 2000: 298) seems to be referring only to a certain
survivable destructiveness that can be contained within the buffer of
thirdness. There is the buffering capacity and then there is the end of the
intersubjective dialectic, which we cover with a protective veil in everyday
life, which we are finally perhaps unable to respond to.
“We” who have experienced loss
Arguably, the theory of intersubjectivity gains its proper weight precisely
through acceptance of the possibility of real and irreparable loss. The
“mutuality” of recognition is limited by the other’s ultimate freedom,
including the freedom to reject it: to not recognize us, to destroy us. Butler
is less hopeful about repair or protection; she speaks about a fundamental,
irrevocable change in the self as part of the dialectic of recognition. In her
comment on Benjamin, she considers destruction a constant danger of a
break that we are forced to live with inasmuch as, even if we survive the
destruction, it is a survival that leaves us transformed through our
subjugation to the other “not in order to return to itself, but to become a
self it never was” (Butler 2000: 286).
Throughout Butler’s work, the experience of vulnerability and loss
becomes a platform for a kind of identification with the other. Explored
via Freud’s notion of melancholia already in her seminal Gender Trouble
(Butler 2006/1990) loss becomes understood as constituting an experience
of “we”:
Despite our differences in location and history, my guess is that it is
possible to appeal to a “we,” for all of us have some notion of what it is to
have lost somebody. Loss has made a tenuous “we” of all of us. (Butler
2004: 20, my emphasis)
36
Chapter Three
The awareness of our vulnerability to loss, inevitable due to one’s
foundation in passionate attachment to another and our constant exposure
to others both in our desire and in our physical vulnerability, is the only
point where we can have some notion about the (unknowable) other,
which becomes some kind of opening for identification. Loss is where we
are the same even to the other. The sense of what could perhaps similarly
be termed ‘surrender’ is more intense here:
…one mourns when one accepts that by the loss one undergoes one will be
changed, possibly forever. Perhaps mourning has to do with agreeing to
undergo a transformation (perhaps one should say submitting to a
transformation) the full result of which one cannot know in advance
(Butler 2004: 21, original emphasis).
Such recognition of the other that includes radical transformation of
the self emerges with its full face of being extremely difficult, scary and
unpredictable, involving mourning and surrender to the unknown
consequences. Nonetheless, it is this agreeing; submitting to a
transformation in the encounter with the other that also seems to open
space for something new. If Benjamin’s model often predicted a
determinate pattern, (as in “If the mother does not survive, a pattern is
established in which there is no real other subject, no real feeling for the
other...” (Benjamin 1995: x, my emphasis)), here the pattern is disrupted,
as if the agreement to undergo a transformation of the self through loss
originated a shift in the dialectic, towards something unknown, out of the
pattern. There is almost a sense of mystery here, as Stephen Frosh puts it,
“of something that goes further than what can be said” (Frosh 2006: 372).
Loss exposes our intense link with the other, a surprising truth about
oneself.
Butler’s account of destructiveness returns us to a consideration of human
vulnerability, perhaps more openly and uncompromisingly than the
hopefulness of Benjamin’s model. It includes an acknowledgment that our
good intentions do not guarantee reciprocity, and that, indeed, reciprocity
is perhaps not to be expected. Submitting to transformation with unknown
consequences includes the event of not surviving at the end. In fact, in her
2005 book Giving an Account of Oneself, Butler contemplates Adorno’s
remarks that the relationship with the other cannot be about survival, just
as self-preservation cannot be posited as the essence of the human as this
would be merely a form of moral narcissism. She contends that one’s
successful full protection against the potential injuriousness of the other
would be, actually, inhuman. One precisely becomes human by “[p]ersisting
Dangerous Ethics
37
in the vacillation between wanting to claim a right against such injury and
resisting that claim” (Butler 2005: 103).
The difference between the two theorists is then mostly in the question
of how we are able to think about destructiveness. Benjamin is asking us
to survive destructiveness but acknowledging the limits to the levels of
destructiveness we are able to face. Butler seems to be saying that we
cannot survive destructiveness but this is precisely what we have to face,
what we have to surrender to. Nonetheless, whilst for Butler we cannot
“repair” or survive, the idea of surrender as initiating a shift through which
something unknown and different might emerge, is similar. And loss as a
platform of identification can be understood as motivation for surrender in
the first place, as well as for trying to re-build the space of “thirdness” that
Benjamin proposes.
The Way We Respond to Injury
If Benjamin was asking us to show almost therapeutic capabilities in our
everyday relationships, it is even more perplexing to contemplate such
surrender that overcomes self-preservation. Contemplating even that, as in
Butler’s reading of Levinas in the same book, a heightened sense of
responsibility for another would emerge precisely from the experience of
injury (Butler 2005: 99). How could emergence of such responsibility
make sense? Such surrender would seem to require more than conscious
reflection: pain, as she herself acknowledges, is larger than knowing and
choosing, it hits one like waves, it foils one’s (ethical) plans. Any ethical
task one might set oneself stumbles in the face of defensiveness, despair,
and one’s own compulsive repetition. As much as it might compel us to
find ethical resources, our continual susceptibility to the others—any
other’s—violence is unimaginable and arguably, also impedes our ability
to act ethically.
It is not just that philosophical thinking about ethics extends much
further than what we are able to do, but it is also that it feels right, it feels
good, whilst an ethical task often doesn’t. Perhaps we even want to be
ethical: we are concerned, we have good intentions, we discuss what is
right and what one’s responsibility is. But psychoanalytic insistence on the
blurred boundaries between volitional and impulse-ridden parts of self
should make us think that even with our best intentions, we often don’t
really want to make the effort that the ethical requires, even when we think
we do.
So I want to borrow just one scene, one facial expression, from a
relatively unknown Chilean film Machuca (Wood 2004), otherwise a
38
Chapter Three
complex story of the friendship between two boys from opposite ends of
society during the social movements under Salvador Allende's government
circa 1973. Towards the end of the film, there is a scene in which the rich
boy Gonzago’s, mother takes part in the demonstration3. She is in a car
with some friends when Silvana, a relative of the other, poor boy, walks
by and spits on the windscreen of the car. The infuriated ladies step out of
the car and attack the girl both verbally and with their handbags.
Recognizing her son’s acquaintance, Gonzago’s mother makes an attempt
to stop her friends with: “she’s only a kid”. But Silvana gives the boy’s
mother a strong push. In this moment, the scene changes; suddenly there is
only the woman’s face on the screen, the change from disbelief to
indignation is tiny: “Hey! You fucking little bitch… I was sticking up for
you, you little shit!”
We might think we know, watching this scene, what the right thing
was, what Gonzago’s mother should have done. The scene certainly
conveys the complexity of the deep and inconceivable injustices and
grievances of a society, when even spitting on a car has symbolic
meanings. Yet on another layer of reality, this scene also presents a
relatively clear-cut situation: the girl was just a kid that spat on the car
without directly endangering Gonzago’s mother4. The latter wasn’t scared,
just offended. The disbelief and indignation at the perceived “injustice”
that happened to her when she was “trying to help”, is caricatured with the
stark contrast of the film’s context of real and enormous social injustices
and political violence. At least from the comfortable distance of a
transposed viewer, then, a more ethical response from her can be
imagined. Or is this only until it is not us that the girl, or our neighbour,
spits at? The important difference is that we are not in the situation, we are
just reading about it. In theoretical accounts, even the most difficult
situation has the distance necessary for thinking, where the self’s
experience of threat is just imagined. In this form, we can think of our best
responses, how we should have acted, how we would like to see ourselves
act, where we could find resources and understanding to act in this way. In
our everyday situations with others, are we so different when somebody
“spits” at us?
In Giving an Account of Oneself, Butler discusses Nietzsche’s remark
that “we become conscious of ourselves only after certain injuries have
been inflicted” (Butler 2005: 10); when someone in a system of justice
asks whether we might be the cause of that suffering and thus interpolates
us as beings accountable by this system. Nietzsche’s view is thus, Butler
explains, that we become reflective upon ourselves only through a fearful
response to interpellation. She contrasts this with Foucault, for whom
Dangerous Ethics
39
reflexivity emerges through establishing a critical relationship to the
system of moral codes (even if this is taking place within, and limited by,
those same codes). Such ability for reflexivity is for Foucault a moment of
self-formation as an ethical subject, which suggests morality is not (or not
only) based in fear but rather requires inventiveness and deliberation. This
morality sounds autonomous, free and agentic. It would seem from the
film example above, however, that we nonetheless remain forever
defensive about being called to a moral task and that we like to establish
the relationship to such tasks as we see fit, without too much feedback
from the immediate other. We could almost argue that there is a blind spot
in self-reflection: we mostly don’t see that we don’t behave in the same
way we write or think; even the smallest of grievances of our everyday life
tend to interrupt our ability for moral reflexivity.
Perhaps this is why theoretical thinking rarely manages to capture how
difficult, dangerous, unpleasant an ethical task can feel and what strong
emotions surround it. The scene discussed above aptly captures the
hastiness with which one’s good intentions to protect a (vulnerable) other
are transformed into defensiveness. How unwilling we are to use
vulnerability as a platform for a construction of a “we” when a conflict
becomes personal; how easily the image of the other metamorphoses from
“vulnerable” to “aggressor”. We are sometimes prepared to be ethical but
only towards a clearly vulnerable other, a non-dangerous powerless other,
a child. In other words, we are ready to take vulnerability as a tentative
point of identification precisely if we feel safe knowing that this
vulnerability is actually the difference between the other and ourselves. It
is often easier to help someone on the other side of the world whose
potentially unpleasant or threatening otherness you don’t have to
encounter, whose unpredictable response will not taint your chosen selfconstruction as an ethical being, who will not challenge your ethics and
demand from you to go all the way and engage with her as an equal
subject.
If ethical responsibility based in the idea of exposure to each other and
common vulnerability (Butler 2003: 14) relies on the image of a
vulnerable other, the latter is certainly an unstable one, subject to our
defensiveness, rage and fear. We are so quick to explain our defensive
feelings and behaviour as justified, indeed, even moral, whilst it is much
more difficult for us to think about, to look for the feelings of injustice
behind the destructive parts of others. We may need to think about how we
take part in constructing the image of the other as vulnerable or
aggressive5, and how to reduce the layers of our defensiveness. We need
to, perhaps, as any other art, simply practice a lot, in less demanding
40
Chapter Three
everyday situations; as with many things, it is easy to have great intentions
but it’s a whole new level of dedication to make those manifest.
Nonetheless, whilst Butler is right that there is a need to continuously
think about such destructiveness and the human vulnerability to loss that it
exposes, there is also no real escape from the protective veil that Benjamin
describes, when it is not about a spitting kid but an adult with a gun.
Whether we look for resources to respond to destructiveness in the
common experience of loss, or in the good (mothering) experiences;
whether, like Benjamin, we are hopeful about the restoration of the
dialectic or, like Butler, we accept some losses are irreparable; whether we
consider one responsible to survive in order to re-claim subjectivity, or, by
being injured, one acquires a “right” not to be so treated even if only to be
subsequently asked to renounce it; they are at the end all similarly
impossible to do.
Ethical responsibility might be about thinking through the intersection
of the image of a vulnerable other with an image of a dangerous,
threatening, violent other. An other, who might, or may already have,
really hurt us or someone vulnerable that we love; an other whose
grievances and motivations we don’t know, who may not show remorse,
who derides our ethical intentions (consider how in our example Silvana
rejected Gonzago’s mother’s good intentions), who may be incomprehensible
in terms of the reasons for their violence, whose violence continues. Such
other seems beyond identification, transformed within one’s own psychic
system into a disgusting and dangerous “thing” whose destruction, in fact,
may appear as the only “ethical” thing to do. How can one respond to such
other, when it may feel like doing so will endanger not only one’s selfpreservation, but indeed, one’s own (ethical) beliefs? A surrender against
the odds of self-preservation, a threatening other that endangers or injures
one so horridly that it interrupts one’s thinking and being: isn’t the real
destructiveness that Butler draws attention to, except perhaps
retrospectively and in theoretical thinking, outside our limits of setting
ourselves ethical tasks,?
The Way We are Compelled to Love
Let’s look back for a moment to the psychoanalytic understanding of the
ways we love, to see how we can use it to think about such impossible
ethical surrenders. First, psychoanalysis sees the injuriousness of the other
as resonating with more intensity within the context of a subject’s own
specific primary injury. In other words, it makes each of us sensitive to,
and re-enacting, particular injuries: for example, whilst the maternal
Dangerous Ethics
41
subject is responsible for protecting the vulnerable child and providing
initial conditions for recognition, if she didn’t the child-now-adult cannot
avoid feeling that perhaps they didn’t deserve it and this is a point of
sensitivity. In the light of such sensitivities, the above-mentioned
Adorno’s view that responding to an injury by claiming the right not to be
so treated would be “treating the other’s love as an entitlement rather than
a gift” (Butler 2005: 102), overlooks that love is always both entitlement
and gift, and an adult always revisits his/her childhood impasses. The self,
full of emotional contradictions and unconscious affects, wants to, at least
sometimes, believe in love as an entitlement and in doing so inevitably
fails in its ethical responsibilities. We are not able to know when we are
(re-)acting from an unconscious injury, just as we don’t know “why we
love as we do” (indeed, the two often overlap): we are compelled to love
in certain ways, we continuously judge badly (103). Even when one
appears to go on for the sake of the other or the sake of preserving the
relationship, or for something altogether external to oneself, how can one
be sure? Arguably, we are equally compelled to pursue what we,
sometimes unconsciously, feel our entitlements are and those two can
often not be distinguished. We want things to be as we think we deserve
them to be. And sometimes, this exposes us to great destructiveness from
ourselves and/or others.
I use the second film vignette both to illustrate the ways we feel
compelled, entitled, and recognized, but also to show how we are
sometimes compelled to pursue something we feel or believe regardless of
danger, something that might help us think about difficult ethical tasks.
I want to consider an aspect of the film ‘Boys Don’t Cry’ (Peirce:
1999), on which Benjamin and Butler also comment in their above
mentioned 2000 exchange. In this well-known film, the main character
Brandon is a girl who wants to be a boy. The reality (of the body, of the
authorities/documents) continues to intrude into the picture; nonetheless,
as Butler aptly observes, the conditions of fantasy are still able to exist as a
“credible” fantasy, as long as they are being confirmed by others (Butler
2000). Butler’s analysis shows how for Brandon, it is mainly his lover
Lana’s oscillation between being and not being able to engage in the
shared fantasy/reality6 that negotiates this confirmation. But when
Brandon’s seeks recognition also from the local boys the story turns tragic
as they kill him when they find out he is a “girl”. Butler rightly notes that
the tragedy of the story originates in the violent attempt at the reassertion
of the cultural “norms” by Brandon’s murderers. We might also add, in
their fantasy of what masculinity is as well as fantasy of being entitled to
impose their idea of masculinity on others.
42
Chapter Three
So why does Benjamin appear to view Brandon’s “problems” to
originate to some extent from himself?:
“I see the problems of Brandon in Boys Don’t Cry as deriving from the
character’s inability to extricate herself from a too literal (concrete)
embrace of the gender dimorphism, which makes her seek recognition as a
boy not merely from her girlfriend, but, more dangerously, from men”
(Benjamin 2000: 303).
This reads dangerously like: “If only Brandon hadn’t had sought
recognition as a boy from men...” And it is easy to object. His murderers’
destructiveness would not have been resolved if Brandon had not sought
recognition as a boy (and rather as something else, less concrete). A
twisted and insecure sense of entitlement will always construct a “reason”
for destructiveness towards the other7. Nonetheless, whilst doubtlessly not
intended to remove any responsibility from the perpetrators of violence,
one possible way to read Benjamin’s remark is as an observation of the
everyday reality where we are not always able to get the recognition we
seek (that we may theoretically, ideally, be entitled to). Whilst there is no
position from which one has the right to decide what the other should seek
recognition as, perhaps Benjamin, due to her daily experience with her
patients’ traumas, conflicts and destructiveness, was trying to acknowledge
the way we are sometimes compelled to seek recognition irrespective of
the danger it will put us in. Would it be better not to? It is sometimes safer
not to seek recognition from certain positions and we often act accordingly
even whilst not being proud of ourselves. Little things we learn to do to
protect ourselves (for example, when we don’t confront a bully, don’t go
to certain places at night, try not to upset someone that is angry, or keep
our opinions to ourselves in certain situations), like adjusting the
protective veil that we use to get through the everyday encounters with the
threatening other.
On the one hand, then, perhaps ethical responsibility can only be
understood as an aspiration. We can think of ways to challenge the limits
of our buffer of thirdness, the way we meet others’ destructiveness, the
way we always perceive it personally and with ready-made defensiveness.
We can perhaps use some understanding of the therapeutic work in
meeting destructiveness in everyday life. We can pay attention to our
ability to see the other as vulnerable even when they might also be injuring
us. But ultimately, ethical responsibility is perhaps something we cannot
self-willingly do outside of the moments we feel safe and generous – in
moments of real unthinkable destructiveness. Whilst we might agree with
Butler that we cannot survive the threat of the other but we have to face it
Dangerous Ethics
43
anyway (even that ethics cannot be about self-preservation) — in theory,
we have to admit we don’t very often follow this in our lives. Perhaps we
can’t: because it is too scary, too risky, it takes too much effort, energy
and pain; because we are not strong enough; because sometimes we don’t
see through our good intentions that we don’t. This is important to say so
that we don’t think that we do or that we know how – to remain in line
with Derridean caution that accounts of lives and their acts, how we did,
are always to remain in the future, yet to be determined (Lloyd 2000: 115).
And perhaps it is also that we fail to act with ethical responsibility because
not many around us seem to behave in such a radically ethical way. The
social reaction to such ethics, to people that might risk self-preservation
for it, is at best an ambivalent mixture of admiration and reserve. There is
perhaps too much passion in such ethics not to upset the everyday fabric of
society. Isn’t it perhaps that ethical failure can be seen as just a way “to
survive the current organization of ‘human’ society”?
Yet on the other hand, for Brandon, being recognized by the others as a
boy felt so essential it was worth exposing himself to mortal danger. And
similarly, even within dangerous and destructive contexts that stop
thinking ethical responses sometimes do emerge, almost like a reaction
from the depths of who we are or what means something to us. A
psychoanalytic lens might thus be useful here. We might need to
understand such ethical responsibility that is effective against destructiveness,
as having something of the element of being compelled. An encounter
with another that instigates something stronger than self-preservation
offers a reminiscence of that passionate love of a child, going on
nonetheless because “there is no possibility of not loving, where love is
bound up with the requirements for life” (Butler 1997: 8). Without the
specific, even compulsive, quality of the foundational passionate attachment,
such immense surrender to the danger and unknown would not seem to be
in reach of our conscious deliberations. There is, certainly, ambivalence
about such passion. But perhaps injury touches this foundational core,
creating the possibility that unexpected ethical response, extraordinary
sense of responsibility, can emerge.
In Conclusion
Benjamin’s focus on the survival of destructiveness in intersubjective
relationships is perhaps the legacy of her initial theorizing within the
asymmetry of the primary mother-child relationship. Nonetheless,
Benjamin does not suggest that her idea of survival, whilst defined as a
thin line between neither retaliating nor giving in, means not being
44
Chapter Three
affected by destructiveness. On the contrary, her suggestions of how to
escape an analytical impasse include showing the patient how an analyst
has been made to feel by their encounter and, sometimes, by the patient’s
destructiveness. The position of the analyst perhaps here to an extent
complies with Butler’s description about agreeing to undergo a
transformation in the encounter with the other. The difference is that
Benjamin does not elaborate on the change of the self through pain, loss,
grief and mourning that such an encounter involves. A relationship to a
destructive adult, and especially a relationship outside of a therapeutic
setting, submits to a real danger of “I’ll go first”, and so it would seem that
insistence on survival limits it to a certain destructiveness that can be
contained within the buffer of “thirdness.”
Since the “survival” of the encounter with the other is limited,
involving a real threat with unknown consequences, recognition cannot be
understood as a function/consequence of survival as Benjamin proposes;
recognition is a right. When we accept/agree to undergo loss, pain,
transformation, it is not in order to (re-)claim subjectivity but in order to
shift the intersubjective dialectic. Perhaps, indeed, “survival” is not the
best term for such a remarkable change of the self.
Whilst we can theorize, with Butler and others, the need for such
ethical responsibility that goes even beyond self-preservation, it is
something that we are not able to consciously commit to in any simple
way. It is not only that the veil Benjamin describes is one we cannot avoid
using; it is also that we are not always able to know what to do; that we are
not even always aware we are called to enact a certain ethical task. This is
partly because ethical responsibility, as implied in these accounts, includes
not only mindfulness of the vulnerable other but also our link to a
destructive other, which we cannot contemplate. Ethical responsibility is
dangerous and unpleasant and often does not even feel right in its
imminent context.
It would make sense, thus, to say that ethics can only call upon the
intensity of the psychoanalytic subject’s foundational attachments, and
needs to be explored in the contexts of compulsiveness, defensiveness, and
even disgust, as well as its meanings for the self. The self that sometimes
destructively believes in its entitlements is the same source of subjectivity
that sometimes manages to go on in an ethical way despite the injury, even
regardless of self-preservation. Whilst Butler’s and Benjamin’s theoretical
accounts on destructiveness and recognition greatly illuminate the
dynamics of ethical responsibility, the latter remains at the limits of
understanding. Butler draws attention to the irreparable, irreversible
destructiveness. The theoretical search for an ethical position that is to be
Dangerous Ethics
45
somehow effective in responding to such destructiveness, might perhaps
next need to think about ethics as a commitment that is as passionate, and
thus also as confusing, frightening and even disturbing as this
destructiveness itself.
References
Benjamin, Jessica (1988): The bonds of love psychoanalysis, feminism,
and the problem of domination. New York: Pantheon
—. (1994): The omnipotent mother: A psychoanalytic study of fantasy and
reality. In Representations of Motherhood (pp. viii, 294). New Haven,
CT, US: Yale University Press.
—. (1995): Like subjects, love objects: Essays on recognition and sexual
difference. New Haven, CT, US: Yale University Press.
—. (1998): Shadow of the other: Intersubjectivity and gender in
psychoanalysis. Florence, KY, US: Taylor & Frances/Routledge.
—. (1999): 'Afterword to 'Recognition and Destruction: An Outline of
Intersubjectivity'. In, S. A. Mitchell & L. Aron (Eds.), Relational
psychoanalysis: the emergence of a tradition. Hillsdale, NJ &London:
The Analytic Press.
—. (2000): 'Response to Commentaries by Mitchell and by Butler'. Studies
in Gender and Sexuality, 1, 291.
—. (2002): Terror and Guilt; Beyond Them and Us. Psychoanalytic
Dialogues, 12(3), 473-484.
—. (2004): 'Beyond Doer and Done To: An Intersubjective View of
Thirdness'. Psychoanalytic Quarterly, 73(1), 5-46.
Butler, Judith (1997): The psychic life of power. Theories in subjection.
Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press.
—. (2000): 'Longing for recognition: Commentary on the work of Jessica
Benjamin.' Studies in Gender and Sexuality, 1(3), 271-290.
—. (2003): 'Violence, Mourning, Politics.' Studies in gender and sexuality,
4(1), 9-37.
—. (2004): Precarious life. The powers of mourning and violence.
London: Verso.
—. (2005): Giving an Account of Oneself. New York. Fordham University
Press.
—. (2006): Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity.
New York: Routledge Classics.
Frosh, Stephen (2006): 'Melancholy Without the Other.' Studies in Gender
and Sexuality, 7(4), pp. 363-378.
46
Chapter Three
Goldner, V. (2004a): 'When Love Hurts: Treating Abusive Relationships'.
Psychoanalytic Inquiry, 24(3), 346-372.
Winnicott, D. W. (2005): Playing and Reality. New York, NY, US:
Routledge.
Peirce, K. Boys Don’t Cry (1999), Producer Christine Vachon
http://www.foxsearchlight.com/boysdontcry/
Wood, A. Machuca (2004)
Notes
1
Freud’s theory of sexuality, Kleinian irremediable unconscious envy of the
other’s riches or Winnicottian (manic) denial of dependency, amongst other
psychoanalytically informed-theories, have been put forward to understand this
repression. In Butler, the passionate attachment is denied because its passionate
desire represents a threat and a sense of humiliation to the subject (Butler 1997: 8).
2
Although later in her book Butler distinguishes the Lacanian term ‘foreclosure’ as
an act of negation that founds the subject, from Freudian “repression” as an action
by an already-formed subject, she uses these two terms interchangeably in the case
that I am discussing (from her Introduction).
3
From the film clip approximately 1:17:10 to 1:19:18. Available to watch here:
http://youtu.be/YIfpOZrJfzQ.
4
Although, arguably, symbolically endangering her way of life, which of course is
not independent.
5
See Butler’s 2004 work for an account of political construction of certain
images/faces as dangerous or non-subjects.
6
Perhaps a word here on how a shared fantasy always becomes a shared reality,
something that the director of the film, Kimberly Peirce names “emotional truth”.
Interviewing the “real” Lana of the story the film was based on, she writes: “I
believed Lana was lying to me throughout her interview, but her lies depicted her
relationship with Brandon – the emotional truth just poured out. From that
emerged what became the core of the story: the love between Brandon and Lana
and how I would represent it on film. I wanted their love affair to be embodied
within a fantasy, and yet, at heart, deeply truthful.” (Peirce, webpage as quoted in
references).
7
There is no space here to discuss this in detail but again, Goldner (2004a)
provides an excellent analysis of the dynamics and twisted sense of entitlement in
abusive relationships.
CHAPTER FOUR
EROS AND ITS DISCONTENTS:
ON THE TAMING (AND UN-TAMING)
OF LOVE’S WILD, DANGEROUSLY
UNSCRIPTED FUTURE1
RICHARD GANIS
To some philosophers, love is a playfully seditious gesture with
unmistakable ethico-political implications. This paper considers several
such accounts of love, beginning with that set forth in Herbert Marcuse’s
Eros and Civilization. Here, from a Freudo-Marxist perspective, Marcuse
extracts the attitude of primitive erotic narcissism from the nonrationalisable
terrain of the unconscious, wielding it as an orientation poised to shatter
the de-differentiating mastery of the late capitalist “performance principle”
and its attendant epistemology of identity. Marcuse’s effort to position
archaic narcissism as the germ of a new, aestheticised mode of being is
compared to the deconstructivist perspective of Jacques Derrida, which
likewise valorises the nonrationalisable attributes of the love gesture, but
absent is Marcuse’s dalliance with the metaphysics of transcendence.
Radically extending the insights of Emmanuel Levinas, Derrida proposes
an ethics of loving care that attends to the nonrepeatable alterity of the
distant other at the level of both ethics and politics.
The arguments of Marcuse and Derrida are in turn contrasted with the
contravening tradition of Kant, which keeps the attitude of loving
benevolence at express conceptual and structural remove from the public
use of reason and its cognate principles of tolerative reciprocity. In so
doing, Kantianism entails a standing injunction to “tame” the attitude of
love, such that its affective particularism is barred from infecting the
impartial universality of the justice perspective. Notwithstanding, neoKantian discourse ethicists such as Jürgen Habermas have made various
attempts to nudge the asymmetrical orientation of affective concern for the
48
Chapter Four
welfare of the other within the normative orbit of universal justice. Their
aim is to guard against the prospects of banalisation and “joyless
reformism,” which we invite when we anchor moral action in an appeal to
dialogical reasonableness alone.
The final section of the paper considers Axel Honneth’s effort to
implant the orientation of caring recognition at the conceptual and genetic
core of all intelligent problem-solving languages and their associated
spheres of life. From this vantage point, the care orientation remains
available for retrieval whenever an individual is subjected to the moral
injury of “misrecognition.” I argue that in glossing over what is distinctive
epistemologically about the detached cognitive standpoint, Honneth
invites a curious—albeit entirely unintended—link to the care-ethical
perspective of Derrida. Indeed, like Derrida, Honneth blurs the boundary
between detached cognition and love, thereby depriving us of the
conceptual resources needed to corral the prospect of an all-pervasive
phenomenology of recognitional experience. In hopes of resolving this
difficulty, this essay concludes with a qualified defence of the
epistemological convictions of Habermas’s discourse model, which
enjoins us to draw the line between love and morality rather more sharply
than thinkers like Marcuse, Derrida, and Honneth have done.
Love and Revolution:
Marcuse’s Eschatological Notion of Eros
The purposive-rational organising directives of late capitalism are
seeping ever more deeply into the normative and institutional sinews of
modern life—with dire, indeed pathological, consequences. Governing the
knowledge and application of science, technology, and industry as well
psychosocial relations amongst human beings, Zweckrationalität
establishes and oversees a world wherein the domination of external
nature and the domination of internal nature are insidiously coimbricated.
This, in rather crude caricature, is the diagnosis to which Herbert Marcuse
is drawn. Synthesising the respective analyses of Georg Lukács and Max
Weber, Marcuse construes late modernity as a “cage” that increasingly
subjects its human and nonhuman internees to processes of instrumental
manipulation and control—a view that is affirmed and embellished in Max
Horkheimer and Theodor Adorno’s Dialectic of Enlightenment (2002) and
other texts of the Frankfurt School tradition. In the wake of such a verdict,
the old Marxist convictions must be abandoned: the normative and
institutional preconditions for liberating humankind from the “realm of
necessity” are to be found not within capitalism itself; rather, if we wish to
Eros and Its Discontents
49
keep Marxism’s revolutionary promise alive, we must look outside the
emancipatory ideals of the bourgeois Enlightenment and the long since
desolated imaginary of the industrial proletariat.
It is precisely the desire to identify new reservoirs of radical social
agency that motivates Marcuse’s turn to the psychoanalytic writings of
Sigmund Freud in Eros and Civilization. In Freud’s work, Marcuse tells
us, a veil is lifted off a sphere of human existence with the potential to
elude the pernicious fetters of an otherwise totally administered universe.
Indeed, at the core of Freud’s architectonic of the human psyche Marcuse
discerns a promesse de bonheur that has been effectively eradicated from
the reified spheres of existence that circumscribe the productive and
intellectual activity of modern, civilised subjects. Extrinsic and indeed
inimical to the organising directives of these domains, we find, in the
initial stage of psychosexual development that Freud calls primary
narcissism, a bundle of instinctual impulses mobilised solely in accord
with the pleasure principle. Unperturbed by the reality ego’s demands for
renunciation, the value system of the pleasure principle is characterised by
limitless receptivity to joy and satisfaction. As such, it constitutes nothing
less than “the archetype of freedom,” whereas “civilization is the struggle
against this freedom” (Marcuse 1966: 15). Under existing civilisational
conditions, maintains Marcuse, categories of thought and action have
come to be governed by the contravening performance principle, a
historically specific manifestation of the reality principle predicated upon
the inhibition of pleasure, the deferral of gratification, and the valorisation
of toil, productiveness, and security.
In fact, Marcuse holds the performance directive accountable for the
production of a sphere of “surplus repression,” wherein labour, sexuality,
and other facets of psychosocial life are subject to a level of repression that
is pathological, beyond that which is biologically or socially necessary. Here
there is a notable break with Freud, who construes repression as an
ineliminable feature of human civilisation (Freud 1989). The mature,
reasoning ego leaves behind the intense, boundless pleasure that can be
experienced only in early psychic life, replacing it with a rational, albeit
rather pale, shadow of the originary: the assured, delayed, aim-inhibited
pleasure demanded by the reality principle. To be sure, all members of
modern civilisation—including those with relatively “intact” psyches—
must pay for this transubstantiation of primary libidinal pleasure with a
certain amount of guilt, anxiety, and unhappiness. To Freud such
instinctual renunciation affords humankind clear benefits—security, peace,
intellectual, moral, and cultural progress—which far outweigh the physic
costs. Yet Freud’s case for rooting human society in a “reasonable” sort of
50
Chapter Four
repression fails to impress Marcuse. To him, all faith in the capacities of
the reality ego is lost as soon as we acknowledge that reason itself has
been commandeered and co-opted by the instrumental performance
objectives of advanced capitalism, which are especially adept at
supporting “repression from without . . . by repression from within: the
unfree individual introjects his masters and their commands into his own
mental apparatus. The struggle against freedom reproduces itself in the
psyche of man, as the self-repression of the repressed individual, and his
self-repression in turn sustains his maters and their institutions” (Marcuse
1966: 16).
At this point, Freud’s lessons on the occluded dimensions of our
psychic constitution become propaedeutic for Marcuse. For here we
discover unconscious orientations and dispositions that do not conform to
the disciplinary directives of the performance imperative. In Freud’s
understanding, these primary erotic instincts are “polymorphous-perverse”
by nature and thus devoid of any “temporal and spatial limitations on
[their] subject and object” (Marcuse 1966: 49). Nonrationalised, unrestrained,
and without a stable or fixed form, the erotic perversions are equipped to
do something that is beyond both the objectives and capacities of Freud’s
reality ego: they can shatter the epistemology of correspondence that
undergirds the capitalist directive of performance, thereby helping to
unmoor humanity from its present reified relation to itself and the natural
world:
Against a society which employs sexuality as means for a useful end, the
perversions uphold sexuality as an end in itself; they thus place themselves
outside the dominion of the performance principle and challenge its very
foundation. They establish libidinal relationships which society must
ostracize because they threaten to reverse the process of civilization which
turned the organism into an instrument of work. They are a symbol of what
had to be suppressed so that suppression could prevail and organize the
ever more efficient domination of man and nature—a symbol of the
destructive identity between freedom and happiness (Marcuse 1966: 48–
49).
Breaking precipitously with the rationalist aspirations of Freud, Marx,
and (as we shall soon see) Kant, Marcuse thus sets Eros loose against the
“ever more extraneous” limitations of normalised, procreative, genitocentric
sexuality. Eros’ rebellious, unconstrained libidinal energies, having
become aware of their own emancipatory potentialities, explode “the
reality ego and its repressive performances” (Marcuse 1966: 48).
Eros and Its Discontents
51
Significantly, the liberatory potential of the erotic attitude is evident
not simply at the level of social relations amongst human beings, but also
with respect to the “things of nature.” Indeed, to Marcuse, Eros becomes
the groundwork for a radically new epistemological and technological
vantage point from which we can begin the task of emancipating the
natural world from the dominative mastery of modern science and
industry. “In the Orphic and Narcissistic Eros,” writes Marcuse, “this
tendency is released: the things of nature become free to be what they are.
But to be what they are they depend on the erotic attitude: they receive
their telos only in it” (Marcuse 1966: 166). On these terms, Eros
constitutes the basis for a new science capable of establishing “essentially
different facts” about nature and a new, cognate technology with the
capacity to treat nature as an end-in-itself, rather than an object amenable
to prediction and instrumental-technical control (Marcuse 1964: 166–67).
There is thus clearly more at stake in Marcuse’s valorisation of the
erotic attitude than simple criticism of the repressive sexual mores of
existing monogamic-patriarchal institutions: in the prehistoric erotic
instincts we find, at the level of both nature and society, “proximity to a
happiness that has always been the promise of a better future” (Marcuse
1966: 203). Indeed, against the tyranny of the performance norm, which
endeavours to divert libido into “useful” cultural activities, Eros forms the
basis for a new “aestheticised” reality principle. Such a reality principle
would superintend the free development, transformation, and eroticisation
of existing social institutions and “previously tabooed zones, time, and
relations” (Marcuse 1966: 202). Accordingly, when Marcuse speaks of the
reactivation of precivilised, infantile Eros, he anticipates the arrival of an
intrinsically nonrepressive form of sublimation that would involve not
simply changes in human sexual dispositions and behaviour, but also:
the continual refinement of the [human] organism, the intensification of its
receptivity, the growth of its sensuousness. The aim generates its own
projects of realization: the abolition of toil, the amelioration of the
environment, the conquest of disease and decay, the creation of luxury. All
these activities flow directly from the pleasure principle, and, at the same
time, they constitute work which associates individuals to “greater unities”;
no longer confined within the mutilating dominion of the performance
principle, they modify the impulse without deflecting it from its aim
(Marcuse 1966: 212).
The rupture with modernity that Marcuse awaits is in this sense
“eschatological”: within the unconscious recesses of the human psyche
there resides a domain of untrammelled freedom and happiness with the
52
Chapter Four
potential to break down and burst through the normative and institutional
foundations of advanced industrial society, issuing forth a new eroticised
and fundamentally nonrepressive sociopolitical universe. Anathema to
capitalist imperatives of performance, such conditions would allow
humankind to enter into a profoundly sensuous—indeed aestheticised—
relationship with itself and the things of nature, whose putatively inert,
purposeless objects would themselves be radically transformed, socialised,
and, in a sense, “reteleologised.”
At the Fore or Margins of Morality?
Love from the Vantage Points of Derrida and Habermas
There are unmistakable resonances between Marcuse’s effort to portray
the primitive, nonrelational erotic dispositions as a hidden reservoir for
emancipatory praxis and the care-ethical perspective elaborated in the later
writings of Jacques Derrida. Speaking rather loosely, both Marcuse and
Derrida seek to afford human subjects and the things of nature an avenue
through which to elide the de-differentiating mastery of the Concept.
Indeed, it is precisely the nonidentical—that which cannot be rendered
equivalent to something else—which both writers are keen to resuscitate at
the level of philosophical inquiry and social criticism. Under indictment
here are not simply the empirical-analytic discourses of the natural
sciences and their associated technological applications, but also moralethical discourses that likewise sacrifice the nonidentical to the injunction
to proffer and accept meanings on exactingly equivalent terms. Both
Marcuse and Derrida are staunch critics of all such regimes of reciprocal
equivalence, measurability, and calculability—for example, those set forth
in modern legal contracts and in the rules governing the exchange of
money and commodities in the capitalist market. However, they differ
with regard to the question of how the standpoint of identity is to be
conceptualised and challenged. Marcuse, as we have seen, aims to subvert
the identity principle at its epistemological roots by positioning Eros as a
substratum of nonrationalisable propensities inimical to the objectivating
organising directives of advanced industrial society. Derrida likewise finds
the standpoint of measurable equality complicit in subjecting the
nonidentical to the violence of stabilisation and epistemic erasure. Yet he
departs from Marcuse in construing the vantage point of calculable
equality (as inscribed, for example, in modern discourses of law) as a
“decision” that the deconstructive ethics of difference must necessarily
affirm. To Derrida its calculability and programmability are precisely what
render the equality perspective “deconstructible”—that is, amenable to
Eros and Its Discontents
53
care-ethical gestures aimed at safeguarding the irreducibly different
experiences, perspectives, and identities of the self and its other from the
inescapable residue of violence that adheres to the injunction to measure.
Because such gestures take place in the gaps or aporia of the calculative
ideal, they operate, according to Derrida, at the level of the incalculable
and the undeconstructible. Indeed, the undeconstructible incalculability of
the caring gesture is, for Derrida, justice: a vantage point whose normative
horizons can never be fixed, normalised, or predicted in advance, but are
rather always already deferred. Justice, in the deconstructive sense, is
always justice-to-come (à venir).
From this vantage point, Derrida draws on the work of Emmanuel
Levinas2 to elaborate a number of care-ethical topoi that place the moral
standpoint of the incommensurably singular other into an uneasy, yet
nevertheless productive, association with the perspective of calculative
symmetry (rather than eviscerating the latter orientation tout court, à la
Marcuse). Worth highlighting in this context are the Derridean notions of
friendship, giftgiving, and hospitality—ethicopolitical orientations
mobilised against the impulse to reabsorb the differing vocabularies of self
and other into oneness and similitude, the injunction to turn what is
fundamentally chaotic and disorderly into a measurable calibration. The
latter is precisely the aspiration of the Aristotelian dream of friendship as
“a beatifically pacific relation,” which, according to Derrida, inflicts an
ineliminable “wound” upon both ego and alter: namely “the necessity of
having to count one’s friends, to count the others, in the economy of one’s
own, there where every other is altogether other” (Derrida 1997: 22).
Against this ontotheological ideal of friendship, Derrida deploys the
neologism aimance (or “lovence”). As an idea “perhaps unthinkable today
and unthought within the historical determination of friendship in the
West,” aimance elides the imperative of calculation, thereby opening up
the prospect of a nonviolent, “non-appropriative relation to the other”
(Derrida 1996: 83).
With the idea of aimance, Derrida begins to disarticulate the boundary
between love and morality, as upheld in the philosophical tradition of
Kant. As is well known, Kant distinguishes the orientation of loving
benevolence categorically from the public use of reason and its associated
norms of tolerative reciprocation, such that a cordon sanitaire is
established between the affective particularism of the former and the
impartial moral universalism of the latter. Derrida’s notion of aimance, in
contrast, displaces friendship from the sphere of exclusively private
obligations, making it an orientation that is laden with both private and
public/political implications—a move that would be illicit on strictly
54
Chapter Four
Kantian premises. Homologous to this view of friendship is Derrida’s
notion of hospitality without conditions. Against Kant’s ideal of tolerative,
legal-juridical hospitality, which subjects both arrivant and host to a
resolutely symmetrical chain of mutual obligations (Kant 2005), Derrida
extends an im/possible promise of limitless hospitality to a nonidentifiable,
unanticipatable other. His aim is to disarticulate the well-formed,
synchronically balanced regime of reciprocal equivalence inscribed in
Kant’s conditional right of universal hospitality, and thereby dispossess
the host of its command over the terms of the arrivant’s sojourn within its
borders. Derrida’s hospitable visitation with the wholly other resonates, in
turn, with the deconstructive gesture of giftgiving without qualifications.
Pace Kant, Derrida envisages a profoundly asynchronous space (for which
Plato, in the Timaeus, deploys the sign khôra), wherein ego and alter are
unburdened not only from the exchange relation’s requirement of
reciprocation, countergift, and debt, but also from the demand of temporal
simultaneity, the imperative that the gift be “restituted immediately and
right away” (Derrida 1992: 41). “Freed from the command of
instantaneous reciprocation, expressions of unqualified giftgiving open
onto a radically asymmetrical horizon of time, in which the intervals
between the receipt and future bestowment of a gift can be neither
calculated nor known in advance” (Ganis 2011: 44–45).
Derridean friendship, hospitality, and giftgiving thus undercut the
Kantian tradition’s effort to exile gestures of unreserved care for the
irreducibly singular other to the realm of private affairs, thereby making
the adjudication of moral norms the exclusive purview of the public use of
reason. Here the affinities between Derrida’s and Marcuse’s respective
engagements with Freud’s work are palpable. Like Marcuse, Derrida
gleans from Freud’s map of the human psyche a standpoint of nonidentity
that can in turn be wielded against the politics of calculation: that is, the
nondeterministic “surface apparatus” of the unconscious, a realm of
psychic life shot through with the differential traces of primary narcissism.
Further, like Marcuse, Derrida challenges a certain Aufklärung trajectory
within Freud’s thinking, which is manifest in the latter’s commitment to
the “inevitable progress in understanding according to the principle of
reason” (Bass 2006: 179).3 This disposition is reflected in Freud’s portrait
of analytic care, wherein the clinician is enjoined to extricate the neurotic
patient from a condition of “helplessness” or “empirical finitude.” To
deracinate the mechanistic biases of this view of care, Derrida appeals to
Heidegger’s idea of “differentiating finitude,” from which standpoint care,
time, and interpretation are released from the imperative to measure and
conceived instead in relation to angst, uncanniness, and stress. Alan Bass
Eros and Its Discontents
55
has noted that although both Freud and Heidegger provide glimpses of this
model of care as an “uncanny living machine” (Bass 2006: 68), Derrida
ratchets up the implications of their respective interventions. His idea is to
propose a new metrics of time, a disruptive, non-messianic spectral
messianicity that radicalises the impulse—already at play in Heidegger’s
phenomenological account of Dasein—to view care as “an interpersonal
orientation motivated by one’s desire not to incorporate others into ‘the
universal’ but, rather, to ‘let others be’ in their freedom for their own
possibilities and to allow one’s own self-understanding to be informed by
theirs” (Vogel 1994: 71).
In disarticulating the line between loving benevolence and measurable
equality, Derrida’s deconstructive care ethics is positioned at rather stark
conceptual remove from Jürgen Habermas’s model of communicative
action, which follows Kant in prioritising the standpoint of the universally
moral over and against the obligation to care unreservedly for the
singularly unrepresentable other. To be sure, in response to critics such as
Carol Gilligan (1993) and Seyla Benhabib (1992), Habermas has endeavoured
in recent years to nudge the ethics of care within the orbit of the
cognitivist procedures of moral argumentation privileged in his own
discourse-ethical perspective. The worry here is that discourse ethics’
overvaluation of the “feeling-neutral” standpoint of universal justice—the
perspective of “dialogical reasonableness”—appears to entail a concomitant
devaluation of the attitude of affective concern for the irreducibly
particular needs, woes, and vulnerabilities of “concrete” bodily selves. The
asymmetrical orientation of unreserved love for the concrete other is
excised from Habermasian morality, so the argument goes, as a
consequence of its valorisation of principle (U)—the cognitivist
universalisation test of discourse ethics. In appealing to (U), dialogic
subjects are enjoined to construe a controversial moral claim as rational
and universally binding if and only if they can adjudge generalised
compliance to that norm companionable with the interests of each
individual (Habermas 1990a: 65). In binding moral action to (U),
Habermas’s seems to have privileged the transcendental “figure of a fully
autonomous, unambiguously rational, Kantian ‘Man’” (Gaon 1998: 717).
Such a figure engages in interminable rounds of banalised, hyperproceduralised discourse aimed at reaching mutual understanding, only to
invite a possible “loss of confidence in reason and the end of rational
discourse as a normative ideal” (Krause 2005: 379).
Apprehensive of such an outcome, Habermas’s later work has extended
to dialogic subjects the capacity to integrate “cognitive operations and
emotional dispositions and attitudes”; “empathetic sensitivity by each
56
Chapter Four
person to everyone else,” Habermas concedes, is critical to the
adjudication of moral norms (Habermas 1990a: 182, 202). Here the idea—
evident in Habermas’s concept of “constitutional patriotism,” for
example—is to co-implicate the cognitive attitude of moral disputation
with the individual’s affective allegiance to liberal-democratic institutions
and modes of conduct, thereby making moral actors’ own subjective
feelings and attitudes about disputed norms expressly relevant to the
discursive effort to adjudge the universal validity of these norms (Krause
2005: 374). Because the cognitivist attitude of moral deliberation cannot
be dissociated completely from either the affectivity characteristic of
human interaction or the orientation of concern for the other’s welfare,
Habermas concludes that ethics is an inescapable aspect of all legal and
democratic processes aimed at actualising universal rights (Habermas
1994: 126).
At first glance, it appears that the resolve to “retain an element of the
good at the core of the right” (Habermas 1998: 29) has led the later
Habermas to subvert the Kantian distinction between deontological
principles of tolerative reciprocity and the attitude of affective concern for
the particularistic needs, goods, and definitional identities of the other. It
turns out, of course, that Habermas is well aware that the overarching
politico-philosophical architectonic of his original programme of discourse
ethics—which he still wishes to uphold—imposes intractable limitations
upon his attempt to associate rationalist procedures of universal norm
justification with the asymmetrical orientation of loving kindness and
compassion for the other’s unrepeatable otherness. In short, although he
positions the attitude of care as a critical stimulus for the adoption of the
moral perspective, the basic Kantian morphology of the discourse ethic
leaves Habermas with little choice but to relegate care to the terrain of the
ethical, which must in turn be distinguished categorically from a
prioritised sphere of morality. Indeed, inasmuch as he remains beholden to
Kant, Habermas can push the entanglement of the two spheres only so far.
If Habermasian morality is to vouchsafe its own normative commitment to
principles of impartial discursive will-formation, it must at some point
unburden itself of the nonuniversalisability of the care orientation. In
failing to uphold this critical demarcation between the ethical and the
moral, between the good and the just, between the “poetic” and the
illocutionary, Habermas views Derrida’s perspective (among others) as
shorn of the conceptual resources necessary for averting the slide towards
relativist prevarication, decisionism, and “bad” historicism and aestheticism.4
The conceptual tension between Habermas’s metatheoretical allegiances
to Kantianism and his contravening attraction to an idea of civic
Eros and Its Discontents
57
republicanism fortified with the orientation of affective, ethico-solidaristic
concern for the existential other is, in the view of some observers,
problematic, inasmuch as it neglects to adequately address the question of
how the attitude of loving benevolence can be construed as “prior” to the
standpoint of detached moral cognition. In what follows, I foreground the
recognition theory of Axel Honneth, which sets forth a rigorous
elaboration of, and solution to, this problem.
Love and Recognition: Honneth’s Moral Monism
As developed over the last several decades, Honneth’s theory of
recognition remains significantly indebted to the communicationstheoretic programme of his mentor and associate Habermas. Honneth
himself views their respective approaches as being anchored in a common
philosophical lineage, which he characterises as the tradition of “leftHegelian intersubjectivism.” From this vantage point, both writers seek to
identify the normative principles and attendant “emancipatory interests”
(already partially thematised and institutionalised within modern societies)
on the basis of which the task of establishing domination-free social
relations can be carried forth. So equipped, their critical social theories are
positioned to elucidate those elements of social practice and experience
that circulate as “socially embodied reason insofar as [they] possess a
surplus of rational norms or organizational principles that press for their
own realization” (Honneth 2003: 240). These kindred metatheoretical
objectives aside, Honneth’s recognition model inaugurates a significant
break with the discourse theory of Habermas. A key point of divergence—
especially germane in the present context—concerns the question of how
the attitude of caring recognition is to be conceptualised and brought to
bear at the level of social critique. In Honneth’s view, Habermas is
mistaken to claim that the standpoint of detached moral argumentation can
be cleansed, at the level of epistemology, of the recognitional orientation
of care. Contra Habermas, Honneth views the latter attitude as
conceptually and genetically anterior to the vantage point of detached
cognition, meaning that the latter stance cannot be taken up successfully
without prior experience of the former. Honneth argues that in portraying
moral discourse as little more than a negotiation over the redemption of
language-based validity claims, Habermas is insufficiently attentive to this
insight. Honneth’s model of moral action, in contrast, maintains that
recognitional care is “neutralised” when the impartial standpoint is
adopted, rather than being expunged from it, as Habermas proposes.
58
Chapter Four
On this conviction, Honneth sets out to delineate the sorts of
pathological syndromes that arise in cases where the anterior orientation of
caring recognition has been abjured. For Honneth, such misrecognition, or
disrespect, can be observed at the level of three distinct action domains,
which he corrals under the respective rubrics of love, law, and solidarity.
Within each sphere, misrecognition takes the form of a specific sort of
moral injury that undercuts the prospects of an individual relating
positively to his or her own concrete abilities and attributes. Such an
“undistorted relation-to-self” is threatened by bodily abuse within the
affective sphere of love; by the denial of universal rights within the legal
domain; and by affronts to the individual’s sense of self-esteem within the
socio-ethical space of solidarity (Honneth 1992: 129). These divergent
modes of expression notwithstanding, all three types of misrecognition
entail a situation in which our reflexive actions lose “consciousness of
their origin in an act of antecedent recognition”; crossing “the threshold to
pathology, scepticism, or—as Adorno would have called it—identity
thought,” ego misperceives alter as a mere insensate object (Honneth
2008: 57; see also Ganis 2011: 127).
Insofar as he underscores the necessary cohabitation of the attitudes of
reciprocal respect and boundless concern for the radically singular other,
Honneth argues that Derrida’s perspective is superior to Habermas’s.
Indeed Derrida, in an advance over Habermas, has rightly construed the
relationship between the divergent orientations of care/goodness and
law/equal treatment as irresolvable yet productive, inasmuch as both
vantage points must be reckoned with and in fact mutually condition each
other at the level of moral action. Where Derrida errs, in Honneth’s
estimation, is in effectively incorporating the two standpoints into an
overarching moral principle, thereby undermining a key normative
commitment of both his and Habermas’s respective critical-theoretic
interventions: namely the Kantian resolve to bar the attitude of loving
benevolence from encroaching upon the sphere of public moral disputation.
Indeed, as Honneth sees it, Derrida has pushed the care perspective so far
to the fore of morality that he has endangered the architectonic preeminence that the Kantian tradition accords to universalistic principles of
respect and the attendant imperative of impartiality (Honneth 2007: 172).
Here Honneth agrees with Michel Rosenfeld, who reads Derrida as
prioritising the “obligation to account for the full panoply of differences of
the irreducible other” over and against the calculative ideal of reciprocative
equality (Rosenfeld 2005: 821). In so doing, Honneth maintains that
Derrida invites the prospect of a totalising heterogeneity, a situation
wherein the moral injunction to care everlastingly for the absolutely other
Eros and Its Discontents
59
is transfigured into an all-pervasive phenomenology of recognitional
experience.
While he is keen to reproach Derrida on this score, Honneth’s own
approach is beset with a similar vulnerability, which in my view arises as a
consequence of his having seeded caring recognition into the genetic and
conceptual core of the detached cognitive stance. This metatheoretical
vantage point — which he portrays as a variant of “moral monism” —
deprives him of the conceptual resources needed to uphold his criticism of
Derridean care ethics. This difficulty can be avoided, I would suggest,
from Habermas’s contravening dualistic perspective, in which the attitudes
of loving benevolence and reciprocal respect are distinguished from one
another at the level of epistemology. In brief, Habermas claims that the
stance of caring recognition — which I have elsewhere characterised as a
vantage point of immeasurability (Ganis 2011) — is adopted in discourses
with “world-disclosive” or “aesthetic-expressive” properties. In contrast,
the perspective of moral universalism is taken up in the historicalhermeneutic discourses of the Geisteswissenschaften, which can in turn be
demarcated categorically from the empirical-analytic perspective of the
Naturwissenschaften. The distinction between the latter two frameworks
of measurability is the epistemological backdrop for an associated split
between the domains of symbolic interaction and system integration, each
of which is understood to be endowed with a distinct conceptual and
structural “life of its own.” This analysis led the young Habermas to view
reification a “border violation,” in which the technical-strategic organising
directives of the modern economic and political subsystems overstep their
remit of benign action coordination and become conflated with the moralpractical (Habermas 1970: 113). On Honnethian premises reification takes
on a rather different cast: it is viewed as a pathological “forgetting” of the
perspective of recognitional care that precedes and makes possible the
assumption of the objectivating stance. In affiliating recognition with the
reifying attitude in this way, Honneth, no less than Derrida, has in my
view diminished our capacity to discern the point at which the latter
orientation ceases to be deployed in the service of nonpathological system
integration, but is rather undermining the normative conditions of
discourse-ethical consociation.
This deficit is especially palpable in situations where the discriminatory
features of misrecognition are not prima facie evident to the disrespected
parties, owing to the fact that recognitional discourses have been
themselves mobilised to legitimate ideologically the asymmetrical
abnegation of recognition (see Ganis 2013 for an elaboration of this
problem). By way of illustration, Honneth calls attention to the now-
60
Chapter Four
fashionable neoliberal view of workers “as entrepreneurs of their own
labour power [Arbeitskraftunternehmer]” (Honneth 2009: 344). The
suspicion here is that far from recognising workers for their own unique
achievements, such a recognitional discourse seeks to promote a new
conception of labouring activity that does little more than service the
deregulated market’s demands for increased productivity and “workload
flexibility.” However in such cases, one may be hard pressed to point to
empirical evidence corroborating the suspected misrecognition. Indeed, in
situations where recognitional practices are not characterised unambiguously
as forms of disrespect by the targeted parties themselves, it may be
difficult to determine whether these practices are justified or ideological.
Under what conditions, then, can recognition be said to take on an
ideological cast? Honneth maintains that recognition operates as
“conformist ideology” and in fact suffers from a second-level “irrationality
deficit” when it fails to manifest itself at the level of existing institutional
practices and modes of conduct, and remains instead within the “merely
symbolic plane” (Honneth 2009: 326, 346). Absent such “material
fulfilment,” the evaluative promises of recognition are free to circulate as
ideological legitimations for unrevealed relations of power and subjugation.
Love as Pathology or a Promesse de Bonheur?
The foregoing discussion seems to warrant further reflection on the
point at which the act of loving my neighbour as myself begins to cross
the threshold from a legitimate ethical stance to pathology. An interesting
moral-psychological question — under-researched in the approaches
discussed so far –– is worth highlighting in this context: that is, the
possibility of the ethico-solidaristic attitude manifesting itself, under
certain conditions, as a kind of “pathological narcissism”. The
psychoanalytic perspective of Otto Kernberg is a useful starting point from
which to address this problem. According to Kernberg, pathological
narcissism is marked “by the building up of an inflated self-concept within
which the actual self and the ideal self and ideal object are confused”
(Kernberg 1970: 56). In turn, unacceptable features of the self-concept are
repressed and projected onto others, who are devalued for failing to satisfy
the ego’s demands for narcissistic cathexes. In adopting this defence
mechanism, the pathological narcissist apprehends alter as little more than
an extension of him - or herself, thereby rendering it an object to be
manipulated and controlled - either as an idealised, praiseworthy purveyor
of recognition or as something to be criticised and denigrated, as a
consequence of its failure to provide such recognition.5 Because such
Eros and Its Discontents
61
ideation reduces alter to little more than fungible material for the
gratification of endopsychic needs and desires, the sincerity of the
pathological narcissist’s avowals of love and concern for the “self-object”
always remains suspect.
Kernberg’s account of pathological narcissism invites an obvious
comparison to Honneth, who likewise alerts us to the prospect of
recognitional practices serving as ideological legitimation for material
relationships of domination and control. But there is also an interesting
link with Marcuse, who, as noted earlier, valorizes narcissism as an
untapped reservoir of radical social agency. Marcuse would perhaps not
demur from Kernberg’s depiction of the pathological manifestations of
narcissism; however he would insist on locating the aetiology of these
symptoms in the prevailing instrumental forms of social interaction that
circumscribe the pathologically narcissistic ego. For Marcuse, it is
precisely the diagnosis of totally administered conditions that counsels an
appeal to primary erotic narcissism; inherently chaotic, nonrelational, and
autistic, primitive narcissism contains “the germ of a different reality
principle”, one with the capacity to transform “this world into a new mode
of being” (Marcuse 1966: 169). In this sense, Marcuse chooses regression
“over unconscious conformity”, the aesthetic narcissism of myth and art
over “rational forms imposed on unordered bits of sensation” (Gendlin
1987: 18, 13). Thus, as we have seen, Marcuse consigns us to a
speculative space that appears to have loose affinities with Derrida’s careethical disarticulation of identity thought and the politics of calculation. At
the same time, at the level of his normative desiderata, Marcuse breaks not
only with Derrida, but also - rather more precipitously - with Freud,
Habermas, and Honneth, each of whom upholds qualifiedly the capacities
of the reasoning ego within a modern civilisational context.
Whatever their discrepancies, Habermas and Honneth provide
especially acute vantage points from which to address the question of
whether and under what conditions ethico-solidarity can present itself as a
pathological manifestation of the love orientation, exerting crippling
effects on human action and agency. Each thinker offers insights into how
such pathological expressions of love can be understood as both a product
of, and ideological legitimation for, existing relationships of power and
domination. While Honneth’s vantage point seems promising in this
regard, I have suggested that it is not sufficiently equipped to distinguish
legitimate expressions of caring recognition and solidarity from
pathological ones, owing to its resolve to place the love orientation at the
genetic and conceptual foundation of all standpoints of measurability and
their associated action domains. In this context, Habermas’s distinction
62
Chapter Four
between purposive and communicative reason is in my view an important
corrective to Honneth. In distinguishing these two forms of rationality as
discrete epistemological standpoints, Habermas’s dualistic model better
situates us to identify and criticise situations in which the orientation of
loving benevolence becomes coimbricated with the instrumentalisation of
the self’s capacity to proffer and accept meanings with others on free and
equal terms. From such a perspective, we are in turn better equipped to
plea for the institution of sociopolitical arrangements wherein dereifying
dialogic norms can be vested materially—a desideratum that both
Habermas and Honneth uphold. Be this as it may, conceptual recourses
beyond those considered in this chapter will be necessary to more fully
delineate and demarcate the line between love as pathology and love as a
promesse de bonheur. And here remains a project for future research.
References
Bass, Alan (2006): Interpretation and Difference: The Strangeness of
Care. Stanford: Stanford University Press.
Benhabib, Seyla (1992): “The Generalized and the Concrete Other: The
Kohlberg-Gilligan Controversy and Feminist Theory.” Pp. 148–77 in
Situating the Self: Gender, Community and Postmodernism in
Contemporary Ethics. New York: Routledge.
Derrida, Jacques (1992): Given Time: Counterfeit Money. Chicago: The
University of Chicago Press.
—. (1996): “Remarks on Deconstruction and Pragmatism.” Pp. 77–88 in
Deconstruction and Pragmatism, edited by Chantal Mouffe. New
York: Routledge, 1996.
—. (1997): Politics of Friendship, trans. George Collins. London: Verso.
Freud, Sigmund (1989): Civilization and Its Discontents, trans. James
Strachey. New York: W.W. Norton.
Ganis, Richard (2009): “Interpretative Care and the Postmetaphysical
Tradition: The Legacy of Two Freuds.” Review of Alan Bass,
Interpretation and Difference: The Strangeness of Care.” H-Ideas, HNet Reviews. February. www.h-net.org/reviews/showpdf.php?id=229
80 (16 January 2013).
—. (2011): The Politics of Care in Habermas and Derrida: Between
Measurability and Immeasurability. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books.
—. (2013): “Sittlichkeit and Dependency: The Slide from Solidarity to
Servitude in Habermas, Honneth, and Hegel,” Comparative and
Continental Philosophy 4.2 (forthcoming).
Eros and Its Discontents
63
Gaon, Stella (1998): “Pluralizing Universal Man: The Legacy of
Transcendentalism and Teleology in Habermas’s Discourse Ethics,”
The Review of Politics 60(4): 685–718.
Gendlin, Eugene T. (1987): “A Philosophical Critique of the Concept of
Narcissism: The Significance of the Awareness Movement.” Pp. 251–
304 in Pathologies of the Modern Self: Postmodern Studies on
Narcissism, Schizophrenia, and Depression, edited by D.M. Levin.
New York: New York University Press. Accessed at
www.focusing.org/pdf/narcissism.pdf (16 January 2013).
Gilligan, Carol (1993): In a Different Voice: Psychological Theory and
Women’s Development. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press.
Habermas, Jürgen (1970): Toward a Rational Society: Student Protest,
Science, and Politics, trans. Jeremy J. Shapiro. Boston: Beacon Press.
—. (1990a): Moral Consciousness and Communicative Action, trans.
Christian Lenhardt and Shierry Weber Nicholsen. Cambridge, Mass.:
The MIT Press.
—. (1990b): The Philosophical Discourse of Modernity: Twelve Lectures,
trans. Frederick G. Lawrence. Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press.
—. (1994): “Struggles for Recognition in the Democratic Constitutional
State.” Pp. 107–48 in Multiculturalism, edited by Amy Gutmann.
Princeton: Princeton University Press.
—. (1998): The Inclusion of the Other: Studies in Political Theory, edited
by Ciaran P. Cronin and Pablo De Greiff. Cambridge, UK: Polity
Press.
Honig, Bonnie (2006): “Dead Rights, Live Futures: On Habermas’s
Attempt to Reconcile Constitutionalism and Democracy.” Pp. 161–75
in The Derrida-Habermas Reader, edited by Lasse Thomassen.
Chicago: The University of Chicago Press.
Honneth, Axel (1992): The Struggle for Recognition: The Moral Grammar
of Social Conflicts. Cambridge, UK: Polity Press.
—. (2003): “The Point of Recognition: A Rejoinder to the Rejoinder.” Pp.
237–68 in Nancy Fraser and Axel Honneth. Redistribution or
Recognition? A Political-Philosophical Exchange. London: Verso.
—. (2007): “Love and Morality.” Pp. 163–80 in Disrespect: The
Normative Foundations of Critical Theory. Cambridge, UK: Polity
Press.
—. (2008): Reification: A New Look at an Old Idea. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
—. (2009): “Recognition as Ideology.” Pp. 323–47 in Axel Honneth and
the Tradition of Critical Social Theory, edited by Bert van den Brink
and David Owen. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.
64
Chapter Four
Horkheimer, Max, and Theodor W. Adorno (2002): Dialectic of
Enlightenment: Philosophical Fragments, trans. Edmund Jephcott.
Stanford: Stanford University Press.
Kant, Immanuel (2005): Perpetual Peace, trans. Mary Campbell Smith.
New York: Cosimo.
Kernberg, Otto F. (1970): “Factors in the Psychoanalytic Treatment of
Narcissistic Personalities.” Journal of the American Psychoanalytic
Association 18: 51–85.
Krause, Sharon (2005): “Desiring Justice: Motivation and Justification in
Rawls and Habermas,” Contemporary Political Theory 4: 363–85.
Marcuse, Herbert (1964): One-Dimensional Man: Studies in the Ideology
of Advanced Industrial Society. Boston: Beacon Press.
—. (1966): Eros and Civilization: A Philosophical Inquiry into Freud.
New York: Vintage Books.
Rosenfeld, Michel (2005): “Derrida’s Ethical Turn and America: Looking
Back from the Crossroads of Global Terrorism and the Enlightenment,”
Cardozo Law Review 27(2): 815–45.
Russell, Gillian A. (1985): “Narcissism and the Narcissistic Personality
Disorder: A Comparison of the Theories of Kernberg and Kohut,”
British Journal of Medical Psychology 58: 137–48.
Vogel, Lawrence (1994): The Fragile “We”: Ethical Implications of
Martin Heidegger’s Being and Time. Chicago: Northwestern University
Press.
Notes
1
I have borrowed the phrase “dangerously unscripted future” from Bonnie Honig
(2006: 169), who employs it in the context of her sympathetic reading of the
undeconstructible incalculability of Derridean justice.
2
See my The Politics of Care in Habermas and Derrida (Ganis 2011: 50–52) for
more on Derrida’s critical appropriation of Levinasian care ethics. Some of the
arguments set forth in this book are revisited passim below.
3
See Bass’s Interpretation and Difference (2006) for an account of the respective
care-ethical frameworks of Freud, Nietzsche, Heidegger, and Derrida. See Ganis
(2009) for a review of this book.
4
According to Habermas (1990b), Derrida lacks the conceptual means to criticise
the pathological undercurrents of late modernity (racism, antisemitism, sexism,
xenophobia, and so forth), inasmuch as his deconstructive manoeuvre disallows the
adoption of a stable intersubjective vantage point for moral judgment. Absent this,
deconstruction remains politically and ethically impotent, trapped in a cul-de-sac
of “performative contradictions”, in the nihilism of an irreducibly nonreciprocative
an-archē. Habermas’s polemic — carried forth without so much as a single direct
Eros and Its Discontents
65
reference to Derrida’s work - has been widely and deservedly criticised. Derrida’s
aim, it has been noted, is not to undermine the perspective of calculable equality
simpliciter, as Habermas maintains. Rather, as I have suggested above, his idea is
to place the ineliminable residue of violence that adheres to the imperative to
measure universally into a tense yet generative alliance with the obligation to care
without limitations for the unsubsumable example. Marked by its undeconstructible
immeasurability, the latter orientation, rather than obliterating the contravening
stance of moral universalism, is precisely the vantage point from which the
deconstructive idea of justice as an always already deferred possibility takes its
moral bearings.
5
Interestingly, excessive praise and excessive criticism on the part of the child’s
primary caregivers have been themselves implicated in the development of what is
known clinically as “narcissistic personality disorder,” suggesting a viscous
genetic cycle through which the pathology is poised to reproduce itself (see Russell
1985).
CHAPTER FIVE
LOVE, PARANOIA AND THE CONSTITUTION
OF THE HEGELIAN SUBJECT:
FROM THE EROTIC TO MASTER AND SLAVE,
SOLDIER AND PHILOSOPHER
JANE CONNELL
I dwell in Possibility
A fairer House than Prose
—Emily Dickinson
Hegel, the proponent of terror as the grounding emotive force a propos
the pathway to self-consciousness, had first thought that love, specifically
erotically charged love between a man and a woman, was the experience
of affect that would initiate the process. These thoughts of love indelibly
marked the powerfully affect-driven relationship he later ascribed to the
master and slave.
Given the renown of this master–slave figure, intensified in the wake
of Kojève’s reading of Hegel, curiosity about the way the trope is
constituted and functions within the Phenomenology of Spirit and beyond
is well warranted. It is frequently deployed as a tool for critique, being
commonly cited as an accepted, universally applicable referent for the
understanding of our subjectivities and social being but is, in itself, not
much subject to analysis. If, however, a propos this master–slave
narrative, we eschew enlightenment notions of scientific thinking and take
it, with Derrida, as myth or legend (Derrida 1986: 1), then Hegel’s choice
of these particular characters is significant, as are the resonances of the
imaginary out of which they arise. Here, I will take the imaginary as
defined by Sartre rather than in the more restricted Lacanian sense: for
Sartre, then, the imaginary is an act, an intentionality that mediates
perception; it is not anchored by any particular trope or signifier (Sartre
2004: 184).
Love, Paranoia and the Constitution of the Hegelian Subject
67
Taken as myth, the master–slave trope functions as rhetoric, not as
substantiated argument, and in reaching for rhetorical effect, a philosopher
will draw on a more inclusive referential field than in straightforward
presentation of the argument. Such stratagems explain and illustrate the
arguments of a text, but they also bring to it other resonances, histories,
associations and prejudices. The story of our theory is carried, in part, by
such tropes; they are focal points in the interactions between the cultural
imaginary and the imaginary of theoretical thinking and to bypass or
ignore their effects is to risk complicity with the promulgation of an
unexamined ideation.
A trope of this kind that acquires great renown and accrues influence
beyond its grounding text warrants particularly careful scrutiny.1 Hegel’s
master–slave figure is paradigmatic of such a trope. Further, the master–
slave story as myth is not a cultural artefact shaped by oral transmission
for generations, but rather a tale from the pen of one man, written at a
particular time. As we shall see, Pinkard, in his biography of Hegel, has
drawn attention to the circumstances of Hegel’s life that may have
powerfully influenced the construction of the various Hegelian narratives
as the trope moved towards the final form of the Phenomenology of Spirit.
If this final narrative is taken as a description of a given phenomenon,
rather than understood in all its specificities, the assumptions it carries are
unknowingly reproduced and reinforced.2 When it is considered a valid,
universal referent in the construction of our subjectivities, these assumptions
may operate within our imaginaries to serve a spill of unexamined
identifications with these particularly limited characters, and any
questioning of the necessity of crossing a place of absolute dread and
terror, as a privileged moment a propos self-consciousness, may not arise.
Strauss, in Subjects of Terror: Nerval, Hegel and the Modern Self,
describes the profound and pervasive influence of the motifs of terror and
death, from their elucidation by Hegel in the Phenomenology of Spirit to
their central role in the Lacanian schema of the psyche. He emphasises the
fear of death per se, but with the exception of a brief note on its
inadequacy vis-à-vis the explanation of the pathway to recognition it is
intended to furnish, he does not discuss the role that the master–slave trope
takes in framing and developing these motifs (1998: 69).3 This is
philosophically sound but elides the extent to which Hegel’s
anthropomorphised account of fear has contributed to the pervasive
influence of exactly these tropes of terror and death. Strauss does describe
the importance of Kojève’s 1930–1933 lectures a propos the burgeoning
interest in Hegel at that time. Kojève centred his discussion on the master–
slave figure. Butler’s reading is that “[i]n effect Kojève halts the
68
Chapter Five
Phenomenology at the end of ‘Lordship and Bondage,’ and retells Hegel’s
narrative from the point of view of that struggling individual…” (1987:
58). And this emphasis continued to operate within subsequent French
thought; Irigaray observed that Lacan was “enough of a Hegelian to have
been credited in certain psychoanalytic seminars at Vincennes with the
discovery of the master–slave dialectic!” (Whitford 1991: 85).
We live in a time in which the role of terror in the cultural imaginary is
self-evidently topical. The mid-twentieth century, post-war preoccupation
with nuclear apocalypse as the imminent global catastrophe was
accompanied in the sixties and seventies by a widespread conviction that
love, commonly sexualised as “free love,” was a harbinger of peace—a
global panacea. If every generation has an overworked trope to denote the
end of civilisation, then in the West, we inhabit, since the end of the Cold
War and our diminished preoccupation with the mushroom cloud, a split
between fear of two catastrophes: climate change and terror. Possibilities
of responsibility and agency jostle with predictions of inevitable doom visà-vis the former; while in the second, fear of the deadly violence of the
terrorist locates the threat in the alien, objectified other, in a calamity in
the socio-political arena driven by affect-laden ideology. The intense
investment during the sixties in love, as a prophylactic for global disaster,
has dissolved into the preoccupation with fanatical hatred of the new
millennium — understood as an affect that fuels, rather than prevents, the
apocalypse. Thus, projection and identification a propos the terrorist are
embroidered throughout the productions of contemporary Western civil
society. We have entered, or re-entered, a realm of the cultural imaginary
dominated by fear of the malevolence of an alien other who carries the
threat of extermination or imminent dystopia and who must be annihilated.
Given these recent fluxes in the cultural imaginary, it is timely to
examine our own philosophical tradition in relation to them. Complaint
about the culture we have spawned is a commonplace philosophical
assertion at present, but careful identification of homeostatic forces that
have been perpetuated during our watch is to better effect than attempts at
abnegation of our own contributions. So to return to the Hegelian subject,
indelibly marked as it is by precisely violence and terror — and with an
eye to the fact that the trope’s attendant popularity frequently carries the
presumption that it is self-evidently verifiable. Despite the need for care
vis-à-vis the insertion of such a potent trope into theoretical discourses,
caution is rarely apparent.
Hegel himself was scathing of argument by analogy or metaphor, as
for him it “replace[s] the abstract Notion with something that can be
intuitively apprehended, and so made more pleasing” (1977: 30), and he
Love, Paranoia and the Constitution of the Hegelian Subject
69
was completely dismissive of myth as a valid subject of scholarship (1977:
44). Szondi goes so far as to say that “Hegel’s considerations on metaphor
and on figuration must seem truly shallow … he does not reach an
adequate understanding of metaphor and simile” (1974: 395).4 If this is the
case, then when Hegel does deploy such stylistic devices — and there can
be no doubt that at times he does so in profusion; the “Preface” to
Phenomenology of Spirit is a bundle of such tropes — he may not be alert
to their in situ resonances. This may go some way to explaining the
chauvinistic ease with which the master–slave couple is presented to the
reader — an attitude that then haunts its multiple deployments.
What do these men want?
Hegel proffers reiterated, unequivocal detail about the mind-set of
these fictive characters, and in so doing he effects a pre-emptive refusal of
other possibilities for the brief narrative that follows. Before moving to an
exposition of this detail, it is important to note that the depiction of the
master and slave, in what has become Hegel’s landmark text, is often
assumed to be a description of our pre-historical experience that is, in turn,
fundamental to an understanding of human social experience and
behaviour.5 However, it is not, and never could be. The entrenched habit
of ascribing the less savoury of our personality traits, in an exaggerated
form, to a presumed pre-historical subject does not render it automatically
valid. The short passage in which the master and slave figure suggests
itself as a sparse, carefully delineated account of the generic subjects’
interaction with the world and the other. However, the men are of a
particular character that shapes their particular desires; Hegel selected
them from a field of possible subjects. His argument relies on our
complicity with the presumption that these characters have universal
standing, yet in point of fact leans on their particularity, which is asserted
but never justified.
When the master–slave figure is taken as a benchmark for the selfreflexive subject, the couple’s particular aspirations and motivations, a
necessary bedrock of their story, become an apposite and unquestioned
model a propos our inner worlds and social being. Later, Freud will
famously ask: “What does a woman want?” (Jones 1964: 474). Yet has
anyone ever asked: What do these men want? Indeed, the homogenised
peculiarity of their desires, and the view the subject will take of itself
through the prism of this particularity, can explain why Freud put his
question with such an air of self-righteous bewilderment. Where does the
inexplicable desire, the desire that cannot be assimilated to an empathic
70
Chapter Five
recognition, lurk — in the “other,” for Freud, the woman, or exactly in
figures such as the unexamined “universal” Hegelian subject?
In the first half of Chapter IV of Phenomenology of Spirit, Hegel’s
subject, not yet representative of a particular historical epoch is split and,
once doubled, engages in an intense interpersonal interaction. The work
has begun with a philosophical examination of a person observing an
object through time. In many ways, the die is cast as Hegel describes this
interaction — prior to the subject’s path through pre-historical and
Western historical time. We find:
For us, or in itself, the universal as principle is the essence of perception,
and, in contrast to this abstraction, both the moments distinguished—that
which perceives and that which is perceived—are the unessential. But, in
fact, because both are themselves the universal or the essence, both are
essential. Yet since they are related to each other as opposites only one can
be the essential moment in the relation, and the distinction of essential and
inessential moment must be shared between them. (67)
What we now have is unconditioned absolute universality, and
consciousness here for the first time truly enters the realm of the
Understanding. (77)
As a matter of fact, philosophy does have to do with them [mental entities]
too, recognizing them as the pure essences, the absolute elements and
powers; but in so doing, recognizes them in their specific determinateness
as well, and is therefore master over them [latter emphasis added]. (78)
But it is, in fact, these essentialities within which perceptual understanding
runs to and fro through every kind of material and content; they are the
cohesive power and mastery over that content and they alone are what
determines the relation of the sensuous as essence for consciousness, they
are what determines the relation of the sensuous to it, and it is in them that
the process of perception and of its truth runs its course [former emphasis
added]. (78)
There is something of a tautology here. Assertion of the importance of
the “universal” and of a competitive sense of “essence” leads inevitably to
the conclusion that is reached — a competitive dynamic between that
which perceives and that which is perceived. Desire for “mastery” is
unquestioned in the realms of perception and of philosophy. The
philosophical import of these propositions, then, should be framed by the
question of whether or not such assertions predetermine the responses of
the subject and the story that ensues, rather than that anything is in fact
developed.
Love, Paranoia and the Constitution of the Hegelian Subject
71
Depiction of an equivalent object and subject shifts to contemplation of
the single subject — as it observes and interacts with an external object.
As Hegel concludes his description of the pre- or extra-social experience
of consciousness — the progression from “the motionless tautology of ‘I
am I…’” (105) — there is a peppering of the text with the word
“supersession,” which builds on the designation of the external as a threat.
Domination is clearly on the agenda:
The simple “I” is this genus or the simple universal, for which the
differences are not differences only by its being the negative essence of the
shaped independent moments; and self-consciousness is thus certain of
itself only by superseding this other that presents itself to selfconsciousness as an independent life; self-consciousness is desire. Certain
of the nothingness of this other; it destroys the independent object and
thereby gives itself the certainty of itself as true certainty, a certainty which
has become explicit for self-consciousness itself in an objective manner.
(109)
Again, the content ends as it began, although the assertion broadens
and intensifies; content set up as philosophical fact is now justified in
terms of human desire:
The notion of self-consciousness is only completed in these three
moments: (a) the pure undifferentiated “I” is its first immediate object. (b)
But this immediacy is itself an absolute mediation, it is only as a
supersession of the independent object, in other words, it is Desire. (110)
“Self-consciousness” as desire assumes a single form — a hostile
relationship to the other. As the subject proceeds towards its split state, it
is equipped with a response to the external object that admits no variation;
be it thing or person, it is a threat, an unwelcome and alien burden, and
must be annihilated. Any entity outside the limits of self, and thus beyond
control, offers only jeopardy to this subject. It is an alien and antagonistic
independence; a mutually beneficial interaction is unimaginable.
Here, Hegel foreshadows his coming argument: “Consciousness has
for its object one which, of its own self, posits otherness or difference as a
nothingness, and in so doing is independent” (110) [emphasis added].
This, of course, is precisely not independence; the need to position the
other thus is, exactly, dependence. Insofar as “independence” must be
understood in relationship to the other, a drive to mastery or annihilation
need in no way be a privileged mode.
The next move relies on the interaction of bodies; there must be a fight
to the death, or near death; there is no other way forward. For each subject,
72
Chapter Five
there is neither doubt nor revulsion and this uninhibited dash into violence
is checked only at the last moment when, for one, love of life becomes
manifest within a sadomasochistic certainty. This scenario rests on
unverifiable assumptions. There is no ground, other than that of imaginary
choice, to substantiate violence as the inevitable and eventually productive
response.6
To become acquainted with one of these men would be hazardous, to
converse with him constraining and frustrating, to cross him outright
dangerous. The world for him is a purely hostile space; any external
change represents danger and attack. His mode of thought reflects this
paranoia and hostility. The understanding he craves is certainty; there is no
room for question, for reflection, for partial knowing. The world of ideas
is, as the world of perception, purely fodder for the exercise of a sense of
mastery.7 To disagree with him, to intrude on, or in any way challenge,
this fragile, distorted and brittle view of his, is to provoke one certainty —
that of physical attack.
Prerequisite terror
Recovery from this all but mortal combat introduces the basest form of
relationship — slavery: for Hegel, a pure objectification. The fight has
“done away with the truth that was supposed to issue from it … with the
certainty of self generally … The two do not reciprocally give and receive
one another back from each other consciously, but leave each other free
only indifferently, like things” (114). The violent struggle fails to produce
the “truth,” but neither Hegel nor his players question the need for it.
Instead, the consequent interplay of toxic dependencies becomes the next
prerequisite. Through his enforced labour, the slave experiences delayed
gratification: “Work … is desire held in check, fleetingness staved off; in
other words work forms and shapes the thing … It is in this way, therefore
that consciousness, qua worker, comes to see in the independent being [of
the object] its own independence” (118) and thus “the bondsman realizes
that it is precisely in his work wherein he seemed to have only an alienated
existence that he acquires a mind of his own” (119).
Many situations provoke a check to immediate, impulsive actions,
in which frustration is tolerated to achieve a more distant objective and
thus may open a different perspective of self. However, Hegel, rather
than relinquish the master–slave dynamic, argues that this alienation
only leads to self-consciousness if coupled with an experience of
“absolute fear.” The subject meets his inevitable fate as fashioned by
his own desire in one of Hegel’s most emotive passages:
Love, Paranoia and the Constitution of the Hegelian Subject
73
For this consciousness has been fearful, not of this or that particular thing
or just at odd moments, but its whole being has been seized with dread; for
it has experienced the fear of death, the absolute Lord. In that experience it
has been quite unmanned, has trembled in every fibre of its being, and
everything solid and stable has been shaken to its foundations. (114)
Hegel then affirms this terror as necessary for the development of selfconsciousness:
If consciousness fashions the thing without that initial absolute fear, it is
only an empty self-centred attitude; for its form or negativity is not
negativity per se, and therefore its formative activity cannot give it a
consciousness of itself as essential being. (119)
An intense response to the other becomes a prerequisite for
“consciousness of self.” Since Hegel has limited the subject’s affect to fear
and annihilatory hatred, fear is the only extremity of feeling available to
trigger this emotionally charged negation of self. A myriad contexts
furnish alienation from immediate gratification and intense feeling for
another. However, for Hegel, as he wrote Phenomenology of Spirit, selfconsciousness is born of, and only of, fear and imposed service. Actually,
this interpolation of an intense emotional experience of the other as a
prerequisite for “recognition” had its Hegelian genesis in a starkly
different form; we shall return to an exposition of this material.
As much as the master–slave myth is an interesting formulation, it is
manifestly impoverished. Events crucial to the development of selfawareness are chosen to facilitate a story consonant with a sadomasochistic
imaginary. Only enforced productive work in an atmosphere of fear,
generated by the threat of violence, leads to self-consciousness. In fact, we
know that it is exactly within dyads of this kind that a confused perception
of self and other tends to arise; that the subject’s “consciousness of itself
as essential being” is often lost.8
If a gut-wrenching response is a necessary part of the process of “selfnegation,” why should it not stem from the abnegation of self that may
arise in the care of a child, the pursuit of a lover, or the politics of
acquisition or of revenge, rather than the experience of slavery? Here, the
ongoing choice to persist at least stacks the odds in favour of an
experience of responsibility rather than resentment. If within these and
other relationships of power — inclusive of others beyond the male
“double” — we constantly struggle with objectification, sometimes
winning and sometimes losing, are we not, if we accept Hegel’s story, just
comforting ourselves with some notion of irreversible developmental or
historical progress in order not to confront the entrenched and systemic
74
Chapter Five
modes of objectification of our own time? Hegel has warned against thought
that “rests solely on the poverty of its purpose and the defectiveness of its
stuff” (Hegel 1977: 25), yet his subject seems subject to the same malady —
a “poverty of purpose:” it wants only control and mastery and thus what it
achieves is the promulgation of an unexamined paranoia.9
Sex, love and the antecedent journey
Despite its brief appearance in Phenomenology of Spirit, the master–
slave trope has had widespread and enduring influence. However, its own
immediate circumstance lacks exegesis. The couple’s peculiarly
constricted desires arose in the context of the trope’s antecedent textual
forays. Pinkard’s biography of Hegel traces this earlier excursion as, in
Hegel’s line of reasoning, “the Kantian idea of ‘mutual adjustment of
judgments’ in ‘Faith and Knowledge’ became transmuted into an original
struggle for recognition that possessed its own logic” (Pinkard 2000: 173).
Just after the turn of the nineteenth century, Hegel contributed to the
emerging academic debate about “recognition”, the important ideas of
“intersubjectivity” and “mutually recognizing agents” (170–2). Work
played a significant part: “labour and its concomitant use of tools in turn
raises us to being social creatures, mutually shaping each other through an
even more complex process of ‘formative culture’” (172). By 1804, he had
proposed a rudimentary form of the master–slave interaction. This
scenario translates the usual wrangles of the academy into a deadly
survival game. Pinkard, citing Hegel, describes it:
“[E]ach appears in the consciousness of the other as that which excludes
him from the whole extension of his individuality,” and this leads to a
struggle to determine whose point of view is to be normatively dominant.
Since there is no given objective point of view to which the agents can turn
to resolve such epistemic disputes between themselves, they must struggle
to the death … in order to be recognized simply “as rational, as totality in
truth” (174).10
This struggle produced enslavement and then mutual recognition —
the latter simply because each desires to move beyond this unsatisfactory
and unproductive form. There was no prerequisite emotionally charged
engagement. However, Hegel became dissatisfied with this explanation,
concluding — correctly, a propos a contemporary psychological perspective
— that the domination, in fact, would constrain any possibility of mutual
recognition. He dropped the project and the manuscript remained
incomplete and unpublished.
Love, Paranoia and the Constitution of the Hegelian Subject
75
In 1805, he revisited it, turning to an interaction that he thought would
provoke reciprocal recognition: and here there is, briefly, a radical
discontinuity in the model. To explain the awareness of the other as an
equally “self-conscious” being, Hegel now proposed an alternative
prototypic dynamic — love between a man and a woman. It was grounded
in difference: “The male has desire, drive; the feminine drive is far more
aimed at being the object of the drive, to arouse drive and to allow it to
satisfy itself in it” (Hegel 1983: 105).11 At first they “are only opposed
characters, not knowing themselves — but either knowing themselves in
one another, or else knowing themselves only in themselves” (106), but a
relationship ensues, driven by desire for the other:
The movement of knowing is thus in the inner realm itself, not in the
objective realm. In their first interrelation, the two poles of tension already
fall asunder. To be sure they approach one another with uncertainty and
timidity, yet with trust for each knows itself immediately in the other and
the movement is merely the inversion by which each realises that the other
knows itself likewise in its other. This reversal also rests in the fact that
each gives up its independence. The stimulus is in itself an excitation, i.e. it
is the condition of not being satisfied in oneself, but rather having one’s
essence in another—because one knows oneself in the other, negating
oneself as being for oneself, as different. This self-negation is one’s being
for another, into which one’s immediate being is transformed. Each one’s
self-negation becomes, for each, the other’s being for another, i.e. the other
is outside itself. (106)
Mutual recognition is achieved:
This cognition is love. It is the movement of the “conclusion,” so that each
pole, fulfilled by the I, is thus immediately in the other, and only this being
in the other separates itself from the I and becomes its object. It is the
element of [custom or morality], the totality of ethical life … though not
yet in itself but only the suggestion of it. Each one [here exists] only as
determinate will, character, as the natural individual whose uncultivated
natural Self is recognised. (107)
This interaction is harmonious; the apprehension of difference furnishes
the “excitation” that both provokes and facilitates awareness of the other
and, through it, an altered perspective of self. Competitive tensions only
come into play as the subject, by implication now the male subject, moves
outside the domestic base and defends his family’s property.12
It is in each “demanding of the other to be recognised by the other as
having rightful claims on the other’s possessions” that the life and death
Chapter Five
76
struggle occurs and here the “confrontation with possible death simply
lead[s] each immediately to offer recognition to the other.” (Pinkard 2000:
192–3)
This clichéd model of conflict-free mutual recognition grounded in
love and congruous difference differs conspicuously from that of the
macho male pair but, nonetheless, reflects many of its difficulties. Each
model is interpersonally superficial and emotionally uni-dimensional. One
pair experiences only positively inflected emotion, the other only negative
— either a bland notion of love or an uncomplicated hatred; mixed
feelings never arise. In the second phase of the earlier model, the
confrontation with death is a shared, rational response to pointlessness of
attempted resolution by means of violence — it does not furnish the
affective component of recognition. In each model, recognition is critically
dependant on the interactions of bodies. Either fear, generated by deadly
assault, or bodily pleasure derived from shared sexual experience, breaks
through the presumed need for quiescence of the incipient social subject.
These contrived scenarios rest on an imaginary highly cathected in sex or
violence as the decisive driving force. Surely this is a dangerous and
reductive formulation on which to ground an understanding of the
complexities of our social being?
Further, these shifts between a heterosexual dyad and a macho male
one, and the, albeit brief, inclusion of the woman in a trope that goes on to
have such a grip on the theoretical imaginary, are a matter for some
curiosity. Why this radical shift a propos the prototypic scenario as it
wobbles in its course before setting firmly into the mould of the paranoid
that goes on to dictate the horizon for generations?13 The initial foray into
domination as the primal relationship, relinquished as a dead-end, is
reinstituted, with the interpolation of the experience of “absolute fear” that
takes the place of sexual excitation in the interim model.14
Nowhere in Hegel’s texts is there any explanation for the shift back to
the macho model, from sexual desire to paranoia as the grounding
experience for the dialectic of recognition. However, as he maps these
variations, Pinkard observes that as:
Hegel returned to his notions of “recognition” to articulate this generation
of self-consciousness … [he] quite strikingly, in the 1805–6 manuscript …
employed a theorised sexual encounter between a man and a woman to
make that point … [s]exual union makes explicit the very perspectival
nature of the consciousness of such embodied agents. (191)
And he continues:
Love, Paranoia and the Constitution of the Hegelian Subject
77
One can hardly help speculating about whether it is only coincidental that
around the time that Hegel was composing these notes, he was engaging in
a sexual liaison with Christina Charlotte Johanna Burkhardt, his landlady
and housekeeper, which resulted in the birth on February 5, 1807, of his
illegitimate son, Ludwig Fischer. (192)
In 1805–6, Hegel was very attached to Burkhardt, perhaps his first
experience of a powerful sexual connection.15 While in its grip, he used it
to explain the inception of recognition. What Pinkard does not note is that,
if the model of 1805–6 was influenced by the relationship with Burkhardt,
so, perhaps, was Hegel’s decision to jettison it. As Hegel wrote the final,
profoundly influential version of the recognition scenario, his relationship
had soured. His affair had become known; pregnancy led to his lover
being abandoned by her husband, his landlord; and he faced eviction from
his lodgings (Inwood 1992: 21). He wanted neither the woman nor the
child in his life, and to a large extent he arranged to rid himself of both.16
He did not officially recognise the child, he ended the relationship with
Burkhardt and he is thought to have moved from Jena to Bamberg partly
to distance himself from this unpleasantness (Pinkard 2000: 237).17
The dissolution of the heterosexual model coincided with Hegel’s
disillusionment — Hegel’s situation had become “completely and totally
desperate” (230). The experience of a passionate interpersonal engagement,
of the erotic, of love, or merely of infatuation, that had driven his
conception of “mutual recognition” had proven both superficial and
unpleasantly confronting. He threw himself into his work.
[W]hat had been planned as a short introduction to [his own systematic
philosophy] took on a life of its own and grew into one of Hegel’s most
provocative and influential books. Working at a furious pace, he finished
what would eventually be called Phenomenology of Spirit in a period of
great personal and political turmoil. (Pippin 1999: 365–6)
He also returned to the dynamics of domination, to the model he had
previously found inadequate as the founding intra-psychic experience of
our social being. Saddled with the burdensome consequences of his
liaison, he rewrote the prototypical scenario, adding an emotional element
— this time “dread” rather than “excitation.” The initial model that Hegel
had quite rightly deemed to be constrictive a propos recognition of self
and other was now invigorated with a highly charged sadomasochistic
encounter that, he suggested, would produce the perspectival shift that he
had first glimpsed in the context of sexual excitement. Gone was any
possibility of willingly “know[ing] oneself in the other,” and the
competitive, violent, male couple was reinstituted as the apparently self-
78
Chapter Five
evident universal.18 With the exclusion of the female subject, the different
other — once she is the site of matters that pertain neither to pleasure nor
convenience — goes the incipient exploration of a positive reading of
“difference.”19 The effects of this gripping spectre of two men whose
relationship is grounded in deadly physical violence and fear cannot be
underestimated. Think of what does not count in this impoverished model:
If we are in any way the inheritors of its exclusions should we not attend
to them?20
Merging as a purely masculine affair
The identification of the incursion of gendered praxis into the central
arguments of such a text — this passage represents philosophical
argument for Hegel and much of the receptive field — gives grounds for
looking elsewhere in this much-read text and beyond. Tracing this
footprint, still manifest whenever the master–slave trope is mobilised,
makes a fascinating study, as do attempts to gloss the myth with the
inclusion of the woman, the exclusion of violence, or an expanded
affective repertoire while not relinquishing its narrative sequence. The way
in which this trope resists exhaustive revision, or even justified
renunciation, is striking. However, description of this phenomenon is
beyond the scope of this essay. What is not is a reading of another wellknown trope in Phenomenology of Spirit with an eye to this understanding
of its founding myth.
As, within Hegel’s corpus, the macho male couple becomes enshrined
as a theoretical and imaginary referent, Hegel permits pleasure and
cooperation only within the heterosexual couple; the man is otherwise
exiled from these and is trapped within the play of hostility. However, in
the work as a whole, this exile is not complete; the male dyad reappears in
another form. Hegel — an ardent admirer of Napoleon and of the civil
code he was intent on establishing, at the cost of war after war, throughout
Europe — drew the events of the French revolution and its aftermath, of
terror and reform, into his argument, integrating these political and civic
reforms into his own work.
This appropriation of the political is achieved, in part, by positing a
Napoleon–Hegel dyad as the figure that marks the portentous moment
when the age of science is achieved; Hegel, the philosopher with
understanding, unites with Napoleon, the soldier who has established the
secular state. Napoleon is not named in the paragraph of elaborate prose
that ends the “Spirit” section of Phenomenology of Spirit, but the context
identifies this conjoined pair of men. For Kojève, “[t]his dyad formed by
Love, Paranoia and the Constitution of the Hegelian Subject
79
Napoleon and Hegel, is the perfect man, fully and definitively ‘satisfied’
by what he is and by what he knows himself to be” (1980: 70). However,
Althusser is unimpressed by this trope:
[T]he reconciliation of the professor and the Emperor, or in other words
the reconciliation of Hegel with the demiurge he would never become,
comes about through mutual recognition … Thus Hegel’s work represents
not only the fulfilment of its author’s existence, but is also presented as the
fulfilment of a destiny more extraordinary than any a Prussian civil servant
could have dreamt of in 1806, amidst the defeats and in the schools. (1997:
43)
Althusser concludes that this passage is “[a]n extravagant attempt at
self-justification, which, in its extremity, may well bear witness to the
temptation to madness that haunts any solitary individual, even a thinker”
(1997: 43). Hegel’s troubles during 1806 actually included Burkhardt’s
pregnancy and the breakdown of their relationship.
The receptive field has favoured Kojève’s reading; another legend has
been promulgated. Napoleon is said to have captured Jena on the day that
Hegel completed Phenomenology of Spirit and to have passed under
Hegel’s windowsill at this portentous time.21 The book was completed
roughly then, but the story about Napoleon is not true — it was circulated
by Hegel himself (Pinkard 2000: 228–30). The incursion of political praxis
into the text is achieved by recourse to extreme rhetorical device and
promoted by the embroidering of facts, whereas the highly significant
incursion of events inside the windowsill, of domestic and sexual praxis,
slips past virtually unnoticed.
This second idealised dyad, a purely masculine affair, created by the
manipulation of tropes and reinforced by the manipulation of facts,
rhetorically inflects the reception of Hegel’s notion of the end of history. It
carries the imprimatur of the abandoned heterosexual dyad in its
atmosphere of agoraphobic satisfaction and optimism; but here the two
become one—there is no possibility of discursive or affective exchange
from positions of difference. This could be understood as a regression, but
if so, it is recruited by Hegel to mark the culmination of progress. Viewed
from this reading of the imaginary of the text, it suggests itself as an
endorsement of what has always been a stasis — the privileging of
homosociality as a retreat from philosophical investigation.22
80
Chapter Five
On not being Napoleon
This second dyadic figure is also the very stuff of myth, yet is
conceived by a man who, in the same text, repudiates the mythical form.
This conundrum surely incites investigation. Hegel is explicitly dismissive
of “Plato’s scientifically valueless myths” (1977: 44), but as his subject
moves on and, at the end of its travels, finds fulfilment in this second
dyad, there is a remarkable concurrence precisely with Platonic myth.
Plato’s proposition, given to Aristophanes in the “Symposium” (1977:
542–6), that we were created as dyadic creatures, split into our single state
by Zeus as punishment for the arrogance to the gods, and subsequently
“asked for nothing better than to be rolled into one” (191a) with the lost
other half resonates powerfully with Hegel’s concluding trope.23
For Plato, there are three types of dyadic creature that spawn
heterosexual, male homosexual and lesbian love in the consequent halfbeings. In the shift between the Platonic mythic schema and the Hegelian
one, we move from an imaginary that accommodates men and women and
embraces a considerable, if not comprehensive, diversity of desire, to an
imaginary initially confined to the hostile male subject that in turn spawns
the grandiosely inflected (re)union of Hegel with his hero of civic life, and
the repertoire of subject and desire is constricted — for the second time.
There is a centrifugal force at work, a tendency for forms inclusive of
gendered difference to be reduced to a limited, emotionally univalent,
male dyad. The germinal model of “recognition” based on difference and
Plato’s more highly nuanced trope are replaced with these more limited
forms.
Napoleon was perhaps as exploited as was Burkhardt. He was not just
a soldier and politician; he was educated, cultured and a serious scholar.
Conversely, Hegel was nothing of a soldier. In conjoining himself with
Napoleon, he appropriated a powerful reference to warmongering and
social and political change without incurring any physical risk himself.
The darker side of the Napoleonic trajectory, like the unpleasant sequel of
Hegel’s love-affair, was to be disavowed.24 Both the return to domination
as a central referent a propos recognition and Hegel’s deployment of this
grandiose trope allow him to turn away from schismatic openings into
unthinkable revisions of praxis. This radical demand would appear if the
different other, as equivalent self-reflexive subject, were to resist
manipulation, exclusion or annihilation.
Love, Paranoia and the Constitution of the Hegelian Subject
81
Conclusion: a women philosopher …
This gap between praxis and the philosophical text holds the
resistances to the elimination of oppression of subjugated groups such as
women. Read against the shifts in its form that correspond to shifts in
Hegel’s concurrent relationship with a women, the master–slave figure, so
often treated as an inviolable entity, comes into perspective as a trope that
carries the imprint of repressed awareness of the irrational and unethical
nature of some heteronormative praxis — in this case, the resolution of
conflict when the consequence of “love,” of erotic pleasure, is the
inconveniently pregnant woman. Thus we find in the trope’s journey
through this chapter of Hegel’s life — the turning away from the, albeit
rudimentary, grounding of self-consciousness in awareness of, or curiosity
or pleasure in, a different other; the introduction of homosociality as the
prototypic scenario; an ablation of empathic exploration as a basis for selfconsciousness and its replacement with stark and unrelenting objectification
and paranoia; and the privileging — or even glamorising — of violence,
fuelled by this objectification, as a site of resolution or progress. This
latter is dangerous and extremely relevant to current fragilities in the social
contract, such as in ideologically based violence — usually between men,
but also extremely dangerous for women — and in the erosion of rights
justified by an insistent reciprocation of this objectification and violence
when it takes the form of “terrorism”. This in turn occludes precisely the
possibility of resolution in language, in dialogue — dialogue informed by
intense and mixed affects on both sides, but aimed at exploiting any
possibilities of mutual recognition that arise as a basis for progress
towards resolution.
Many other such readings can be made. For example, Marx, in a letter
dated 1865, wrote scathingly of the fact that his detractors lacked the “wit”
to critique his notions of the “productive and social relations” a propos his
relationship with his wife, in which he characterised himself as playing
“the romantic lead in a second-rate theatre” (Marx and Engels 1983:173).
This invitation to critique a published text in the light of a domestic
relationship with a woman comes from the author himself, and if taken up,
it furnishes a perspective of the Marxian corpus that demonstrates, as
Marx well knew it would, the way in which immersion in the oppressive
praxis of heteronormativity has an immense influence on the significant
arguments and silences of a philosopher’s oeuvre, which overtly have
nothing to do with the “woman”.25 These readings refresh the perspective
of the philosophical tradition and produce informative and meaningful
82
Chapter Five
interpretations of the texts. They may also render the space of philosophy
as less unwelcoming to the “woman philosopher”.
This brings us to Malabou’s considerations about women and
philosophy, about the impossibility of the position of the “woman
philosopher.” Her contention is that “it is necessary to imagine the
possibility of woman starting from the structural impossibility she
experiences of not being violated, in herself and outside, everywhere. An
impossibility that echoes the impossibility of her welcome in philosophy”
(2011: 108). And that if indeed she, Malabou, is a philosopher, for her “it
is at the price of a tremendous violence, the violence that philosophy
constantly does to me and the violence I inflict on it in return. My relation
to philosophy looks a lot like a fierce quarrel between a man and a
woman” (109).26
A quarrel between a man and a woman holds more promise than a
fight to the death; it occurs in language, is inclusive of gendered difference
and, in this instance, it occupies the formal discursive space of philosophy
but also gestures towards the domestic. In this same essay, Malabou makes
an interesting move a propos Derrida, who supervised her doctorate, wrote
the preface for her first book and collaborated with her in philosophical
work in the years before his death. Having written of the difficulty for her
of “bear[ing] for [Derrida], even speaking in the name of women, ‘as’ a
woman, to speak better than they could, for them, stronger and louder than
them, their conceptual and political rights” (2011: 108), she makes the
following comment: “[i]n any case, the women and men who knew
Derrida know all about his ambivalence in regard to women. Respect and
fraternity, or sorority, went hand in hand with machismo, seduction and
sexual parade”.
The critical word here is “ambivalence”. This description psychologises
the disparity and thus limits interrogation of the gap between the life and
the work with which we are all so familiar. If we consider Derrida as a
man, living in the mid- to late-twentieth century, and marked to an
extraordinary degree by the beneficial effects of his own intellectual
capacity and a professional life conducted within the privileged space of
academic philosophy, then Malabou’s observations of him, rather than
denoting a particular ambivalence of a particular man, merely describe the
predictable and understandable gap, the displacements, between the
possibilities for analysis in philosophy and the inevitable and ordinary
entrapment in the mire of heteronormative praxis that we all, even Derrida,
endure, despite our attempts to shift it. If the prism provided by bringing
these together, applied to a philosophical text, can destabilise the blindness
or repressions that inform this gap, should we desist? Moreover, if this
Love, Paranoia and the Constitution of the Hegelian Subject
83
critique is withheld, will the “gap” between praxis and philosophy ever be
bridged? Better that “she” who has had her thoughts turn to this quandary
over and over again in an attempt to understand the unrelenting nature of
her oppression critiques the work of “he” who is barred from the depths of
such reflection by multiple turnings away from the threatened loss of
convenience and of a comfortable sense of authority. Such critique, while
informed indeed by the need to express outrage and seek recompense,
would also be just comment from one philosopher to another; from one
with a wider perspective who can alert the other to the limitations and
claustrophobic solipsism’s of aspects of “his” work. This critique is
difficult philosophical work in an inhospitable environment, but it might
provoke, from time to time, a glimmer of mutual recognition from
positions of difference. Perhaps this cognition is love.
References
Althusser, Louis (1997): Early Writings: The Spectre of Hegel, trans. G.M.
Goshgarian. London: Verso.
Bataille, George (1988): Inner Experience, trans. Leslie Anne Boldt.
Albany: State University of New York Press.
de Beauvoir, Simone (1972): The Second Sex, trans. H.M. Parshley.
Middlesex: Penguin Books.
Braidotti, Rosi (1991): Patterns of Dissonance. Cambridge: Polity Press.
Butler, Judith (1987): Subjects of Desire: Hegelian Reflections in
Twentieth-Century France. New York: Columbia University Press
Cixous, Hélène (1994): ‘First Names of No One,’ in The Hélène Cixous
Reader, ed. Susan Sellers. London: Routledge.
Clément, Catherine (1989): Opera or the Undoing of Women, trans. Betsy
Wing. London: Virago.
Connell, Jane ‘Beyond Oedipus—The Baroness and the Sphinx: A
Reading of the Imaginary of Western Critical Theory’. PhD diss.,
University of Melbourne, unpublished.
Derrida, Jacques (1978): ‘From Restricted to General Economy: A
Hegelian Without Reserve,’ in Writing and Difference, trans. Alan
Bass. London: RKP.
—. (1986): Glas, trans. John P. Leavey Jr and Richard Rand. Nebraska:
University of Nebraska Press.
Fuchs, Jo-Ann Pilardi (1983): ‘On the War Path and Beyond: Hegel, Freud
and Feminist Theory,’ Women’s Studies International Forum 6, pp.
565–72.
84
Chapter Five
Gauthier, Jeffrey A. (1997): Hegel and Feminist Social Criticism: Justice,
Recognition, and the Feminine. New York: State University of New
York Press.
Hegel, G.W.F. (1977): Phenomenology of Spirit, trans. A.V. Miller.
Oxford: Oxford University Press.
—. (1983) Hegel and the Human Spirit: A Translation of the Jena
Lectures on the Philosophy of Spirit (1805–6) with Commentary, trans.
Leo Rauch .Detroit: Wayne State University Press.
—. (1986): Jenaer Systementwürfe I: Das System der spekulativen
Philosophy. Hamburg: Felix Meiner Verlag.
—. (1993): Introductory Lectures on Aesthetics, trans. Bernard Bosanquet.
London: Penguin Books.
Inwood, Michael (1992): A Hegel Dictionary. Oxford: Blackwell.
Jardine, Alice A. (1985): Gynesis: Configurations of Woman and
Modernity. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
Jones, Ernest (1964): The Life and Work of Sigmund Freud.
Harmondsworth: Penguin Books.
Kojève, Alexandre (1980): Introduction to the Reading of Hegel: Lectures
on the Phenomenology of Spirit, trans. James Nichols Jr. Ithaca:
Cornell University Press.
Lonzi, Carla (1996): ‘Let’s Spit on Hegel,’ in Feminist Interpretations of
G.W.F. Hegel, ed. Patricia Jagentowicz Mills. Pennsylvania: Penn
State Press.
Malabou, Catherine (2011): Changing Difference, trans. Carolyn Shread.
Cambridge: Polity Press.
de Man, Paul (1982): ‘Sign and Symbol in Hegel’s Aesthetics,’ in Critical
Inquiry 8, pp. 763–9.
Marx, Karl and Engels, Frederick (1983): Collected Works. Volume 42,
trans. Peter and Betty Ross. London: Lawrence and Wishart.
Pinkard, Terry (2000): Hegel: A Biography. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press.
Pippin, Robert B (1999): ‘Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich (1770–1831),’
in The Cambridge Dictionary of Philosophy, ed. Robert Audi.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Plato (1961) ‘Symposium,’ trans. Michael Joyce, in Plato Collected
Dialogues, eds. Edith Hamilton and Huntington Cairns. Princeton:
Princeton University Press.
Roudinesco, Elisabeth (1990): Jacques Lacan and co.: A History of
Psychoanalysis in France 1925–1985, trans. Jeffrey Mehlman.
Chicago: The University of Chicago Press.
Love, Paranoia and the Constitution of the Hegelian Subject
85
Sartre, Jean-Paul (2004): The Imaginary: A Phenomenological Psychology
of the Imagination, trans. Jonathan Webber. London: Routledge.
Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky (1990): The Epistemology of the Closet.
Berkeley: University of California Press.
Starobinski, Jean (2003): Action and Reaction: The Life and Adventures of
a Couple, trans. Sophie Hawkes with Jeff Fort. New York: Zone.
Strauss, Jonathan (1998): Subjects of Terror: Nerval, Hegel and the
Modern Self. Stanford: Stanford University Press.
Szondi, Peter (1974): Poetik und Geschichtsphilosopie. Frankfurt am
Main: Suhrkamp Verlag.
Walker, Lenore E.A. (2000): The Battered Woman Syndrome: Second
edition. New York: Springer.
Whitford, Margaret (1991): Luce Irigaray: Philosophy in the Feminine.
London: Routledge.
Williams, Robert R. (2003): ‘The Concept of Recognition in Hegel’s
Phenomenology of Spirit,’ in Hegel's Phenomenology of Spirit: New
Critical Essays, ed. Alfred Denker and Michael Vater. New York:
Humanity Books.
Notes
My thanks to Leo Kretzenbacher for his help with the original text of
Phenomenology of Spirit.
1
Jean Starobinski demonstrates this point in his lexical study of the trope “action–
reaction:” “The more a science succeeds through innovative formulas, the more the
predators of its vocabulary multiply” (2003, 50).
2
Such analysis does little to dint the trajectory of the trope’s influence. Bataille,
and Derrida after him, makes an incisive critique of the master–slave narrative that
partly destabilises the argument that it supports. See Bataille (1988, 71, 132) and
Derrida (1978, 254–62). However, the trope’s sequential presentations down the
theoretical line do not reflect this modification. Neither Derrida nor Bataille call
into question the significance of Hegel’s selection of this particular scenario.
3
This matter is ambiguous even in Hegel’s account. Fear of death per se is
discussed but from the context of the established master–slave relationship; Hegel
also describes death as “the absolute Lord” (1977, 114).
4
De Man develops this point, which he cites and translates; he argues that Hegel is
“a theoretician of the symbol who fails to respond to symbolic language” (1982,
765).
5
See, for example, Williams (2003, 60).
6
Since the master must live for the story to continue, Bataille situates the
interaction as play, and as comedy; Derrida develops this idea, which destabilises
the pivotal role played by physical violence. However, the mode of “operation” of
86
Chapter Five
domination and the prima facie desire for it as the driving force are not drawn into
question. See Bataille (1988, 71, 132) and Derrida (1978, 254–62).
7
Cixous very briefly challenges the workings of desire for mastery. See Cixous
(1994, 31–2).
8
As Walker notes: “[we] now know [that] battered women, like other trauma
victims, lose the ability to perceive objectivity or neutrality in relationships” (2000,
35). Traumatic experiences of this kind are marked by the aggressor’s occasional
“kindness” to the victim; a scenario in which the “negativity” of the dominant
figure is without breach and yet provokes the affect necessary to the Hegelian
model is improbable.
9
Jardine places male paranoia as a central issue. However, her emphasis is its
operation against the woman (1985, 97–102, 263).
10
Pinkard quotes and translates from the 1803–1804 manuscripts of the Jenaer
Systementwürfe (1986, 218–9).
11
Hegel does introduce a difference between the master and slave; this appears
abruptly in the course of the “fight to the death”. The predisposition for this
difference is not accounted for and it is only manifest after recourse to near fatal
violence.
12
This two-tiered recognition process is a device geared to subordinate the initial
recognition scenario, inclusive of the woman and productive of the subject’s
apprehension of a “natural Self,” to the evolution of a civil society of exclusively
male subjects.
13
Derrida notes this shift in the model in Glas: “Once the family is constituted, as
a power of consciousness, the struggle can break out only between consciousnesses
and not between empiric individuals. From this viewpoint the gap [écart] narrows
between the Jena text and that of the Phenomenology” (1986, 135). While the
page-by-page parallel with the Genet text marks the homoerotic resonances of the
Hegelian texts, Derrida makes no analysis of the “gap” constituted by the move
from a heterosexual to an exclusively masculine scenario.
14
The English translation of Phenomenology of Spirit amplifies this association:
“In that experience it has been quite unmanned”.
15
Pinkard reports no earlier liaisons. Inwood notes that Hegel’s contemporaries
“called [him] the ‘old man’, owing to his ponderous and studious manner” (1992,
20).
16
Hegel felt some responsibility to provide for the child and guilt about
Burkhardt’s situation. The child took its mother’s maiden name but the godfathers
were Hegel’s brother and close friend (Pinkard 2000, 233–7).
17
Ten years later, Hegel acknowledged and adopted his son (Pinkard 2000, 354).
Derrida writes in Glas: “At the end of his life, Hegel responds to a natural son
come to be acknowledged: I know I had something to do with your birth, but
previously I was the accidental one, now I am the essential one” (1986, 7).
18
Most feminist critique, in the wake of de Beauvoir (1972, 96), is limited to
application of the Hegelian model to the heterosexual dynamic. That the Hegelian
subject might have been “made” by the philosopher rather than “born” fully
equipped with hatred, paranoia and a propensity for violence is never considered.
Love, Paranoia and the Constitution of the Hegelian Subject
87
See, for example, Gauthier (1997, xiii, 135–6). There are a few exceptions: Lonzi
considers that “[f]orcing the woman question into a master–slave concept … is a
mistake” (1996, 278); Braidotti takes up Lonzi’s point: “one must tackle the very
structures of the framework, not its propositional contents, in order to overcome
the power relations that sustain it” (1991, 214); Pilardi Fuchs sees the master–slave
interaction as representative of male psychosexual development and posits the
“replacing of patriarchal erotics with an erotics of affiliation” (1983).
19
To refuse the sadomasochistic conflict of the master–slave dyad as an apposite
model for the inception of self-consciousness is not to refuse the role of conflict
per se — many other conflictual models are possible. As much of the injustice and
physical violence in civil society is both perpetrated and perpetuated by masculine,
hostile, violent and objectifying dyadic formations that resist translation into other
conflictual modes, including those more germane to creative forms of resolution,
this is a critical point. It is not conflict from which we need to free ourselves but
rather the grip of such objectification insofar as it is at play in situations of
injustice.
20
There are of course important areas of post-Hegelian scholarship that emphasise
mutual recognition per se and eschew reference to the master–slave trope; this then
represents a return to Hegel’s initial concept of “mutual recognition”.
21
See, for example, the front matter to Hegel’s Introductory Lectures on Aesthetics
and Roudinesco (1990, 137).
22
See, for example, Sedgwick (1990).
23
Despite his remarks about Plato, Hegel had a long-standing passion for “ancient
Greek society, culture and philosophy” (Inwood 1992, 21). The depth of this
engagement with the corpus is apparent in Introductory Lectures on Aesthetics.
24
After Napoleon’s defeats and fall from grace, Hegel simply changed horses and
claimed to have predicted the same (Pinkard 2000, 311).
25
This reading is elaborated upon and substantiated in Connell, “Beyond Oedipus
—The Baroness and the Sphinx: A Reading of the Imaginary of Western Critical
Theory” (unpublished).
26
I have confined use of the term “violence” to physical violence. Malabou applies
the term more inclusively.
CHAPTER SIX
FROM THE WORKS TO THE PROBLEM OF LOVE:
THE APORIA OF THE NEIGHBOUR
IN KIERKEGAARD1
GEORGE TSAGDIS
“Hang up philosophy!”
—Romeo
The lover forbids the love of wisdom to change into a wisdom of love
— even less into a wisdom on love. The pastoral words of Friar Laurence
are lost on Romeo for they cannot bring Juliet back. Romeo cannot
understand the counsel of the Friar — understanding is unwanted,
suspended if not banished, hung up if not hung, indeed, executed. Romeo
and Juliet do not understand love for they execute it. Their tragedy is
founded upon the execution of incomprehensibility, they see through the
absurdity of love to the end. Thus they are due the words Johannes de
Silentio reserves for his knight of faith: “I cannot understand Abraham—I
can only admire him” (Kierkegaard 1983: 112). In executing understanding
one is not in want of words. Lovers prove it; yet in faith Abraham is
equally eloquent. “He can describe his love for Isaac in the most beautiful
words to be found in any language. But this is not what is on his mind; it is
something deeper”, (113) an execution. Abraham’s act comes from the
eloquence of silence.
A tension between silence and the most beautiful of languages grows.
And quicker than the winged Eros this discourse has placed itself in its
midst; perhaps too quickly. At an equal pace grows the tension between
faith and love. It seems to emerge against the fragile aporia of love, as
though to perplex and veil the demands it places on thought. As if love
was already decided, or if the writing of or on love had found its meaning.
As if we knew how to make the “on” of the surface of love quiver, maybe
even its depth tremble (Derrida 1995: 139) and the figures of its language
From the Works to the Problem of Love
89
had learned to talk of it, without engendering the monstrosity of a
“philosophy of love” (Barthes 2002: 8). Could it be that as perhaps with
friends, as soon as love is spoken of rather than to, it should cease,
(Derrida 2005: 172-173) so that one should declare: O love there is no
love? Can love be addressed? Or is this privilege and necessity reserved
exclusively for the beloved? And finally which love? Is there some love
that as the 16th century French song has it “makes me think too much” and
what do I think then, so pensive, if I think neither on love, nor even of
love?
It appears simple at first. A clear triangulation between love (agapē,
Kjelighed), eros (Elskov) and friendship (Barthes 2002: 160) (philia)
presents each term as distinct, then allows its alliance with the second
against the third, re-arranges the figure of figures and even admits for its
tense unity. Tracing the contours of this figure is already more than can be
hoped for here; and already the figure cannot contain itself. A fourth term
appears as original as indispensable: brotherhood (adelphotēs). Then a
fifth: sexuality—kindred yet distinct from eros, altogether ill-fitting the
ancient demarcations: pothos, himeros, thymos.
Kierkegaard encloses his thought in the triangulation. He recognizes
erotic love (subsuming in it tacitly the sexual manifold) and friendship (a
restricted, even diluted philia) in contrast to the singular love of the
neighbour. He has no use for brotherhood. The brother, this unnatural
figure — insofar as “a political fraternization between ‘natural’ brothers”
(Derrida 2005: 202) could never be, insofar as the animal knows not of the
brother — this other that ecclesiastic labour took so long to institute, before
revolutionary ethos placed him at the root of all freedom and equality to
ensure an irresolvable bond of mutuality beyond merely beneficial
contractuality, this brother remains unspoken of in Kierkegaard’s work. He
is displaced by the neighbour, the one who is near. The brother, the friend,
the lover are certainly near, in the proximity of oikiotēs. But Christianity
cannot rest satisfied with the received spatiality of otherness, or with what
seems to interfere with it. The Old Testament situates the neighbour too
close to the brother. Leviticus, which for the first time commands the love
of the neighbour as oneself (19:18), also abolishes brotherly hate from the
heart (19:17). The neighbour is here one of kin, a chosen one like oneself.
Because one is like oneself one ought to be loved like one. The Mosaic
commandment of love towards the neighbour includes thus all; all but
non-neighbours2. The New Testament strives to engulf the non-neighbour.
As the revolutionary declares the brotherhood of all mankind, Kierkegaard
evangelizes the neighbour in “unconditionally every human being”
(Kierkegaard 1998: 66) and repeats with Matthew (22:39) the commandment
90
Chapter Six
of love: love thy neighbour as thyself. One is thus called to loving every
and all: the neighbour is not only every human, but all humans, (55) all
humanity; (141)3 moreover not simply now, for some time, but always,
(49) indeed unlike all temporal love — a moment, a year or a century
matters little — unto all eternity (8).
In the figure of the neighbour, in the all and every that allows for no
distinction, the Christian comes to distinguish himself from the natural
man (Kierkegaard 1980a: 8) and constitute the new brotherhood infused
and marked with the blood of Christ. The brother is potentially every
other, yet only the neighbour is actually4 every other. In the love of the
neighbour the Christian finds himself. Christianity teaches proper selflove (Kierkegaard 1998: 18) as it rests it from the person to bestow it upon
the neighbour (17). In learning to love the neighbour as oneself, one learns
to love oneself (23 and Evans 2004: 182) as a neighbour and as the one
who loves the neighbour, as a brother. As a brother the Christian learns to
love the one who does not love him as brother: the neighbour. This is the
meaning of the commandment par excellence: love the one who doesn’t
love you as thyself; even: love the one who hates you as thyself. Learn
thus to love thyself as the one who hates you. We interrupt and defer the
logic to prepare its unfolding. We assume it first from the end of its
spatiality.
Love thy neighbour, the one who is near, as thyself. Love thyself as the
one who is near. One has to bring the other as near as one is to oneself and
oneself as near as the other is. The commandment of love summarizes
accordingly in the neighbour the spatiality of ethic as the “should” of
proximity. Yet this space is not continuous. God incessantly interrupts it,
always between neighbours, brothers, as well as between the neighbour
and the brother. The logic of the interruption of the space of love however
needs also to be interrupted, for we have yet sufficiently thought neither
love nor its commandment.
Kierkegaard distinguishes the love of proximity, the love of the
neighbour, from the love of the natural man — natural, preferential
(Kierkegaard 1998: 56) or spontaneous love (40). Is the love of the
neighbour not spontaneous? Does it presuppose a thought on love? A
logic, a plan, a calculus? Is it possibly a practical duty of a categorical
imperative, beyond emotion? Kierkegaard desires a love without calculation,
yet not an-economic like a Derridean gift, which rather than remaining
foreign to the cycle of exchange, places itself in a relationship of
foreignness to it (Derrida 1992: 7) — the gift of love proposes a new,
counter-calculative economy. Love is a passion, in a second, most
essential triangulation of Christian passions, next to hope and faith, where
From the Works to the Problem of Love
91
Kierkegaard’s heretic Hegelianism discovers an “immediacy after
reflection”, in lieu of the “first immediacy” (Evans 2004: 195). The first
immediacy of the beautiful commands immediate love-inclination and
passion (certainly a different kind of passion) are on its side. The Christian
passion takes up the arduous task of the love of the ugly (Kierkegaard
1998: 373). It makes no exceptions, feels no preference or aversion (20).
The difficulty of such a demand makes God appear necessary in the
love of the neighbour, while eros and philia seem best left to themselves,
the presence of God making itself felt here as rather disturbing (112).
Kierkegaard desires the disturbance, amplifies the tension. On the one
hand he appears reassuring: the neighbour does not require giving up on
“existing” love (61). Later on however he must declare: “Christianly, the
entire distinction between the different kinds of love is essentially
abolished” (143). Indeed, in the whole New Testament not a single word
of erotic love or friendship is to be found (45)5. For Christian love “in
earnestness and truth is more tender in inwardness than erotic love in the
union and more faithful in sincerity than the most celebrated friendship in
the alliance” (44) and thus philia and eros, these pagan tropes of love, are
essentially less in what is essential to them than neighbourly love.
Accordingly, the neighbour cannot be the foundation of any other trope of
love as conciliatory thought would wish (Evans 2004: 208), for other
tropes of love are already part of it and as such redundant in what is most
essential to them in face of the neighbour. The brother could love a lover
or friend, but if he loved them as such he could only love them less than
his neighbour. Conjugal love can only reach its height if the spouse
becomes a neighbour — further it cannot advance, closer it cannot arrive.
The New Testament voids thus without erasing the Mosaic commandments
of parental love and spousal faith—the figure of the neighbour designates
this proximal void (and yet something more is subterraneanly at work,
something to which we shall return).
The tension Christianity effectuates in retaining eros and philia, while
attempting to assimilate and neutralize them at the specific proximity of
the neighbour, is far from resolved. It appears first as a matter of effort:
“To choose a beloved, to find a friend, yes this is a complicated business,
but one’s neighbour is easy to recognize, easy to find if only one will
personally — acknowledge one’s duty” (Kierkegaard 1998: 22). One does
not seek, one has always already found. Even death forms no obstacle, as
it “cannot deprive you of your neighbour, for if it takes one, life
immediately gives you another” (65). The neighbour is the task-at-hand
one has not had to seek; Christianity has found and gifted it in the guise of
a duty. The duty is hard but one needs not try for the gift — friends had to
Chapter Six
92
try, brothers do not. Even the thought of this love is no longer difficult.
What the poet had to leave unresolved in the riddles of eros and
friendship, Christianity has explained “eternally” (50), in the simplicity of
a duty, indeed a command (Evans 2004: 30) one has only to execute. Its
simplicity is summarized in three moments:
True love, which has undergone the change of eternity by becoming duty,
is never changed; it is simple, it loves and never hates, never hates—the
beloved. (Kierkegaard 1998: 34)
An immutable love consisting in an immutable command, for:
Only when it is a duty to love, only then is love eternally secured against
every change, eternally made free in blessed independence, eternally and
happily secured against despair. (29)
This immutable duty of love:
is therefore the eternal equality in loving, but the eternal equality is the
opposite of preference. This needs no elaborate development. Equality is
simply not to make distinctions, and eternal equality is unconditionally not
to make the slightest distinction, unqualifiedly not to make the slightest
distinction. (58)
No effort, “no elaborate development”, just an execution. What if
however this love and the equality it proposes, are thought? We soon for
example notice: “equality for all, the slogan of bourgeois revolution,
becomes the objective or quantifiable equality of roles, not of persons”
(Derrida 2008a: 37). Here it is the very distinction (of roles) that is
equated. But Christianity commands an equality of persons; perhaps here
the eternal condition of eternal love holds. It has to; since from eternity’s
point of view (sub specie aeternitatis), the individual growing together
with his dissimilarity, that is, his distinction, is deformed, so that eternity
has to reclaim one by means of death (Kierkegaard: 1998: 88). Death, this
“minor event” (Kierkegaard 1980a: 7) for the Christian, brings one back to
similarity, to loving indistinction, for from eternity’s perspective,
dissimilarity, rather than despair, appears as the true sickness unto death.
As love saves from both, the question of their relation presses. Is maybe
despair a form of dissimilarity? Indeed, this question refers both to the
self, the self one is commanded to love in neighbourly proximity.
Kierkegaard identifies at the crossroad of Christ and Hegel the human
with spirit; spirit accordingly is the self. The self as spirit is however
nothing given but a relation’s relation with itself. The first relation is one
From the Works to the Problem of Love
93
of finitude and infinity, of the temporal and the eternal, of freedom and
necessity (13). Yet this is not the self, but merely the human being caught
between animality and divinity, in the constancy of an unresolved tension.
Tempting as it is to see the second relation, the relation’s relation that is
the self, as the negotiation that keeps open the “contradiction” and
maintains the elements as integral (Dreyfus 2003: 92), the self, this second
relation is precisely and only spirit. Thus Kierkegaard, further identifying
the self and spirit with the soul, makes it with Matthew (16:26) and Luke
(9:25) indifferent to the world (Kierkegaard 1987: 220-221), a foreigner in
truth to finitude. And thus the spirit, the relation’s relation, is always the
“third” (Kierkegaard 1980b: 85), in truth, of an infinite order. The infinite
spirit, this self, must not grow dissimilar to itself, it must not grow distinct.
To save the self from such fate, from its own most death, worldly death
intervenes, removing the dissimilarity of finitude. Distinction, this misrelation of the human relation, originates in the detachment from the origin
of the self. For the self is a relation that cannot establish itself, but which
originates in another, so that when the self relates to itself it also relates to
another (Kierkegaard 1980a: 14). The question of this other is crucial; for
Kierkegaard it concentrates in the figure of God. When the self no longer
relates to the Other as it relates to itself, then it is in despair; and then it
grows distinct. To overcome such despair is for the self to rest
“transparently in the power that established it” (14). The only power in
which such transparency is possible is God; only in God can the simple
similarity that is the self be itself.
Can this other then not be the neighbour? Cannot a self establish
another self? Cannot a self rest transparently in another self? If the
commandment of love requires one to help another become a master of
oneself and yet without the other knowing, so that such knowledge will
not rob him of this self-mastery (Kierkegaard 1998: 279)6, is it not
possible that a neighbour, indeed a brother — even if not my brother, is the
foundation of the relation that is myself? A brother can even say: “Is it my
blood that runs in my veins? No it is the friend’s. But then in turn it is my
blood that flows in my friend’s veins. That is the I is no longer primary,
but the you —”, still, he must add: “yet the situation, reversed, is really the
same” (267). The I-you reversal amounts to nothing, for in neighbourly
proximity there is no distinction, no you or me, only God. One is equal to
and indistinct from one’s neighbour before God (60). This indistinction is
so pervasive that one must come to recognize oneself as nothing before
God (102). How could a mere nothing establish another nothing that is an
open relation just like itself? Indeed, Kierkegaard admits, the invisible,
upbuilding work of love (217) requires a ground which cannot be placed
94
Chapter Six
in a human’s heart by another human; for this necessary condition man is
insufficient (224). Yet even if man sufficed what would be thus
established, but a mere indistinction, an empty repetition of the same?
How would man then differ from the animal?
Kierkegaard seems bound by the tension he set into motion. What
seemed like a matter of effort is now no less than the crux of the
neighbourly figure. For how is the self other than the animal, other than
mere finitude? Kierkegaard makes a distinction; indeed, he asserts man’s
superiority over the animal not on grounds of the human universality
(Badiou 2011: 68-69)7, that is, of that in which all humans share, but rather
because “within the species each individual is essentially different or
distinctive” (Kierkegaard 1998: 230). In this difference a distinctive
relationship to God and a distinctive love (Hare 2002: 66-67, 168-172)8
become for the first time possible. In this difference is also given the
possibility of despair that distinguishes the man from the animal and its
awareness that distinguishes the Christian from the natural man
(Kierkegaard 1980a: 15), the brother from the neighbour.
Further, it is because one is distinct that one should not change. For
change between things of no difference proves either indifferent, or
meaningless. Thus Johannes de Silentio extends his hierarchization into
both the human and the animal realms, at the limits of incongruity:
Only lower natures forget themselves and become something new. The
butterfly for example completely forgets that it was a caterpillar, and may
in turn so completely forget that it was a butterfly that it may become a fish
(Kierkegaard 1983: 43).
The knight of faith in contrast becomes nothing new but in pain
recollects everything; his memory guards the uniqueness of the event of
his faith. Persevering in pain he proves his superiority over the lover who
in recollection “sometimes dies of excess, of exhaustion, and tension of
memory (like Werther)” (Barthes 2002: 14). Ultimately, in the brotherly
hierarchy the knight of faith:
has grasped the deep secret that in loving another person one ought to be
sufficient to oneself. […] it is only the lower natures who have the law for
their actions in someone else, the premises for their actions outside
themselves (Kierkegaard 1983: 44-45).
The knight of faith is sufficient to himself in the distinctiveness of his
faith and this he is not allowed to forget, lest he becomes a fish. Even
though he as a self is a relation established by another, the law of his
From the Works to the Problem of Love
95
actions does not lie in someone else, for the human law is only valid for
lower natures. The only other in faith is God. Accordingly love in faith
allows another to remain another (Evans 2004: 188), since in the words of
Paul “love does not seek its own (zētei ta eautēs)” (I Corinthians, 13:5).
Love does not seek its own, yet in truth neither does it seek the other. The
law is already given, nothing is to be sought. It is not so much that the
example of Christ forces a love of his example, demands its own love of
love, for this example is in turn one of (love as) giving (Kierkegaard 1998:
264), invoking the other. But the other is merely to be loved at the specific
proximity of neighbourliness. Thus it is eventually said:
The truly loving one does not love his own distinctiveness but, in contrast,
loves every human being according to his distinctiveness; but his
‘distinctiveness’ is what for him is his own; that is, the loving one does not
seek his own; quite the opposite, he loves what is the other’s own (269).
The love that makes no distinction loves the other for his
distinctiveness. The act of thought that executed the distinction of I and
you into ex-tinction has now to salvage both; it does so by discovering a
love for the other’s distinction yet leaving the law of the self unaffected by
it. The other’s distinction is never a lesson. For on pain of bestiality, the
self has to retain a singular autonomy. Kierkegaard is explicit: “Marriage
is not really love, and therefore it is said that the two become one flesh —
but not one spirit, since two spirits cannot possibly become one spirit”
(466, from the Journals). An absolute singularity forever recollected in
pain becomes the relation that is the self, a singularity foreign to the law of
the other.
This is not the extremity of tension. Kierkegaard accuses philia and
eros of willing to give up everything the other’s distinctiveness,
everything but themselves, that is, their own distinctiveness (273). He thus
violently ignores the Aristotelian definition of friendship as “one soul in
bodies twain,”9 a definition so familiar to Augustine and antiquity that he
may adopt without quoting it. Augustine is surprised to have survived the
death of his friend, to have survived with only half a soul; and he redeems
his guilt for having continued to live in his will to salvage something of
his friend, not to completely let him die (Augustine, 1961: 77-80), a
declaration he will however subsequently (in his Retractations) denounce
as inept (Derrida 2005: 187). Eros is as aware of the community of souls
and the impossibility of life beyond the death of the other, as the Church
Father. The death of Juliet teaches thus Romeo the truth of loss, from the
truth of love of a singularity that was also himself. Without the singularity
of Juliet, the world of finitude becomes toxic, as Romeo says to the
96
Chapter Six
Apothecary who gives him the means of his death in exchange of money:
“I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none” (Shakespeare 2012: 318).
Indeed pharmakeus, the one who distributes the potion of life and the
poison of death is the name Diotima gives to Eros—the force that
resurrects and executes the singularity of the community of souls.
The possibility is not unknown to the Kierkegaardian tension. As it
wavers between the necessity and corruption of distinction it comes to
discover a love of the spirit that “has the courage to will and have nothing
at all, the courage to cancel entirely the distinction ‘yours and mine’;
[thereby gaining] God — by losing its soul” (Kierkegaard 1998: 268-269).
Here one can dream the prelapsarian dream of a child that lacks the
knowledge of evil (286), the evil distinction constitutes, and as a child
desire to keep nothing and exclaim: “All things are mine — I, who have
no mine at all” (268).
Yet not because, like Rimbaud, I experience the horror of my I being
another10, neither because, like Barthes, I experience the horror of not
being someone else (Barthes 2002: 121), caught in the dazzling leap from
my singularity to the singularity of the pair, but because in the executed
leap the self is altogether shed. Again, only God is left. We follow
Kierkegaard in this dis-pairing of the pair, in this dis-relation of a self,
admitting only God’s presence.
Dis-pair appears initially as the difficulty, the horror, of being left
alone before God (Kierkegaard 1998: 124). Unlike Eros, God does not
return the stare, seeing into souls without being accessible to view
(Derrida 2008b: 26). In this asymmetry and infinite distinction, in the
absent gaze of the master the I is ordered: “Work out your own salvation
with fear and trembling” (Paul, Philippians 2:12). The infinite love that is
God asks one to find the entry of heaven in fear and trembling; yet more
importantly, in solitude. The other, who cannot establish me, can neither
save me; and I am as powerless to save the other. In fear and trembling I
must try to save myself. To do so I have to love the neighbour. Yet there is
a command that stands even higher: more than the neighbour, more than
oneself (these two distinct/indistinct moments of the soul) Christ himself
commands the love of God (Matthew 22:37). Kierkegaard acknowledges
the command (Kierkegaard 1998: 20) and interprets its tropos, the way of
its execution, in accordance to the principle of likeness that supports the
second command, that of the love of proximity. One ought to love God —
infinite distance and distinction — and “like unto it” (Matthew 22:39) love
the neighbour — utter proximity and indistinction tormented by the desire
of distinction.
From the Works to the Problem of Love
97
Kierkegaard will constantly repeat: “like for like”. Thus the Jewish
“like for like” (a tooth for a tooth) comes to be replaced by the Christian
command of forgiveness; like God forgives, so one must the other forgive,
so that one — like for like in turn — may be forgiven. In this logic one
does not receive the forgiveness one gives, but rather gives precisely what
one receives, what one receives precisely from oneself (382); such is the
labour of salvation. This labour can only be undertaken insofar the
principle of likeness is internalized, insofar the relation of the self
identifies itself with the principle that constantly relates the finitude of the
neighbour11 to the infinitude of God. This identification is thorough; one
not only executes but also knows (16) according to the principle of
likeness. This principle is God in man; its name is love, or at least, a
principle in the name of love.
At very least the meaning of indistinction starts to clarify. To love God
and to be like God (homoiōsis) one must forget friendship, abolish it while
evoking it: “Friends there are no friends!” the Christian has to declare like
a most devout Aristotelian. For it is clear: “Insofar as you love your friend,
you are not like God, because for God there is no distinction” (63). And
thus no friendship. One cannot be God’s friend, nor can one ask for God
as a friend (Derrida 2005: 223). One can only love God and in the likeness
of this love love another. God is always the middle term between a person
and another—to love oneself is to love God; to love another is to help
another love God (Kierkegaard 1998: 107), so that to love another means
exclusively to love the Other. Idolatry is thus not only the poetic
blasphemy (19) of loving another more than God (Evans 2004: 209), but
already loving another without or before one loves God. One can then
expect the love that is God12 to intervene and demand “out of love and in
love to hate the beloved” (108). For first and foremostly, “all true love is
grounded in this, that one loves another in a third —” (395 from the
Journals) namely, God, who ultimately “not only becomes the third party
in every relationship of love, but really becomes the sole object of love, so
it is not the husband who is the wife’s beloved, but it is God […]”, since
“the love-relationship requires threeness: the lover, the beloved, the love
— but the love is God” (121).
One thus loves love instead of a person. Yet — isn’t this rather “a
specifically amorous perversion”, a great cause the loss of which one
laments only for itself, not for the other? (Barthes 2002: 31). A cause
however a brother cannot lose, since the third that is love, is God and one
cannot break with God (Kierkegaard 1998: 304-305)13; and which he need
all the less lament since God shall always offer another neighbour in place
of the one lost to life or to death. God then, not only does not withdraw in
98
Chapter Six
favour of the person loved, but usurps the figure of the other in his infinite
alterity. Love, bereft of all singularity transforms into a principle, an
unlawful principle. A principle beyond the Law.
Badiou is here closer than anywhere else to Kierkegaard’s thought of
love as he says: “Love cannot be reduced to any law. There is no law of
love” (Badiou 1012: 79). Indeed for Kierkegaard, as for Paul, love is the
fulfilling of the Law (Romans 13:10), the relation of the former to the
latter being “like the relation of faith to understanding” (Kierkegaard
1998: 105) — Law, this “prolix matter” (96) requiring and taking, while
love gives (107). This love is the exuberance of the Law that requires no
settlement, for the execution of its infinite bounty leaves no one without
copious compensation. Love’s infinitude vouchsafes this. This infinitude
also deprives calculation of its meaning, insofar the calculation of infinity
remains impossible (178). As soon as one attempts this, as soon as one
attempts a calculation, a comparison and thus the transformation of the
infinite debt love stipulates (177) into finitude, eternity is broken. Loving
the other’s distinctiveness without distinction and giving what is received
without calculation, this is “the sum of the commandment” (137) that
heaven prescribes in the name of love.
This name is not to be spoken. For the name of love is the name of
God. Unlike eros and philia, the love of the neighbour is not to be
declared. Insofar one stands alone before God, there is no one to declare
this love to; insofar one executes the love that is God, in the name of love,
like for like, so that one may become love, nothing is left to be said. In
God, even the most celebrated lover knows that “the purest faith keeps the
deepest silence” (Casanova 1997: 29)14. In this silence nothing is left, but
to execute. In this silence takes place the act of Abraham; as a work of
love. The Christian does not think of love, but of the works of love
(Kierkegaard 1998: 3), since the maturity of love shows in its fruits that
exceed words15. In the precarious distinction of interiority (infinity) and
exteriority (finitude) sustaining Kierkegaard’s thought, love appears as a
work on the interior.
We read: “Christianity does not want to make changes in externals;
neither does it want to abolish drives or inclination—it wants only to make
infinity’s change in the inner being” (139). Accordingly, it is fatuousness
rather than a work of love, to desire an equality of rights for the
woman“— Christianity has never required or desired this” (139). In the
stare of God that one is not to return, one eliminates difference by shutting
one’s eyes and becoming all ears to the commandment (68); recasting the
blindness of love. In this blindness dissimilarity exists but does not occupy
the Christian “at all, not in the least” (71). The Christian knows that even
From the Works to the Problem of Love
99
centuries of resolute labour will not undo all worldly dissimilarity and
doesn’t try to undo them. He allows “them to stand but teaches the
equality of eternity” (72). Thus Christianity finds itself at the end without
having even begun, without caring to begin, for determining is not the
outcome but “expectancy in itself” (263). The work of love is working
without the need of works (indeed the Kierkegaardian title does not hold
beyond rhetoric; there are no Works of Love, only the work of love as
barren activity, an empty actuality). Thus one should practice
mercifulness, “a work of love even if it can give nothing and is able to do
nothing” (316). Mercifulness unpractised however, a failure more grave
than death (326), does not equal a lack of acts, since mercifulness consists
in the how of giving (327), even if it is not giving at all.
At the same time, as interiority, love is not a feeling. “To say that love
is a feeling and the like is really an un-Christian concept […] Christ’s love
was not intense feeling, a full heart etc.; it was rather the work of love,
which is his life” (483)16. Love can certainly not be a feeling, for it is
Christ and God and a command. The dialectic of divine love thus
becomes: “What love does, that it is; what it is, that it does — at one and
the same moment” (280). Love however does nothing, it is not a deed, but
the interiority that transforms a deed, insofar as the same deed without
love is infinitely different (181). At the same time it is nothing17. Neither a
thing of the world, nor of the soul. It is precisely the soul itself as the
passion that strives to become like God.
A long tradition is at work. To be like, constitutes a passion at least as
old as Plato. In the Symposium (205e) love longs for neither the half, nor
the whole of anything, and would even dismember itself only to assimilate
itself (in a specific erotic proximity) to the good (agathon oikeion). Here
the lover is the only path to the good. Cicero, the foremost introducer of
Hellenic thought to Latium could not but recognize friendship between
good men18, that is, within the principle of the good to which both parties
aspire. Yet, here too, this principle is unattainable without the aid of the
friend, the specific other. For the work of love the neighbour is no path at
all, but precisely an aporia. The neighbour leads nowhere; solely God
does. So that even if the numeric casuistic of Dante holds, and Beatrice is
indeed a miracle and the number nine whose root is the miracle of trinity,
the triune origin of everything miraculous (Dante 1969: 80), she can still
lead Dante nowhere. Certainly not Above as Goethe would have come to
learn from the old master19. Another master, Eckhart, repeating Dionysius
the Areopagite would subscribe to this (Neo-) Platonic tradition: “love is
of such nature, that changes man into the things he loves”20.
100
Chapter Six
What the Christian loves in the absolute commandment of love is God.
A God who, in the words of the biblical narration that possesses
Kierkegaard, tempts (Genesis, 22:1) and tests Abraham (Kierkegaard
1983: 20). Kierkegaard puts in the mouth of Abraham the confession: “I
love Isaac more than anything in the world” (70) and will not accept that
the divine command can or wills to lessen it. Abraham does not merely
love God more; his love towards Isaac remains unsurpassable. Yet not
unconditional; its absolute condition is God. This condition which we have
seen voiding the Law by levelling all ties (of blood, love and friendship) to
the proximity of the neighbour and by becoming its fulfilment beyond any
determination, this condition that simultaneously empties and fulfils the
Law ultimately annihilates it. It runs counter its command, unto its
absolute condition. Thus Kierkegaard repeats and intensifies the words of
Luke (14:26): “If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father
and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even
his own life, he cannot be my disciple” (72). In the pure militancy of love
everything and anything has to be hated. To be like God, to be like love
that never hates, one should prepare to hate, if love so commands.
Is the distinction between love and hate “egoistic and without interest”
(Derrida 2008a: 65)? Are we trying “to suck worldly wisdom out of the
paradox” (Kierkegaard 1983: 37)? Out of all the paradoxes that have been
amassing behind the figure of the neighbour? (One should not forget —
Isaac is to Abraham first a neighbour and only then his promised, dear
son). Are we in danger of falling from faith into calculation (35)? Should
we not rather have faith “where thought stops” (53)21, adhere to the
Christian kērygma letting God appear in our love of God, become fools in
the moronity of love (Paul, I Corinthians 1:20 & 4:10) rather than attempt
any proofs of his in/existence? Or is this rather perhaps a “precarious
solution” (Derrida 2008b: 139-140), an execution in complete disregard of
the aporia? Can Kierkegaard who desires to tarry infinitely on the
paradox, make of the paradox a true aporia, in a sense requiring more
thought than presently possible, an aporia that does not deprive but gives a
way? Can what Kierkegaard regards as a paradox be a gift? Is silence and
expenditure (Barthes 2002: 77) sufficient or even necessary to turn divine
love into a gift?
One should initially (and in passing) note: first, keeping the secret,
which for Kierkegaard (and Derrida) is an essential condition to
Abraham’s act, is not the will of God. If the Bible is more than secular
gossip, if it is indeed revelation, then God reveals the secret that Abraham
(perhaps also Isaac) takes so much care to safeguard. God may demand
from Abraham silence, but in this silence Abraham acts unlike God, who
From the Works to the Problem of Love
101
ultimately desires the circulation of the secret (a secret is precisely what
circulates). Secondly, as Abraham is called to an execution he is forced to
act. Kierkegaard insists throughout Fear and Trembling on the
significance of the preparation and the long journey that lead up to the
unexecuted execution. However an act is ultimately never (neither for
Abraham, nor for us) required. As we have seen, the work of love, and
such is the murder of Abraham’s son, does not require that anything be
done, the act in love is empty. Thus the indispensible, for Kierkegaard,
dramaturgy that leads father and son to Mount Moriah we must think in
Kierkegaardian terms as merely external (a work of love does not occupy
itself with worldly change and mercifulness is already fulfilled in
expectancy). Expenditure is thus uncalled-for. For all that one does
depends solely on the orientation of the soul; similarly all that is done to
one is dependent upon one’s soul. “In the Christian sense, you have
nothing at all to do with what others do unto you — it does not concern
you” (Kierkegaard 1998: 383); the neighbour and his acts are insignificant,
the sole origin of meaning is divine love and in this love exists accordingly
no murder, only suicide (33)22. The only death is the one originating in the
self. Thirdly thus, Abraham cannot kill Isaac in the true sense, even if he is
allowed.
In these thoughts we face no paradox; no true aporia is there to guide
us. Yet neither is there reached a positive economy of love; such an
economy, if at all possible, is unwelcome. The moment of aporetic tension
emerges when the revealed secret of the void and impossible act of
Abraham is replaced by the true command: for my love, you have to
attempt a void and impossible act and keep a secret I shall reveal, but
before this and as a condition of it, for my love, you have to hate.
Only then, in the fear of God that is love and it is also hate, is Isaac
spared (Genesis, 22:12). It is not merely that the universal (ethic) is
against Abraham, while he remains individually faithful to love. Abraham
does not merely hate the hateful, nor does he leave his soul aside (hate, as
love, is not a feeling, but soul itself). Abraham has to hate precisely what
he loves (Derrida 2008a: 65). His work of love is this hate. And yet, if one
cannot love the neighbour, except upon condition of the love of God, how
can one hate, without first hating God? In verso, unless God himself hates,
where does hate originate? For if omne bonum a Deo, omne malum ab
homini, why does God command what is absolutely foreign to him? Why
is man commanded to do what God never does, commanded to be like
God never is, and also commanded to be like God, absolute love? It seems
that insofar God is in man, God can be hate. We hear of likeness once
more:
102
Chapter Six
If you cannot bear people’s faults against you, how then should God be
able to bear your sins against him? No, like for like. God is actually
himself this pure like for like, the pure rendition of how you yourself are. If
there is anger in you, then God is anger in you. (Kierkegaard 1998: 384).
In man God becomes all that is foreign to him. He who is absolute love
“repeats the words of grace or of judgement that you say about another; he
says the same thing word for word about you” (384-385). Through the
mediation of God the judgement of another becomes one’s own judgement
(233). Aporetic as such divine function appears, an anthropomorphism of
the singular God, it should suffice to contain evil in man and make of man
the nothing Kierkegaard believes him to be, in the eyes of the unseen God.
But before God, man must be everything. The significance of the
individual is so great for God that a whole herd is to be wagered for a sole
sheep. And since even the briefest glimpse of interest of an infinite God is
infinite, a finite creature would never deserve it23. This is why God, like
the knight of faith in his image24, never forgets. And in this infinite
recollection of God one was and will be forever; in the recollection of God
one is infinite and eternal.
The infinite significance of man for God shows precisely as God does
not judge man in and through man, but in and of himself. While man is
called to repay evil with good (337), God besides the endless inflictions of
the Old Testament reserves ultimately for man eternal punishment without
the prospect of penitentiary reformation. Man comes to know that with
tears and gnashing teeth will be “thrust out” (Luke 14:28) those who dare
to judge, make distinctions and exclude (Quinn 1998: 277), while the God
they where commanded to become like, judges, distinguishes and excludes
them for all eternity, never judging himself25, an auto-theodicy denied.
Kierkegaard calls us to neighbourly love; a love of distinctiveness
without distinction. He calls to the execution of works of love that do
nothing. For the sake of such love he calls in turn to impossible murders
and hate. All to obey the command: You, who are infinitely unlike me,
must become like me by refraining from all I do (i.e. judging, excluding,
etc.) and by doing all I exclude from myself (i.e. murdering, hating, etc.).
And if you fail this command you shall in turn be judged and excluded,
indeed placed in hatred, for all eternity.
Attempting to heed such command is despair and dis-pair. The friend
is lost to a principle; it is a principle of destruction. This principle and love
of indistinction is foreign to the love of distinction it tries to appropriate.
Only philia and eros can re-pair oneself to the neighbour; only here is
equality, for only here is true distinction; and only here becomes possible
Kierkegaard’s (surprising, as indeed for him provisional) counsel to love
From the Works to the Problem of Love
103
the neighbour as the beloved, since only here for the first time becomes
the other not an ‘other I’, but a ‘first you’ (Kierkegaard 1998: 57).
For such friendship rarity is a virtue (Derrida 2005: 212), for such love
its hyperbolic scarcity (212) a wonder. In such friendship death becomes
again possible and necessary, constituting one’s irreplaceable singularity
and calling one to respond, become responsible (Derrida 2008a: 42) for
the declaration of love (Derrida 2005: 302), a declaration of polemos
beyond war, a dissolution of neutrality (228) and indistinction. If such
rarity is a need, it cannot be reduced to the satisfaction of mere appetite, a
shard of finitude, but like the poet’s need to write (Kierkegaard 1998: 10)
amounts to uttering the words, the declaration which initiates an infinitude
of effects (Badiou 2012: 42), opens a world of difference (56) and marks
the transformation of chance into destiny (43-44) and a promise of eternity
(47). In this declaration every other is wholly other (tout autre est tout
autre (Derrida 2008a: 78)) for the first time. For the first time this
declaration transforms the other into infinity and transforms ethics, indeed,
into religion, a religion precisely of love.
This declaration of polemos returns not only the friend, but also the
crucial possibility of the enemy—the question of one’s own self as figure,
as Schmitt used to repeat from a line of Däubler’s Sang an Palermo.
Perhaps we can thus for the first time tend to the words of Kierkegaard’s
arch-enemy. Nietzsche invites us to share the need, the “higher thirst”
(Derrida 2008a: 71) of a common infinity: “My brothers, I do not exhort
you to the love of your neighbour: I exhort you to the love of the most
distant” (Nietzsche 1999: 79). This is the distance in which the neighbour
withers, which only friendship and love can endure, the distance of an
infinite future that takes one out of all impassable aporias, while persisting
on the aporetic way. And in the distance we hear on: “That we have to
become estranged is the law above us; by the same token we should
become more venerable for each other […]. Let us then believe in our star
friendship even if we should be compelled to be earth enemies” (Nietzsche
1974: 225).
As long as we write of and on love, love will remain an aporia, a
problema. In Greek however problema has a second meaning: the shield.
If love is a shield26, this is the aporetic limit that protects beyond all
limitation — even against God. Abraham, Kierkegaard’s cherished knight
of faith, does not have the strength to carry this shield. Kierkegaard calls
the divisions of Fear and Trembling in Greek: problemata. He seeks the
aporia of love and its protection in God. But Abraham’s unexecuted
execution cannot lead out of the non sequitur of the neighbour.
104
Chapter Six
References
Augustine (1961): The Confessions, trans. Harmondsworth: Penguin
Books.
Badiou, Alain (2012): Wittgenstein’s Antiphilosophy, trans. Bruno
Bosteels. London: Verso.
—. (2012): In Praise of Love, trans. Peter Bush. London: Serpent’s Tale.
Barthes, Roland (2002): A Lover’s Discourse, trans. Richard Howard.
London: Vintage.
Casanova, Giacomo. (1997): History of my Life, trans. Willard Trask.
Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.
Dante, A. (1969): La Vita Nuova, XX, trans. Barbera Reynolds.
Harmondsworth: Penguin Books.
Derrida, Jacques (1992): Given Time: 1. Counterfeit Money, trans. Peggy
Kamuf. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press.
—. (1995): On the Name, trans. David Wood. Stanford, Ca: Stanford
University Press
—. (2005): The Politics of Friendship, trans. George Collins. London:
Verso.
—. (2008a): The Gift of death and Literature in Secret, trans. David Wills.
Chicago: the University of Chicago Press.
—. (2008b): The Animal That Therefore I Am, trans. David Wills. New
York: Fordham University Press.
Dreyfus, Hubert (2003): ‘Christianity Without Onto-Theology. In, Mark
Wrathall (ed.) Religion After Metaphysics, Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press.
Evans, C.S. (2004): Kierkegaard’s Ethics of Love, Divine Commands and
Moral Obligations, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Hare, John (2002): Why Bother Being Good? Downers Grove, Ill.
Intervarsity Press.
Heidegger, Martin (2000): Vortage und Aufsatze. Frankfurt: Vittoria
Klosterman.
Kierkegaard, Soren (1980a): Sickness Unto Death, trans. Howard & Edna
Hong. New Jersey: Princeton University Press.
—. (1980b): The Concept of Anxiety, trans. Reidar Thomte. New Jersey:
Princeton University Press.
—. (1987): Either/Or, II, trans. New Jersey: Howard & Edna Hong.
Princeton University Press.
—. (1983): Fear and Trembling and Repetition, trans. Howard & Edna
Hong. New Jersey: Princeton University Press.
From the Works to the Problem of Love
105
—. (1998): Works of Love, trans. Howard & Edna Hong. New Jersey:
Princeton University Press.
Nietzsche, Friedrich (1974): The Gay Science, trans. Walter Kauffman.
New York: Vintage.
—. (1999): Also Sprache Zarathustra, KSA4, 1, Von Nachstenliebe.
Berlin: Walter de Gruyter.
Quinn, Phillip (1998): ‘The Pimacy of God’s Will in Christian Ethics’. In,
M. Beaty, C. Fisher, M. Nelson (eds.) Christian Theism and Moral
Philosophy. Macon, Ga.: Mercer University Press.
Shakespeare, William (2001): Romeo and Juliet. London: Arden Press.
Notes
1
To the star of an other Beatrice.
The question of the person of the non-neighbour and his function as either
inimicus or hostis, has to remain here open. One is however tempted to ask
whether ultimately the human brotherhood is but the non-neighbour of the animal.
3
We even read: “the category ‘neighbour’ is like the category ‘human being’”.
4
Potentiality and actuality are used here tentatively, merely in accordance with the
tradition of Idealism that structures Kierkegaardian Logic.
5
Upon execution, Christ, the archetypon of the Christian, had neither a lover, nor a
friend.
6
Of course in the master as in the self, there are already two.
7
A displacement of universality that qualifies Kierkegaard’s thought as antiphilosophy for Badiou.
8
The distinction of love, which constitutes the possibility of individuality for Hare,
lies at the heart of the problematic.
9
Of the most prominent moments in the Aristotelian doxographic tradition, yet not
an extant fragment. Delivered by Diogenes Laertius, Lives and Opinions of
Eminent Philosophers, 5.20.
10
“Je est un autre”. Rimbaud’s correspondence with Paul Demeny, from the 15th of
May 1871.
11
The neighbour as indistinct is finite. A brother loves the other not as distinct but
in the other’s distinction, that is, in the other’s faith that presents the promise of
salvation, or as indistinct, that is, as finite, a fallen spirit that requires one’s love to
find the distinction of faith. The brother is commanded nonetheless not to
distinguish the two.
12
At the beginning of the Works of love we read: “you who are love, so that the
one who loves is what he is only by being in you!”, p.3.
13
Thus Kierkegaard interprets the meaning of the Pauline “love abides” (I
Corinthians, 13:13).
14
Casanova, the seducer par excellence in the Kierkegaardian sense, begins his
History with a declaration of faith, the implications of which exceed the current
undertaking.
2
106
15
Chapter Six
Ibid., p.12.
We read also: “Christ’s life is really the only unhappy love.” Ibid., p.109. And:
“it was indeed madness, humanly speaking: he sacrifices himself—in order to
make the loved ones just as unhappy as himself!” Ibid., p.111. Kierkegaard could
make nothing of Dante’s: “Love and the noble heart are but one thing.” Dante A.,
La Vita Nuova, XX (Penguin, London, 1969), p.59.
17
Perhaps we could only proceed if instead of the “is” our thought engaged with
this Nothing. This cannot be done here, certainly not on Kierkegaard’s terms.
18
Cicero, Laelius de Amicitia, V, 18. All of this essay’s questions are
accompanied ultimately by the question of the possibility of friendship founded on
a principle (Derrida says on “virtue”) without aporias and contradictions. Derrida,
J., The Politics of Friendship, p.198.
19
The last words of Faust (12111): “Das Ewig-Weibliche zieht uns hinan”. See
also Badiou’s dismissal of this Above, against the rigidity of directinality: “to
construct a world from a decentred point of view other than that of my mere
impulse to survive or re-affirm my own identity.” Badiou A., In Praise of Love,
p.25.
20
“Diu mine ist der natur, daz si den menschen wandelt in die dinc, die er minnet”,
Heidegger M., Vortäge und Aufsätze, GA7 (Vittorio Klosterman, Frankfurt am
Main, 2000), p.178.
21
At the same time, faith is said to know more than experience and mistrust know
(Kierkegaard S., Works of Love, p.228) and to see the unseen in what is seen
(Ibid., p.295).
22
The dilemma is not as Badiou believes: “why choose Christianity rather than
suicide?”, but rather why to choose their inseparable destiny over phila and eros.
Badiou A., Wittgenstein’s Antiphilosophy, p.89.
23
Hence, anew, the question of the animal.
24
Yet in his, by now familiar wavering, Kierkegaard demands from the knight of
faith unlike God to forget: “But anyone who loves God needs no tears, no
admiration; he forgets the suffering in the love. Indeed, so completely has he
forgotten it that there would not be the slightest trace of his suffering left if God
himself did not remember it, for he sees in secret and recognizes distress and
counts the tears and forgets nothing.” Kierkegaard S., Fear and Trembling, p.120
25
This possibility deserves still long thought.
26
It is, this time, the words of a 20th century song.
16
CHAPTER SEVEN
I WANT YOU TO BE:
LOVE AS A PRECONDITION OF FREEDOM
IN THE THOUGHT OF HANNAH ARENDT
RACHEL PAINE
This mere existence, that is, all that which is mysteriously given to us at
birth and which includes the shape of our bodies and the talents of our
minds, can be adequately dealt with only by the unpredictable hazards of
friendship and sympathy, or by the great and incalculable grace of love,
which says with Augustine, “Volo ut sis (I want you to be)”, without being
able to give any particular reason for such supreme and unsurpassable
affirmation. (Arendt 2009: 301).
Love is often depicted in Hannah Arendt’s work as an unworldly and
insulating passion that creates a barrier between us and the public world of
political action. However, there is a kind of love that, I suggest here, is a
necessary condition for the freedom Arendt places at the centre of being
human. Cupiditas, our passion for the possession of another lies in stark
contrast to Caritas, the love graced by its transcendent character. Caritas
is the love that is the basis for recognizing ourselves and others as unique
individuals, and so makes possible the development and expression of
human freedom.
Hannah Arendt is best known for her contributions to political
philosophy. She became the focus of controversy for her coverage of the
trial of Adolph Eichmann for the New Yorker in 19631 in which she
presented her thesis that “evil” is “banal”. Eichmann, she found, was an
ordinary man, with none of the traits of evil thought to be the mark of a
person capable of such crimes against humanity. The idea that evil is banal
appeared to many to excuse Eichmann, while the real nature of her insight
was missed. In fact, much of Arendt’s work from that time onward was a
response to the criticism of her portrayal of Eichmann. She argued that if
we do not actively think through what we do, we are all susceptible to the
108
Chapter Seven
norms of the society we live in. I think today we are more able to
recognize that people are capable of crimes of all kinds if the conditions
are apt. The results of the Milgram experiments in the 1960s showed the
world that “ordinary” people can be induced to torture others if asked to
by an accepted authority2. The behaviour of American soldiers in Abu
Ghraib has given us a real-world illustration of this susceptibility. Acts of
genocide and mass murder throughout history have been the actions of
otherwise civilized people.
Given the enormity of the issues here and the bleakness of our history
in this respect, a claim about necessary conditions for the possibility of
resisting authority when it presses upon us in ways that horrify us, makes
no attempt to describe sufficient conditions. However, it is not Arendt’s
intention in her work to tell us what we ought to do, but, rather, to explore
what it is within our capacity to develop, that which may suggest a way
out of the future, described by Orwell, of “a boot stamping on a human
face – for ever.”3 That future is the antithesis of one in which “the grace of
love” has had a role to play.
I first set out the conception of the political, and its dependence upon
our freedom, that is central to Arendt’s political philosophy. I then discuss
her account of the individual and the role this plays in underpinning the
possibility of our being free. In the third part I look at the accounts of love
Arendt herself first explored in her PhD thesis, Love and Saint Augustine
and referenced in her later work. While both Cupiditas and Caritas are
explored as kinds of love, I suggest that we can reject the concept of
Cupiditas as intrinsically connected to the love that possesses the grace of
transcending the particular moment, Caritas. Caritas is the form of love
that underpins our freedom. In part four I explore Arendt’s account of
totalitarianism and the dangers of missing the centrality of Caritas to
human freedom.
Part I: The Polis
Arendt’s account of the political realm is of a domain which expresses
human freedom without the pressures of contingent needs, or particular
desires. It is the realm of free beings being heard and seen by others,
which constitutes the sphere of human freedom and the construction of a
world that lasts beyond the life spans of the individuals who constitute it.
Arendt introduces her conception of the polis as that which originated
in Aristotle’s bios politikos. No aspect of human endeavour that is
necessary, either for the maintenance of life itself or for the furthering of
the social/economic organization under which we live, is a part of this.
I Want You to Be
109
“Neither labor nor work was considered to possess sufficient dignity to
constitute a bios at all, an autonomous and authentically human way of
life…” (Arendt 1958: 13). Those whose work involves producing what is
necessary and useful are not free, since their lives are bound up with
human needs and wants. Instead, the polis is that sphere in which the
participants are free, and have freely chosen to congregate. Any political
organization that is not freely chosen and constituted by the freedom of the
participants is not, properly speaking, political in Arendt’s terms. To
emphasize this point Arendt tells us that “…the despot’s way of life,
because it was ‘merely’ a necessity, could not be considered free and had
no relationship with the bios politikos” (13). The political is the sphere of
human freedom.
The freedom found in the polis is recognized as a freedom of the
human world itself, continuing beyond the lives of the individuals who
constitute it. It is this transcendence of the natural life span that
characterizes the polis as meaningful:
The polis was for the Greeks, as the res publica was for the Romans, first
of all their guarantee against the futility of individual life, the space
protected against this futility and reserved for the relative permanence, if
not immortality, of mortals. (56)
The political sphere is premised on the assumption that the world will
last. What occurs there leaves its trace on humanity itself. It does not die
with the death of the individuals who contribute to it. It is the polis that
preserves our freedom, in providing the sphere in which we may converse
and be known by other free human beings. A world in which there is no
public sphere is one in which there is no transcendence of the particular
life, in which we “live and die without leaving a trace” (2009: 300).
What we call politics now is the social and economic sphere that
Arendt views as destructive of the genuinely political. Given the
instrumental nature of socioeconomic activity, “the political” now refers to
government processes at best, and self-serving or power-oriented
machinations at worst. In the case of government legislation, politics is
viewed as the art of compromise between competing interests with the aim
of meeting the needs and promoting the desires of the citizens. In contrast
to this instrumentalist perspective, Arendt‘s conception of the polis as
functioning outside of necessity or desire seems an alien concept: she
conceives of the political as the highest expression of the best that being
human offers us.
The political sphere is characterized by action: action is human by
definition. All other movements are mere behaviour, responses to stimuli,
110
Chapter Seven
not self-determined. While we share our social nature with other animals,
the political nature is entirely human. The political nature is a “second
nature”, so that to be part of the political sphere one must leave the social
or familial sphere, the sphere of relations that are determined by roles and
hierarchies, in which we satisfy our wants and needs, rather than express
our own free will. The political sphere is characterized by “action (praxis)
and speech (lexis), out of which rises the realm of human affairs from
which everything merely necessary or useful is strictly excluded.” (1958:
25). The distinction between the two is clear:
Natural community in the household ….was born of necessity, and
necessity ruled over all activities performed in it… The realm of the polis,
on the contrary, was the sphere of freedom, and if there was a relationship
between these two spheres, it was a matter of course that the mastering of
the necessities of life in the household was the condition for freedom of the
polis… freedom is exclusively located in the political realm. (30-31)
The polis is the essential condition for eudaimonia, what we often
translate as human flourishing. Flourishing, in Aristotelian terms, requires
a good deal of luck regarding health and wealth, so that we might be free
from the necessities of life to develop our human characteristics. To be
free means to be free from ruling or being ruled, it means being equal
among equals. There are certainly resonances here with Kant’s ideal of our
living as ends-in-ourselves in a Kingdom of Ends.
The polis described here remains for Arendt a way of capturing what is
essential to human freedom. This is not just an exercise in ontology, but
contains a moral claim as well: without our being able to recognize and
exercise such freedom we are more susceptible to the threat from
totalitarianism, which Arendt saw directly in the form of Stalinism and
Nazism, and which remains an issue for us today given the social
pressures on freedom we see in modern society.
The freedom of individuals found in such a political realm depends on
more than the presence of a polis, however. In order for there to be a polis,
for the expression of human freedom, there must be individuals, “single,
unique”, and others with who these individuals are in relationships as
equals. Equality is a feature of the public sphere, while difference and
diversity are features of the private. Without the latter, however, the
former is not possible.
I Want You to Be
111
Part II: The Individual
The individual is a central focus of concern for Arendt. Without
individuals, there is no one to take responsibility. She argues, in fact, that
there is no such thing as “group responsibility”. Only individuals are
responsible.
There are two strands in Arendt’s thinking on the concept of the
individual I will explore here: One is that this individuality is given to us
in virtue of our being born. Her account of natality as defining our
experience contrasts with Heidegger’s account of our being-toward-death.
We do not experience our death, she argues, but our birth is given to us in
actual experience. We know that we began, and are, therefore, a
beginning. This idea of our being a beginning, a new life arising in the
midst of a world otherwise shaped by on-going causal connections, is
central to Arendt’s conception of our capacity to initiate actions, to shape a
world. The idea of our being beginnings is present in her early work on
Augustine. Augustine’s claim “that a beginning be made, man was
created” (2009: 479) is echoed throughout her writings on thinking of
ourselves as originators, having spontaneity, the capacity to be the first
step in a new series of actions. Clearly this is important if we are not to be
viewed merely as aspects of an already established causal structure, and if
we are to make a difference in the world.
Another strand in her thinking on the concept of the individual person
is found in her account of the origin of that term:
Persona…originally referred to the actor’s mask that covered his individual
“personal” face and indicated to the spectator the role and the part of the
actor in the play. But in this mask, which was designed and determined by
the play, there existed a broad opening at the place of the mouth through
which the individual, undisguised voice of the actor could sound. It is from
this sounding through that the word persona was derived: per-sonare, “to
sound through,” is the verb of which persona, the mask, is the noun.
(Arendt 2003: 12).
We are persons to the extent that we engage in the activity of speaking
with our own voice. When this voice is lost, when the mask covers the
voice of the person and speaks for it, as in the case of Eichmann, the
individual views himself as a “cog in the machine.”4 When the court of
law asks the accused to speak it is on the basis that the trial is that of a
self-responsible individual, or person. Self-responsibility assumes that
one’s speech is one’s own. A self-responsible being is not a mouthpiece
for another, not a cog in a machine run by others. A self-responsible
person’s speech and actions originate with herself.
112
Chapter Seven
In order for us to be self-responsible, speaking and acting from a place
that originates in each of us, our persona, we must be free to do so. What
gives us the freedom to do so is a central concern for Arendt. Freedom lies
in our capacity to think. The freest activities of the vita activa5 turn out to
be those that are wholly constituted by the activity of “thought.” Here we
can see how Arendt arrives at this notion phenomenologically:
…if no other test but the experience of being active, no other measure but
the extent of sheer activity were to be applied to the various activities
within the vita activa, it might well be that thinking as such would surpass
them all. Whoever has any experience in this matter will know how right
Cato was when he said: Numquam se plus agere quam nihil cum ageret,
numquam minus solum esse quam cum solus esset – “Never is he more
active than when he does nothing, never is he less alone than when he is by
himself.” (1958: 325)
In thought we are two-in-one, not alone, but with ourselves, originating
thought and self-reflection, making active our original, originating
character.
The account Arendt gives of the person as originator is developed in
her metaphor of the “gap” between past and future in which we experience
ourselves. She critiques Kafka’s account of the person, K6, who is
squeezed into a gap by the pressures of the past and the future on the point
at which he attempts to live, arguing that Kafka does not explore how that
“gap” itself is the origin of freedom. On her own understanding of the
“gap”, it is ontological of human kind that we originate in a “non-time”
space produced by the past and the future, directing ourselves infinitely
outward. Arendt illustrates her idea with a geometric metaphor in which
our trajectory is produced by the confluence of past and future, which is
then refracted, or redirected by our presence, angling us in a new direction
that is constituted by our presence as much as by the past or future. How
do we, by being present, make this happen? Arendt argues that it is our
capacity to think that is both necessary and sufficient for our determining
ourselves in this space of freedom:
Only insofar as he thinks, and that is insofar as he is ageless - a “he” as
Kafka so rightly calls him, and not a “somebody” – does man in the full
actuality of his concrete being live in this gap of time between past and
future. The gap, I suspect, is not a modern phenomenon, it is perhaps not
even a historical datum but is coeval with the existence of man on earth. It
may well be the region of the spirit, or, rather, that path paved by thinking,
this small track of non-time which the activity of thought beats within the
time-space of mortal man into which the trains of thought, of remembrance
and anticipation, save whatever they touch from the ruin of historical and
I Want You to Be
113
biographical time. This small non-time-space in the very heart of time,
unlike the world and the culture into which we are born, can only be
indicated, but cannot be inherited and handed down from the past; each
new generation, indeed every new human being as he inserts himself
between an infinite past and an infinite future, must discover and
ploddingly pave it anew (Arendt 1961: 13).
The “plodding paving” of the lived life is not achieved by the assertion
of tradition, or by serving the functions established by our place in our
culture. To refer to the activity of thought, the free expression of our
individual, self-responsible self as “plodding” calls our attention to the fact
that thinking is not easy: we don’t just do as we wish, say as we wish,
entertain any fantasy that occurs to us. Arendt’s commitment to “thinking
without a banister”, is crucial to our plodding paving of the life anew:
Even though we have lost yardsticks by which to measure, and rules under
which to subsume the particular, a being whose essence is a beginning may
have enough of origin within himself to understand without preconceived
categories and to judge without the set of customary rules which is
morality (Arendt 1994: 307).
We must hold ourselves up, self-balanced and self-determining, able to
think and rethink, reflect and question, maintaining the ideal of the
Socratic internal dialogue, rejecting any easy, pre-established routes along
which support guide us on our way. And in this way, we might resist the
categories imposed by regimes that aim to remove our humanity.
Thinking is the capacity we have for self-originating action, both as
speech and deed. Its paradigmatic expression is in the public sphere, where
we think, that is speak and act, amongst equal and free people. What role,
then is played by ‘thinking with oneself’, the solitude that is never lonely?
The being-with-myself, as Cato describes it, seems too isolated, too
internal, too easily subsumed within the sphere of the private, to play the
role of the expression of freedom which requires a public world of
political activity.
While political freedom is prioritized in Arendt’s work as the primary
way of grasping human freedom, this political freedom presupposes the
capacity for the inner self to recognize itself and to embrace itself. This
inner recognition is not freedom, but the precondition for freedom. The
question then is what in our nature makes this precondition for freedom
possible? “The grace of love” may, I suggest, be the condition that must be
in place for individuality and political freedom to arise.
114
Chapter Seven
Part III: Love
It is easy enough to think of love as involving passion. If one doesn’t
feel something happening to oneself in the presence of a loved one,
where’s the love? The indifference William James refers to as a cold
intellectual appreciation in relation to fear, when it appears in love
threatens to make protestations of one’s devotion vacuous: we need to
experience the heartfelt warmth shared by those we love. This passion, as
passions do, comes upon us. We don’t choose to love, but discover our
love. We are, it might then seem, passive recipients of love, falling into it,
being overwhelmed by it, behaving obsessively in the face of it. But,
unlike fear, we don’t attribute loving to a cause: no one causes us to love.
Despite the language of passivity, we identify ourselves as active when we
love: in fact, love gives rise to activity and a sense of purpose, a joy of
acting in consort with the loved one for the sheer pleasure of it. We may
not choose whom we love, but we seek love out, and claim it as our own,
as expressive of ourselves, our individual life.
The way in which love seems to create a world of the lovers, removing
us from the greater world, suggests love is a private experience. Hannah
Arendt warns that the passion of love isolates us from the public world:
“Love, by reason of its passion, destroys the in-between which relates us
to and separates us from others.” (1958: 242). The “spell” of love can only
be intercepted by the child born out of it, and who becomes the way in
which the lovers can contribute to the world outside their own. Although
the child breaks the spell by contributing to the world, our passion keeps
us in a limited, private world. We can neither be related to others, nor, in
fact, separated from others through love. The “in-between,” the wider
world which we engage in when part of the public life is not available to
us, to relate and separate us. This can best be understood by recognizing
that separation is not isolation, but distinction. If we cannot be
distinguished from others our individuality is lost. This understanding of
love is that of Cupiditas, the love that is a passion for a particular object,
one which always includes the fear of losing it that arises once the object
is possessed. Cupiditas is always frustrated love. It turns in on itself and its
objects, since it always needs to protect against threats to the possession of
the object of desire. It longs for something to be permanently possessed,
which can never be permanently possessed, so it longs for an illusion.
Cupiditas is built on the illusion of possession, while suffering the very
real fear that this object will be taken against our will.
Arendt argues that respect is better suited to the worldly appreciation
of others than is the passion of love: “…what love is in its own, narrowly
I Want You to Be
115
circumscribed sphere, respect is in the larger domain of human affairs.”
“Respect,” she says, “is a regard for the person from the distance which
the space of the world puts between us, and this regard is independent of
qualities which we may admire or of achievements which we may highly
esteem” (243). Although we do not respect another in virtue of their
qualities, our respect is personal. To understand how this might be, it is
worth thinking of this respect as Kantian. For Kant, we are all due respect
in virtue of our being persons, not because of a contingent fact about our
personhood. Reflecting on the passion of love as the desiring of an object
and the ensuing fear of its loss, Arendt concludes: “Love, by its very
nature, is unworldly, and it is for this reason rather than its rarity that it is
not only a-political but anti-political, perhaps the most powerful of all
anti-political human forces” (242). There is no role to be played by
Cupiditas, the passion of love, in the foundational conditions for human
freedom. A mere passion, a heat, a bond, a world-isolating cocoon of
lovers, might even be a threat to our freedom, as, indeed, it often seems in
experience to be. Respect, not love, recognizes human beings as uniquely
individual and related to each other as ends in themselves, aware of each
other as uniquely individual.
But love is also an action, the expression of our persona, our individual
voice, an experience that can lead to us appearing more clearly to
ourselves, and others appearing more clearly to us. The love that feels like
an action does not bind us into a single unit, or cause vacillations between
desire and fear. It is the love that, grounded in the recognition of the
possibility of the eternal, is shown to be foundational to our experience of
freedom. This foundational experience connects us through recognition of
the individuality of others and a wish that other individuals will flourish.
Such a love does not possess its object, since its object is that another
remains individual and exists. Since its desire is not for possession it
doesn’t fear the loss of its object, although there is grief if the one loved is
harmed. The love itself is not shaped by possession and fear of loss; it is
shaped by the dynamic character of discovering the other as single, unique
and related to oneself in mutual recognition.
Arendt first wrote about love in her PhD thesis, Love and St Augustine.
She begins her dissertation with Augustine’s account of love as “craving”:
“Augustine writes that ‘to love is indeed nothing else than to crave
something for its own sake,’ and further on she comments that ‘love is a
kind of craving’” (Arendt 1996: 9). We are directed toward the object of
love, “love is ‘a kind of motion’”, as a good we seek for its own sake (9).
It represents nothing but its own goodness, and we need it because we do
not possess it. Arendt sums up the idea of craving as “the will to have and
116
Chapter Seven
to hold” which will give rise to fear as soon as we possess the object
craved (10). This craving is central to being human and makes us each
who we are: “Such is each as is his love. Strictly speaking, he who does
not love and desire at all is a nobody” (18).
Love is a defining constituent of being in a world. Understanding
ourselves as needing others, as lacking self-sufficiency, motivates us to
form bonds with others, “to break out of [our] isolation by means of love”
(19). A dilemma arises within the very experience of loving, however.
Without it we are nobody, the persona that marks our uniqueness and
presence in the world does not exist, but with it we are enslaved by desire
and frustration… and so do not experience the freedom we are born for.
Arendt summarizes the view of Plotinus on this point: “…to the extent that
we are alive and active (and desire is a form of action), we necessarily are
involved in things outside ourselves and cannot be free” (21).
The description of our flight into the temporal, worldly world and
away from ourselves, echoes Heidegger’s account of Das Man as fleeing
from ourselves into the world. There seems to be no solution to the
problem of our need: either we love the world and lose ourselves by
absorbing ourselves in it, or we retreat from the world and find ourselves
lost in the question of who we are.
Augustine found love of God was the answer. While Cupiditas
mediates between man and world, with man forgetting himself in the
transit to love of worldly things, Caritas mediates between man and God,
with man forgetting himself in the transit to love of Him. Arendt’s
approach is to locate the realm of the eternal, not in the religious outlook,
but in the public sphere, where eternity, or something close to it, resides in
its transcendence of the individuals who constitute it.
Cupiditas and Caritas: A Contemporary View of Love
Cupiditas is experienced as passion. It comes upon us, it motivates our
absorption in each other, often in spite of ourselves, often giving rise to
desires we do not desire. When we fail in love, when we are rejected or
usurped by another, the loss reminds us how little control we had over the
direction of the love. We can feel as if we were overwhelmed by love so
that we could not judge well, and the devastation of loss reflects the
degree of powerlessness the entire predicament reveals about us. Despite
this powerlessness, the passivity, the chanciness of love being good for us,
of being returned, and stable, there is also a feeling of activity. But the
activity of Cupiditas is the activity of the addict… it is forced upon us by
our need. The activity felt when Cupiditas appears to dominate, but which
I Want You to Be
117
is, nonetheless, energizing, and expansive arises, I suggest, from a
different kind of love, that of Caritas. When Cupiditas feels personal and
active, it has elements of Caritas and it is these elements alone that are
necessary and sufficient for the experience of love as powerful, active,
meaningful. Caritas gives us the experience that our love transcends the
particular and does not aim for possession.
Cupiditas without the intermingling of Caritas is not recognizably
love: it is obsessive and power-based, it is an appetite, not an emotion. It is
a craving, as in addiction, it is self-involving while destroying the self, and
never other-involving. Cupiditas does not recognize the singularity or
autonomy of the person desired in this way. Lust, for instance, is
constituted by an appetite for sexual satisfaction. The common conceptual
error is to call this a desire for another person. It is peculiar to think that
there is a way in which we can possess another. Short of trapping someone
in a room, we cannot possess another. Trapping a person in a room
involves a form of possession that refers only to the body. The use of
drugs, or psychological manipulation can mask or possibly bring about a
mental state in the object desired that does not announce its independence
from the possessor, but the mental life of another can never be possessed.
Describing what must take place in order to “possess” another makes it
clear that lustful desire is not a desire for possession of the other, but a
need, or urge, or appetite for a set of sensations which result in the
cessation of the appetite. Lust drives people to pursue not a person, but an
act. Any pursuit of the person is the means for pursuing the act. Nor does
one, in lust, possess the sexual act, one performs it in order to satisfy or
lose the appetite for it.
What of more complex desires for sexual involvement with another?
Perhaps romantic obsession is a good illustration of a complex form of
Cupiditas which is not so easily shown to be an appetite rather than a form
of love.
While obsession feels very far from love, associated with stalking and
even harming the object “desired” in some way, romantic obsession
contains ideas of caring for the desired object while fearing that one may
be rejected. I think if we explore this concept, there will be nothing
inherently loving about it. The desired object remains a means to the end
of fulfilling needs that belong entirely to the person obsessing. A person
who has obsessed about another at one time, has no doubt obsessed about
others before and will obsess about others in the future. There is a good
chance that they will be obsessive in their approach to desiring others.
The other is not a particular, a singular person. Obsession clouds the
understanding, it does not clarify. And the energy it produces is destructive
118
Chapter Seven
not productive. The ways found out of it often involve violence as a means
of asserting oneself against the pain produced by the obsessing mind. One
could say that the violence done to another about whom one obsesses is
mis-directed violence aimed at ending one’s own obsessive experiences. If
we add the concept of the romantic to the obsession, obsession does not
fare better. This is not to say that it is impossible that a person can
overcome the obsession and still remain romantically engaged with the
other, or with the thought of the other. But the obsession does none of the
work of making this an experience of love. If the romantic feelings are not
themselves merely disguised obsessions, then they may actually be
feelings describable as Caritas, not Cupiditas.
What is the “grace of love,” or Caritas, that makes our experience of
love something other than the satisfaction of a desire or appetite? Grace in
this context is not the grace found in the love of God, but in something
nonetheless sharing in a transcendent nature. Without reference to God, an
afterlife, or a higher purpose, the sense of the transcendent qualities can
still be found in the making of a human world. Key features of this world
are that we are actors, agents, not just an aspect of a greater causal chain;
we are single, unique, we are born, and so are beginnings; and we are
related to others who are themselves beginnings. We make a difference to
the world we co-construct, a difference that lasts beyond our own lifespan.
The activity of love is experienced as the energy of relating to another.
The heightened pleasure of the other’s voice, of insights, of projects
shared, are part of this relational energy. Both people stand out in fuller
relief, in Technicolor, in four dimensional space. We become interested in
the full person, including their past, photos of them as children; details of
their lives as they have grown into the present we share with them,
knowledge of the people they have cared about, all become part of the
person we are coming to know through loving them.
We become more aware of ourselves through coming to know another.
We, too, stand out in four-dimensional space, our own past acquires new
meanings when another is interested in it. The eyes and ears of the other,
their seeing and hearing us, brings us into full relief to ourselves as well as
to them, as do our eyes and ears, our seeing and hearing the other, bring
the other to him or herself in a fuller form.
If we view others as means to our own ends, or objects interchangeable
with others, the one we purport to love is diminished, not made fuller by
our involvement with them. If each of us is diminished by not actually
being loved by the person purporting to love, there is no-one fully there.
“We drifted” sums up the account of a relationship in which neither
I Want You to Be
119
actually loves the other. We stopped mattering in a particular way, we
stopped enriching the presence of the other, and we stopped being
enriched. If this is the pattern of our lives, we need to take note. The lack
of love, Arendt says, “strictly speaking” makes us a “nobody”. Objects,
not people, drift. The lack of love eliminates the individuality, the
presence of a persona, the necessary precondition for freedom. Loving
Your Neighbour as Yourself.
Caritas is not the passion of desire, Cupiditas, but the recognition of
another that enlivens both oneself and the other. Love motivates us to
deepen our understanding of the other, to live our own lives more fully, to
better understand ourselves. Caritas adds something to the world.
Love as Caritas has no connection to possession. Love of our
neighbour, that is, of our friends, colleagues, and those who make up our
world is central to human flourishing. Our capacity to love others adds
light and meaning to the world. The light comes from the many
perspectives that shape each of us, when we are seen and heard by others
who love us. The meaning comes from this being a good in itself.
We can experience this light and meaning even when it is not a
mutually shared love. Love of those in the public world, the artists, the
great public figures, those who touch us from outside our immediate
sphere of reference, is love in the ways I have suggested above: the greater
dimensionality, the enlivening thoughtfulness, the meaningfulness of their
presence. We can also love artworks, or nature, or our community, in this
way. We can love any number of beings or presences in the world in this
way.
A feature of all such experiences is that even when we are on our own,
we are not lonely. Solitude, Arendt tells us, is not loneliness, but beingwith-oneself, active in the presence of one’s full life. A love of one’s
work, of humanity in general, all this is love of our neighbour, and all give
rise to this experience. Solitude is there where loneliness, as found in the
“loneliness of the mass man” (1958: 247), might have been.
In loneliness, we are not special. We are replaceable by others. The
only meaning we have is given to us by our role within a system. We,
ourselves, have no importance, no resonance. No trace is left after our
death. Dying is as useful as living. In such a state we are vulnerable to the
control over life that is the hallmark of totalitarianism.
Part IV: Totalitarianism: A Threat for Mass Man
Totalitarianism is not mere tyranny, in which a powerful ruler or ruling
group forces the people into submission for the glorification of its own
120
Chapter Seven
power or an ideal. Totalitarianism has two central features that distinguish
it from tyranny: one is that the populace is not bullied or threatened into
submitting, but is in fact so thoroughly absorbed into it that it appears even
to itself to be willingly contributing to the aims of regime. The possibility
of an inner life resisting the regime’s aims is removed:
…all public manifestations, cultural, artistic, learned, and all organizations,
welfare and social services, even sports and entertainment, are
“coordinated.” There is no office and indeed no job of any public
significance, from advertising agencies to the judiciary, from play-acting to
sports journalism, from primary and secondary schooling to the
universities and learned societies, in which an unequivocal acceptance of
the ruling principles is not demanded (2003: 33).
The other central feature is that it is life-denying. There are no ideals,
only the aim of removing human dignity altogether. Anyone at any time
can be targeted as a criminal. People might even decide to target themselves.
Arendt describes what happens to humans in such an environment:
To give but one among many examples: the extermination of Jews was
preceded by a very gradual sequence of anti-Jewish measures, each of
which was accepted with the argument that refusal to cooperate would
make things worse – until a stage was reached where nothing worse could
possibly have happened….. We see here how unwilling the human mind is
to face realities which in one way or another contradict totally its
framework of reference. Unfortunately, it seems to be much easier to
condition human behaviour and to make people conduct themselves in the
most unexpected and outrageous manner, than it is to persuade anybody to
learn from experience, as the saying goes; that is, to start thinking and
judging instead of applying categories and formulas which are deeply
ingrained in our mind, but whose basis of experience has long been
forgotten (37).
The nobody, the human being who loses his recognition of himself as
unique, and his recognition of others as unique, identifies himself as a cog
in a machine run by others. He is lost in the world he purports to dwell in,
and his loneliness is all consuming.
Thinking and judging, and the recognition of our nature as beginnings
rather than parts of a system remain throughout Arendt’s philosophy
necessary conditions for human freedom. This self-awareness is what
makes possible resistance to the usurpation of our freedom by regimes that
aim to invade the individual at the level of his private life and remove the
sources of freedom found there.
I Want You to Be
121
A precondition for thinking and judging is the recognition of oneself as
an originator of thought, not as a cog in a machine that functions best
when functioning to fulfil the aims of the machine. It is the recognition of
oneself as unique, and of others as unique. It takes work to resist turning
others and ourselves into objects. The warning that we are doing so is that
we lose interest, both in others and in ourselves. This suggests that the
interest, the primal driving interest that is experienced as love, a desire for
someone to be, lies at the heart of wanting ourselves to be, and in so being,
be alive, thinking, acting, reflecting, making a difference.
Conclusion
What kind of beings can create a common world with the freedom of
the polis? It seems a precondition for the creation of this world is that we
are, to begin with, individual and unique. We are defined by our natality,
not our mortality, we are a rupture in the flow of time, beginning
something new and making a difference by being born. If our being born
is followed by our being overtaken by the instrumental values of the
culture into which we then find ourselves absorbed, the difference we
make is lost. But if we crave making a difference to the world, to be seen
and heard by the infinite perspectives provided by others who see and hear
us, then we have found the human equivalent of immortality, which is the
freedom to contribute to a world that is greater than the sum total of those
alive at any point in time.
“I want you” is finite, limited and consumable. “I want you to be”
steps back from possession and recognizes us as individual:
…the reality of the public realm relies on the simultaneous presence of
innumerable perspectives and aspects in which the common world presents
itself and for which no common measurement or denominator can ever be
devised. For though the common world is the common meeting ground of
all, those who are present have different locations in it, and the location of
one can no more coincide with the location of another than the location of
two objects. Being seen and being heard by others derive their significance
from the fact that everybody sees and hears from a different position. This
is the meaning of public life… Only where things can be seen by many in a
variety of aspects without changing their identity, so that those who are
gathered around them know they see sameness in utter diversity, can
worldly reality truly and reliably appear (1958: 57).
The innumerable perspectives we have on each other as individuals
constitute a shared public world that is greater than the particular moments
during which each of us lives. Love as Caritas is the craving for this
122
Chapter Seven
sphere that extends beyond the lives of each of us, a precondition for
freedom.
References
Arendt, Hannah (1958): The Human Condition. Chicago: The University
of Chicago Press.
—. (1961): Between Past and Future. London: Faber and Faber Limited.
—. (1994): Essays in Understanding 1930 – 1954, ed. Jerome Kohn. New
York: Schocken Books.
—. (1996): Love and Saint Augustine, ed. Joanna Vecchiarelli Scott and
Judith Chelius Stark. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press.
—. (2003): Responsibility and Judgment, ed. Jerome Kohn. New York:
Schocken Books.
—. (2009): The Origins of Totalitarianism. Benediction Classics.
Shin, Chiba (1995): ‘Hannah Arendt on Love and the Political: Love,
Friendship, and Citizenship.’ Review of Politics, 57:3 (Summer), pp.
505-535.
Fine, Robert (2000): ‘Hannah Arendt: Politics and Understanding after the
Holocaust.’ In, Social Theory after the Holocaust, ed. Robert Fine and
Charles Turner. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, pp. 19-45.
Kohn, Jerome (2000): ‘Freedom: the priority of the political.’ In, The
Cambridge Companion to Hannah Arendt, ed. Dana Villa. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, pp. 113-129.
McKenna, George (1997): ‘Books in Review: Love and Saint Augustine.’
In, First Things 72 (April), pp. 43-47.
Miles, Margaret (2002): ‘Volo ut sis: Arendt and Augustine.’ In, Dialog:
A Journal of Theology 41, no. 3. (Fall), pp. 221-224.
Stortz, Martha (2002): ‘Geographies of Friendship: Arendt and Aristotle.
In, Dialog: A Journal of Theology 41, no. 3. (Fall), pp. 225 – 230.
Notes
1
Hannah Arendt, A Reporter at Large, “Eichmann in Jerusalem—I”, The New
Yorker, February 16, 1963, p. 40.
This is the first of a series of articles published in The New Yorker.
2
Stanley Milgram set up a series of experiments in which subjects were asked to
administer shocks to people who did not answer questions correctly. The victims
were actors pretending that the system administered painful shocks to them, while
the subjects remained unaware that the ‘shocks’ were not real. These were set up in
response to the controversy surrounding the “ordinariness” of Adolph Eichmann
I Want You to Be
123
and established the point that we may all be capable of extreme cruelty when
submitting to authority.
3
Orwell, George. 1949. 1984. London: Penguin.
4
Arendt wrote: “Recently, during the discussion of the Eichmann trial, these
comparatively simple matters have been complicated through what I’ll call the
cog-theory. When we describe a political system – how it works, the relations
between the various branches of government, how the huge bureaucratic
machineries function of which the channels of command are part, and how the
civilian and the military and the police forces are interconnected, to mention only
outstanding characteristics – it is inevitable that we speak of all persons used by
the system in terms of cogs and wheels that keep the administration running. Each
cog, that is, each person, must be expendable without changing the system, an
assumption underlying all bureaucracies, all civil services, and all functions
properly speaking. This viewpoint is the viewpoint of political science, and if we
accuse or rather evaluate in its frame of reference, we speak of good and bad
systems and our criteria are the freedom or the happiness or the degree of
participation of the citizens, but the question of the personal responsibility of those
who run the whole affair is a marginal issue. Here it is indeed true what all the
defendants in the postwar trials said to excuse themselves: if I had not done it,
somebody else could and would have” (Arendt 2003, 29).
5
The vita activa in this context refers to Arendt’s own account of this in The
Human Condition. This refers to the three levels of human existence, labor, work,
and action.
6
Arendt is referring here to a work by Kafka, “HE”, a story in a series entitled
“Notes from the year 1920”. Translated from the German by Willa and Edwin
Muir.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE ART AND TRUTH OF LOVE:
FOUCAULT (AND LACAN)
ON PLATO’S SYMPOSIUM
SANNA TIRKKONEN
Introduction
Plato’s Symposium is famous for the speeches dedicated to Eros, love1.
A party of visible figures of Athens have gathered together after a heavy
night of drinking to celebrate the poet Agathon’s victory in a tragedy
contest. Instead of getting stone drunk, they decide to praise the god of
love each in their own turn as well as they ever can (Plato 1925:177d). The
scene gets electrified, when Alcibiades steps in drunk and pours out his
heart: he has loved Socrates for years. It seems he still does. From
Socrates’ perspective, Alcibiades is no longer a young boy about to bloom
and even worse, he hasn’t taken care of himself (epimeleia heautou)
accordingly, which is the focal point of Socratic ethics and the condition
of happiness of the polis.
The very first French translation of the Symposium by Louis Le Roy
(1558) left Alcibiades' entrance completely out and ended the dialogue
with Diotima's speech. The eruption of drunken Alcibiades in the end of
the Symposium was not seen integral or appropriate to the rest of the
dialogue neither philosophically nor stylistically. Rather, it was read as a
joking coda (Lacan 1961: 19). Contemporary readings have nonetheless
emphasized the scene's unifying role and psychologically excruciating
quality. Perhaps most famously Martha Nussbaum has argued in the
Fragility of Goodness that comprehension of Alcibiades’ speech and his
political figure is the only way of grasping the significance of many
apparently inconsiderable remarks and understanding the dialogue as a
whole (Nussbaum 2001: 166). However, I will reflect on two French
thinkers, namely Michel Foucault and Jacques Lacan, in order to provide
a reading of the Symposium, in which love is political and personal,
The Art and Truth of Love
125
educational and regressive, active and passive, passionate, cold,
disembodied and carnal, violent, appealing and painful, universal and
particular, tragic and comic — complex.
A description of Michel Foucault’s reading of Plato’s Symposium
requires singling out references to the dialogue in the second volume of
the History of Sexuality. Foucault wishes to point out the difference
between 1) the Socratic-Platonic way of dealing with the question of love
and 2) the conventional conception, which is based on the division
between activity and passivity. The Socratic-Platonic model introduces a
new character in the love relation — the master — and his truth. However,
I think Alcibiades’ entrance in the dialogue challenges Foucault’s distinction
and supports reading the dialogue as a whole, as Nussbaum suggests.
Taking Alcibiades’ role seriously questions any interpretation in which the
speeches are seen as Plato’s argumentation with the climax of Socrates’
praise of intellectual love. Reading the Symposium as a unity leads one to
ask, what actually happens between the men in the end of the dialogue and
how it affects interpreting the rest. Jacques Lacan addresses the issue of
the dynamics in his reading of the Symposium, but Foucault rejects his
psychoanalytical perspective. Both Foucault and Lacan deal with the
hierarchical structures between the men, but respond to them differently.
By reading Foucault I will stress the socio-political standpoint of
education and the master’s role, and on the other hand the view that the
younger men of the dialogue are seen as equal lovers in the end. Through
Lacan’s seminar on the Symposium, also the aspects of desire and the
private, emotional field are possible to introduce in reflecting political
subjectivity and its ethico-political formation.
Foucault and Lacan on the Symposium
Michel Foucault deals with the Symposium in the Use of Pleasure, the
second volume of the History of Sexuality. He studies the transition
concerning the art of love (aphrodisia) in antiquity: how does the focus
shift from concentrating on the behaviour of the lover to the question of
the truth of love itself, or defining true love? Foucault sees that the former
subject-object relation between Socrates and Alcibiades is turned up-sidedown in the Symposium. Alcibiades surely has become a powerful figure,
but the target of younger men’s love is now Socrates: love is associated
with the master’s truth.
Lacan reads the Symposium in detail from a psychoanalytical perspective
in his 1960–61 seminar on transference. Foucault's reading differs from
Lacan's crucially: Foucault re-contextualizes the Symposium in the
126
Chapter Eight
pederasty discourse, and by doing so, makes any easy identification with
the figure of Socrates quite difficult (Miller 1998: 221). Foucault does
write that Lacan did not try to normalize his patients, but formulated a
theory of desiring subject (Foucault 1981/2001: 1023), yet Socrates is
absolutely not comparable to the analyst in Foucault’s work. He rejects
formulating any positive theory of midwifery or establishing a position of
maître de la vérité (Miller, 1998: 221). It is possible that Socrates’ suspect
liaison with Alcibiades reinforced the judges’ decision to sentence
Socrates to death. However, Lacan rejects politicised interpretations of
Alcibiades’ words and wishes to talk only about what happens between
private individuals, about love (Lacan 1961: 20).
Foucault on the other hand provides a historicized reading, which
locates the classics in a wider socio-political context within his own
project of history of sexuality, in which the Symposium is just one of the
many dialogues referred to. Foucault writes that practices concerning
sexual pleasure were conceptualized using similar types of categorizations
as when speaking of hierarchies and rivalries in the social field. The
question of love is asked in this context. Alcibiades wears ribbons, lots
and lots of ribbons, indicating victory in his wreath made of ivies and
violets (Plato 1925: 212e). Ivies carry the weight of symbolizing
Dionysus, god of wine and irrational inspiration, and violets were
associated with both Aphrodite and Athens (Nussbaum 2001: 193-4). In
the verbal rivalry he remarks that Socrates has to win him in every
situation: “He has set his heart on having the better of me every way”
(Plato 1925: 222e). Foucault sees analogies in the agonistic structures of
the relationships and values attributed to the roles of the partners. Whereas
the sex of the partners did not qualify the act or the relations most
significantly, activeness however was the factor, which marked superiority
(Foucault 1985: 215). The way of using the type of power is that of
moderation, and showing moderation to oneself and to others (1985: 199).
In the midst of noble speeches, Alcibiades’ appearance in The
Symposium embodies a destructive game (agōn) and heart-ache, unsuccessful
dynamics of a subject-object relation and mutual disappointment caused on
the other hand by Alcibiades’ lack of self-discipline — and Socrates’
philosophical life on the other. And it’s not just a game, as it is well
known soon after Alcibiades commits real acts of violence (Nussbaum
2001: 171). Foucault, however, pays surprisingly little attention to
Alcibiades' entrance in the second volume of the History of Sexuality.
“Surprisingly little”, because he reads very closely Plato’s Alcibiades I in
the Collége de France lecture course 1981–1982, the Hermeneutics of the
Subject. In Alcibiades I Socrates guides the gorgeous young boy of noble
The Art and Truth of Love
127
birth, who appears to be willing to follow his every word. Socrates tells
Alcibiades to “take care of himself” and to get to “know himself” before
he is ready to reign the polis. In the Symposium we meet Alcibiades again,
older and way past his blooming, rosy fresh adolescent years, and it
instantly becomes clear, that as the years have gone by, he hasn’t followed
Socrates’ guidance, the procedures in finding the philosophical path and
self-mastery.
In Lacan’s reading it is kept possible to see Socrates having a positive
role. Even if Foucault doesn’t analyse the end of the Symposium in detail
and he ends with Diotima’s speech, using Foucauldian lenses the tension
is not solved: Socrates and Alcibiades are visibly torturing each other in
the end of the Symposium, and even if the subject-object relation would be
turned over and other objects of desire created, something highly
disturbing remains. However, Lacan’s seminar deals in depth with the
dynamics of the relationship, especially considering the ambiguous role of
the third, which Foucault never discusses. I find that these two readings,
by Foucault and Lacan, can be used mutually supportively and
complementary, fully taking both socio-political factors and the most
intimate feelings into consideration without making a sharp private/public
distinction.
Activity and Passivity: Lover and the Beloved
In the last two parts of the History of Sexuality and in the
Hermeneutics of the Subject Foucault portraits non-universalistic ethics
and multiple arts or skills (tekhnê) applied in everyday situations. In
antiquity, these arts are codified, but they are not sets of rules to be
followed. Rather, through education, paideia, they constitute êthos, the
relation one has to oneself as a moral subject. Êthos indicates a paradoxical
understanding of freedom, which is shown by self-government. The Greek,
free men problematized their own individual freedom and “practiced their
freedom” by elaborating their lives as respectable2 and as unforgettable as
possible (Foucault 1984b/2001: 1533 and Foucault 2011: 405, 429). If
ethics means “practicing one’s freedom”, the idea of “freedom” includes
the presupposition of restriction and deliberation, which include being in
front of, for the eyes of, other people. A person with a beautiful ethos —
êthos, which appears in his way of walking, behaving, facing the situations
ahead — also practices oneself in a certain way. Aristotle writes in the
Nicomachean Ethics:
“[M]oral or ethical virtue (ethikē aretē) is the product of habit (ethos),
and has indeed derived its name, with a slight variation of form, from that
128
Chapter Eight
word. […] The virtues on the other hand we acquire by first having
actually practised them, just as we do the arts. We learn an art or craft by
doing the things that we shall have to do when we have learnt it” (Aristotle
1934: 1103a). By looking at actions themselves, we cannot tell anything
about their virtue: the question is how they are done. In Pausanias’ speech
in the Symposium Eros is worth praising only if he makes people love, not
in any possible manner, but well and beautifully:
[I]n our conduct at this moment, whether we drink or sing or converse,
none of these things is noble in itself; each only turns out to be such in the
doing, as the manner of doing it may be. For when the doing of it is noble
and right, the thing itself becomes noble; when wrong, it becomes base. So
also it is with loving, and Love is not in every case noble or worthy of
celebration, but only when he impels us to love in a noble manner (1934:
181a).
The opposition between activity and passivity was essential in the
Greek domain of moral attitudes and sexual behaviours. Suspicion of
men’s negative and passive effeminacy was not defined according to the
relations to male partners but in regard to the activeness in the sexual
relation — and in the moral mastering of oneself (Foucault 1985: 85). The
active/passive opposition formed the asymmetrical relationship between
two partners, erastēs, the lover, and erōmenos, the beloved. They were not
two lovers. Eros was understood to be coming from the lover and the
beloved couldn’t be the active subject (1985: 239; Halperin 1990: 266;
Lacan 1961: 28, 33; Nussbaum 2001: 188). However, the role of erōmenos
was more complicated and problematic than mere passivity: the beloved
could not yield too easily without continuously testing the worth of the
other, or accept too many gifts or tokens of love. Similar apprehension is
later recognizable in the tasks of young women. The practices of constant
back-and-forth, obstacles and delays, defined the sets of appropriate
behaviours between younger boys and older men (Foucault 1985: 196,
224). They included such gestures of the body, which indicated
gracefulness, gaze that would signal dignity, acquaintanceships showing
quality, and the way of talking, which would display both engagement
with serious matters and the ability to have a pleasant, casual conversation
(207). It was a morally and culturally overloaded social game, which had
to meet the conventional rules of conduct in order to be accepted. Foucault
writes that something essential would be missed if the complex practices
and precautions were interpreted as the signals and proofs of free
attachment (197). Boys’ status as free citizens was however presupposed
— the possibility to say no — which made the dynamics indeed a game or
The Art and Truth of Love
129
a test (agōn) with delicate strategies,3 which were less clear compared to
the marital relation, which took place in the sphere of household (oikos)
instead of public places (199, 203).
Moreover, not all of the affairs between men were as asymmetrical as
those between young boys and mature men: the most debated relationship
with disparity and age difference, the object of special philosophical
concern, was also the privileged one. The inequality made the relationship
valuable and conceivable (195). It was part of the cultivation of those who
would one day become the leaders, the elite of the polis: “Sure evidence of
this is the fact that on reaching maturity these alone prove in a public
career to be men” (Plato 1925: 192a). It was noble to desire what is
beautiful and honourable. However, the use of these types of pleasures
demanded a particular type of behaviour, a special stylistics (Foucault
1985: 192). In Pausanias’ speech it is a good thing that the boy yields and
gratifies his lover. Self-enslavement is justified by seeking virtue, which
leads to “intellectual and all other excellence” (Plato 1925: 184d-e):
For this youth is also held to have discovered his nature, by showing that
he would make anyone the object of his utmost ardor for the sake of
virtuous improvement; and this by contrast is supremely honorable. Thus
by all means it is right to bestow this favor for the sake of virtue (185b).
The problem was, however, how to transform the status of an object
into the status of an active subject by establishing a self-mastering relation
to one’s decisions, judgements and behaviour. If the culture worships
strength and glory, the position of an object has to be overcome, if the boy
is to become a respectable figure of the polis. Foucault argues that the
problematic relation of a subject and an object is negotiated through
lifestyle and askesis, so that the position of an object could be improved
and turned into a status of a respectable man. The subject-object relation is
formulated anew through ways of existence, behaviour, practices and sets
of recommendations of everyday life such as diet, just as well as physical
and mental exercises (Foucault 1991: 94-95). The cultivated life (bios) of
a boy was to become a matter of common work and concern, an artwork to
be modified with anxiousness, because of its evanescent beauty, until
reaching the factors constituting an honourable foundation. In ideal cases
the contradictory aspects could be turned into a stable tie and socially
valuable friendship (filia) — both to oneself and to another (Foucault
1985: 225). Its timing was crucial, a matter of special concern. In the
Symposium Alcibiades tells he has tried to withhold his ears as if Socrates
was a Siren and flee as fast as he can so that he wouldn’t sit beside him
until he was too old4 (Plato 1925: 216a).
130
Chapter Eight
It’s the righteousness of the polis, justice, which is the goal, and
justifies, the practice and self-observation. In Plato’s dialogue Alcibiades I
the title character is a young, extremely handsome aristocrat. In the
Symposium he then pours out he has always loved Socrates. In Alcibiades I
he is still the promising future leader of Athens. Alcibiades is very eager
to take up his position, but Socrates holds him back: he is given a task to
find out, which things belong to him and which are part of him. The
conclusion is that it’s the soul he must look after, because the body is not
what he truly is, it’s a belonging5 (Plato 1955: 130e-131e, 133e). Taking
care of oneself is related to justice of the polis, because when a leader
knows himself and the structure of his soul, he will also know the structure
of the society. When Socrates has proved himself right and Alcibiades
agrees that he must “take care of himself” to “know himself”, Alcibiades
explicitly states that by so doing, he will develop right-mindedness (135e).
He does not question Socrates, but expresses the will do anything to fulfil
Socrates’ hopes in his education.
It is made clear that “taking care of oneself” is a task and a skill of the
elite, the leaders and the superior. Foucault pays attention to “ethical
differentiation” (la différenciation éthique) between those who know the
codes of care-taking and those who don’t. Constructing êthos is always
related to having access to knowledge, its quality, and possibilities of
locating oneself in it (Foucault 2009: 63). The visible signs of status and
power are understood to be shown not just by the power one uses to
others, but as power that one exercises to oneself (Foucault 1984: 105107).
Heartbroken Alcibiades and the Unity of the Dialogue
Foucault denies he would be searching for a description grasping any
“spirit of the time”; instead, he positions his study under the title of the
History of Systems of Thought. Lacan wishes to avoid political reading.
However, it is tempting to ask, is it a surprise that by his 30’s, Alcibiades
has become somebody, who uses seduction inseparably with political
power?6 He was dubiously well known not just of doing his best in making
the peace negotiations fail between Sparta and Athens, but also making the
Queen of Sparta pregnant to ensure the throne would be passed on to his
descendant (Lacan 1961: 17; Plutarch 1952: 165). Alcibiades’ seductive
power goes together with his arrogance and contempt for order, making
him a highly controversial figure in the Athenian socio-political scene,
attractive and repulsive, deceitful and appealing all at the same time (Cake
2009: 225).
The Art and Truth of Love
131
In Lacan’s seminar Alcibiades is the rupture (Lacan 1961: 15, 21), life
that unexpectedly enters, changes the dynamics of the situation and
challenges interpretation considering what happened before: things that
have been said appear in a new light. Alcibiades is here and now in flesh.
When Alcibiades enters the room, he takes his power as given and
appoints himself president of the party. He changes all the rules that were
agreed upon in the beginning of the dialogue: how the speeches should be
held and how much should one drink. Instead of modesty, which has
characterized the party so far, proportions come from now on in wine
coolers (Plato 1925: 213e-214a).
Supporting the thesis considering Alcibiades’ role in the unity of the
dialogue, we can observe that the issue of divine and carnal love has been
addressed before as well, namely in Pausanias speech. Pausanias makes a
distinction between heavenly and popular loves, each having their own
gods, named alike:
True, if that goddess were one, then Love would be one: but since there are
two of her, there must needs be two Loves also. Does anyone doubt that
she is double? Surely there is the elder, of no mother born, but daughter of
Heaven, whence we name her Heavenly; while the younger was the child
of Zeus and Dione, and her we call Popular (180d).
Alcibiades is accused of drawing wives away from their husbands and
husbands away from their wives considerably (Plutarch 1952: 156-157).
With the reputation of having affairs both with men and women, he can be
recognized of the popular love: Pausanias explains it is the love that “is
seen in the meaner sort of men who, in the first place, love women as well
as boys; secondly, where they love, they are set on the body more than the
soul” (181b). The other love of Heavenly goddess partakes only of men:
But the other Love springs from the Heavenly goddess who, firstly,
partakes not of the female but only of the male; and secondly, is the elder,
untinged with wantonness: wherefore those who are inspired by this Love
betake them to the male, in fondness for what has the robuster nature and a
larger share of mind (181c).
Socrates and Alcibiades are two distinctive characters in Athens, with
a crucial difference when it comes to love affairs, which creates the
strained, torturous tension between the two men: if Alcibiades’ love seeks
to conquer and then possess, Socrates seeks to establish a love relationship
in accordance with his philosophical life and its aims. When Alcibiades
speaks of love, he speaks of one person, uniqueness and the particular;
132
Chapter Eight
Socrates speaks of deductive, scientific and universal episteme (Nussbaum
2001: 186-187). However, Socrates’ evasion and rejection is seductive
itself as Alcibiades wishes at the same time to be close to Socrates and to
overcome Socrates’ virtue bringing him down from the world of ideas on
the level of Alcibiades’ other conquests (Cake 2009: 226, 228).
Alcibiades enters the room visibly drunk and obviously not so lovely
and beautiful — he has not taken care of himself accordingly. Plato writes
in Laws about the three natural desires, which need to be controlled in
order to do so, and drinking is one of them, among eating and sexual
drives (Plato 1967/68: 782e-783a; Halperin 1990: 276). It is emphasized
that Socrates never appears to be under the influence of alcohol, which
Alcibiades also points out, together with a list of Socrates’ deeds and
ordeals in difficult circumstances, which indicate admirable self-mastery:
Socrates walking barefoot on ice, Socrates standing still for a day in his
thoughts, Socrates as a war hero — and Socrates continuously rejecting
Alcibiades’ persistent attempts to seduce him. Despite, or perhaps because
of his self-discipline, Socrates is nevertheless able to enjoy everything
(Plato 1925: 220a). Alcibiades, instead, is a slave or a prisoner in Socrates’
presence. Socrates’ words penetrate listeners’ ears like the satyr Marsyas’
music, and Alcibiades says: “I find my heart leaping and my tears gushing
forth at the sound of his speech, and I see great numbers of other people
having the same experience” (215e). Socrates makes Alcibiades feel his
life is not worth living as it is, he is ashamed of himself, deficient, and
very much aware of the lack of self-care (216a-b). Reflecting the role of
Alcibiades’ speech forming the unity of the dialogue it is noteworthy that
the theme of shame is taken up already in the very first speech, held by
Phaedrus. It also entails the relationship structured according to the pattern
of erastēs and erōmenos, which clearly has portrayed the relationship
between Socrates and Alcibiades, so far. Phaedrus invites the others to
imagine a city or an army, which would be composed of lovers — they
would be the best possible citizens in mutual rivalry and honour, avoiding
being ashamed in each other’s eyes:
I for my part am at a loss to say what greater blessing a man can have in
earliest youth than an honorable lover, or a lover than an honorable
favorite. […] What shall I call this power? The shame that we feel for
shameful things, and ambition for what is noble; without which it is
impossible for city or person to perform any high and noble deeds (178c-d,
emphasis added).
Alcibiades is indeed ashamed and speaks in heart-ache. In his pain he
admits he sometimes wishes Socrates was dead, even if he knows he
The Art and Truth of Love
133
would then be even more miserable. He tries to stuff his ears and avoid
Socrates, and still Alcibiades finds Socrates everywhere: the whole painful
outburst, at times dressed in levity, begins when Alcibiades suddenly sees
Socrates, who was sitting next to Agathon, and flies into a rage. They
throw abuses in the air, and Socrates turns to Agathon:
Agathon, do your best to protect me, for I have found my love for this
fellow no trifling affair. From the time when I fell in love with him I have
not had a moment’s liberty either to look upon or converse with a single
handsome person, but the fellow flies into a spiteful jealosy which makes
him treat me in a monstrous fashion (213c-d).
In the quote above, Socrates is the lover, Alcibiades just happens to be
jealous and violent. However, Alcibiades’ experience of the affair is quite
different. He doesn’t see reconciliation between them possible (213d), and
he accuses Socrates of loving all beautiful young boys hovering
spellbound around them. Nonetheless he just pretends not to know
anything, dissembles unawareness of what is happening (216d). Socrates’
philosophic discourses strike in the souls of the young and innocent worse
than if they were bitten by snakes, and they are forced to do and say
whatever they will. Alcibiades cries: “I have been bitten by a more painful
creature, in the most painful way that one can be bitten: in my heart, or my
soul, or whatever one is to call it, I am stricken and stung by his
philosophic discourses” (218a). Body or soul — Alcibiades doesn’t care
about the distinction. He claims several boys have had the same destiny as
himself with Socrates: they have all been deceived by his words so that
they also have ended up running after him (222b), just like everybody else
in the room. They have been bitten by the passionate madness that
philosophy causes. Foucault points out, the roles get reversed, or rather,
the young boys become active lovers, and the beloved ones disappear.
True love
Foucault sees Socratic-Platonic perspective to love affairs radically
different from the relations conceived as “courtships” and games of
honour between erastēs and erōmenos. Foucault reads the first speeches of
the Symposium as pastiche of customary understandings of love (Foucault
1985: 230). Foucault claims that Socrates’ speech, which refers to
Diotima’s words, frames the whole question in a different way: the
question no longer is who and how should one love in order for the
relationship to be honourable. The question is: what is love? What is love
in its very being? (233).
134
Chapter Eight
Foucault doesn’t actually wish to stress the fact that we can find the
theme of directing love to the soul of the beloved rather than to the body.
He sees the importance elsewhere. The truth acquired through Eros’
involvement is not for all: Diotima speaks through Socrates’ mouth that
those who are “pregnant in their souls” (and Socrates is the midwife),
bring forth prudence and virtue, of which the highest concerns the
regulation of cities (Plato 1925: 209a). This kind of person welcomes
beautiful rather than the ugly bodies in this pregnancy, also resourceful
discussions of virtue, and that’s where the education of the noble should
begin (209b-c). Diotima provides a philosophical justification for an
important institution of Athenian male society and an ethic of pederasty
(Halperin 1990: 258). The most famous part of the dialogue is Diotima’s
description of climbing up the ladders from a beautiful body to other
beautiful bodies, then beautiful deeds and finally beauty itself (Plato 1925:
210a). Beautiful bodies are part of the process, but disparagement of the
carnal love does not in itself signify the essence of true love: true love is
beyond the appearances of the object. It is in the relation to truth (Foucault
1985: 239).
The problem of the relationship, or that of the object, doesn’t fully
disappear in Foucault’s reading. Thus, the question considering the
problematic relation is responded to differently. In the Phaedrus, even
when an asymmetrical game between erastēs and erōmenos is
presupposed, they both have alike movements in their souls towards the
truth: also the beloved one gets uplifted by the wave of desire and wings
start to grow in his soul (240; Plato 1925b: 256c-d). In the Symposium,
however, the one who is better acquainted with the concerns of love is also
the master of truth. Foucault finds a new figure making its appearance on
the scene: the personage of the master turns the game upside down. In the
replacement of the lover it is now the master who becomes the object of
love for all those young men looking for the truth. To be more precise, the
object is the master’s wisdom — of which Lacan also discusses in the
1960–61 seminars. Master’s wisdom is also the principle keeping one
from yielding. The young, gorgeous boys with rival suitors are now the
ones following Socrates, doing everything they can to seduce him
(Foucault 1985: 241). Socrates introduces the type of domination in these
relationships, which is based on the dominion which he exercises over
himself. In their journey together the master of truth teaches the meaning
of wisdom, and what is the love that one is feeling. In the centre of the
observation are not the object and his status, but love and the truth, to
which the subject is capable of. Socrates doesn’t try to define proper and
acceptable conduct, but the type of self-movement — work upon oneself
The Art and Truth of Love
135
— which enables to establish a relation to true being (243). The aim of
asceticism was not to turn down the love of young boys, but to find a way
of giving it a form and valorising it through stylistics (245). Hence, the
characters that remain are the master and a bunch of active lovers.
It’s not a coincidence the others are doing their best in praising Eros,
all in their unique and brilliant style, but Alcibiades praises, and insults,
Socrates. In Diotima’s description Eros sounds very much like him: Eros,
just like Socrates, functions as a mediator between gods and human beings
(Plato 1925: 202e).7 He is ugly, poor and defined by a lack, but always
machinating on the behalf of beautiful and good:
Now, as the son of Resource (Poros) and Poverty (Penia), Love is in a
peculiar case. First, he is ever poor, and far from tender or beautiful as
most suppose him: rather is he hard and parched, shoeless and homeless
[…] always weaving some stratagem; desirous and competent of wisdom,
throughout life ensuing the truth (203c-d).
Eros/Socrates is between ignorance and wisdom, because if he
possessed wisdom, there would be no need for philosophy (204a; Tuominen
2011: 8). Everything he gets in his hands slips away. He “is flourishing
and alive at the hour when he is abounding in resource; at another he is
dying, and then reviving again” (203e). Eros is not the object of love,
which are always all beautiful and lovely, but a love, which is more
complex, a multi-dimensional being (204c). He doesn’t possess and he
cannot be possessed.
The Empty Object of Desire and the Role of the Third
Foucault’s reading doesn’t stretch as much beyond Diotima’s words as
Lacan’s. Lacanian interpretations seek more detailed analysis of the
dynamics of the last part of the dialogue. Lacan draws a parallel between
Socrates’ intellectual midwifery and analyst’s role (Lacan 1961: 21; Miller
1998: 213). Paul Allen Miller writes that Lacan’s point is not to
psychoanalyze Plato or provide an ahistorical reading of the Symposium,
but to demonstrate why analysts should read Plato — the situation, in
which a person presupposes certain knowledge to be possessed by, or
hidden in, the other, is not unique to the analyst’s couch (Miller 1998: 210;
Lacan 1961: 166). Lacan also wishes to diversify the interpretation of such
a scene. Lacan sees transference in the Symposium as more complex than
just a metaphorical love, in which the analyst occupies the place of the
object of desire in the patient’s extra-clinical life (Miller 1998: 210).
136
Chapter Eight
Hence, I think there is no reason to restrict his reading to a clinical
context.
Alcibiades does see Socrates’ knowledge as something desirable and
something he wants to possess, but Socrates himself wants to indicate he
knows nothing (Lacan 1961: 166). Alcibiades compares Socrates to the
statues of the Sileni, ugly creatures following Dionysius. Despite the
hideous surface the little silenoi contained jewels within. The image is
simultaneously repulsive and seductive as Socrates is a jewel inside its
casing (Cake 2009: 227-228; Lacan 1961: 151):
Whether anyone else has caught him in a serious moment and opened him,
and seen the images inside (ta entos agalmata), I know not; but I saw them
one day, and thought them so divine and golden, so perfectly fair and
wondrous, that I simply had to do as Socrates bade me (Plato 1925: 216e217a).
The precious things within him (agalma) are made exactly of the same
material — nothing (Lacan 1961: 156). Socrates wants to point out desire
and its power beyond himself and guide Alcibiades to find the
philosophical path and his own potentiality (Cake 2009: 238). When
Alcibiades tells Socrates he will come and sit by his side, Socrates
responds: “By all means […] here is a place for you beyond me” (Plato
1925: 223e). As a younger boy Alcibiades had believed, that if he only
followed Socrates and let’s himself be guided, he would gradually learn to
see eternal and immutable beauty, and give up his dreams of wealth and
glory. His gaze would be that of thought (Moronchini 2007: 19). In
Lacan’s seminar, Socrates denies he would possess the substance within
him, which is the object of Alcibiades’ desire. Socrates recognizes instead,
that in fact Alcibiades desires Socrates’ desire, and seeks any signs of
Socrates’ love to be able to possess it as an object. In itself, the object of
desire is empty for Lacan, and the analyst’s role is to make visible the
“lost object” of human desire (Miller 1998: 212).
Whereas Foucault concentrates on the overturning of the subject-object
relationship, for Lacan the manifold transferential interplay between
Socrates and Alcibiades has two levels: 1) inversion in which erastēs and
erōmenos exchange places, but also 2) occupation of the possible, empty
third position (210). In the end of the Symposium the love triangle takes
place between Socrates, Alcibiades and Agathon. Agathon (Gr. good)
represents everything that the Greek thought was noble, desirable, good
and beautiful in appearance. He lies next to Socrates until Alcibiades
wedges himself in between the two. Agathon is one of Alcibiades’ new
cynosures, but being almost in his 30’s, neither is he a young boy. It is
The Art and Truth of Love
137
made clear that Socrates is Alcibiades’ first love, but Socrates has
systematically rejected him despite the persistent attempts of seduction —
he refuses to adopt the position of being Alcibiades’ erōmenos. Now
Alcibiades must also become a lover instead of being the beloved one. In
the Lacanian reading, Socrates mistreats Alcibiades in order to make him
the subject of his own desires, to recognize his own desire in Socrates’
rejection. The third party, and identification with the Socrates' vacant third
position, makes possible the relationship between erastēs and erōmenos to
change the active/passive or subject/object oppositions (213). By praising
Agathon’s beauty, Socrates displays Alcibiades as a lover, which confirms
Alcibiades’ new position (213). Socrates also, now in his turn, calls
Alcibiades’ speech a Silenic act, in which Alcibiades is the active seducer,
Agathon the presumed object:
[F]or you think you must keep me as your undivided lover, and Agathon as
the undivided object of your love. But now you are detected: your Satyric
or Silenic play-scene is all shown up. Dear Agathon, do not let the plot
succeed, but take measures to prevent anyone from setting you and me at
odds (Plato 1925: 222d).
Lacan’s interpretation makes possible a theoretical construction of
intersubjective relation, which I find dangerous if seen universally: Bruno
Moronchini writes that here intersubjective relation necessarily follows
the structure of subject-subject-object: in order for the two to become
subjects, equals, they need a third, which is not a subject. Lacan ends his
seminar by saying: “Agathon, towards whom, at the end of the Symposium,
Socrates’ praise is going to be directed, is a royal idiot. He is the biggest
idiot of them all; he is even the only complete idiot!” (Lacan 1961: 372).
Does Socrates in fact offer Agathon the role of erōmenos, whose task
is to reject and yield in appropriate alternation? It does seem at first that
Alcibiades and Socrates are throwing Agathon around and he changes
seats to sit next to Socrates as the game proceeds. Earlier in the dialogue,
in the beginning of Socrates’ speech he makes Agathon respond to his
questions only by yes or no answers, and just to follow the predefined
signification chain. However, in the quote above, Socrates invites Agathon
not to accept the position of an “undivided object”. In order to be a fullscale seducer, subject also must become an object of the other’s desire if
he really wants to be a subject (Moronchini 2007: 18). I think it's not fully
clear whether Agathon remains an object. Referring to Foucault, the
younger men would now also become lovers: (Halperin 1990: 293) they
are aware of Socrates’ lack (293).
138
Chapter Eight
Reflections
I have argued in favour of reading the Symposium as a unity, in which
Alcibiades’ speech plays the most significant role. In the ethical discourse
on pederastic relationships taking the political setting into consideration, it
is very difficult to read Alcibiades’ entrance as a mere joke. Foucault,
however, sees Platonic-Socratic love being argued in Diotima’s words
emphasizing scala amoris, rising gradually from the beautiful bodies to
the intellectual level. Lacan, on the other hand fails to see the new
hierarchy created between the master and the younger men.
In the end of the dialogue the conflict is far from being solved.
Alcibiades’ speech does cause some laughter because of its frankness
(parrēsia): he is tragic and comic, and everything lightens up — but what
did they learn in fact? It would be too easy to claim that Alcibiades just
doesn’t yet realize that he has reached the position of a subject, and instead
he continues asking Socrates for the signs of love with no awareness of his
progress (Lacan 1961: 140). Martha Nussbaum reflects Alcibiades partly
wishes to remain an erōmenos, (Nussbaum 2001: 188) I prefer thinking he
just no longer allows himself to be educated by the master. If his words are
directed to Agathon, as expressed by both Alcibiades and Socrates, he
posits himself in-between, becoming the third party (Moronchini 2007:
21). Alcibiades doesn’t want just to be loved, but to love like Socrates
loves (18). Perhaps Alcibiades actually sees the nothingness, the impossible,
who knows. Or maybe he restlessly continues to search the objects of
desire elsewhere never really finding anything else but the lack (20). We
know Alcibiades will ruin his political career within a year after being
accused of mutilating the faces and genitals of the Hermae statues,
signifying hope for the Athenians. He will be murdered after a conspiracy,
in which Plato’s family took part (Nussbaum 2001: 169, 171).
And Socrates, what does he learn? As the morning comes and the
cocks are crowing everyone else, except Agathon, Aristophanes, the
comedy writer, and Socrates, is ether asleep or gone. The three men are
discussing and drinking out of a large vessel (Plato 1925: 223c). In fact,
Socrates is arguing with Agathon and Aristophanes until he makes them
agree (homologein) “that the fully skilled tragedian could be a comedian
as well.” They were being driven to the conclusion, by Socrates, just like
he always does. Aristophanes falls asleep, and eventually Socrates and
Agathon, the man who represents tragedy and everything that is desirable,
are the only ones awake (223d). When Agathon falls asleep too, Socrates
rises, goes away and spends the day at the Lyceum like any ordinary day,
as if nothing at all had happened the night before — nor touched his soul.
The Art and Truth of Love
139
References
Aristotle (1934): Nicomachean Ethics, trans. H. Rackham. London:
Harvard University Press.
Cake, A.D.C. (2009): ‘Lacan’s Psychoanalysis and Plato’s Symposium:
Desire and the (In)Efficacy of the Signifying Order.’ In, Analecta
Hermeneutica, no. 1, pp. 224-239.
Foucault, Michel (1981/2001): ‘Lacan, le ’liberateur’ de la psychanalyse’.
In, Dits et Écrits II, eds. Daniel Defert & François Ewald. Paris:
Gallimard, pp. 1023-1924.
—. (1983/2001): ‘Usage des plaisirs et techniques de soi’. In Dits et
écrits II, eds. Daniel Defert & François Ewald. Paris: Gallimard, pp.
1358-1380.
—. (1984): Histoire de la sexualité III. Le souci de soi. Paris: Gallimard.
—. (1984b/2001): ‘L’éthique du souci de soi comme pratique de la
liberté’. In Dits et Écrits II, eds. Daniel Defert & François Ewald.
Paris: Gallimard, pp. 1527-1548.
—. (1985): History of Sexuality II. The Use of Pleasure, trans. Robert
Hurley. New York: Pantheon Books.
—. (2001): L’herméneutique du sujet. Cours au Collège de France 19811982. Paris: Gallimard.
—. (2009): Le courage de la vérité. Le gouvernement de soi et des autres
II. Cours au Collège de France 1984. Paris: Gallimard.
Halperin, David M. (1985): Platonic Erôs and What Men Call Love’. In,
Ancient Philosophy no. 5, pp. 161-204.
—. (1990): ‘Why is Diotima a Woman? Platonic Erōs and the Figuration
of Gender’. In, Before Sexuality. The Construction of Erotic
Experience in the Ancient Greek World, eds. David M. Halperin, John
J. Winkler and Froma I. Zeitlin. Princeton: Princeton University Press.
Lacan, Jacques (1961): Transference. The Seminar of Jacques Lacan
1960–61. Book VIII, trans. Cormac Gallagher from unedited French
typescripts.
Miller, Paul Allen (1998): ‘The Classical Roots of Poststructuralism:
Lacan, Derrida, and Foucault.’ In, International Journal of the
Classical Tradition, no. 5(2), pp. 204-226.
Moronchini, Bruno (2007): ‘On Love. Jacques Lacan and Plato’s
Symposium.’ In European Journal of Psychoanalysis, Humanities,
Philosophy, Psychotherapies, no. 25(2).
Nussbaum, Martha. (2001): The Fragility of Goodness: Luck and Ethics in
Greek Tragedy and Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press.
140
Chapter Eight
O’Hara, Daniel T. (1991): ‘Michel Foucault and the Fate of Friendship’.
In Boundary 2, 18(1), pp. 83-103.
Tuominen, Miira. (2011): ‘Plato’s Symposium: Erôs of the Individual in
Diotima’s Speech,’ (An International PPhiG
Symposium Feminist Theory and the Philosophical Tradition, University
of Helsinki.
Plato (1925): Symposium. Plato in Twelve Volumes, Vol. 9, trans. Harold
N. Fowler. London: Harvard University Press.
—. (1925b): Phaedrus. Plato in Twelve Volumes, Vol. 9, trans. Harold N.
Fowler. London: Harvard University Press
—. (1955): Alcibiades I. Plato in Twelve Volumes, Vol. 8, trans. W.R.M.
Lamb. London: Harvard University Press
—. (1967/68): Laws. Plato in Twelve Volumes, Vols. 10-11, trans. R.G.
Bury. London: Harvard University Press.
Plutarch (1952): The Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans. Chicago:
The University of Chicago Press.
Notes
1
On the difficulty of translating erôs, see Halperin (1985) and Tuominen (2011).
The Cynics made a certain difference in this respect as their aim was to show the
scandalous and dispised by their own behaviour (Foucault, Le courage de la vérité
2009).
3
Foucault is especially interested in the most problematized relationships: those
between mature men and young boys. David M. Halperin remarks the adult male
citizens could only have sexual relations with inferiors in social and political
status: women, boys, foreigners and slaves — those who did not have the same
political and legal rights and privileges. It was not acceptable for the future rulers
of Athens to show willingness to adopt a subordinate role with other men.
(Halperin 1990, 266−267).
4
Pausanias, on the other hand sees as respectable those relationships, which are
established at older age. (Symp 181c–d.)
5
Physical activities were an essential part of the education of the noble, but
Foucault explains that in Alcibiades I the investigation is to be done on the highest
level, that of reflection with the master, by theoreia: looking the other in the eyes
and seeing the sense, sight, itself instead of the material (Foucault 2001, 68).
6
Foucault points out that Xenophon indicates in his Symposium that there is
nothing wrong with Socrates’ educational goals. Rather, it is one’s own fault s/he
hasn’t continued the constant combat in controlling himself. The ongoing struggle
for continence, the maintenance, which rules over pleasures and desires, is called
enkrateia. (Foucault 1985, 65.) See, Xenophon, Symposium. Xenophon in Seven
Volumes. Vol. 4. (Harvard: Harvard University Press, 1979).
7
See Pierre Hadot. Qu'est-ce que la philosophie antique? (Paris: Gallimard, 1995).
2
CHAPTER NINE
LOVE AND THE PRECIOUSNESS
OF THE INDIVIDUAL
ELIZABETH DRUMMOND YOUNG
The role of love as knowledge-provider has been well-attested in
modern times. Developments in the philosophy of emotion have led to a
greater understanding of what we can learn about others when we love
them. I would like to examine the thought that a particular type of love has
a vital role in highlighting the individual as unique and irreplaceable. The
consequences of establishing this, although I do not discuss them here,
stretch well beyond the bounds of academic moral philosophy into the
realm of practical applications of this point in political and legal systems.
To develop this theme, I have chosen to focus on the work of two
contemporary philosophers, Raimond Gaita and Jean-Luc Marion.
There are two themes concerning the sacredness of individuals and the
importance of love in the philosophy of Raimond Gaita which can be
fruitfully explored through the work of Jean-Luc Marion, despite the fact
that each philosopher operates within a different tradition. The first theme
coalesces around the idea that each human being is sacred (or precious, if
we wish to avoid religious overtones) and irreplaceable. The second theme
concerns the nature of the love which, it transpires, is a source of our
knowledge of this preciousness.
According to Gaita, the sacredness of individuals has a philosophical
role over and above a mere Kantian-style acknowledgement of the dignity
of each human being, although sacredness and dignity are certainly
related. If we recognise individuals as sacred, we do more than respect
them; we both understand and feel the effects which extremes of good and
evil have on them and this recognition has profound implications for
morality. Explaining how we come to recognise this sacredness is integral
to Gaita’s philosophical project, which is deeply ingrained with his view
of life as a whole and not merely a matter of academic interest. He
considers that such sacredness is often made clear to us by witnessing
142
Chapter Nine
love, particularly what he calls the “impartial love of the saints.” This love
underpins the view that each individual is sacred and it is distinctive in
that its purity is a brute fact of the world. Gaita considers there to be no
further metaphysical fact of the matter beyond this pure love.1
Gaita’s account faces two challenges, which I suggest can be addressed
by linking his work with that of Jean-Luc Marion.2 The first challenge is
that Gaita’s reluctance to provide any background, metaphysical or
otherwise, to the love which supports this crucial moral insight of the
sacredness of the individual may seem inadequate, since this sacredness is
an underlying factor behind many important ethical concepts such as
dignity and rights. This dismissal of anything behind this love has
resonances with the work of Jean-Luc Marion. Marion claims to reach
beyond metaphysics both in his theological work, where he talks about
God ‘without being’ or beyond being, thus escaping the Kantian
proscription on speculative metaphysics, and in his discussion of love,
where he claims that love precedes being metaphysically.3 Although he is
reticent about it in his writings on love, Marion’s description of love has
an ultimate grounding in God, which Gaita’s does not, although some have
argued that Gaita is wrestling against the inevitable and that his work is
undeniably theological.4 My suggestion is that Gaita and Marion have
common ground in the acceptance of love as irreducible, but that Marion
can help by filling in the background which Gaita chooses to ignore.
The second challenge to Gaita concerns his use of the term ‘impartial’
in the context of ‘the impartial love of the saints’. Gaita implies strongly
that there is a close connection between particular, partial love (and he
gives parental love as the example) and impartial love, as exemplified by
universal love or love for our fellow man. He considers the idea of some
kind of interdependence between the two, before finally coming down on
the side of impartial love as the grounding for the sort of behaviour which
he regards as saintly. The worry is that the term ‘impartial’ seems at odds
with Gaita’s desire to establish a view of morality where what matters
morally is recognising a person as an individual rather than following
universal principles which proclaim dignity and rights for all. My
suggestion is that it is partial rather than impartial love which is the origin
of the saintly love portrayed by Gaita, even if partiality is not its full
characterisation. Unlike the contrast which Gaita draws between partial
and impartial love, Marion proposes the view that love is univocal.
Friendship, charity, filial, parental, sensual and carnal love, love of God all fall under the erotic phenomenon according to Marion. We are all
lovers before we are anything else, he claims. His characterisation of love
goes beyond the usual distinctions of partial and impartial.
Love and the Preciousness of the Individual
143
I propose to add support to Gaita’s two themes, namely the sacredness
of individuals as revealed by love and the nature of that love, by drawing
on the resources of Marion’s work, in particular The Erotic Phenomenon.
In doing so, I hope to provide some answers to the two challenges I have
outlined. First, I want to illustrate the core of Gaita’s philosophy with
regard to the importance of the individual and its relation to dignity and
respect.
Gaita's work usually proceeds by provoking discussion of startling,
real-life examples, some of which are autobiographical, as in the spirit of
Marion’s The Erotic Phenomenon. In the introduction to his work, Good
and Evil, Gaita outlines the kinds of examples he uses to discuss the
various manifestations of human dignity:
The encounters I mark are dramatic........Dramatic though my examples
are, I suggest that they all reveal something universal..... I do not always
characterise in the same way what is revealed. Sometimes I say that it is
the inalienable preciousness or the infinite preciousness of every human
being. (I acknowledge that when 'infinitely' qualifies 'precious' it signals
desperation, but no more, I think, than when “unconditional” qualifies
“respect” or when “inalienable” qualifies “dignity”). Sometimes I speak of
seeing the full humanity of someone. At other times I adopt more Kantian
idioms and speak of the unconditional respect owed to every human being,
or of the inalienable dignity each human being possesses. (Gaita 2004: xv)
Gaita uses the word “sacred” to encapsulate these different expressions
concerning an individual's worth. He thinks the word “sacred” points in
two different directions; firstly, to theological and metaphysical doctrine,
and secondly, to the language of love. He claims there is little
philosophical writing which deals with the second aspect of the
sacredness, namely the “sense of awe, mystery and beauty that is naturally
expressed in the language of love”. Jean-Luc Marion's work supplies
precisely this sort of writing and this is particularly evident in The Erotic
Phenomenon, which charts the progress of what Marion terms an erotic
reduction, following roughly the manner of a phenomenological reduction,
and concentrating mainly on describing love between a man and a woman.
Gaita on Remorse and the “Metaphysical Core”
Before turning to his discussion of love, it is worth noting that Gaita
also considers that the reactive attitude of remorse is capable of
highlighting the importance of the pricelessness of the individual and the
irreplaceability of each of us. In general, Gaita finds a consequentialist
144
Chapter Nine
morality deeply unappealing, where what matters for moral judgment is
the state of affairs which is brought about by an agent’s action. This is
partly because he considers such a morality completely inadequate to the
task of explaining reactive attitudes such as remorse, because the focus is
on the doing of wrong rather than on the individual to whom wrong is
done, and indeed fails to recognise the fact that the person is an individual
rather than merely one among many. In Gaita’s writings, remorse plays a
strong part in understanding evil and he thinks that there must be a real
sense of wronging a particular person for remorse to be properly
understood. Remorse for Gaita brings together the significance of the evil
which has been carried out by someone together with a sense of the reality
of the victim. This sense of reality is not merely a collection of particular
personality traits or indeed any recognizable characteristics derived from
traditional theories of self-identity. Gaita’s view is that:
“There is a form of human presence that is not wholly explicable in
terms of the impact of a person’s individuating features. My claim is that
this individuality is internal to our sense of what it is to wrong someone”
(150). The power of other humans to affect us in their individuality is seen
clearly in the response of remorse. Remorse makes us realise that even the
anonymous person whom we have wronged is subject to the demands
which are internal to friendship, no matter whether he has any friends or
not; that he is subject to the demands and rationality of love, we might say.
Gaita also makes the point that others have this effect on us
unconditionally; we do not have to value any qualities that an individual
has nor indeed to know anything about them to feel remorseful towards
them. Remorse is directed at the harm done to a particular individual, not
to just another human being and it is in our attitude of remorse that we
appreciate fully their individuality.
Gaita often quotes Simone Weil with approval, but it would seem that
she would not agree with Gaita in this aspect of his discussion of suffering
and remorse. The idea that there should be something left, a metphysical
core, for want of a better term, which individuates the person after all
dignity has gone, is repugnant to her, as it seems to undermine both
suffering and the doing of evil. 5 She wants us to understand the reality and
force of evil by accepting that it can destroy an individual totally – that is
what is so terrible about it. The thought that something inviolable might
remain in an individual even after appalling suffering seems to diminsh the
force of evil for Weil, but the opposite is true for Gaita. It is interesting
that Gaita is happy to acknowledge something like a metaphysical core by
referring to, “a form of human presence that is not wholly explicable in
terms of the impact of a person’s individuating features”, in the context of
Love and the Preciousness of the Individual
145
suffering, evil and remorse, but shies away from this in his discussion of
love.
Gaita’s Example of Pure Love
I now want to describe one of Gaita's best known examples where he
witnesses a nun's behaviour towards certain psychiatric patients (Gaita
2000: 18-27). These people were “at rock-bottom”, he says. They had been
incarcerated for over thirty years in some instances, were no longer visited
by family and friends and were treated brutally, inhumanly indeed, by
many of the hospital staff, including some psychiatrists who were
supposedly caring for them. The young Gaita, a worker on the ward,
considered that he and a small group of good psychiatrists felt differently
towards these patients. He held the view that the patients were his equals,
even though they were completely bereft of dignity. He was happy with
this view and his own behaviour in this regard, until he witnessed a visit
by a nun to those same patients. By her body language and behaviour
towards them, he realised that in fact he had only paid lip service to the
equality and shared humanity of these patients; he and the like-minded
psychiatrists had not felt it in their hearts, and he realised that this would
be translated in his behaviour towards them. They had merely respected an
intellectual ideal of equality and humanity, and that was not enough. By
contrast, the nun showed the patients love, and this revealed their
sacredness to Gaita as a witness to love.
This is an example which is powerfully described, and I think it
reflects a common ethical experience, namely, that we may hold to an
opinion which involves practising some sort of benevolence towards
others. We congratulate ourselves on holding this opinion, are rather smug
about it; it may be said that we are more in love with the opinion and
ourselves for holding it than we are with the others whom it purportedly
concerns. This self-love or love of principle need not be exaggerated or
distasteful, as Gaita's example of his own behaviour demonstrates. It need
only be sufficient for those who hold it to be living under a
misapprehension of their moral qualities. Gaita respected the humanity of
the patients, but he did not feel it in his heart. The nun in Gaita's example,
by contrast, does what he calls “the work of saintly love”. There is no
condescension in her attitude toward the patients. Her demeanour toward
them does not reveal the enormous disparity between the good fortune of
her normal life and the isolated loneliness which is theirs.
Gaita’s example has distinct phenomenonlogical overtones. An ethical
truth - the sacredness of these patients in the absence of any ordinary
146
Chapter Nine
conception of dignity- is revealed to him as he watches the tableau of the
nun and the patients. Gaita himself says: “I felt irresistibly that her
behaviour was directly shaped by the reality it revealed. I wondered at her
[the nun], but not at anything about her except that her behaviour should
have, so wondrously, this power of revelation” (19).
The idea that Gaita is overcome by this revelation is reminiscent of
Marion’s concept of the saturated phenomenon. Marion has developed this
concept to explain those phenomena which exceed the Kantian categories
of quantity, quality, relation and modality to such a degree that they
interrupt or blind the intentional aim. The intuition, in the Kantian sense, is
overwhelmed by the phenomenon. If it seems too strained to make this
comparison between Gaita and Marion, it is worth remembering that
Marion cites a particular and well-known example of friendship as an
example of a saturated pheonomenon as event (that is, one which exceeds
the Kantian category of quantity), which has similarities with Gaita’s
example. Marion refers us to Michel de Montaigne’s commentary on his
friendship with Etienne La Boetie, a friendship frequently cited in the
literature of love and friendship and characterised as “perfect” and
consequently rare. Marion cites the three critical phenomenological
characteristics of the first meeting between the two friends. Firstly, there is
the displacement of the subject, so that he situates himself so that the other
can come to him: “we are looking for each other before seeing each other”,
says Montaigne. Secondly, the event of the friendship is accomplished all
at once; “at our first meeting…we found ourselves so taken, so known, so
obliged between ourselves, that nothing from then on was as close as we
were for one another”, continues Montaigne. Finally, we cannot assign a
single cause or any reason to its happening, other than the pure energy of
its unquestionable happening, says Marion, referring to Montaigne’s
famous attempt at explaining the nature of the friendship: “If one presses
me to say why I loved him, I sense that this can only be expressed in
replying: because it was him; because it was me” (Marion 2002: 37-38).
I do not want to press this comparison between Gaita’s nun example
and Marion’s example of friendship as a saturated phenomenon too far,
but there is clearly a kinship there, albeit arrived at from different
perspectives. It is the immediacy of the event, and the power of revelation,
which seems to prompt Gaita into a denial of some further description of
the nun’s saintliness beyond that of pure love.
I suggest that Gaita faced a challenge by stating that the love which
underpins sacredness is a brute matter of fact and that there is nothing
metaphysical behind it. How does this powerful love in his nun example
do its work? Part of the answer lies in acknowledging that there are
Love and the Preciousness of the Individual
147
different ways of knowing something. In his example, Gaita tells us a little
about the belief that he and the good psychiatrists held before witnessing
the nun’s behaviour. They believed in the humanity and the equality of the
patients but, Gaita concludes, they had not felt it in their hearts. This
difference in knowledge was brought home to him by the nun’s behaviour.
When he refers to “holding the belief” that the patients were equal, we can
take it to mean that Gaita and the others subscribe to a moral principle
which cites equality for all or something similar. By the very fact of
subscribing to a principle and having it before them whilst they deal with
the patients, they risk turning the patients into objects and destroy the
possibility of actually treating them as equals. We can take it that the nun
also shares this belief, but she in contrast acts as a lover rather than a rulefollower.
Marion’s opening point in The Erotic Phenomenon adds something
here, although Marion is not addressing the adequacy of moral theory. He
is asserting the precedence of love over the certainty of knowing. He
suggests that in looking for assurance from a skeptical stance, we should
abandon the path taken by the Cartesian search for certainty. The end
result of that search is ascertaining that we exist, but merely as an object in
the world. This does not provide the assurance that is at the heart of the
drive for the search for certainty. I am not an actual object by way of a
table or chair, but instead I am a possible being and I need assurance on
those lines, rather than guidance for middle-sized dry goods. So the
question at the start of this search for assurance should no longer be “am I
certain that I exist?” on Cartesian lines, but rather “does anybody love
me?”
Why that question? According to Marion, we can also ask the
following by way of support; if we were to offer someone the opportunity
to exist with certainty (in a state of actuality) for an open-ended amount of
time with, as the sole condition, the definitive renunciation of the
possibility that someone would ever love them, who would accept such an
offer? No one, claims Marion, not even the greatest cynic. To accept such
an offer, he says, would be like “operating a transcendental castration on
myself. It would bring me down to the level of artificial intelligence, a
mechanical calculator, an animal, a demon. I would lose my humanity”.
We do not exist in the manner of objects (actually), before we can be
loved (possibly), as if love were an optional add-on. The possibility of our
being loved is our mode of being. It does not follow on from the fact of
our existence.
It turns out that even the question “does anybody love me?” is
insufficient. It is too selfish a question to ask. It puts love into the
148
Chapter Nine
economic arena and suggests that love is a matter of exchange. I will love
you, but only if you love me. Immediately an object, the object of love, is
envisaged and we are back to the world of people as objects again. This
provides no assurance at all. In fact, love cannot be so characterised.
Instead, Marion proposes that we have to advance first in the field of love
and ask, “can I love first?” Even if we receive no answering love in reply,
we have chosen to be lovers and that at least brings us something:
The incomparable and unstoppable sovereignty of the act of loving draws
all its powers from the fact that reciprocity does not affect it any more than
does the desire for a return on investment. The lover has the unmatched
privilege of losing nothing, even if he happens to find himself unloved,
because a love scorned remains a love perfectly accomplished, just as a gift
refused remains a perfectly given gift….the more he gives and the more he
loses and disperses, the less he himself is lost, because abandon and waste
define the singular, distinctive and inalienable character of loving (Marion
2007: 71).
The lover is one who opens himself to the other, giving without
counting the cost or hoping for return. Love itself is able to embrace
nothingness, in the way that being cannot. Love can thrive in the void.
How does this help Gaita’s nun example? We can start the interpretation
by noting that the nun loves the patients, despite the fact that they have
apparently nothing to give her in return. She effectively makes the advance
and goes first into the field of love, without expecting an answer.
Marion’s erotic reduction does not merely rescue the beloved from the
status of an object, it also has implications for the status of the self, the
lover. The lover advances, “goes first” and risks all, not knowing if he will
receive a response. In deciding to love first, the lover determines his self,
which is the place where he makes decisions. The lover in Marion’s erotic
reduction identifies himself to others (and to his self) through his decision
to love the other without reciprocity.
With Marion’s help, we can now add more to Gaita’s example and his
assertion that love is a brute fact beyond which there is no other. The
nun’s love for the patients blocks the possibility of seeing them as objects
in the world. Her love is a pure advance in Marion’s terms, which does not
expect anything in return. The patients are no longer the objects of Gaita’s
belief that they are his equal, and thus objects in the world, but part of an
erotic reduction, part of coming before being. A change takes place in the
lover, too, who is no longer the knower, remaining secure in his place as
the subject who knows objects in the world. Instead, the lover opens
herself to the possibility of being loved – the lover becomes an accusative
Love and the Preciousness of the Individual
149
‘me’ who may be loved, rather than nominative ‘I’, the knowing subject
who carves out objects in the world, according to her beliefs. In Gaita’s
example, we can contrast the advancing lover, in the shape of the nun,
with Gaita and the good psychiatrists who know as knowing subjects that
the patients are their equals.
In claiming both that love comes before being and that love involves
an advance on behalf of the willing lover, Marion lends weight to Gaita’s
suggestion that love is the witness to the sacredness of individuals. It is
true that lovers and those they love are no longer objects in the world, but
there is more that can be said as a result of this lover’s advance. Each
loved one is a particular one, an individuated being. It is this individuation
which forms the link between the two issues raised by Gaita, that of
sacredness and the nature of the love which reveals it. In showing the
sacredness of the patients as she does by loving them, the nun also reveals
them, not as an undifferentiated slice of humanity, but as individuals.
Marion has something specific to say on this point, too.
Marion on Individuation
Marion talks about individuation in terms of the impact which the
physical presence of the one who is loved has on the lover. The body
which forms our limits and boundaries in the world becomes the flesh in
the erotic reduction, transformed from an object in the world as the body
to a part of us which is moulded by love. The face plays an important role.
In the language of Levinas, the face of the 'other', the one who is loved, is
the source of the gaze which is directed at the one who loves: “It detains
me, precisely because it opposes me with the origin of the gaze that the
other lays upon the world, and eventually, on me” (99).
The eyes of the other exert a counter-intentionality on the lover, but
also, according to Marion, a message, a signification. With an obvious
debt to Levinas’ emphasis on the Other, Marion says “The face alone
signifies to me, in speech or in silence, ‘Thou shall not kill’” (100). Of
course, it would be possible for me to kill this person, says Marion, but
that will then be murder, not simply killing. The face opposes the empire
of the ego which until this stage in the encounter has so far met with no
resistance. Marion asks us to note the particularity of this demand. It is not
a universal command “Thou shalt not kill,” but it is delivered by a
particular face, a particular other.
Gaita too comments on the importance of the bodily language of love
and of the face:
150
Chapter Nine
“...... without the language of love there could not be the claims of love and
there is no love without claims. No doubt, there must be more than, and
much that has to be before, the language of love. There must be bodies
with which we can feel at home and through which love's tenderness can
find expression. More primitively, there must be faces. We could not love
what did not have a face” (Gaita 2000: 162).
Still this ethical call from the face of the other, this “Thou shalt not
kill,” is not enough to particularise the call to the one who loves, albeit it is
offered by a particular other. It is an ethical demand issued to all, merely
by virtue of each of us having this particular physical presence in the
world represented by our face. An interpretation of Levinas by Stella
Sandford is relevant here. She points out that the command “Thou shalt
not kill” in the encounter between a subject and the Other should not be
seen as a reduction to a purely empirical ethical phenomenon – after all,
this is not how humans typically encounter each other and we do murder
each other quite freely. Rather, she interprets Levinas’ philosophical
project as not summed up in the word “ethics,” but as an attempt to
reassert “transcendence” or the priority of metaphysics. She quotes from
an interview with Levinas:
“I have never claimed to describe human reality in its immediate
appearance, but what human deprivation itself cannot obliterate: the human
vocation to saintliness. I don’t affirm human saintliness; I say that man
cannot question the supreme value of saintliness” (Sandford 2000: 27).
In Levinas, the face of the Other who makes this call that harm should
not be done to him is not individuated, but universal. In Marion, who
pursues a notion of hiddenness in his philosophy, the face is ultimately
hidden from us, but nonetheless individual. In order to fully understand
Marion's description of individuation we must first call to mind Marion's
thesis of the univocity of love. Although he speaks in The Erotic
Phenomenon of sexual love between a man and a woman, he is adamant
that eroticisation of the flesh is not constrained to that instance of love.
The eroticisation of the flesh applies not just to sexual lovers but to all
lovers, parents with their children, friends who embrace, even as far as the
love of God. The whole flesh is aroused in eroticisation. In the act of
loving, a wave of eroticisation overcomes the whole of us. The face of the
other ceases to issue the ethical universal “Thou shalt not kill,” but instead
issues that most particular of commands, “Here I am, come!” In his
description of the erotic reduction at this stage, Marion says: “She and I
have left the universal, even the ethical universal, in order to strive toward
Love and the Preciousness of the Individual
151
particularity - mine and hers, because it is a question of me and you and
surely not of a universally obligating neighbour” (Marion 2007: 126).
At this stage of the eroticisation, the universal has neither rights, nor
the final word. Each of the partners is unsubstitutable. Each experiences
their own flesh thanks to the other and only to that other. Each has to give
themselves up for the other — a more urgent, particular and complete
ethical demand than any universal maxim of respect. Marion goes so far as
to call it leaving the ethical behind. At the same time, the other's
transcendence appears even more clearly at this time; the eroticised face
recapitulates all its flesh: “I see there the accomplished transcendence of
the other through which she differs forever and always in me - her flesh in
glory” (127).
Drawing on Marion’s work, we can now begin to build some support
for Gaita’s idea of pure love with no metaphysical backing which reveals
the sacredness of an individual. Love has precedence over being according
to Marion, because it provides a certainty beyond knowledge of objects. In
love, our individual preciousness is revealed and this is accomplished not
in our solitary consciousness nor by statement of a principle of moral
theory, but in relation to the other’s flesh, where “flesh” is the eroticized
body.
Must such Love be Impartial?
In the second challenge to Gaita, I suggested that his insistence that the
love of people like the nun is impartial is problematic. This is because the
concept of impartiality seems at odds with Gaita's insistence on the
importance of the individuation of each human being in recognition of
their sacredness. Very roughly, we can say that impartiality means treating
everyone in the same way, without favouring anyone and this easily
translates into a failure to recognise any distinguishing features about
them, which mitigates against such individuation. It is true that the nun's
love is impartial in that it is not directed towards someone with whom she
has a special relationship. In that sense it is akin to the idea of agape or
Christian universal love of the stranger. I take Gaita as meaning something
more specific when he uses the term impartial, however. This is the
thought that the nun, unlike Gaita and the good psychiatrists, does not
have in her mind the difference in fortunes which exist between her and
the patients—I have already noted that he stresses that the nun interacts
with the patients without condescension. I suggest that, although this may
be a feature of treating someone impartially, it is not inherent to
impartiality and is instead based on the traditions and language of partial
152
Chapter Nine
love, to which Gaita refers frequently. This ties in well with another aspect
of saintly love which Gaita stresses, namely its unconditionality. It matters
not what the response of the person is to the one who loves or whether
they merit the love.
Gaita has an example which is to the point here; it is that of a mother
who has an adult, criminal and indeed evil child. The mother's love for this
child is in no way diminished by her child's terrible circumstances or
indeed whether or not her child deserves this love. It fails to recognise
their difference in fortune and any conditionality on love.
Now all of this is supported by Marion through his theme of the
univocity of love. What is central to love for Marion is not the identity of
the beloved—whether son, daughter, friend, lover, stranger or God—but
the manner in which the lover loves. A true lover, one who has entered the
erotic reduction, loves first, advances first, takes the risk first and
abandons everything first, regardless of the recipient. This seems to be at
the heart of Gaita's sense of unconditional love; the parent who has an evil
criminal as a child, is in Marion's terms the “first” lover, advancing out
into the field of love, without considering whether the child merits love.
Indeed the suggestion of meriting love as we have seen in Marion is part
of the economy of exchange and stands firmly outside the erotic reduction.
So Gaita's nun advances with her love toward the patients, not considering
whether they merit her love (as Gaita and the good psychiatrists do — they
consider them to be “deserving”) but merely loving first.
There is a twist in the tail of Marion's story of love, however. Even
though lovers leave the universal in search of the particular, they can never
quite find the other person. In addition to his themes of advancement and
abandonment, Marion also considers that only so much is revealed and
visible to us, it seems that reaching the other, whatever that might mean is
always ultimately concealed from us. However much we want to reach the
particular one, we can never quite do that. We are destined to keep on
trying, through repeated acts of love.
I suggest that this sense of never quite being able to reach the
metaphysical core which is the mark of a particular individual is what lies
behind Gaita's vacillation between attributing the source of saintly love to
partial or impartial love. We start out on our journey of loving someone
from the security of partial love, knowing that we must love first and in an
unconditional way, like a parent. In seeking the other, we hope to meet the
metaphysical core of the other, that “form of human presence not
explicable in terms of individuating features,” as Gaita noted in his
discussion of remorse. According to Marion, we can never do this, not
because there is no such metaphysical core, but because, as humans we are
Love and the Preciousness of the Individual
153
incapable of so doing. We can only complete part of the story of love. It
remains for God to complete it since he alone can reach us in our
particularity, according to Marion.
Conclusion
I began by suggesting that Gaita’s conceptions of sacredness and
impartial love faced two challenges. What light has Marion’s work thrown
on them? The first challenge was that Gaita’s statement that there was
nothing metaphysical beyond the fact of pure love was not enough to
support the importance that he puts upon love in his ethical work. Love is
one of the main ways in which we understand the individuation and
irreplaceability of human beings. By stressing that love comes before
being, Marion can be seen to uphold Gaita’s view that there is nothing
metaphysical behind pure love, but he adds significantly to the view by
proposing that love is a source of certainty for us; if we love, we know that
we are and who we are.
If we are uneasy about pairing and comparing these two philosophers, I
suggested that we can bring the two philosophers closer together by noting
the phenomenological aspects of Gaita’s work, although these could not be
formally recognised as such. Both Gaita’s use of examples and tableaux
which recall Marion’s concept of the saturated phenomenon and his talk of
the language of love as revealed through our bodies which bring to mind
Marion’s characteristic talk of “flesh” in contrast to body, testify to this.
The second challenge to Gaita concerned the nature of the love which
underpins human sacredness; was it really impartial as he claims? Gaita
also plays up the importance of partial love and frequently refers to
parental love as unconditional. Marion’s characterisation of love does not
follow that of the usual “opposing terms” manner; partial versus impartial,
eros versus agape, and so on. Rather, he suggests that love is an
advancement, a risk, where the lover goes first not knowing whether her
love will be reciprocated. In acts of love, of whatever type, we strive to
reach the particularity of those we love, the “metaphysical core” which
represents their individuality and irreplaceability, but, being human, we
always fall short. So Gaita’s “impartial love of the saints” is a love of this
sort; saintly in its striving and illumination, but still human in its
inexplicabiltiy.
154
Chapter Nine
References
Hart, Kevin (2007): Counter-Experiences, Reading Jean-Luc Marion.
Notre Dame, Indiana, University of Notre Dame.
Marion, Jean-Luc (2002):
‘In Excess, Studies of the Saturated
Phenomenon.’ In, Perspectives in Continental Philosophy No.27., pp.
37-38.
—. (2007): The Erotic Phenomenon, trans. Stephen E. Lewis. Chicago:
The University of Chicago Press.
Gaita, Raimond (2004): A Common Humanity; thinking about love and
truth and justice. London: Routledge.
—. (2000): Good and Evil: an absolute conception. London: Routledge.
Sandford, Stella (2000): The Metaphysics of Love. London: Athlone
Press.p.27.
Notes
1
Gaita’s discussion of sacredness appears both in (Gaita 2000) and (Gaita 2004).
In this paper, I refer mainly to (Marion 2007).
3
I want here merely to acknowledge all the difficulties behind the term
‘metaphysics’, rather than elaborate on them. Suffice to say that Raimond Gaita
wants to stick to the value of examining ‘real life’ examples for the purposes of his
philosophical writing and his use of the term ‘metaphysical’ needs no further
comment. Marion, as a phenomenologist, is carrying the weight of the post
Kantian tradition and there is no room to give his position justice here. Simply put,
he started out by asserting the primacy of phenomenology over metaphysics,
claiming that phenomenology allows a ‘radical empiricism’ to unfold. Subsequently,
he nuanced this view, saying that phenomenology does not actually overcome
metaphysics so much as open the possibiltiy of ‘leaving it to itself’.
4
Original objections to what has been called Marion’s ‘theological turn’ came
from Jacques Derrida and Dominque Janicaud. For a suggestion that Gaita cannot
evade theology, see Mark Wynn, “Saintliness and the Moral Life”, Journal of
Religious Ethics, Vol. 31, issue 3. pp. 463-485.
5
See Christopher Hamilton, “Simone Weil’s “Human Personality”: Between the
Personal and Impersonal”, Harvard Theological Review, 2005, 98:2 pp. 187-207
for discussion of Weil’s position and her attack on Personalism.
2
CHAPTER TEN
LOVE AND SYMPATHY:
BUILDING ON THE LEGACY OF MAX SCHELER
ALEKSANDAR FATIĆ
Introduction
Sympathy is an attractive value to try to found an ethics system on.
Cultures permeated with sympathy tend to be more pleasant to live in.
Everyday social interactions seem less difficult and more satisfying to all
if they take place against a background of sympathy. However, there are
philosophical difficulties with sympathy playing the role of a founding
value for ethics, because its normative attributes are unclear.
On the one hand, sympathy arises either from shared values in a
community, or from a culture where it is regarded as a moral norm.
Examples certainly include “Samaritan” communities, such as closely-knit
Christian groups, which often appear as ideal organic communities. Such
groups are governed by what Max Scheler calls “fellow-feeling”; this
allows them to be highly tolerant and supportive of members who deviate
from the values shared by the majority, and facilitates relatively simple
rituals of reintegration where infractions have occurred. The concept of
repentance as a way of returning to the community of values is a highly
effective mechanism of reintegration.
On the other hand, however, reintegration would not be possible
without a strong background of sympathy and a promise of genuine
forgiveness. Strongly forged substantive values, combined with moral
dynamics of forgiveness and an emphasis on mutuality, as well as a
constant quest for deep commonalities based on sympathy, generate highly
resilient organic communities such as many religious groups are. However,
when sympathy is considered as a potential foundation of formal ethics,
numerous problems arise, primarily connected to sympathy’s seeming
inability to serve as the criterion of right and wrong, good and evil. This is
perhaps why Scheler, the champion of philosophy of sympathy at least in
the European tradition, decisively denied that sympathy can serve as a
156
Chapter Ten
foundation of ethics, while writing excitedly about its role in cognition and
imagination (Scheler 1979).
One way to approach sympathy that facilitates a full appreciation of its
functional benefits for a community is to treat it as a social language, or
social grammar — the normative system that mediates communication.
Where such a grammar exists, the so-called “transaction costs” of everyday
interactions are lower, because cooperation tends to replace confrontation on
most issues. While this point has enthused communitarian philosophers to
go as far as asserting that virtue should be defined as a “capacity to
participate in common projects”, sympathy fails to tell us how to
differentiate the good from the bad, or in the stronger formulation, good
from evil (Macintyre 1981). Not everything that contributes to common
projects is necessarily morally good: the existence of evil communities,
which cherish deviant values and relish in the suffering of others is
entirely possible. Such are backward local communities whose practices
violate the sense of decency of the broader community. A community may
be unjust and cruel just as an individual can. Thus, while a sharing of
values certainly strengthens moral arguments in social ethics, the sharing
alone does not make a value ethically plausible. One may sympathise with
the victim of unjust persecution, but one also may sympathise with a war
criminal who is being sought after by an international tribunal, and in both
cases the “one” may plausibly be replaced with “many”. Sympathy itself
needs, it would seem, something more to render it a founding value for
sustainable ethics.
Sympathy as a “social grammar”
Human relations exhibit in large part an immediacy that cannot be
explained by rational reasoning. This is especially the case with
expressions of inner events, which meet with an intuitive recognition by
others. Certain signs given away by others allow us to become aware that
the other person is sad, revolted, excited or optimistic about something.
We have here, as it were, a universal grammar, valid for all languages of
expression, and the ultimate basis of understanding for all forms of mime
and pantomime among living creatures. Only so are we able to perceive
the inadequacy of a person’s gesture to his experience, and even the
contradiction between what the gesture expresses and what it is meant to
express (Scheler 1979: 11).
This immediacy of recognition can be explained in various ways, but
in all cases it clearly includes a pre-existing knowledge of the meaning of
gestures and signs we may have never seen before. This type of “fellow-
Love and Sympathy: Building on the Legacy of Max Scheler
157
feeling” (Mitgefüll) as Scheler calls it, or of sympathy, as I shall call it
here, provides a transparency in communication that allows considerably
greater intimacy. Yet, the ability to feel sympathy cannot be construed
rationally, nor can it be advanced by deliberate policies; it is simply a gift
in communication that is being gradually lost as communities become
larger and individuals are increasingly driven by solitary agendas that
insulate them from one another.
The functionality of sympathy in small communities
The functional reason for the principle “small is beautiful” lies in the
fact that sympathy, which allows immediacy in the perception and
understanding of the other’s viewpoint and basic interests, springs from a
communal well of trust. Trust, on the other hand, requires a deeper set of
commonalities than are those typically associated with modern forms of
“certified” membership in a community, such as citizenship. The
sovereign state produces citizenship as a form of common identification
by its constituents. Smaller, organic communities, on the other hand, have
more comprehensive mutual identifications that arise from shared
experience and life prospects. Such common experience and prospects
generally arise in people who live close to each other.
Modern nation states tend to be multicultural. This is a cognitive
benefit, because various shared experiences can be exchanged and various
traditions can benefit from each other. Such exchange, however, occurs
primarily between communities and much less so between individuals,
because communities are the primary bearers of culture and tradition as
manifestations of shared values.
One fundamental aspect of solidarity based on sympathy is the ability
to identify with another. Trivially, this ability allows the understanding of
another’s point of view and empathising with it. In the minimalist sense, it
makes possible the tolerance of another who harbours different values —
the very foundation of social peace. However, not all types of mutual
identification are conducive to sympathy. Political mobilisation has been
known to seek to foster the type of mutual identification that Scheler calls
“emotional infection”. This is a phenomenon of mass-psychology whereby
a human group acts similarly to a group of animals. Just as a herd becomes
“infected” by suggestive moves made by several individuals, and may
internalise the mood as their own panic, aggression, or fight-or-flight
reaction, so a human crowd can internalise the emotions of the leaders, be
they “national emancipators”, “freedom fighters” or “protesters for justice”.
Most cases of mass hysteria are induced by this type of “pathological
158
Chapter Ten
identification”, as Scheler calls it, where direct contact between
individuals and leaders proves particularly dangerous (12). Emotional
infection is pathological because it erases the boundary between the
individual and another person. Thus one does not sympathise with the
feelings and views of the other; one does not even share the feelings and
views of another — emotional infection allows the masses to feel as
though the moves made by the leader are their own. In Scheler’s words:
The process of infection is an involuntary one. Especially characteristic is
its tendency to return to its point of departure, so that the feelings
concerned gather momentum like an avalanche. The emotion caused by
infection reproduces itself again by means of expression and imitation, so
that the infectious emotion increases, again reproduces itself, and so on. In
all mass-excitement, even in the formation of ‘public opinion’, it is above
all this reciprocal effect of a self-generating infection which leads to the
uprush of a common surge of emotion, and to the characteristic feature of a
crowd in action, that it is so easily carried beyond the intentions of every
one of its members, and does things for which no one acknowledges either
the will or the responsibility. It is, in fact, the infective process itself,
which generates purposes beyond the designs of any single individual (15–
16).
Non-essential differences
Although small communities embody commonalities that are
functionally required for sympathy, the dynamics of (i.e. motivation for)
sympathy does not require excessive inter-personal similarities. This is
evident from empirical observation of the functioning small communities,
where both the individual similarities and differences, eccentricities
included, are known to most people, but there is a fundamental “agreement
to disagree” on certain things. In such communities there is usually a
broadly accepted respect for non-essential individual differences. This
respect, or “tolerance”, is made possible by far more significant and
strong, shared fundamental commonalities. These typically include similar
life prospects, social, economic, ecological and other circumstances that
affect everyone in the same way, and — rather often — a shared gene
pool. Complemented by long-entrenched customs and a consensually
adopted micro-culture, the above factors are powerful catalysers for social
interaction and cooperation. On the negative side, they may also catalyse
animosities towards “others”, whose values and collective identities are, or
are perceived to be, different.
Love and Sympathy: Building on the Legacy of Max Scheler
159
Phenomena related to (confused for) sympathy
Sympathy is but one of several closely related psychological
phenomena that imply shared sentiments between members of a group. To
distinguish sympathy from other related feelings, Scheler first makes a
distinction between “a community of feeling”, or shared feeling, and
“emotional identification”. The community of feeling implies that the
same sentiment is shared by several individuals. They all genuinely feel
the same thing. Perhaps the simplest examples include common grief over
the loss of a loved one, where all members of the family often tend to feel
the same.
Emotional identification, on the other hand, is closely related to
emotional infection, and it can play an important role in collective
mobilisation. This is often dangerous, because it deprives members of the
group of their autonomy in decision-making. Emotional identification
implies that one’s identity is either superimposed on another’s, or
overwhelmed by the other. One of the more primitive examples of such
identification was that of totems, which could be specific individual
animals, trees, or rocks, and people were able to collectively identify with
them. Later in the evolution of the human society the identification was
carried over to ancestors, followed by the emergence of ancestor cults.
These were two different stages because, in identification with the
ancestors, the members of a tribe really believed that they were their
ancestors (the common theme in the doctrine of reincarnation), while the
ancestor cult involved merely a veneration of the ancestors, which
presupposed the perception of identity difference between the ancestors
and the venerating generation.
According to Scheler, emotional identification can take two forms: the
idiopathic and the heteropathic. The idiopathic occurs when the actor
takes on the identity of something or someone else (as with totems or
ancestors), whereas the heteropathic identification occurs when the
identity of the spectator is “sucked in”, or overwhelmed by, the identity of
the observed object. Heteropathic identification is particularly close to
emotional infection. It plays a crucial part in one’s becoming “infected” by
another’s emotion and, conversely, in imposing one’s own emotions or
views upon others. All of these phenomena are highly relevant in a
number of practical contexts, including, for example, both psychological
and philosophical counselling. They often arise in discussions of
autonomy and authenticity of decisions made by people who uncritically
accept the values of others, or, conversely, by those who are such “strong
personalities” that they “conquer other minds” by imposing their values on
160
Chapter Ten
others. The study of Scheler’s distinctions between the various types of
identification seems to lend itself particularly readily to psychoanalysis
and transactional analysis, which rest on the practical application of
structural analysis of personality based on various “ego states”, two of
which are defined through identification through past influences (e.g.
Stewart 2008).
Heteropathic identification is relatively pervasive in nature. Scheler
mentions the example of a rabbit or squirrel meeting the gaze of a hungry
snake. Rather than running away, which is a feasible option, the animal
becomes “hypnotised” or overwhelmed by the snake’s gaze and moves
closer to the snake, sometimes even literally throwing itself into the jaws.
The prey “establishes a corporeal identity” with the predator through
heteropathic identification. The rabbit should have no trouble escaping the
snake from any distance other than that of imminent strike. On the other
hand, if the snake is close enough to strike immediately (this almost never
occurs), it would have no need to “hypnotise” the prey, nor would the prey
have room or time to move towards the snake before being grabbed.
According to Scheler, the key dynamic force at work in this phenomenon
is the snake’s overwhelming projection of “appetitive desire”. It is hard to
resist drawing a parallel here with strong projections of “appetitive” or
“ambitious” force or desire by human leaders who infect the entire group.
Consider abusive politicians who cause wars and other tragedies to their
constituents, yet they win popular elections. In some parts of the world,
there is an anecdotal principle that people “will vote whoever is currently
in power”, until things become extreme in ways that truly necessitate
change at almost any cost. This “electoral lethargy” has its psychological
explanation, and it may in fact be a form of social pathology. Resistance to
change is natural to a degree, but in all extreme cases heteropathic
identification should be at least considered as an explanation.
A special case of identification is what Scheler calls “identification
through coalescence” — the case where members of a community “give
in” to a common flow of feeling and instinctual sensibilities “whose pulse
thereafter governs the behaviour of all its members, so that ideas and
schemes are driven wildly before it, like leaves before a storm” (Scheler
1979: 25). It is easy to see how this type of collective coalescence may
play a part in the most radical types of homogenisation of the human
group. In cases where the emotions coalesced in are based on devaluing
prejudice about others or on fear-mongering, the results have been known
to be particularly destructive. Consider the examples of gravest group
violence in the last 100 years, such as the genocide in Rwanda in 1994,
when in the span of weeks more than 800,000 men, women and children
Love and Sympathy: Building on the Legacy of Max Scheler
161
were killed. The genocide was triggered by a persistent and pervasive
campaign of fear-mongering by ethnic leaders through national radio
programmes, until the entire ethnic groups coalesced in the hate and raised
the machete on each other. The same, to a lesser extent, may have been
true for the Bosnian civil war 1993–1995 (Woodworth 1995: 333–373).
The last psychological phenomenon that Scheler distinguishes from
sympathy proper is “anticipating identification”: a sort of in-born capacity
to transcend the psychological and physical boundaries of an individual’s
integrity and anticipate previously completely unknown structures and
sensibilities of the other, often another species in the animal world,
without ever having directly experienced such structures in another
individual. According to Scheler, this is a capacity that degenerates in
direct proportion with civilizational development. Some wasps are able to
sting caterpillars directly in the nerve centres that cause the caterpillar to
become paralysed until it is fertilised by the wasp, without killing the
caterpillar. The wasp has no direct experience of the inner nerve structure
of the caterpillar; it has never before stung the caterpillar, yet it
unmistakably hits the right spot. This pre-programmed way of interacting
between the species might mean that “(u)nquestionably, we must suppose
the wasp to have some kind of primary ‘knowledge’ concerning the vital
processes of the caterpillar” (Scheler 1979: 29). In the case of human
interaction along this model one is tempted to speak of “instinct” or some
reference to a supposed “prior community” that allow us to know the
minds of others to varying extents:
(…) to be aware of any organism as alive, to distinguish even the simplest
animate movement from an inanimate one, a minimum of undifferentiated
identification is necessary; we shall see how the simplest vicarious
emotion, the most elementary fellow-feeling, and over and above these the
capacity for understanding between minds, are built up on the basis of this
primitive givenness of ‘the other’ (1979: 31).
Scheler notes that, if primitive organisms have this capacity, so much
more it must be the case with the different racial, ethnic and linguistic
communities in human society. Each such community most likely
possesses fine inborn instincts of identification and anticipation which, if
adequately put to work in society, can contribute immensely to the
society’s achievement of its goals, including a high degree of social
harmony. The deep-seated commonalities of the human group that Scheler
sees as the fountain of all the various types of mutual anticipation,
identification and ultimately sympathy, seem to create a firm foundation
for ethics. They appear to eliminate the epistemic and cognitive obstacles
162
Chapter Ten
to knowing other minds (and, by extension, preferences), at least on a very
general level. Thus they seem to greatly assist the development of a
normative system that would adequately focus values that arise from what
really matters to us and to others. However, Scheler was adamant that
sympathy or any of the related cognitive and psychological capacities that
spring from instinctual commonalities should not be used for the
development of ethics. He writes:
We nevertheless reject from the outset an ‘Ethics of Sympathy’ as such,
holding as we do, that the problem of sympathy in general has aspects and
affinities which simply cannot be reached at all by a one-sided analysis and
consideration from a purely ethical point of view (xivii).
Scheler’s hope is to develop a comprehensive theory of sympathy that
would apply across the various disciplines, and he sees an ethics of
sympathy as a limiting normative context for such an elaboration of
sympathy. His biologistic language and evolutionist method witness the
intent to study sympathy not only in the context of social relationships, but
also as it pertains to the natural sciences. His view of sympathy,
identification and fellow-feeling as the basket concept for these and related
phenomena arising from “primal” commonalities is set on a philosophy of
nature. In this, he is close to Henry Bergson’s accounts of the moving
force of nature that refer to a universal “vital instinct” or ‘vital force (Élan
vital) in his 1907 Creative Evolution. Scheler makes clear parallels with
Bergson in his writing and thus helps the reader position his context of
consideration of fellow-feeling in a way very different from the dominant
contemporary context of the study of sympathy, which focuses social
interactions (28–29).
On the other hand, however, although he sees instinctual affinities and
commonalities as sources of enormous explanatory power in the
philosophy of nature, Scheler is quite cynical about the instinctual
foundations of fellow-feeling in human affairs. For him, the human world
fundamentally differs from the rest of nature, so much so that the more
one (instinctually) identifies with others, the more of an animal one
becomes. Conversely, the more a person is independent from primal
commonalities, the more of a human being one becomes.
Scheler decisively casts the human person aside from the world of
nature, which is governed by somewhat mystical instinctual capacities. His
views of mutual identification and the various forms of mutual predirectness between individuals may have much to do with contemporary
discussions of intentionality of the mind (Searle 1983). Scheler’s concept
of sympathy requires a clear awareness of distinct identities between those
Love and Sympathy: Building on the Legacy of Max Scheler
163
who sympathise and those with whom they sympathise. Further, it requires
of those who sympathise the ability to generate an emotional “bridge”
towards those with whom they sympathise, in addition to a cognitive
bridge that allows them to sufficiently understand the minds, especially the
feelings, of others. Both those requirements are key to unlocking issues of
intentionality in the inter-subjective realm, with potential benefits for a
broad array of practical applications, not least in counselling and various
forms of “talk therapy”. Scheler himself decisively casts the “instinctive”
foundations of fellow-feeling aside from the discussion of ethics. His
understanding of the specifically human relations is strongly separated
from his understanding of the natural world, so that allowing the principles
that explain the dynamics of the natural world to play a role in the
explanation of human affairs is an affront to human dignity and
uniqueness of the person. For him, instead of instinct, the ultimate
standard of human action is love, which he sees as a purely expressive act
of the human spirit — one that he seeks to rid of all teleological meaning.
The remainder of this text will focus on Scheler’s views of love. The
argument will proceed by exploring the logical connections between
instinctual (or at least instinctually inspired) forms of sympathy, love, and
ethics. This part of the argument will challenge Scheler’s position on a
strong discontinuity between instinctual sympathy on the one hand, and
love on the other. Based on an interpretation of sympathy that rests on
Scheler’s views, I will show towards the end of the paper how an ethics of
sympathy is not only possible, but also very simple and elegant, as well as
coherent with traditional methodologies for moral judgements.
Scheler on love
Scheler’s view of love marks his sharp departure from instinctivism
in understanding the fellow-feeling. While fellow-feeling derives from
the natural world, and its various forms exist in animals, love is a spiritual
act reserved only for man. In fact, Scheler goes so far in portraying love
as an elevated act of the human mind that he denies any teleological
content or use to it: if an emotion has teleological elements, as many
emotions do, according to Scheler, it does not qualify to be called love.
Unlike fellow-feeling, which allows speedy communication and nonverbal understanding within and even between species (and this facilitates
various types of teleological action, such as breeding or fighting), love is a
“purely expressive act”:
164
Chapter Ten
In all endeavor there is a content to be realized, which is inherent as its
goal (or “purpose”, when we will). Love does not have this at all. What
does a mother have to “realize” when she gazes lovingly at her bonny child
asleep? What is supposedly “realized” in loving God? Or in loving works
of art? 141).
Scheler goes further and argues that love is in fact not a feeling at all:
“Love is not a ‘feeling’ (i.e. a function), but an act and a movement. (...)
(L)ove is an emotional gesture and a spiritual act” (143). It concerns
values rather than “purposes”, and is in a sense more aesthetic than
practical. Sympathy may be extended to people we do not love, however
even in such cases sympathy is made possible by an act of love which is
directed to a different object than that of sympathy. For example, in
commiserating with someone’s misfortune, the sympathy with the person
one does not necessarily love comes from one’s “love” for the entire
human species or, as Scheler points out, for a group the individual belongs
to (family, profession, etc.). This interpretation readily applies to accounts
of sympathy in terms of deeper solidarity, even affection that arises from
kinship (McInturff 2007). However, the “broader love” that makes
possible sympathy is not limited to relations of kin: it extends to a variety
of shared collective identities. A soldier may commiserate with the
predicament of his fallen comrade’s family, even though he may not have
known the other soldier and certainly did not “love” him. However, in
Scheler’s context, the sympathy shown to the family springs from the love
the soldier feels for the entire group, all soldiers, and by extension for their
families. Thus, although sympathy cannot exist without love, it may show
itself between individuals who do not love each other; there is a certain
“directional divergence” between the act of love that is involved in such
acts of sympathy, and sympathy itself.
On the other hand, when there is love between two people, there is
necessarily also sympathy between them. One who loses a loved one will
suffer, and one whose loved one suffers a misfortune will necessarily feel
sympathy for them. Thus, in a sense, love is a necessary and sufficient
condition for sympathy, while sympathy is merely a manifestation of love
(Scheler 1979: 142). Scheler’s explanation is that love is somehow
“intrinsically about values”, whereas sympathy is “essentially valueneutral”: “In acts of love and hate there is certainly an element of
valuation present, positively or negatively (...); but mere fellow-feeling, in
all its possible forms, is in principle blind to value” (5). The relationship
between love and sympathy described above is accounted for in terms of
value-commitments: “(L)ove is extended, not to the suffering of those in
Love and Sympathy: Building on the Legacy of Max Scheler
165
distress, but to the positive values inherent in them, and the act of relieving
their suffering is only a consequence of this” (144).
Scheler’s view of love as essentially aesthetic thus allows teleological
manifestations in the form of sympathy, but it does not contain such
elements in its definition. He insists that love is a “spiritual expressive
act”, which may equally have as its object another person or a work of art.
It is questionable how plausible the attribute “spiritual” is here, as it
typically denotes higher realms of conscious action with normative
capacity to influence one’s behaviour, rather than merely aesthetic
appreciation of values inherent in people or objects. It appears that
Scheler’s view of love is unduly limiting: essentially it disallows the lover
to treat the loved one as a means, in much the same way as Kantian ethics
rests on revulsion to using other persons as means. This structural parallel
is quite gripping in Scheler’s writing. Kant, who is an inspiration to
Scheler, insists that it is immoral to treat others “merely as means”, but
they may be treated as means if at the same time they are treated as “ends
in themselves” — e.g. if they agree to be used as a means for something.
Scheler, on the other hand, does not allow that love might involve any
instrumental, or “teleological”, value to be attached to its object in the eyes
of the one who loves. Love is thus constrained exclusively to the
intellectual or “spiritual” realm.
In fact, for Scheler love is modeled upon aesthetic contemplation.
Studying a work of art does not invite contemplation of any use for the
artifact; it is confined to the mere appreciation of the mastery of the artist
and the value of the work itself. With persons, if they are perceived in the
same way as works of art, one may feel a direct connection to their
“intrinsic values”. Once the “loved” person is in distress, sympathy will be
triggered, in much the same way as once a painting is damaged, one who
truly appreciates it will feel alarm. Still, the feelings triggered by the
suffering of the loved one are not elements of love; the love is directed to
the values of the person regardless of the misfortune that has begot it. In
the same way, if a painting is damaged by water, with paints running from
it, one will feel the urge to “do something”, to set things right, or will at
least be distressed at the destruction of the painting. While acting to save
the painting, however, whatever feelings one might have, they are not the
love for the running colours, but for the painting as it was. The destruction
of the painting, just the same as the suffering of a loved one, threaten and
possibly destroy the values that one loves in either a work of art or a
person. The reaction to such threat or destruction, while necessary, is
conceptually very different from the love itself.
166
Chapter Ten
The aesthetics of love espoused by Scheler extends in a practically
particularly important context to the interpretation of sex and parenthood.
For Scheler, sex is a metaphysical union between two persons; it is sacred
to the extent that it allows unique cognitive insights into the inner value of
another person. There is no other way in which this particular type of
knowledge of another can be obtained. All the practical problems arising
from sexual relations are in fact due to the conceptual degradation of sex
to pleasure, a way of serving the preservation of the species, or
entertainment:
(W)e must restore the idea of the sexual act to that true metaphysical
significance (...). This significance and meaning attaches to it quite apart
from the delectable joys by which it is accompanied in consciousness; it is
equally remote from the consummation of the objective biological purpose
of procreation, and still more so from any subjective design for the
propagation, preservation, increase or betterment of mankind. We regard
the metaphysical degradation of the sexual act as a principle essentially
fatal to the correct governance of sexual relationships and to the
enlargement and improvement of population in the Western world of
modern times; it is the prime source or every error and aberration in
matters of this kind (Scheler 1979: 110).
Like love itself, the sexual act “represents an expressive act which does
not differ essentially from the many other expressions of love and
affection, such as kissing, caressing, etc.” (110). Procreation, which results
from sex, has a metaphysical purpose to make the human race better. The
aesthetics of love, in itself an emanation of human spirituality and
intellectuality, externally serves this purpose, because the values loved in
the loved one are ones that, in their spiritual dimension, may be inherited,
even improved, through procreation. No child is merely a combination of
characteristics of its parents; each is a unique person, who may carry a
higher value than any of those possessed by one’s parents.
The pre-requisite for this understanding of procreation is an approach
to love and sex that sees them as reaching for and beyond the best of each
partner — loving, in the other person, those values that one would want
enlarged and improved in one’s offspring. This approach to love is at once
metaphysical and existential. Sex that is motivated by pleasure or desire
for mere biological procreation, while being deprived of true love, simply
reproduces, “whereas love creates. For love is simply an emotional
assessment of value, anticipated as offering the likeliest chance for the
qualitative betterment of mankind” (113).
The idea behind the described interpretation of love is that intellectual
appreciation of value will, eventually, lead to a greater realisation of that
Love and Sympathy: Building on the Legacy of Max Scheler
167
value in the real world. The way to appreciate is to understand, and
“(m)an’s point of entry into identification with the life of the cosmos lies
where that life is nearest and in closest affinity to his own, namely in
another man” (108). Through another man, one reaches the climax of
understanding the value of human life. “(F)or the civilised man, the loving
sexual act discloses, not knowledge indeed, but a source of possible
knowledge, and metaphysical knowledge at that, which he can otherwise
obtain only very imperfectly (...)” (109). The more loving sex is, and the
more authentic the love as an expressive and aesthetic act is, the greater
the likelihood that the children produced will embody the values that set
the standard of one’s aesthetic appreciation of others, and even transcend
the level of perfection of those values that the partners love in each other.
Consequently, the “beastly” sex focused on calculations of offspring or
merely on pleasure is value-neutral, or even negative, and is thus limited
to mere biological reproduction, which is the same as in the rest of the
natural world.
For Scheler, love is the highest “spiritual” capacity of the person, one
that most purely distinguishes man from the rest of nature. Love in its
sexual form is not merely mating, but a penetration of one person by
another: the metaphysical point of contact between two human
microcosms and at the same time the most immediate gateway into the
“cosmos of life.” The progress of the human race depends on procreation
through loving sex. Conversely, it is directly threatened by reproduction
through recreational sex or one calculated to produce children without
love. From the point of view of an individual person, such love must be
completely removed from practical considerations and instrumental
concerns, and must have the intellectual purity of aesthetic appreciation of
value. From the point of view of the human species, such individual
disregard for the “teleology” of love and sex results in the most highly
valued, higher-order teleology: betterment of mankind.
Sympathy, love and ethics
Scheler’s account of love and sympathy depends on his understanding
of a fundamental divide between the natural side of man and his spiritual
side. Thus, he feels obliged to deny any possibility of ethics based on
sympathy, for sympathy is something biological and instinctive that unites
man and animal in the same natural context. At the same time, he is unable
to found ethics on love, because love is completely free, thus it cannot be
subjected to duty. Scheler is extremely critical of the Christian ethics of
love that posits love of another man as a moral duty. He goes as far as
168
Chapter Ten
making cynical comments that the “old priestly morality” has denied a free
love and turned love into a moral duty “partly from professional jealousy”,
leading the church to “deny what they have had to forgo” (116).
Furthermore, he argues that freedom of love has been curtailed by the
Church because it could not stand the prospect of love for woman (or man)
competing with one’s love of God (116).
On the one hand, Scheler’s philosophy of love as a metaphysical
relationship between people, which is endowed with significant cognitive
gateways into the world of another and, by extension, into our own nature
and that of “cosmos”, is attractive. On the other, his view of love as
severely restricted to aesthetic appreciation, to a value-relationship, and
devoid of any practical intent or passionate pleasure as a part of its
meaning (not as consequences of being in love), is exaggerated and
excessively polarised against an underestimated sympathy. This makes it
impossible to ground ethics in either fellow-feeling or love. Scheler
acknowledges the “misfiring” of ethics in these contexts very clearly and
readily. However, it appears that the exaggerated polarisation between
sympathy as instinctive and love as excessively aesthetic and “spiritual” is
unwarranted, and that much of Scheler’s basic teaching about both
sympathy and love can be factored in an ethics of sympathy.
Scheler’s argument that sympathy, with its immense cognitive
potential for intra- and inter-species cooperation, is strictly teleological,
while love “has an intrinsic reference to value”, and is thus a purely
spiritual expressive act, rather than being a feeling, is the main problem
here (141). There is at least a plausible alternative view that sympathy can
have a fundamental reference to value. If one adopts Scheler’s view of
sympathy as primarily an epistemic tool to quickly and immediately
communicate within the natural world (close to a sort of inborn intuition
of the species), this has interesting consequences when transposed to the
context of complex modern societies. Such societies repeatedly mediate
“natural” relations between individuals by institutions. As they are highly
non-transparent (they are large and difficult to understand, and their
members do not know each other, or about each other), institutions play a
key cognitive role: they allow people to relate to each other via the
institutional arrangements.
Institutions paternalise varying scopes of social interactions in ways
that contribute to transparency and, indirectly, allow sympathy between
members of the community who otherwise might be entirely unable to
sympathise with one another. Institutional decisions typify life situations,
obligations and avenues for the satisfaction of interests and fulfilment of
life prospects in ways that are relatively understandable to most. They
Love and Sympathy: Building on the Legacy of Max Scheler
169
generate social routes for the achievement of certain social goals, and,
depending on the quality of their organisation and operation, monitor
movements along these routes. In this way they act as social “traffic
lights”: one knows the meaning of the various lights and the typical
situations that people find themselves in when they face each light.
Institutions, if effective, also allow sympathy to be extended to those who
run the lights and face sanctions, because they make it possible for
everyone to understand what it means to run a light, and how most people
feel about the consequences. If they are sufficiently constructive, and not
predominantly repressive, institutions play an important epistemic
function. In complex communities, they make possible sympathy and
other more complex forms of fellow-feeling, including those that play key
parts in solidarity and trust. This role of institutions is easily overlooked
because of their predominant perception as regulators.
On a more sophisticated level, institutions play their epistemic role by
reference to values. They exert an educational influence and, by
formalising the leading role of social (including political) elites, set key
values and standards for the society. These values in themselves also serve
as beacons for sympathy. Societies adopt common moralities, generalised
attitudes to key issues, and ultimately depend on a degree of consensus on
these fundamental concepts. In addition, social solidarity depends not only
on sympathy, but also on the shared values: in fact, it could be said that
sympathy arising from solidarity is based on a consensual adoption of
certain values. People whose communities’ values are threatened tend to
feel marked sympathy for their peers who excel in the protection of those
values. A person who is imprisoned because of protesting against an
authoritarian government on behalf of a repressed community will likely
receive sympathy from the members of that community, most of whom do
not know the person. Even those who dislike her on a personal level will
likely sympathise with their situation, because that situation is predicated
upon the adoption of common values. This is arguably one of the most
common and obvious forms of sympathy arising from solidarity in modern
social contexts.
Scheler’s idea that sympathy is fundamentally unrelated to values
appears both unintuitive and empirically infeasible. His idea that sympathy
is incapable of founding an ethic seems equally infeasible, because at least
an ethics of duty must envision a moral obligation between members of
the community regardless of their free exercise of love for each other. If
one is to act morally, one must have a standard that allows one to map the
avenue of required action towards others even if one hates them. A
170
Chapter Ten
feasible ethics must be able to relate our action towards those to whom we
might otherwise be indifferent or antagonistic.
Strictly speaking, acting constructively towards a loved one is not a
matter for ethics, because such action is usually the result of the love itself,
exceptions granted. Normally one wishes to act well towards a loved one.
On the other hand, at least the duty of ethics relates our moral obligation
not to our wishes, but to normative criteria that include others’ rights,
among other things. Thus it appears that sympathy as a sentiment with
strong cognitive attributes, which is capable of motivating constructive
relations without recourse to love in the strict sense (the completely free
exercise of aesthetic and metaphysical love described by Scheler), is in
fact a good standard to found an ethic.
It is, of course, one thing to point to problems within a theory, and
quite another to prove a different point. In what follows I shall attempt to
illustrate, rather than conclusively prove, a possibility and potential uses of
an ethics of sympathy. In doing so, I will confine my argument to the
definitional bounds for the concepts of sympathy and love drawn by
Scheler. This will illustrate the possibility of an ethics of sympathy not just
in general, but within a broad context of his philosophy of sympathy.
An ethics of sympathy
Discussions of ethics of sympathy have almost systematically tended
to adopt the so-called “sentimentalist” ethics as their defining frame of
reference. Sentimentalism is a tradition that sees morality as predominantly
based on emotions, or moral sentiments. Thus David Hume believed that
“morality is founded upon and rooted in feeling” (Slote 2003: 79). Other
representatives of sentimentalism included Francis Hutcheson and Adam
Smith. The western intellectual history knows the latter mainly as an
economist, although he was primarily an ethicist and one of the founders
of sentimentalism in ethics (Smith 1997).
Smith’s discussion of sympathy is programmatic for the modern ethics
of empathy as a foundation of ethics, because he insists that the foundation
for the moral judgement of others’ actions is to place ourselves in their
position — not merely cognitively, but also emotionally. He speaks about
“sympathy with the dead” as a mental experiment whereby we place “our
own living souls in their unanimated bodies” and examine “what would be
our emotions in this case” (7-8). What Smith discusses is clearly not
sympathy in Scheler’s sense; rather it is empathy as it is conceptualised
today. The reason moral sentimentalists had used the term sympathy for
theories that required an emotional “engrossment” in another’s situation is
Love and Sympathy: Building on the Legacy of Max Scheler
171
that empathy as a concept was introduced only in the 20th century. (Slote
2007: 13).
Moral sentimentalism has recently been put forward as an ethics in its
own right by Michael Slote. His definition of the moral good is simple:
moral goodness consists in one’s emphatic care for others (10‒11). Robert
White clarifies the key elements of this position in the following way:
According to Slote, moral goodness does not consist in merely caring for
another, but in empathically caring for another. When we morally approve
of another’s caring, we do not merely approve of their caring, we
empathise with their empathic caring (White 2009: 464).
Empathic caring for another provides insights for observers into the
character of the moral agent. The perception of his virtue by others is
directly influenced by his emotional engrossment in the situation of
another, in addition to trying to alleviate their suffering.
While an ethics of empathy has obvious social advantages and is
potentially productive of cooperation in the community, as a self-contained
ethics it suffers from a seeming inability to adequately incorporate duties.
On the one hand, it is virtuous to empathise with others. On the other, the
idea that the achievement of virtue entails the moral obligation to
empathise does not imply the rights of those who are in distress to such
empathy by their peers. One may or may not exercise empathy: in the
former case, one fulfils a moral obligation that stems from virtue; in the
latter case, one simply lacks virtue. However, given the voluntary nature
of the decision to empathise the sufferer cannot be considered to possess a
right to empathy by others. If one does not empathise with peers in distress
one will be seen as lacking virtue, however this will not violate any rights
of those in distress, because, strictly speaking, there are no such rights
(467). Empathy is merely an act of benevolence on the part of the moral
agent.
Scheler’s view of sympathy sharply divides sympathy from empathy in
a rather similar way to his distinction between sympathy and love.
Empathy, somewhat like love, is a free act of the human “spirit”, or mind,
which is not conditioned upon instrumental considerations, and which
requires transference of emotions between the sufferer and the moral
agent. Sympathy, on the other hand, is primarily cognitive: placing oneself
cognitively in another’s shoes requires the recognition of the salient
features of the other person’s position, choices and emotions, but not one’s
“heteropathic identification” with another. In order to sympathise, one
must both be in another’s position in the cognitive sense, and maintain a
172
Chapter Ten
clear perception of one’s own identity difference from that of the sufferer.
This is a situation that suggests care for another, but not empathy.
An ethics of sympathy would rest on the largely innate capacities of
the human mind to relate to other members of the same species in the way
that Scheler so elaborately accounts for. It would be able to entail one’s
duty to take into account another’s position. Such an ethic can appreciate
virtue arising from a propensity to sympathise. In this context moral
goodness is defined as a highly developed capacity for sympathy and the
resulting care for one’s peers. The work required for the development of
such virtue would be the practicing of sympathy, or ‘the frequent perusal
of virtue’ that eventually leads all those who are ‘tolerably virtuous’ to
become good (Hume 1963: 174).
Unlike in the ethics of empathy, duty and rights can be readily
inculcated in an ethics of sympathy. One’s exercise of sympathy
constitutes one’s fulfilment of moral obligations required by virtue, but
also one’s moral duty. Scheler’s philosophy posits sympathy as largely a
pre-given capacity, and indeed inclination, which is predominantly
instinctive. Thus there is really no question about everybody’s ability and
general predisposition to sympathise with others. The extent to which this
is possible depends primarily on one’s exercise of virtue, discipline and
control over one’s character, all of which is entirely consistent with the
requirements of a morally developed life. It is therefore clear that
sympathy can be posited as a moral duty, as it is both morally desirable
and members of the community have a general capacity to exercise it.
Once it is defined as a moral duty, it follows that all members of the
community have a right to sympathy by others, and this suffices for a selfcontained ethics. The way in which other rights will be defined in a
community that embraces an ethic of empathy does not really matter to
such ethics: the crucial thing is that in exercising moral judgement, by
whatever yardstick the community may choose, the over-riding “moral
methodology”, and at the same time substantive requirement, is sympathy.
While an ethics of sympathy does not prima facie exclude any
substantive values or political ideologies, it exercises a systematic
influence on them. For example, if a community has a liberal ideology
with a strong emphasis on minimal regulation and the dynamic force of
the market, the system will be “softened” towards those who are
vulnerable through the exercise of the rights to, and duties of, sympathy.
In such a community, which may possess a bustling capitalist economy,
the poor will not be left homeless and uncared for, and the sick will not be
left without medical care if they cannot afford it. Automatically, the social
Love and Sympathy: Building on the Legacy of Max Scheler
173
democratic elements will “creep in” if sympathy is the over-riding moral
value.
If a community embraces a retributive approach to punishment, this
too will be softened by the role of sympathy. Punishments may still be
meted out according to perceptions of “just deserts”, however the
perceptions themselves are likely to be less harsh once there is a moral
requirement to try to also see the crime from the point of view of the
perpetrator. In such a system the role of extenuating circumstances,
various legal pardons and other alleviating factors will likely be far greater
than may otherwise be the case in retributive criminal justice.
In societies permeated with a morality of sympathy, violence and
crime would likely decrease, at least as far as they are predicated upon
social circumstances of exclusion, deprivation, or the aggressive
ideological stereotypes of “success” (Merton 1938; Cloward and Ohlin
1960; Fatić 2010). Predatory behaviour in humans that is encouraged by
ideological models of competition and evolutionist views of “survival of
the fittest” being uncritically transposed to social life would also likely
mellow down. Undoubtedly exceptional social benefits could be expected
from a broad adoption of the ethics of sympathy. This makes it an
excellent candidate for utilitarian ethics. However, an ethics of sympathy
would also satisfy the traditional Kantian deontic requirements: anybody
could reasonably desire that the “maxim” of one’s (sympathetic) action
becomes a “general principle.” In the deontological context sympathy is a
substantive moral requirement that is readily universalisable. Finally, an
ethics of sympathy is a ready virtue ethics, which envisions the
development of the virtue of sympathy as a moral task.
All of the above considerations suggest that Scheler’s interpretation of
sympathy can be principally maintained in a self-contained ethics of
sympathy. Such ethics is compatible with all three main traditional ethical
methodologies — utilitarianism, deontology and virtue ethics. Finally, the
ethics of sympathy would be useful in a variety of contexts, and would
provide a clear and simple formulation of the virtue whose general
cultivation and enhancement the society could foster unequivocally. Thus,
while Scheler is correct in arguing that there are serious problems in the
conceptualisation of an ethics of love, conceived as a free exercise of
value-appreciation in another, he is wrong in arguing that sympathy is
incapable of sustaining an ethics of its own. In fact, an ethics of sympathy
is not only possible, but also very simple and capable of elegantly fitting
in the traditional conceptual frameworks of moral philosophy.
174
Chapter Ten
References
Cloward, Richard and Lloyd Ohlin (1960): Delinquency and Opportunity.
New York: The Free Press.
Fatić, Aleksandar (2010): Uloga kazne u savremenoj poliarhičnoj
demokratiji (The Role of Punishment in Polyarchic Democracy).
Belgrade: Institute of International Politics and Economics.
Gilligan, Carol (1993): In a Different Voice: Psychological Theory and
Women's Development. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University
Press.
Held, Virginia (2006): The Ethics of Care: Personal, Political, and
Global. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Hume, David (1963): ‘The Sceptic’, Essay 18 in Hume, Essays: Moral,
Political and Literary. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Macintyre, Alasdair (1981): After Virtue. London: Duckworth.
McInturff, Cate (2007): ’Rex Oedipus: The Ethics of Sympathy in Recent
Work by J.M. Coetzee’. Postcolonial text 3,
postcolonial.org/index.php/pct/article/download/623/494,
accessed December 2012.
Merton, Robert (1938): ‘Social Structure and Anomie’. American
Sociological Review 3: 672-682.
Noddings, Neil (2003): Caring: A Feminine Approach to Ethics and
Moral Education (2nd ed.). Berkeley: University of California Press.
O’Neil, Onora (2004): ‘Global Justice: Whose Obligations’. In The Ethics
of Assistance: Morality and the Distant Needy, Edited by Deen K.
Chatterjee, New York: Cambridge University Press: 242‒259.
Scheler, Max (1979): The Nature of Sympathy, trans. Peter Heath, edited
by W. Stark. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul.
Searle, John (1983): Intentionality. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press.
Slote, Michael (1992): From Morality to Virtue. New York: Oxford
University Press.
—. (1998): ’The Justice of Caring’. Social Philosophy & Policy 15: 171195.
—. (2003): ’Sentimentalist Virtue and Moral Judgement: Outline of a
Project’, Metaphilosophy 34: 131-143.
—. (2004), ’Moral Sentimentalism’. Ethical Theory and Moral Practice 7:
3-14.
—. (2007): The Ethics of Care and Empathy. London: Routledge.
—. (1992): From Morality to Virtue. New York: Oxford University Press.
—. (2007): The Ethics of Care and Empathy. London: Routledge.
Love and Sympathy: Building on the Legacy of Max Scheler
175
Smith, Adam (1997): The Theory of Moral Sentiments. Washington:
Regnery.
Stewart, Ian (2008): Transactional Analysis: Counseling in Action. Ithaca:
Sage Publications.
White, Robert (2009): ’Care and Justice’. Ethical Perspectives 16: 459483.
Woodworth, Susan (1995): Balkan Tragedy: Chaos and Dissolution After
the Cold War. Washington: The Brookings Institution.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LOVE THROUGH PROXIMITY AND DISTANCE
IN GOETHE AND BENJAMIN
SONIA ARRIBAS
Walter Benjamin wrote that nearness and distance, as well as
appearance and disappearance, are important representational motives to
think of love and the erotic. In the unpublished philosophical fragment
“Outline of the Psychophysical Problem”, (Benjamin 1996: 393-401) he
maintains, for example, that whereas sexuality is connected to nearness,
erotic life is ignited by distance. Benjamin writes here that these spatial
categories serve to describe the body’s reaction to other bodies — its
physical reaction to the encounter with other bodies in the face of the
limitation and individuality that characterizes it. The crucial thing, however,
is that he thinks of the body as intrinsically connected to historical events
— even world events — i.e. never as a substratum independent of the
temporal and historical determinations in which the body finds itself. His
idea, then, is to discern the way in which these categories do indeed tell us,
when we use them, about the historical and temporal way in which an
always embodied subject interacts with, and is confronted with, another
embodied subject. Nearness and distance are thus not mere physical
categories, as the natural sciences usually take them to be, but first and
foremost (in his own terms) “psychophysical” categories, i.e. categories
that speak about how a historical and embodied subject relates to other
historical and embodied subjects.
In Section VI of “Outline of Psychophysical Problem,” entitled “Near
and Distance (continued)”, Benjamin also introduces two opposed terms
that, in his view, are commonly employed to describe how a subject
situates himself with respect to the historical and temporal determinations
that precede him and which at any moment act on him (398-400). These
are fate and character. As is well known, only three years before, in 1919,
he had already written a whole text (“Fate and Character,” published in
1921) about these two terms and their meaning in moral philosophy (201-
Love through Proximity and Distance in Goethe and Benjamin
177
206). We will come back to it a little bit later. In the aforementioned
fragment he connects them with the spatial categories that we want to
discuss in this essay. He thus writes that when fate imprisons man, it is
because he is determined by what is close to him. And if, on the contrary,
man is said to be free, then it is because fate operates in him from a
distance. In relation to erotic life, distance and proximity function as
indexes that refer to how two sexed beings relate to, and affect, each other.
Benjamin suggests that in the ideal perfect love distance and nearness
appear to be in complete balance, as two forces that mutually influence
each other without neutralizing their powers. If Dante places his beloved
Beatrice far away, among the stars, he does it by thinking that in Beatrice
— or we could also say, thanks to her — the stars will at the same time be
close to him. Thus in perfect love distance and nearness exchange roles in
equilibrium, without dissolving the tension inherent between the two
poles. Perfect love exemplifies ideally why proximity and separation are
decisive for any kind of love. For Benjamin believes that distance is a
spatial category that allows us to represent whatever force determines the
subject’s body, whereas proximity can be used to represent a force that
impels one subject to influence another subject. The intense feeling of
longing caused by the absence of the beloved, by the distance between the
lovers, testifies to the former. “Yearning is a state of being-determined”
(400). On the other hand, extreme closeness testifies to an uncontrolled
desire to bind oneself to the other’s body. Benjamin suggests that the
sexual relations that are performed by the married couples portrayed in
Strindberg’s plays are a good example of that oppressive proximity. The
corollary of this is that some kind of distance, even the fear of an abyss,
has to exist and act as a counterbalance to the perils of extreme closeness
if an erotic or passionate intimacy is to arouse between two subjects.
Again, what Benjamin is trying to do with the recourse to this spatial
terminology is to think of a way to thematize the subject’s body as
necessarily mediated through historical determinations. He is also figuring
out why in philosophical reflection, but also in everyday language, we use
spatial categories to describe the subject’s embedment in historical events
and his (in)capacity to act freely. A man is subjected to fate when the
people or the circumstances that are close to him determine his actions. If
he is capable of altering that which lies near at hand, or if distant things
have effects upon his life, then we say that he is free. Benjamin contends,
in this sense, that the ancient habit of interrogating the distant stars is
connected with the search for freedom. The idea is thus to think of the
subject as always embodied, as always situated in a spatial environment
that can be modified by him, or that can modify the subject himself. Both
178
Chapter Eleven
the degree to which the subject is capable of modifying this environment,
and the distance of the people and things that inhabit it, tell us about his
freedom. He says that distance represents a subject capable of reacting
with prudence to what befalls upon him. And that proximity represents a
subject that, subjected to his fate, broods over what is to come. But it can
also sometimes represent a subject that is capable of freely determining his
life and having effects on his environment.
It is in Benjamin’s essay on “Goethe’s Elective Affinities” where we
find in great detail how distance and proximity can be used as
representational motives to convey the interaction (attraction / repulsion)
between subjects in an erotic relationship (297-360). It could also be
argued that Benjamin drew some inspiration for this insight from his
reading of Goethe, as the Elective Affinities, as we will see, vividly uses
many of these motives. As is well known, the title of the novel is a
technical term used by Goethe following the Swedish chemist Torbern
Olof Bergmann that refers to the different combinations that natural
phenomena adopt when they enter into contact with other natural
phenomena, that is, the ways in which they can disintegrate from the
original chemical compound in order to form a new compound. Goethe
takes this idea and translates it into human relations: the novel starts with
the compound of a married couple (Charlotte and Eduard). The plot shows
how their relationship can endure (or not) as a formal union between
husband and wife once its increasingly separate elements enter into contact
with a third (the Captain), and a bit later on, a fourth element (Ottilie).
It is because of the central role that marriage occupies in the novel —
as well as for the biographical fact that when Goethe wrote it he had
married just two years before the woman with whom he had lived for a
long time and had also fallen in love with a younger woman — that many
commentators have written that marriage as an institution recognized by
the law is indeed its central motive or, in Benjamin’s words, its “material
content”. Benjamin dedicates a number of paragraphs of his essay to
criticize the insufficiency of this reading. He considers that the task of the
critic is to investigate not only the “material content” of a work of art, but
also its “truth content”. When Goethe’s Elective Affinities is examined by
also taking into account its truth content — a content that was most
certainly unknown for the artist himself and the public of his time for it
requires the passage of time to become visible — then what we find is
clearly a much more interesting interpretation.
Mittler, that peculiar character that plays the role of the “mediator”,
expresses very clearly the view according to which marriage, the
indissoluble union of husband and wife, is the pinnacle of culture. His
Love through Proximity and Distance in Goethe and Benjamin
179
belief is that it is the fundamental institution of all moral society. “There
were no divorces and the local judiciary was not pestered by a single suit
or contention during the whole period of his incumbency,” Goethe writes
ironically about him (Goethe 1971: 33). When we concentrate on this sole
aspect of marriage, then what we have is a novel that shows what happens
to its main characters when its institutional and foundational nature is
violated. And the paradox of the novel is that it shows marriage to be in
decline, at the same time that Mittler — who, by the way, is a bachelor —
defends it at all costs.
At a deeper level, however, Benjamin claims, the novel is not mainly
about marriage as a social phenomenon, no matter how much it seems to
be so at first glance: “The subject of Elective Affinities is not marriage”
(Benjamin 1996: 302). It is true that the main characters of the novel
struggle to stay within its grip at all costs, and that they do this in the name
of their cultivation [Bildung] and conscience. Eduard thinks, for instance,
that the life that he shares with his wife will not be turned upside down by
the arrival of a third party because they are both “educated by experience,
and more aware of themselves” (Goethe 1971: 25) than the majority of
people. Charlotte is reassured by the fact that the Captain seems to have a
great “insight about himself and… so clear a perception of his own
position and that of his friends” (37). But, as Benjamin writes: “At the
height of their cultivation, however, they are subject to the forces that
cultivation claims to have mastered” (Benjamin 1996: 304). It is also
certainly true that, even when they put themselves in the thorniest
situations, they conform to their customary behaviors and to the rituals of
marriage as if nothing had happened. In that terrible night when the baby
is conceived at the end of Chapter 11 of Part 1, for instance, Charlotte is
capable of acting like a shy and loving bride, and Edward can be as kind
and affectionate as a man who has just fallen in love. But their embraces
and their tenderness are only possible because both of them are imagining
that they are sleeping with someone else. Are these two bodies not
completely distant in the moment when they are most closely together?:
In the lamplight twilight inner inclination at once asserted its rights,
imagination at once asserted its rights over reality. Eduard held Ottilie in
his arms. The Captain hovered back and forth [Orig.: näher oder ferner
(closer or further)] before the soul of Charlotte. The absent and the present
were in a miraculous way entwined, seductively and blissfully, each with
the other (Goethe 1971: 106).
180
Chapter Eleven
Is this not the most violent form of adultery? Eduard will call it a
“double adultery” (260). Indeed, it will leave its unmistakable traces on
the body of the child to be born.
If the marriage portrayed in the novel interests Benjamin, then, it is not
because marriage is an institution enforced and protected by the law that
here is shown to be in crisis, but rather because it is an expression of the
continuance of love (Benjamin 1996: 301).
The subject of the novel has to do with the way in which the main
characters react to the encounter with the new elements, with the degree to
which they let themselves be dominated by the power of the natural forces
that operate in the original situation, or the degree to which they are
willing to change that situation, and follow their newly encountered
desires, in order to create a new relationship, a new love. It is here and in
this precise sense, then, that the chemical metaphor of the “elective
affinities” is used in the novel. Recall the passages of the novel in which
this mechanism is explained, and Eduard, the Captain and Charlotte
imagine the different combinations that could develop out of it. Some
natural phenomena will always refuse any kind of interaction with other
phenomena and will continue the way they were; others will unite with the
new element without transforming each other in any way, and others will
change with the help of new laws and customs. “Those natures which,
when they meet, quickly lay hold on and mutually affect one another we
call affined” (Goethe 1971: 52). Edward thus concludes:
[T]he most complicated cases are in fact the most interesting. It is only
when you consider these that you get to know the degrees of affinity, the
close and stronger, the more distant and weaker relationships; the affinities
become very interesting only when they bring about divorces (53).
There is no need for long psychological descriptions of the emotions of
the characters. Goethe depicts very carefully, with the skill of a chemist
and almost without us noticing, how a situation gradually arises in which
both partners are confronted with moments of freedom in which they have
to choose whether they continue playing their familiar roles of husband
and wife, or whether they act according to their newly felt impulses. The
spatial terminology of nearness and distance expresses the tension inherent
in this process. Sometimes it is also used to convey how the desire for
everyday things depends on how far these things are, as when the Captain
says that: “Food and drink taste better after a long [Orig.: entfernte
(distant)] walk than they would have tasted at home” (77). At other
moments it simply refers to the need to go far away when things are not
Love through Proximity and Distance in Goethe and Benjamin
181
going so well: “She [Charlotte] feels that distance alone will not be
enough to cure the disease, it is too grave for that” (118).
If the elements separate and form a new combination, then clearly an
“elective affinity” has taken place, since one relationship was preferred to
another and chosen instead of it. But the freedom necessary for this choice
comes at a price: “Far from opening up new perspectives for them, it
blinds them to the reality that inhabits what they fear” (Benjamin 1996:
303). Husband and wife feel the possibility of altering the original
compound as if it was a struggle against natural forces. Indeed, these
forces are the power of custom and habit, the rituals of marriage, their
daily loving gestures, and the past that Charlotte and Eduard share — and
none of them should be underestimated. Who, except Charlotte, could play
music so nicely with Eduard? Whereas she plays the piano very well, he is
a bad player of the flute, but only Charlotte can manage it so that nobody
notices: “it would have been very difficult for anyone else to get through a
duet with him” (Goethe 1971: 36). All these shared experiences and
common practices operate as natural forces that husband and wife will
have to alter and leave behind in order to dissolve their marriage and
create a new union. Similarly to what Benjamin says about the body in his
“Outline of Psychophysical Problem”, in the Elective Affinities nature is
not to be understood, then, as an inert substratum prior to the historical,
but rather as a site of conflict in which a subject struggles with more or
less success to take upon himself a situation in order to alter it according
to his new desires. But the subjects of the novel fail in this task: “Marriage
seems a destiny more powerful than the choice to which the lovers give
themselves up” (Benjamin 1996: 308).
Marriage as an institution recognized by the law is then the material
content of the deeper theme of the novel, which we could start spelling out
as a question: to which extent can the natural forces of habit and custom
determine a subject, and to which extent — at what prize we could also
ask — can the subject persevere in altering such forces according to his
newly found desires? Or, as Charlotte exclaims after she has heard what
the elective affinities are about: “I would never see a choice here but rather
a natural necessity and indeed hardly that; for in the last resort it is perhaps
only a matter of opportunity… Once they have been brought together,
though, God help them!” (Goethe 1971: 54). Is it a choice, a natural
necessity or, rather, a matter of opportunity? What is clear in the novel is
that the effects of the elective affinities turn out to be really violent.
Benjamin interprets all the premonitions that appear in the Elective
Affinities as expressions of fate and as a symbolism of death: “In its most
hidden features, the entire work is woven through by that symbolism”
182
Chapter Eleven
(Benjamin 1996: 305). He argues that all these different signs are
connected around the episode of the crystal cup, which was supposed to be
destroyed on the occasion of the inauguration of a building. A young
workman throws it into the air, but it does not come back to earth because
it is caught in mid-flight. Benjamin also notices that the first three chapters
of Part II are filled with conversations about the burial-ground were
Ottilie’s body will lie. We could also add that Goethe’s account of how the
main characters interpret these omens are filled with references either
about the proximity of those that we love or about the disappearance of
bodies in the distance to the point of death. When Ottilie walks around the
church she gazes up and around “it seemed to her that she was and was
not, she felt her existence and did not feel it, she felt all her existence and
did not feel it, she felt that all this before her might vanish away and she
too might vanish away” (Goethe 1971: 169). These thoughts about her
own disappearance will accompany her until the final moment. When the
two women are walking around the memorial, Charlotte for her part says
that she has some kind of aversion against portraits: “They point to
something distant and departed and remind me how hard it is to do justice
to the present” (160). Ottilie holds the opposite view about portraits; for
her, a portrait brings us closer to those who are far away and allows us to
enter life after death as a second life, even if it is this second existence will
also be extinguished. The most vivid omen takes place when all the faces
that the architect has been painting on the chapel begin to look like Ottilie.
The proximity of the beautiful girl, Goethe explains, must have forced his
hand to copy in detail what he was carefully observing every day: “one of
the last of the little faces… it seemed as if Ottilie herself were looking
down from the vault of heaven” (168). According to Benjamin, this
constant repetition of images and signs are to be recognized as expressions
of fate. This is because the union that is shaken by the interference of the
new elements produces guilt in its members, and fate and all the
symbolism of death associated with it are the typical aesthetic
representations of guilt: “fate unfolds inexorably in the culpable life. Fate
is the nexus of guilt among the living” (Benjamin 1996: 307).
The inexorability with which the main four characters are gradually
overpowered by guilt is only fully noticed at the end, with the tragic and
sudden death of Ottilie. This comes to the reader as a surprise, when all
the premonitions find their encounter with reality in her fatal sacrifice. In
the meantime, what we see is how unions that up to some point were
strong and stable come to be substituted by other links that are equally
powerful, though not so solid. All these transformations take place as the
development of natural forces that are altered by the encounter with the
Love through Proximity and Distance in Goethe and Benjamin
183
new elements. New forces are created that will strive to become natural
and that will be unforeseeable in their effects. The original elements of the
compound interact with the third and fourth elements, they distance
themselves to different degrees, and they approximate to the other
elements also to different degrees. And distance and proximity, as we will
see, will mean different things depending on the type of relation that is
established.
In the first chapters of the novel Charlotte appears as the loving wife of
Eduard, and says about their relationship: “We rejoiced at what we
remembered, loved what we remembered.” (Goethe 1971: 23) Theirs is a
love based on memory. When she falls in love with the Captain, the first
thing she does is give up her own plans for the park, something she would
have never done with Eduard as he never interfered in her designs for the
estate. What Goethe merely tells us about what occurs between Charlotte
and the Captain is that they start working together and getting things done
in the park in accordance with his plans. At the very beginning of the
novel we are told that Eduard, for his part, had won Charlotte “through an
obstinate constancy which bordered on the fabulous.” (28) It comes to us
as no surprise, then, that when he is induced by the Captain to attract his
attention to Ottilie, or when his wife is not thinking about him any more as
a loving partner, he continues to be obstinately attached to her as he used
to do. However, Ottilie’s charms gradually seduce him: in his eyes she
becomes an angelical being. The first thing that we are aware of is the
affection that she feels for him, for she only enjoys to do things for him,
and pays attention to cater to him every whim—“What he wanted she tried
to provide, what might provoke his impatience she sought to prevent”—
(71) to the extent that she ends up being indispensable to him. Eduard then
begins to strangely identify with Ottilie and recognizes his own
inclinations in many things she thinks or does. For instance, when Ottilie
comes up with an idea for the location of a building dedicated to pleasure,
he is “as proud of it as if it had been his own.” (77) The improbable union
between him and the young girl is then marked as a sign on the glass cup
that is saved from its destruction: into it the letters E and O, entwined, had
been cut: “made for him as a boy.” (86) It is at this point that we begin to
realize that their attraction is of a very different kind than the one that until
now existed between him and Charlotte. We see Eduard and Ottilie
playing music together, and how Ottilie has managed to learn to play
exactly as he does, so that his shortcomings become her own as well, and
the resulting performance even turns out to be agreeable. For what is
happening in front of our eyes is the formation of an affinity between
Eduard and Ottilie that is based on their gradually becoming very similar.
184
Chapter Eleven
He eerily sees himself in everything that Ottilie does. Yet he only
perceives that the passion that invades him is reciprocal when one day he
looks at her handwriting and discovers that it is exactly like his. When he
shows his astonishment to Ottilie, she remains silent, but cannot hide her
satisfaction. They cannot stop looking into each other’s eyes. The Captain
is the last of the four main characters to be shown to react to the
experiment that is taken place in Goethe’s novel. Surely, we know that
Eduard shows a lot of interest for his good friend, and that Charlotte from
the very beginning is very concerned about his arrival in the estate as she
thinks that his presence could disturb the calm bourgeois life that she has
together with her husband: “I have a premonition that no good will come
of it.” (25) She even says to Eduard that neither experience nor being
aware of oneself is of any help against the intrusion of a third person in
their shared life. But her only feelings are for Eduard and for her niece
Ottilie. When the Captain is finally with them the main disturbance that he
introduces is his criticism of the way that Charlotte laid out the park. We
cannot yet foresee that the intimate union that she maintains with Eduard
is about to break down. The Captain spends time together with the other
three discussing new plans for the estate, all of which except one seem
quite convincing. Ottilie disagrees with his idea of building the new
pavilion over against the mansion; she wants it far away, on the highest
place on the hill, and her idea is clearly the best. Days quickly pass by and
neither the married couple nor the two new elements notice it, since they
are all too distracted by the contradictory forces that are operating on
them: “time was beginning to be a matter of indifference to them.” (72)
Charlotte and the Captain observe with bemusement and a bit of envy
Eduard and Ottilie playing music together. It is only then that they realize
that an affection is growing up between them, one that is as strong as that
between the other two. But, Goethe writes, “since Charlotte and the
Captain were more serious-minded, more sure of themselves, more
capable of self-control, it was an even more dangerous affection.” (80)
How can these conflicting emotions triggered by the encounter of a
married couple with two new elements develop the way they do? Are the
elective affinities not as simple as chemistry describes them, that is, as a
painless reorganization of established natural forces by the emergence of
new ones? The formal structure says this:
Imagine an A intimately united with a B, so that no force is able to sunder
them; imagine a C likewise related to a D; now bring the two couples into
contact: A will throw itself ad D, C at B, without our being able to say
which first deserted its partner, which first embraced the other’s partner.
(56)
Love through Proximity and Distance in Goethe and Benjamin
185
Benjamin maintains that the elective affinities whose spell influences
the main characters do not produce any kind of harmonious resolution of
the tension, but instead many different conjunctures where something is
always slightly amiss. As we have seen, Ottilie adapts herself really nicely
to Eduard’s flute playing, but his playing is simply not correct. And
Charlotte is easily convinced that the Captain’s designs for the park make
more sense than hers, but isn’t it the case that Ottilie then suggests
something better and more eccentric than the Captain for the construction
of the new pavilion? At those conjunctures we see that love is a peculiar
force whose effects can be perceived precisely in those moments when the
failures and gaps in the unions are exposed.
But fate develops as a force as strong as that of love, and it is difficult
to thwart its power. Everybody is ashamed of what they do, even in the
least obvious circumstances. Charlotte and Eduard, for instance, after
having spent the night together, encounter “the Captain and Ottilie as if
they were ashamed and contrite. For the nature of love is such that it
believes it alone is in the right, that all other rights vanish before the rights
of love.” (107) A bit later on Charlotte feels a terrible melancholy when
she is in a boat alone with the Captain. Whilst he is talking about his
intentions for the park, she only half listens. Goethe beautifully describes
the still landscape that surrounds them, and the strange thrill of fear and
sadness that overcomes her, and then takes recourse to another spatial
motive to convey the strange tension that she feels: “It seemed to her as if
her friend was taking her a long away to leave her in some distant place.”
(110)
The scenes that take place in the medium of water always express the
power of fate that is overcoming them. In the beautiful scene in the boat in
which Charlotte is seized by a feeling of dejection, she begs the Captain
that she wants to go back to the shore. It is already quite dark, and the
Captain is not familiar with the lake. He tries to find a safe place to
disembark, goes a little aside, thus Charlotte starts to panic in her
impatience. The boat gets stuck. Since the water is shallow, the Captain
can carry her safely in his arms. When they reach the shore he kisses her
violently on the mouth, and immediately after he asks for forgiveness.
Charlotte’s reply is devastating, as she expresses clearly how this is one of
those crucial moments when everything is at stake: “We cannot help it if
this moment is an epoch in our lives, but whether this moment shall be
worthy of us does lie within our power. You must go, dear friend, and you
will go.” (111) Paradoxically, Goethe then explains that Charlotte is
clinging herself to those traits of hers—self-knowledge and experience—
that before she had declared to be of little avail when the forces of love
186
Chapter Eleven
unleash. However, her renunciation will not bring things back to the state
they were before the process began.
A few days later they organize a party to which they invite a few
people with the excuse of burning a bunch of fireworks. These are to be
set off beside the lake, whilst the audience is supposed to stay under some
trees in order to see the spectacle as a reflection: “in safety and comfort,
they could observe the effect from the proper distance, see the reflections
in the water and watch the fireworks which were intended to burn while
floating on the water.” (121) Unexpectedly, lumps of earth separate from
the dam due to the weight of the crowd, and a few people fall into the
water. Those who are safe help to pull out everybody except one boy. The
Captain throws himself into the water and brings him back to the shore.
Eduard wants to continue with the party and burn the fireworks, but
Charlotte replies to him that this is not a good idea, since the boy is not
well. She and most of the guests leave the park and go inside the house.
Eduard is left there with Ottilie, and he interprets the accident as a moment
of luck, since the consequence is that they are now together. He decides to
burn the fireworks anyway. Ottilie watches them in the distance very
agitated. Charlotte back in the house feels uneasy; she thinks that
everything is weird, a presage of “a significant but not an unhappy future.”
(128)
In the essay “Fate and Character” Benjamin argues that both
phenomena can only be apprehended through signs, not in themselves.
The Elective Affinities are full of signs of an “unhappy future”—of fate.
The essay explains that the definition of fate must be completely separated
from that of character, as they are two wholly divergent concepts. Fate is
associated with guilt, and never with happiness, for the latter is precisely
“what releases the fortunate man from the embroilment of the Fates and
from the net of this own fate.” (Benjamin 1996: 203) The person who
judges life events in the light of fate can perceive the latter wherever she
pleases, as Charlotte does when she interprets the Captain’s rescue of both
her and the boy from the perils of water as signs of some misfortune to
come. For its part, character is commonly associated with fate, but this is,
according to Benjamin, a mistake that is based on searching for character
in the intricate connections that take place between personality traits that
form a net, even a tight cloth. If the notion of character is to be properly
comprehended, it has to be disconnected from that of fate, and instead be
observed in a “single trait, which allows no other to remain visible in its
proximity.” (205) And then he states:
While fate brings to light the immense complexity of the guilty person, the
complications and bonds of his guilt, character gives this mystical
Love through Proximity and Distance in Goethe and Benjamin
187
enslavement of the person to the guilt context the answer of genius.
Complication becomes simplicity, fate freedom. (205-206)
In “Goethe’s Elective Affinities” Benjamin restates this idea when he
says that to “attribute to a human being a complicated character can only
mean, whether rightly or wrongly, to deny him character.” (335) He then
relates it to sexuality and claims that whereas the drive of sexuality can
easily be associated with fate, and thus become an expression of guilt,
character, on the contrary, is characterized by the “unity of spiritual life.”
(335) The four main characters of Goethe’s novel are entangled in a
complex network of randomly meaningful interactions. But all of these
interactions turn around that night—which Goethe calls “daemonic”
(Goethe 1971: 106)—in which the two bodies of Charlotte and Eduard
were simultaneously closer than ever and more distant than ever, as they
each imagined sleeping with either the Captain or Ottilie. In that sinful
night adultery and fidelity became completely indistinguishable, which is
obviously an extremely disturbing thing to experience: “for every
manifestation of bare sexual life the seal of its recognition remains the
insight into the equivocalness of its nature.” (Benjamin 1996: 335)
It is clear that the child that is conceived that night inherits the guilt of
his parents, and thus must pass away. One could even argue that he also
inherits that of Ottilie and the Captain, as they were both present and
absent in the imagination of the married couple. His features and figure are
creepily similar to those of the Captain, whereas his eyes resemble
Ottilie’s. They constitute another piece in the tight network of multiple
signs of fate that is being painstakingly sown around the four characters.
When Eduard sees the child’s eyes, big and black like those of the young
girl, he remembers “the fatal hour” (Goethe 1971, 260) when he was
conceived, and wishes to atone for that moment in her arms. But their only
embraces will be those of a terrible farewell: “Hope soared away over their
heads like a star falling from the sky. They fancied, they believed they
belonged to one another (…) they had to tear themselves away from one
another.” (261) Ottilie then sees in the distance Charlotte’s white dress on
the balcony of the pavilion that lies on the hill. Benjamin says that the
house, depicted as an isolated presence, as well as the image of Charlotte
in its balcony, show clearly how in the Elective Affinities material things
are always symbols of something, and thus exert power over human
beings (Benjamin 1996: 308). Ottilie has to cross the lake that separates
her from the building. The element of water brings with it, once again, the
unavoidable fate. She nervously rushes to a boat, and then drops the child.
When she pulls him, he is already dead. His death and Ottilie’s a few
188
Chapter Eleven
pages later are both sacrifices for the expiation of the guilt that everybody
shares.
The formal structure of the Elective Affinities, as is well known,
follows that of the classic German Novelle or novella (the prose narrative
that is longer than a short story, but shorter than an actual novel), and it
was intended to be written in this way. It finally grew longer and became a
novel, but some traits of the original plan remain. Its emphasis on the plot
is one of them. In it, of course, everything is structured around the basic
formula of the elective affinities, as it was quoted above. This is a very
organized and almost symmetric unitary form that is imposed upon the
action, so that its resolution will follow from the set out plan. Another trait
that it shares with the novella, and which is immediately connected to that
of the very ordered plot, is the representation of a somehow secret conflict
that leads to a surprising, but logical ending that is brought about by the
previous events. This conflict is incarnated in the novel, to my
understanding, in that night of “double adultery” in which the child was
conceived, and which Eduard describes to Ottilie, already anticipating the
fatal resolution, like this:
[T]his child was begotten in twofold adultery! It sunders me from my wife
and my wife from me as it should have united us. My it bear witness
against me, may these lovely eyes say to yours that in the arms of another I
belonged to you; may you feel, Ottilie, feel truly, that I can atone for that
error, for that crime, only in your arms! (Goethe 1971: 260)
Now, the curious thing about the Elective Affinities is that it contains a
small version of an actual novella inside of it: “The Wayward Young
Neighbours”. Benjamin argues that the opposition set out between the
novel and the novella inserted in it allows us to unveil the secret of the
novel—“[Goethe] had its secret to keep,” he writes (Benjamin 1996:
311)—that is, it allows us to come to terms a bit better with its truth
content. In fact, he thinks that the latter is to be found in the contrast that
obtains between the characters in the novel and those of the novella, and
not in the one that exists between the four main characters of the novel.
This fundamental contrast is represented in the formal structure of the
entire composition, that is, precisely in the fact that the whole picture
appears divided into two perspectives that contradict and complement each
other like a thesis and an antithesis: that of the novel itself, and that of the
novella. The novel and the novella appear for the reader, so to say, at two
distinct levels, yet at the same time when they are combined they
constitute a single image, like the one that comes forth when one looks
through a stereoscope. Benjamin puts it this way: “For if the novel, like a
Love through Proximity and Distance in Goethe and Benjamin
189
maelstrom, draws the reader irresistibly into its interior, the novella strives
towards distance, pushing every little creature out of its magic circle.”
(330) And a bit later on:
[N]o feature of the novella is in vain. With regard to the freedom and
necessity that it reveals vis-à-vis the novel, the novella is comparable to an
image in the darkness of a cathedral—an image which portrays the
cathedral itself an so in the midst of the interior communicates a view of
the place that is not otherwise available… For his literary composition
remains turned toward the interior in the veiled light refracted through
multicolored panes. (352)
The truth content of the Elective Affinities is to be found, then, in the
deep discordance that the novella introduces at the heart of the novel. This
discordance allows its truth content to come to the fore as a relief. That is,
only thanks to the contrasting image offered by the little tale as against the
main plot, can we attain a grasp of what the novel is about. Contrary to the
characters of the novel, whose love is frustrated under the dominion of fate
and the multiple complications that they always encounter in their way,
the two lovers of this short tale persevere in their desire. And whereas the
signs to be read in the novel recurrently symbolize death, the only
presentiment that the two characters of the novella intuit has nothing to do
with fatalities, but with a “life of bliss” (352). When the two lovers of the
tale are separated, and the girl longs for her “distant neighbor”, Goethe
writes about her yearning not in the present tense, not even as a hope for
the future happiness that one day could be theirs, but as an act of the
imagination about what happened between them in the past, with fond
memory of their constant fights when they were children. Moreover, he
describes her imagination about things past as completely modulated and
colored by her desire:
When she looked back, indeed, it seemed to her she had always loved
him… she wanted to remember what a supremely pleasant sensation it had
been when he had disarmed here. She imagined she had felt the greatest
bliss when he tied her up. (239)
It is for this reason that Benjamin concludes that it is not really from
their will to happiness that their love arises.
Both the novel and little tale stick to the strict form of the novella and
thus both have a mysterious conflict in its nucleus. However, the important
differences between them result in the fundamental tension that Benjamin
is talking about. The conflict of the novel is contained in the formula of
the elective affinities, and even more deeply, in the representation of the
190
Chapter Eleven
ambiguous night spent together by husband and wife. This (almost
impossible, one could say) representation is of the sexual embodiment of
the affinities chosen by the characters. But, as Benjamin remarks, whereas
in the novel the catastrophe, though constantly anticipated, only appears at
the end, in the novella catastrophe takes place at the very center of the
story. And it is this catastrophe that constitutes its conflictive nucleus.
When the girl notices that her old friend simply treats her as a brother, and
not as a lover, she resolves to die by throwing herself into the water when
they are sailing down a river. Her aim is to punish the one she loves, to be
remembered by him. But water is in this case a “friendly element,” (242)
the medium through which her desire is fulfilled, and the boy immediately
throws himself after her into the water, saves her, and ardently tells her
that he will never leave her.
Benjamin points out another important difference between the novel
and the novella. This is the different weight that social or worldly ties have
in the lives of the main characters, and how this influence is represented in
the two plots by means of the motives of distance and proximity. The
characters of the novel live a secluded life, apart from all family and social
ties. Ottilie, for instance, has to get rid of the memory of her father and her
home in order to be loved by Eduard. The main characters in the Elective
Affinities try—and fail—to attain extreme proximity between them by
distancing themselves completely from the world and by cutting off social
relations. The main consequence is that the more they try to detach
themselves, and the more they try to gain their independence, “the more
rigorously the temporal and local circumstances of their subjection to fate”
(Benjamin 1996: 332) fall upon them.
The lovers of the novella also separate themselves from their relatives
in order to attain a life in common, following their desires. But they
achieve this not by withdrawing into a life of bourgeois privacy, but by
symbolically appearing as a married couple (with borrowed wedding
dresses) in front of their families, confronting them. They manage to
distance themselves from their relatives neither by negating the influence
that these have upon them, nor by excluding themselves from their circle
or from the world, but by actually entering into relations with them and
transforming their interactions with them. By doing this, they achieve two
things: firstly, they attain proximity between themselves—a proximity
based on knowing when to let the other separate. Right after he has
declared his love to her, Goethe writes: “she gladly released him so that he
might look after himself” (Goethe 1971: 243). Secondly, they manage to
distance themselves from their family, but not by hiding from them, or by
Love through Proximity and Distance in Goethe and Benjamin
191
denying themselves contact with them (like Ottilie does with her own
family), but by directly appearing in front of them.
Benjamin also connects these two divergent forms of distance and
proximity with the difference between the “choice” or “election” (Wahl)
taken by the characters of the novel and what he considers to be a more
fundamental act performed by the lovers in the novella: a decision. The
four characters in the novel strive for freedom, but their freedom is falsely
conceived, as they think that it can be attained by radically distancing
themselves from the world, when the only thing they actually do is knit
around them an extremely tight web of signs that will demand a sacrifice
and will lead them into disaster. Hence, their freedom can only be
conceived as the choice between one element and another. The couple of
the novella, by contrast, “no longer have a fate,” (Benjamin 1996: 332)
since what they have is character. This is made evident in that they move
beyond the intricacies of guilt, and do not demand any sacrifice from each
other. They risk their lives for the sake of bliss, not atonement:
Whereas the characters of the novel linger more weakly and more mutely,
though fully life-sized in the gaze of the reader, the united couple
disappears under the arch of a final rhetorical question, in the perspective,
so to speak, of infinite distance. In the readiness for withdrawal, is it not
bliss that is hinted at, bliss in small things…? (333)
References
Benjamin, Walter (1996) Selected Writings. Volume 1. 1913-1926.
Edited by Marcus Bullock and Michael W. Jennings. London: The
Belknap Press of Harvard University Press.
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von. (1971: Elective Affinities, trans. R. J.
Hollingdale. Harmondsworth: Penguin.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“EXCUSE ME, SIR,
WHAT DOES IT MEAN, ‘TO KISS’”?
THINKING BEYOND UNIVERSALISM
AND EUROCENTRIC IDEAS OF LOVE
SARAH LAWSON WELSH
In Europe (and the West more generally) literary texts are often read in
relation to certain dominant ideas about love: theorizations of love as both
entity and process, means and end, as a dialectical relation between lover,
loved (and perhaps also the love relation itself), as Eros or Philia, the
platonic subject-in relation, in forms spiritual or sensual, transient or
eternal. Love has historically been conceptualized, variously, as lack or
plenitude, as redemptive and self-authenticating or endlessly destructive,
as linked to procreation and the will-to life or distanced from desire and
the sexual drive most famously theorized by Freud. Most of these concepts
of love can be traced back to distinct Platonic or Judaeo-Christian
traditions of thinking about love, or are the recognizable intellectual
legacies of thinkers such as Montaigne, Rousseau, Schlegel, Nietzsche,
Schopenhauer, Kierkegaard, Freud and Lacan. Despite the various
differences — as well as confluences — in these thoughts on love, many
of these ideas seem so ubiquitous, that they can seem as universal and selfevident. Love itself is often regarded as a fundamental and universal
human trait and it is tempting to see many of these theoretical thoughts on
love as unchallengeably universal. Yet to be ubiquitous and self-evident in
one culture, indeed to belong to hegemonic structures of thought, does not
mean such ideas are appropriate to, or even relevant in other cultures. To
cite just one prominent example, in 2012, the year in which London hosted
the Olympics and the Head of the Commonwealth celebrated her Golden
Jubilee, the Royal Shakespeare company hosted a series of productions of
Shakespeare plays from around the globe, in a number of different languages
“Excuse Me, Sir, What Does it Mean, ‘To Kiss’”?
193
including Arabic, Urdu and Chinese. As part of the Cultural Olympiad,
these productions elicited significant audiences and considerable media
attention. One of the key questions which audiences and critics returned to
again and again was the idea of the global “reach” of Shakespeare (a
universalist argument) versus the cultural specificity of individual
productions with their different interpretations of the power relations,
genre conventions and the nature of human emotions such as love, desire,
jealousy, rivalry and revenge in Shakespeare’s dramatic texts. My discussion
in this essay is underpinned by just such issues of power, visibility and
cultural relevance which pertains to what might broadly be defined as the
interface between hegemonic, European thoughts on love, and those
presented by less visible and less dominant non-European discourses. I
also consider the ways in which a reading of literary texts from outside a
European tradition — in this case, the creolized thoughts and narrativised
conceptions of love to be found in a selection of Anglophone Caribbean
texts — can help to unsettle and challenge so called “universal” ideas of
love.
How might a critical consideration of European thoughts on love be
productively complicated and interrogated by a critical engagement with
non–European, non-hegemonic sources? How might these sources act to
problematize and contest the universality of the former? In ‘Heroic
Ethnocentrism’ (Larson 2006) Charles Larson reflects on his experiences
of teaching English Literature to High School pupils in Nigeria in the early
1960s. Teaching a Thomas Hardy novel — in which European rituals of
courtship and love are, of course, central — Larsen recalls encountering:
a number of stumbling blocks, which I had in no way anticipated—all of
them cultural… matters related to what I have learned to call culturally
restricted materials… “Excuse me, sir, what does it mean “to kiss”? [was]
a much more difficult question to answer [from pupils] than the usual ones
relating to the plot or the characters of the novel — a real shock…
Nevertheless, that question and others of a like nature kept recurring — in
part, no doubt, because we were reading…Far From the Madding Crowd.
Why did Hardy’s characters get all flustered when they were kissed (or
more likely when they weren’t kissed)? When I asked one of the Europeaneducated African teachers why…I was more than surprised to learn that
Africans, traditionally at least, do not kiss; to learn that what I thought was
“natural” in one society is not natural at all, but learned, that is, cultural.
Not all people kiss. Or stated appropriately, not all people have learned to
kiss. (When I later attended American movies with Africans, I could
understand why the audience often went into hysterics at the romantic
scenes in the film) (77).
194
Chapter Twelve
Larsen’s anecdote about the cultural specificity of the romantic kiss
needs to be read in context as a snapshot of a particular time and place —
early 1960s Nigeria. Moreover, his observation that there was, at this time,
a dearth of African novels centred around romantic love, courtship and
seduction, as defined by European standards, needs to be qualified by the
tremendous shifts in both social and cultural mores in many modern
African societies and the engagement of post-1960s African writers in
explorations of an ever-diversifying range of subject matters. To cite just
one well-known example, J.M. Coetzee’s Booker-winning novel,
Disgrace, mounts an elegant and coruscating interrogation into the nature
of “love”; what it is and what it might mean in the specific context of postapartheid South Africa, though famously the term love is only very
sparsely used in this text. One should also sound a note of caution about
Larsen’s generalized use of the term “African” for “Nigerian” in the
context of this article. However, at the heart of Larsen’s piece is an
important issue: that of universalism.
Universalism: the belief that belief systems or, in this case, literary
texts are universally applicable or express “universal” themes and experiences,
is the unspoken foundation of liberal humanism and operates as the
handmaiden of Eurocentrism (Larsen 2006, Achebe 1988, Serequeberhan
1998). It also has a very long historical pedigree. In recent decades, the
issue of universalism (and that of its attendant essentialisms) has exercised
critics working in gender studies, queer theory and most centrally in the
field of postcolonial studies, as it seems to stand for the very opposite of
the gendered, sexual, historical and cultural specificities these scholars
seek to privilege in their analyses. But what Larsen taps into, albeit in a
rather anecdotal way, is important. I will term it here, the spectre of
universalism — the ways, in which European and Western concepts and
theories have historically been considered — by Europeans and the West
— as universal to all cultures.
The origins of such universalisms — and importantly, their perpetuation
— owe much to the disproportionate power, visibility and influence of
Western critical theory and Western philosophical discourses globally.
Defamilarizing our habitual gaze on this state of affairs allows dominant
Western discourses to be seen for what they are: important but nonetheless
totalising and dominating discourses. Such discourses not only came into
being at times of historical, cultural and discursive inequalities of power
but were, moreover, fundamentally dependent on subordinating the nonEuropean in order to attain globalized centrality and intellectual hegemony
(as Serequeberhan 1998 argues). Emmanuel Chukwdi Eze goes as far as
arguing that “significant aspects of the philosophies produced by Hume,
“Excuse Me, Sir, What Does it Mean, ‘To Kiss’”?
195
Kant, Hegel, and Marx have been shown to originate in, and to be
intelligible only when understood as an organic development within larger
socio-historical contexts of European colonialism and the ethnocentric
idea: Europe is the model of humanity, culture and history itself (Eze
1998: 6). So for example, Hegel argued that the African is somehow
outside of history because Africa was “no historical part of the world”.
Only when we uncover such privileged power relations can we start to
reconsider and critique the Eurocentric myth of European as rational
“norm”, non-European as irrational “other”.
As Edward Said has argued (1978, 1980, 1993), a notable occlusion or
blind spot in many histories of Western ideas is the massive role played by
ideologies of imperialism and the practices of colonialism in constructing
the West’s idea of itself and establishing the discourses of Europe or the
West as hegemonic. So, for example, the idealism and aspirations of the
“golden age” of European colonial explorations in the early modern period
need to be seen as being accompanied — and indeed facilitated — by
deep-seated European beliefs that only European man was truly civilized
and therefore capable of reason. Similarly the age of Enlightenment in
Europe was, on the one hand, a period of unprecedented fecundity and
advancement in Continental European philosophical thought, but
simultaneously a period in which colonially endorsed racial hierarchies
were defined and refined and found their logical end in the violent
epistemic erasures of slavery and the forced migration of millions of
Africans to the plantations of America and the Caribbean. When Marx
argues in the early pages of The Communist Manifesto that historicity “has
at last compelled [Man] to face with sober sense his real conditions of life
and his relations with his kind” (Marx and Engels 1983: 12) he employs
the language of universalism once again and makes a link between
modernity, Europe and “the real” which is predicated on the implied
binary opposite of the “ephemeral non-reality of non-European existence”
(Serequeberhan 1998: 89). Serequeberhan argues that in this formulation,
Marx is not unique. Despite the originality of his ideas, Marx can be seen
here as the intellectual inheritor of certain of Kant and Hegel’s
philosophical ideas on history which located “in European modernity...the
real in contrast to the unreality of human existence in the non-European
world” (89). If, as Said argues “imperialism was the theory,
colonialism…the practice of …reconstitut[ing] Europe abroad” (1980: 78)
then one of the things which linked this “widely varied group of little
Europes scattered throughout Asia, Africa and the Americas” was the
perception that “despite their differences…their life was carried on with an
air of normality” (78). This “normality”, Said argues, was based on an
196
Chapter Twelve
“idea, which dignifies [and indeed hastens] pure force with arguments
drawn from science, morality, ethics, and a general philosophy” (78), a
kind of ‘metaphysical ground for the legitimacy of European global
expansion and conquest: that is, the consolidation of the real”
(Serequeberhan 1998: 25).
European imperial expansion was, of course, predicated upon such
notions of European modernity and superiority. Crucially, the drive
towards “global invasion and subjugation of the world” (89) was
accompanied by annihilation of native cultures, including it should be
noted, alternative traditions of theorising and of philosophical thinking.
Such annihilation produced in the colonised subject, as Frantz Fanon has
shown, self-alienation within a colonial world where to be non-European
is necessarily to be divided and “other”. Henry Paget has called this
dispossession of the non-European thinker “Calibanization”, as — in this
case the African is formulated as the definitive non-European man ( Paget
2000: 12), devoid of reason and thus of the potential to philosophize,
destined never to be a maker only a taker (or consumer) of philosophy. As
another black intellectual, contemporary Jamaican theorist Sylvia Wynter
has remarked: “to write at all was and is for the West Indian a
revolutionary act. Any criticism that does not start from this very real
recognition is invalid” (Wynter 1996: 27).
Hamid Dabashi has recently made some playful and provocative points
in a piece called ‘Can non-Europeans think?’, a lively but also considered
response to what he terms “a lovely little panegyric for the distinguished
European philosopher Slavoj Zizek, published recently on Al Jazeera”(2).
Dabashi opens with a reference to the opening lines of Zabala’s 2012
piece, ‘Slavoj Zizek and the role of the philosopher’:
Zizek...is “what Jacques Derrida was to the 80’s” — the thinker of our age
… There are many important and active philosophers today: Judith Butler
in the United Sates; Simon Critchley in England, Victoria Camps in Spain,
Jean-Luc Nancy in France, Chantal Mouffe in Belgium, Gianni Vattimo in
Italy, Peter Sloterdijk in Germany and Slovenia, Slavoj Zizek, not to
mention others working in Brazil, Australia and China (Zabala 2012: 2).
What immediately strikes the reader…is the unabashedly European
character and disposition of the thing the author calls “philosophy today”
— thus laying a claim on both the subject and time that is peculiar and in
fact an exclusive property of Europe. Even Judith Butler who is cited as an
example from the United States is decidedly a product of European
philosophical genealogy, thinking somewhere between Derrida and
Foucault, brought to bear on our understanding of gender and sexuality.
“Excuse Me, Sir, What Does it Mean, ‘To Kiss’”?
197
To be sure, China and Brazil (and Australia, which is also a European
extension) are cited as the location of other philosophers worthy of
designation, but none of them evidently merits a specific name to be
sitting next to these eminent European philosophers.
He concludes: “the question of course is the globality of philosophical
visions that all these prominent European (and by extension certain
American) philosophers indeed share and from which people from the
deepest corners of Africa to the remotest villages of India, China, Latin
America, and the Arab and Muslim world (“deep and far”, that is, from a
fictive European centre) can indeed learn and better understand their lives”
(2).
For Dabashi, the heart of the issue is not a questioning of the
“eminence” of these philosophers but rather a need to foreground the fact
that “the philosophy they practice has the globality of a certain degree of
self-conscious confidence without which no thinking can presume
universality” (3). For Dabashi the “question of Eurocentrism is now
entirely blasé. Of course Europeans are Eurocentric and see the world
from their vantage point, and why should they not?” (3). Such universalist
thinking is, as postcolonial scholars have shown, one of the important
legacies of imperialism: “they are the inheritors of multiple (now defunct)
empires and they still carry within them the phantom hubris of those
empires and they think their particular philosophy is “philosophy” and
their particular thinking is “thinking” and everything else is — as the great
European philosopher Immanuel Levinas was wont of saying — “dancing”
(3).
Why, asks Dabashi, are certain thinkers given the pedigree of “a public
intellectual” and others not? And why are these overwhelmingly western,
Eurocentric voices? “What about other thinkers who operate outside this
European philosophical pedigree, whether they practice their thinking in
the European language they have colonially inherited or else in their
mother tongues— in Asia, Africa, in Latin America” (3). How might a
“constellation of thinkers” from a particular region, say African thinkers
like Henry Odera Oruka, Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Wole Soyinka, Chinua
Achebe, Okot p’Bitek, Taban lo Liyiong, Achille Mbembe, Emmanuel
Chukwudi Eze, Souleymane Bachir Diagne and V.Y. Mudimbe (3) “come
together to form a nucleus of thinking which is conscious of itself… [and]
why do they so rarely qualify for the term “philosopher” or” public
intellectuals”? (3). For Dabashi the prime reason is the persistence of an
ethnographic gaze which all too often frames Western and European
encounters with Asia, Africa and the Arab and Muslim world and
delegates its intellectual traditions to the realms of “ethno- philosophy”
198
Chapter Twelve
(3). The tyranny of “ethnos” for the non-European is that it is unevenly
applied: it should logically be applicable to all thinking rather than merely
non-western or non-European thought.
The spectre of universalism is not just historically located as a legacy
of imperialism. Universalism can also act to define, delimit and police
disciplinary boundaries, so that, for example much of the best known and
most revered writing on love has been “philosophical” only in accordance
with narrowly European conceptions of the discipline. This is a problem
which lies at the heart of any endeavour to relocate “thoughts of love”
within culturally specific contexts. The very nature of philosophy as a
discipline, especially in its most idealist formations, lends itself to
abstraction rather than specificity. Indeed, Antiguan scholar, Henry Paget
opens his provocative investigation of Afro-Caribbean philosophy,
Caliban’s Reason (2000), with the following observation:
There are idealist views of philosophy that see it as an affirmation of the
autonomy of a thinking subject. As the primary instrument of this absolute
subject, philosophy shares in its autonomy and therefore is a discipline that
rises above the determination of history and everyday life. The
distinguishing characteristics of Afro-Caribbean philosophy do not support
this view. Here we find a tradition of philosophy…indelibly marked by the
force of an imperial history, and by its intertextual relations with
neighbouring discourses…From the Afro-Caribbean perspective, philosophy
is an intertextually embedded discursive practice, and not an isolated or
absolutely autonomous one. It is often implicitly referenced or engaged in
the production of answers to everyday questions and problems that are
being framed in non-philosophical discourse [including literary discourse].
However, it is a distinct intellectual practice that raises certain kinds of
questions and attempts to answer them in a variety of styles of argument
that draw on formal logic, paradox, coherence, the meaningful logic of
lived experiences, and the synthetic powers of totalizing systems (1-2).
Moreover, much of what the West considers philosophical or theoretical
writing is only so when viewed through a Eurocentric, Western or
Universalist lens. Caribbean-born, African-American feminist theorist,
Barbara Christian has commented on the “Whiteness” of much of what
passes as universal thinking or theorizing and the disproportionate
visibility — and thus hegemonic position — of many Western
philosophical ideas. Indeed, it is salutary to remember that the Western
models we use are not the only available models for theorising:
People of colour have always theorized – but in forms quite different from
the Western form of abstract logic. And I am inclined to say that our
“Excuse Me, Sir, What Does it Mean, ‘To Kiss’”?
199
theorising … is often in narrative forms, in the stories we create, in riddles
and proverbs, in the play with language, since dynamic rather than fixed
ideas seem more to our liking… (457).
The consequence of thinking about love only in narrow, ethnocentric
or Universalist terms is, in Biodun Jeyfo’s words, “A social and historical
context which is massively overdetermined…” (1987: 33).
How are these debates played out in literary texts from non-European
cultures? The Anglophone Caribbean is a fascinating example. It has long
been observed within postcolonial studies that counter-discursive strategies
involve more than simplistic resistance manoeuvres, especially in textual
terms. Thus the opening up of the literary and critical terrain in thinking
about love is not simple: it is never simply a matter of resistance to, or a
banal replacement of “bad” universalist ideas with “good” culturally
specific ones, especially since the binaries of colonial and Eurocentric
thought are so deeply entrenched in Western as well as post-colonial
cultures.
For me, what makes philosophical and theoretical writing within an
Afro-Caribbean context simultaneously challenging and fascinating is that
it is creolized: it draws upon European as well as African influences and
intellectual traditions. Caribbean thinkers such as C.L.R. James, Franz
Fanon, Sylvia Wynter, Edouard Glissant, Wilson Harris and Antonio
Benitez Rojo can rightly be said to have made major contributions to
debates within Marxism, psychoanalysis, poststructualism, existentialism,
phenomenology and transnational studies. However, European ideas have
tended to dominate in Caribbean thinking, as Paget demonstrates. Indeed,
the Trinidadian Marxist historian C.L.R. James wrote explicitly about his
indebtedness to these Western traditions of thought, as has St Lucian
Nobel prize-winning poet Derek Walcott within a different (primarily
poetic) context. It is thus logical that Caribbean thoughts on love do
indeed draw upon and combine elements of both European and nonEuropean traditions. For the purpose of this chapter, however, I am most
interested in examples of the latter although because of the hybrid,
creolized nature of much — some would argue all — cultural production
in the Caribbean, it is unhelpful to see the two as always distinct or
discrete. What creolization offers in its most nuanced forms, is a model for
and possibility of producing new articulations and new cultural formations
out of the collision and combination of different traditions, ethnic, cultural,
intellectual and spiritual which have formed the Caribbean as it is today.
And it is these creolized thoughts and narrativised conceptions of love
which present a challenge to Universalist notions and forms of writing on
love.
200
Chapter Twelve
I use the term “narrativisation” quite deliberately here, since the telling
and retelling of stories and myths has been a major way in which thoughts
on love have been framed from the earliest commentators such as the
various contributing voices of Plato's Symposium. However, narrative is
also important since in a Caribbean context, the philosophical and the
literary are often deeply entwined. Not only does the philosophical often
take narrative form but literary narrative is often, itself, philosophical. The
best example of this in a Caribbean context is the work of Guyanese
writer, Wilson Harris, whose writing and thought take this crossover form
and draws on indigenous Amerindian, African and continental European
influences (Burns 2012 and Burns and Knepper 2013). Paget argues that
the main philosophical writings to emerge from the Caribbean belong to
either a historicist or poeticist tradition, the latter which he defines as a
reworking, within a primarily aesthetic framework, of diverse and “broken
traditions” (Paget 2000: 16). Indeed, important theoretical philosophical
ideas have often been formulated by thinkers who are also creative writers,
such as Aime Cesaire, George Lamming, Derek Walcott, Kamau Brathwaite
and Wilson Harris. This is a good example of what Paget terms philosophy
as “intertextually embedded discursive practice” (2). Given this interplay
between the literary and the philosophical and in keeping with the protean
nature, openness and permeability of Caribbean discourses more
generally, an attention to what Caribbean literary texts have to say about
love becomes particularly valuable.
This final section will now look at a small selection of Caribbean
poems and the ways in which they can be read as challenging or
problematizing Universalist readings and concepts of love. In the poem
‘Configurations’, first published in 1989, Guyanese born, British-based
writer, Grace Nichols writes on Eros but within specific historical and
cultural parameters. ‘Configuration’ is a complex reworking of the collective
sexual fantasies and mythologies underpinning the encounter between
Europe and Africa — sexual and otherwise — the desire for conquest,
ownership and submission and the complex semiotics of attraction and
threat which both drew Europe to and repelled it from its “others”.
'Configurations' uses the sexual encounter between the European
colonizing male and a generic black woman as a metonym for a longer
history of mythologizing and commodification of the black female body as
well as representing the unequal exchange between colonizer and
colonized. Although, the poem is ostensibly an account of a contemporary
and consensual sexual encounter between a white male and a black woman
it also invokes a longer and altogether murkier history of rape and forced
sexual acts perpetrated on black women during colonial slavery. This is
“Excuse Me, Sir, What Does it Mean, ‘To Kiss’”?
201
just one of the ways in which the poem resists a Universalist reading of
this erotic encounter. In her opening lines, Nichols puns on the sexual
connotations of her title: “He gives her all the configurations/ of Europe”
(Nichols 1989, 31), but is also concerned to excavate a whole history of
European myths and misrepresentations of the black female body: that it is
exotic (“she gives him a cloud burst of parrots”), “primitive” (“she gives
him her “Bantu buttocks”), grounded only in physicality and more
“sensual” than the European (“He rants about the spice in her skin”), allencompassing (“she delivers up the whole Indies again”), and initially at
least, potentially threatening to the white male because so powerful (“But
this time her wide legs close in slowly”). In contrast, his gifts for exchange
are inorganic materials external to his body (“uranium, plutonium,
aluminium and concord”) and tellingly he does a “Columbus” on her
“shores”. Gina Wisker argues that 'Configurations':
enacts and explodes the male coloniser's myths of the highly sexed Black
woman, a dumb female Caliban over-awed by the white imperialist's
stunning civilised gifts. The poem works by using a naïve point of view,
exaggerating the achievements of the coloniser, a contemporary Columbus
who conquers the girl, claiming the kudos of European civilization,
including [ironically, an element capable of producing both energy and
weapons of destruction] plutonium. In the exchange, she gives him all the
white coloniser's fantasies of highly sexed, obedient native women. 'He
does a Columbus' flinging himself on her shores. But the Anansi-wise
Black woman mocks power in an initially exciting sexual act, making a
'stool of his head'. The double reading of stool (to sit on, faeces, excreta)
shows her subtle triumph (Wisker 2000: 292).
Wisker’s reference to Anansi, is to the West African spider god and
trickster figure who survived the “Middle Passage” transit of slaves from
Africa to the Caribbean and is still a figure of cultural potency in the
present-day Caribbean (Zobel Marshall 2012). Whilst the black woman
seems to command control of the sexual act and does resemble the
cunning cultural resistance of Anansi, it is possible to read the poem's
ending as altogether more ambiguous. What Wisker fails to note is the
importance of the “golden stool” as a sacred artefact in Ghanaian culture,
the ceremonial seat upon which the Ashanti King would sit, for one day
only each year. Indeed, in another Nichols’ poem, 'The Assertion', the
female protagonist appropriates just such a “golden stool” from the male
elders and “refuses to move… [saying] This is my birthright” (1984: 8).
The last line of ‘Configurations’: To “mak[e] a golden stool of the empire/
of his head” thus suggests extraordinary reverence rather than disdain,
202
Chapter Twelve
although Wisker may be right to stress the woman's cunning and the
possible irony of this most intimate form of reverence.
One of the Anglophone Caribbean’s most important and outspoken
writers and critics, Barbadian born, Kamau Brathwaite observed of
Caribbean love poetry in a 1991 interview:
The people who write love poetry, the people who claim to be making the
philosophical point, they always write abstract work without any
Caribbean focus. I think they feel that to bring in the Caribbean element
would be to remove the universality (Braithwaite 1991: no pagination).
This may be a thinly veiled reference to the other towering figure of
Anglophone Caribbean literature, St Lucian poet and playwright, Derek
Walcott. Walcott, the Caribbean’s first Nobel Prize winner for literature,
started his poetic career writing very much within a European tradition,
drawing poetic inspiration from European writers as diverse as
Shakespeare, Marvell, Donne and the metaphysical poets as well as from
his local Caribbean environment, its poets, painters and peasantry. His
1976 poem “Love after Love” from the collection Sea Grapes, fits very
much into a European tradition of the love lyric, though the love poem is
addressed to the self as “the stranger who has loved you all your life,
whom you ignored for another” rather than the beloved as is usually the
case in love lyrics. It focuses on the return of the self to itself as a new
kind of “love after love”. The peeling away of the trappings of romantic
love in the poem: “the love letters…the photographs, the desperate notes”
thus become liberatory rather than the signs of failed love. Interestingly, in
this poem both romantic and spiritual love are alluded to as the poetic
persona welcomes the “stranger” his self has become, saying “sit here.
Eat...Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart to itself…Feast on your
life” (Walcott 1986: 328).
Walcott’s ‘Love after Love’ is a sublime love poem and deservedly
frequently anthologised but nothing in it, including its language, marks it
as distinctively Caribbean. Traditionally, such poems have been regarded
as imitative of European forms and traditions and even as failed Caribbean
poems because they speak to the metropolitan centre rather than to the
local. However, this is an exception even in Walcott’s prodigious — and
prestigious — oeuvre. There are many other Caribbean poets who have
experimented with creolizing the love poem by appropriating and adapting
European forms such as the sonnet or the dramatic monologue and making
them their own or making them speak subversively. They include James
Berry’s creole voice portraits in Lucy’s Letters and Loving (1982), David
Dabydeen’s similar experiment in his first two poetry collections Slave
“Excuse Me, Sir, What Does it Mean, ‘To Kiss’”?
203
Song (1986) and Coolie Odyssey (1988) and innumerable poems which
celebrate maternal love such as Grace Nichols’ ‘Praise Song for my
Mother’, Jean Binta Breeze’s ‘Spring Cleaning’ (1992) or Lorna
Goodison’s ’For My Mother (May I Inherit Half Her Strength)’ (1986).
An interesting example of an early-twentieth century Caribbean poet
whose use of the sonnet form was originally considered imitative,
“sentimental” and critically uncomfortable not to say embarrassing is Una
Marson. Una Marson was born in Jamaica and came to live and work in
London in the 1940s after having acted as personal secretary to HIM Haile
Selassie after Mussolini's invasion of Abyssinia in 1935. She was a
founder and key figure in the BBC’s Caribbean Voices, a radio
programme in which Caribbean writers in London produced a regular
programme which was transmitted back to the Caribbean. For many, the
programme launched their literary careers. Marson’s poetry provides some
fascinating examples of the subversive use of the European sonnet form,
notably her witty riposte to Kipling in ‘If’. However, as Alison Donnell
has observed it is Marson's love poetry which presents the most interesting
and, for critics, the most problematic politics of love within a Caribbean
context. As Donnell notes in her introduction to Marson’s Selected Poems
(2011):
[when read in] “The context of Jamaican colonial culture, in which
acquiescence, mimicry and subordination were everyday imperatives, the
presentations of willing devotion and female dependence which dominate
Marson’s love poems are understandably difficult to interpret. It is perhaps
not surprising that...Marson’s love poems represent the neglected archive
of an already marginalised poet. Both their content and form present a
problem to feminist and postcolonial critical approaches that commonly
work in parallel to foreground moments of agency and resistance” (Marson
2011: 30).
Donnell’s work on Marson and other early twentieth-century
Anglophone female Caribbean voices has been a significant recuperative
project. As she argues of Marson’s neglected love poems:
The overlapping of romance and mastery that is a repeated refrain...creates
a troubling matrix of signs, and yet the recurring image of the woman
achieving self-definition through the act of giving the self disrupts a
simplistic reading of devotion to either the lover figure or to Eurocentric
poetic forms (31).
Non-European literary texts like these can be seen as examples of
exactly the kind of less visible, less dominant, culturally situated discourses
204
Chapter Twelve
which I argue act to unsettle and challenge so called “universal” ideas of
love; moreover, through their creolized, hybrid nature (drawing on the
African as well as the European) they critique the idea of universality
itself. In this way, we can see European thoughts on love being
productively complicated and interrogated by a critical engagement with
non–European, non-hegemonic sources. Eze identifies “philosophizing
from particulars” within an African and Africana context as “spurred by
deep concerns about universalism: that Universalist philosophies (i.e. that
emphasise universal metaphysics [are deeply problematic]” (Eze 1998:
222). This functions as an anti-universalist ideal but as a viable counter
practice to Universalist thinking it is far too simplistically conceived and
articulated. Serequeberhan’s idea of Western thinking as a kind of “pre—
text” which requires critique (Serequeberhan 1998: 92) is more useful.
For him:
the de-structuring critique of this ‘pre-text’ – the Occidental surrogate for
the heterogeneous variance of human existence – is the basic criticalnegative task of the contemporary discourse of African philosophy. It is the
task of undermining the European-centred conception of humanity on
which the Western tradition of philosophy – and much more - is grounded.
The way one procedes in this reading is to allow the texts to present
themselves, as much as possible, and to try to grasp them without
‘anticipating the meaning’…or superimposing on them the accepted
reading which they themselves help to make possible (92).
Eze’s formulation infers that the hugely influential “edifice” — or to
use Serequeberhan’s term, the “pre-text” — of European thinking (for
example on love) might be overturned or excised. However, even if this
were desirable — and clearly it is not — this nativist position is both
unsustainable and logically flawed. In a postcolonial context, such
thinking is already mixed, creolized, hybridized; it is protean and unfixed,
drawing from different influences and sources. What is necessary critically
is that we remain open to possibilities and different ways of thinking about
love that draw on a wider range of cultural traditions whilst remaining
alert to the differentials of power, influence and visibility which exist
between them.
“Excuse Me, Sir, What Does it Mean, ‘To Kiss’”?
205
References
Achebe, Chinua (1988): ‘Colonialist Criticism’ in Hopes and Impediments:
Selected Essays 1965-1987. New York: Doubleday.
Ashcroft, B. Griffith, G. and H. Tiffin eds. (2006): The Postcolonial
Studies Reader. London & New York: Routledge.
Barthes, Roland (2002): A Lover’s Discourse, trans. Richard Howard.
London: Vintage.
Berry, James (1982): Lucy’s Letters and Loving. London: New Beacon
Books.
Binta Breeze, Jean (1992): Spring Cleaning. London: Virago.
Brathwaite, E.K. (1991): Interview in The Caribbean Writer. University of
Virgin Islands.
Burns, Lorna (2012): Contemporary Caribbean Writing and Deleuze:
Literature Between Postcolonialism and Post-Continental Philosophy.
London: Continuum Literary Studies.
Burns, Lorna and Knepper, Wendy (2013): Special issue of Journal of
Postcolonial Writing on Wilson Harris. Abingdon: Taylor & Francis.
Christian, B. (1987): ‘The Race for Theory’, Cultural Critique, 6, pp. 5163.
Coetzee, J.M. (2000): Disgrace (Harmondsworth: Penguin.
Dabashi, H. (2013): ‘Can non-Europeans think?’
http://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/opinion/2013 accessed 15.01.2013.
Dabydeen, David (1986): Slave Song. Coventry: Dangaroo.
—. (1988): Coolie Odyssey. Coventry: Dangaroo.
Eze, E.C. ed. (1997): Race and the Enlightenment. Oxford: Wiley
Blackwell.
—. (1997): Post-colonial African Philosophy. Oxford: Wiley Blackwell.
—. ed. (1998): African Philosophy: An Anthology. Oxford: Wiley Blackwell.
Hallward, Peter. (2001): Absolutely Postcolonial. Manchester: MUP.
Jeyifo, Biodun (1990): ‘The Nature of Things: Arrested Decolonization
and Critical Theory’, Research in African Literatures, 21/1, pp. 33-42.
Larson, C. (2006): ‘Heroic Ethnocentrism: the Idea of Universality in
Literature’. In, Ashcroft, Griffiths & Tiffin eds. The Postcolonial
Studies Reader. London & New York: Routledge.
Marson, Una (2012): Selected Poems. Edited by Alison Donnell. Leeds:
Peepal Tree Press.
Marx, K. and F. Engels (1983): The Communist Manifesto. New York:
International Publishers.
May, Simon (2012): Love: a History.New Haven & London: Yale
University Press.
206
Chapter Twelve
Nichols, Grace (1984): The Fat Black Woman’s Poems. London: Virago.
—. (1989): Lazy Thoughts of a Lazy Woman. London, Virago.
Paget, Henry (2000) Caliban’s Reason: Introducing Afro-Caribbean
Philosophy. New York & London: Routledge.
Plato (1999): The Symposium. Harmondsworth: Penguin.
Said, Edward (1978): Orientalism. New York: Random House.
—. (1980): The Question of Palestine. New York: Vintage Books.
—. (1993): Culture and Imperialism New York: Vintage Books.
—. (2003): Freud and the Non-European. London & New York: Verso.
Serequeberhan, T. (1998): ‘The Critique of Eurocentrism’. In, E.C. Eze
ed., African Philosophy: An Anthology. Oxford: Wiley Blackwell.
Walcott, Derek (1986): Collected Poems. London: Faber & Faber.
Wisker, Gina (2000): Post-Colonial and African-American Women's
Writing: A Critical Introduction. Basingstoke & London: Houndmills.
Wynter, Sylvia (1996): ‘We Need to Sit Down and Talk About a Little
Culture’ [1968] in Alison Donnell and Sarah Lawson Welsh ed.
(1996): The Routledge Reader in Caribbean Literature. London &
New York: Routledge.
Zabala, Santiago (2012):‘Slavoj Zizek and the role of the philosopher’,
http://www.aljajeera.com/indepth/opinion/2013 accessed 12.12.2012.
Zobel Marshall, Emily (2012): Anansi’s Journey: a Story of Cultural
Resistance. University of West Indies Press.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A STROLL THROUGH HELL
IN SEARCH OF LOVE:
DISCOVERING POLISH RESPONSES
TO A CENTURY OF SUFFERING
GAVIN COLOGNE-BROOKS
As a colleague and I sat on a Berlin-bound coach from Kraków,
passing endless white fields in a blizzard in the freezing March of 2013, I
reflected on the fact that I had never been as shocked by a visit to an art
gallery as I was the sleeting afternoon I reached the National Museum in
Kraków. No doubt I had an amplified response to the paintings. The
previous day we’d visited Auschwitz. The day before that we’d been at the
Kraków under Nazi Occupation 1939-1945 exhibition at the museum in
the former Schindler factory and I’d then trudged the mile or so to the
snowbound site of the Płaszów concentration camp. No doubt, too, my
solitude — the only visitor to the gallery that late afternoon — had an
effect, as did the way the dim rooms only brightened when I stepped into
them and then dimmed again as I left. But it was like strolling through a
waking nightmare depicting horror and hatred. I felt like Faustus on his
private tour of the world, or maybe Scrooge shown the past, present and
future, except that everything seemed horrible. It would not be the first
time I’d returned from a day at Auschwitz and felt a sense of the abject,
especially here in terms of the numerous paintings of the human body,
abstracted, dissected, humiliated, mutilated. “What is abject,” writes Julia
Kristeva in Powers of Horror, “the jettisoned object, is radically excluded,
and draws me toward the place where meaning collapses”. “There I am, at
the border of my condition as a living being. My body extricates itself, as
being alive, from that border.” The paintings I was seeing seemed at first
like “death infecting life”. They beckoned and threatened to engulf me
208
Chapter Thirteen
(Kristeva 1982: 2-4).1 Nasty, nasty, I found myself muttering, painting
after painting, this nasty world.
Yet even as I felt this, I was also aware of something else within me; I
was more than ever moved by the collective response of a melancholic, so
often conquered people. I felt a warmth toward Poland, its people and
culture, that was the very opposite of my repulsion from so much of what I
saw, as if my extreme reaction in one direction required a counterbalance.
As early as 1922, General Von Seeck was describing “Poland’s existence
as intolerable and incompatible with the essential conditions of German
life” (Shirer 1973: 459). “No nation re-created at Versailles had such a
rough time as Poland,” William Shirer’s voice was reminding me as I
wandered through the gallery. This resurrected nation had been at war with
its neighbours, whether Germany, Russia, Lithuania or Czechoslovakia,
long before Hitler’s contemptuous reference in 1939 to “this ridiculous
state” (641). When war came the Blitzkrieg wiped the Polish army out:
“Horses against tanks!” mutters Shirer. “The cavalryman’s long lance
against the tank’s long cannon!” (625). Along with the Germans came the
Russians to carve the country up between them, followed after the war by
the triumph of Stalinism. But the sheer nastiness of what I saw that
afternoon, and had seen at Auschwitz and the Schindler Museum, and
imagined in the face of the bitter wind that crackled across the abandoned,
snow swept hills and furrows when I stood at Płaszów, led me to see that
we express ourselves, through art and music and conversation, in order to
connect, to affirm and ultimately to find a tangible, meaningful, valuable
sense of fellow feeling for people we will never meet, but whom we
imagine through those we do meet and sometimes get to know. Certainly,
on a personal level, my awareness of what cold hatred could do needed a
response based on warmth, and perhaps even love.
The theoretical basis for my approach to this experience has to do with
the merging of art and life, and my commitment to the connecting up of
creative activity, including literary and cultural criticism, with actual life,
and our historical and social contexts. Partly because my main area of
scholarship is American writing and culture, the approach I’ve found most
relevant has been that of American pragmatism. Articulated in the writing
of William James, John Dewey, and others, pragmatism emphasizes
connection. It stresses the fact that, when we discuss literature, or art or
culture or anything else, we do so as living beings in process. A key
phrase in pragmatism is radical empiricism. As John J. Stuhr notes, both
James and Dewey “insist that experience is an active, on-going affair in
which experiencing subject and experienced object constitute a primal,
integral, relational unity” (Stuhr 2000: 4). Its bias is thus inherently personal
A Stroll through Hell in Search of Love
209
and acknowledged to be so. What matters is the value of our experiences
for our own and others’ lives. Pragmatism has European antecedents.
James pointed out more than a hundred years ago that there was nothing
new about pragmatism, and that it was not a theory but a way of thinking.
Its ideas go back at least to Socrates, and its precursors include Pascal,
Schopenhauer, Emerson and Nietzsche, while its subsequent fellow
travellers include Wittgenstein and Richard Rorty. For my purposes here,
what matters is the sense, articulated by Nietzsche, that, in Alan Megill’s
words, “‘the work of art,’ or ‘the text,’ or ‘language’ is seen as establishing
the ground for truth’s ‘possibility’” (Megill 1985: 33). “What ties Dewey
and Foucault, James and Nietzsche together,” writes Rorty, “is the sense
that there is nothing deep down inside us except what we have put there
ourselves” (Rorty1982: 161). But the difference between Nietzsche, or say
Heidegger, and the pragmatist is that the pragmatist views the world in
terms of the possibility of improvement to the benefit of the individual and
of others, a possibility predicated upon our capacity as individuals to
change. The pragmatist believes that, even if we accept the role of art in
shaping meaning — the artful nature of all meaning and of all minds —
what counts are the practical consequences of what we do. What matters in
the end, pragmatists like Rorty tell us, “is our loyalty to other human
beings clinging together against the dark, not our hope of getting things
right” (166).
Pragmatism is a philosophical tool to be reshaped for the task at hand.
In James’ words, it “has no dogmas and no doctrines” but “only an attitude
of orientation” (James 2000: 197). It favours experimentation, revisionism,
fallibility, uncertainty rather than certainty, and pluralism and individualism
over classification and system. Above all it emphasizes meliorism. It
opposes all who would seek to oppress, to define, to control and to limit
the basic freedoms of others. In other words, it is the enemy of
totalitarianism. “Kunst Macht Frei,” announced a near replica of the
cynical “Arbeit Macht Frei” or “Work Makes (You) Free”, Auschwitz
entrance sign, at the Contemporary Art Museum next to the Schindler
Museum in Kraków the day I visited. Exactly: Art produces freedom. We
are all artists, and we can use that ability to make meanings to create
freedoms for ourselves and for others, by going out into the world and
doing our “intellectual work,” to use Dewey’s phrase, of clarifying
people’s ideas about “the social and moral strife’s of their own day,” and
so becoming “an organ for dealing with these conflicts” (Stuhr 2000: 1).
From this pragmatist point of view, it has therefore made perfect sense
that, for half a decade now, my colleague and I have been bringing groups
of students to Kraków. The central reason for this is to visit Auschwitz as
210
Chapter Thirteen
part of a module on manifestations of evil. The heart of the trip is therefore
grim. Students are apprehensive. We too were apprehensive when we first
went there. It’s not that you become indifferent when you know what to
expect, but you find ways of dealing with the experience that allow you to
remain open to what you’re seeing. You’re aware of the kinds of responses
the students will have; the way, in particular, that they will emotionally
shut down and say they felt very little, will experience a numbness, quite
unlike the horror they imagined they might feel. We don’t tell them to
expect this. We let them find out for themselves. Nor do we tell them that
their emotional response may reveal itself more fully at a later date. The
only distress I’ve seen a student express was in one who had been the
previous year. She burst into tears and refused to enter Room 5 of Block 4,
with its glassed in exhibit of nearly two tons of human hair. Nor, in
particular, do I tell them, my manly pride and childhood training being
what it is, that it was a full two years after my first visit, when I gave a talk
to colleagues about what it felt like, and combined it with photos and the
music of Satie, that I actually revealed, to myself as well as to others, any
emotion at what I had seen. I don’t make a habit of displaying that kind of
emotion publicly, or indeed privately. But I realised something about my
response, and perhaps my habitual response. Ordinarily, I knew how to
block difficult emotions, but this subject matter, even though or perhaps
because my own link to it was so indirect, was too strong to allow me to
do this.
I don’t doubt that my relationship with Kraków and with Poland is
directly related to the horror of the death camps and of Polish history in
the twentieth century, and to something it has touched in me to do with my
relationships with family, with friends and with my everyday encounters.
Brought up to hide any emotions that might signal weakness or sensitivity,
I am now much more inclined to be open and express warmth, and to
acknowledge the complex nature of how I feel toward people close to me
and toward a vast array of individuals, however brief the encounter, in
whom I recognise any sort of kinship. A display case holding shoes, or
clothes, or utensils, let alone hair, concentrates the mind. My desire to
celebrate everyday interaction seems related to a commitment to counter
that horror, on a personal level, through an expression of feeling toward a
people I have little ostensible connection with. To use William Styron’s
phrases, albeit many pages apart in Sophie’s Choice, I’m all the more
aware of “fellowship, familiarity, sweet times among friends” each time I
confront “the bitter bottom of things” (Styron 1979: 68, 412). So when we
visit Poland each March, as a balance to the bleak horrors of Auschwitz,
my colleague and I delight in drinking piwo localne, or local beer, in
A Stroll through Hell in Search of Love
211
Rynek Główny, Kraków’s Grand Square; eating pierogi, drinking Żubrówka,
taking students to galleries, museums, Wawel Castle, synagogues, St.
Mary’s Basilica where a trumpeter has played the Hejnał Mariacki on the
hour every hour on and off through history since, the legend goes, the
Mongol invasion of 1241, and generally absorbing the city. Some of our
students trudge all the way up past the Contemporary Art Gallery and the
Schindler factory to Płaszów, but we also encourage them to burrow down
into the city’s underground tearooms and restaurants, as well as the
museum of the city’s older history beneath Rynek Główny, and to scan the
great square from the balcony of the art museum in the Sukiennice, the
medieval Cloth Hall. We seek to educate our students about that period of
European history in terms of Poland, and then Germany, on our extended
trip to Berlin before flying home. This feeling toward the Poles has even
led me to learn Polish. There is really no need to learn it, certainly not in
the centre of Kraków. But I try to speak as much Polish as I can, and every
time I do, and every contact I have with a Polish person, seems to me to
make the world an infinitesimal degree better.
Lest this essay begin to seem to champion the Poles ahead of the main
victims of the holocaust, I should now say two things. One is that I have
felt the same toward Jews and Jewish friends, for equally complex reasons
I suspect, through the decades. The other is that two million of the six
million Jews who died in the holocaust were Galician Jews from southern
Poland or what is now the Ukraine. The Polish people were, many of
them, culpable partners in pockets of what happened. The Jewish Museum
in Kraków has a display of photographs of massacre sites by Christopher
Schwarz that attests to the local, small-group killing of Galician Jews in an
array of villages and rural areas. As Jonathan Webber explains in the book
that accompanies the exhibition, for three hundred years Galicia was
“home to the largest Jewish community in the world” and, until the
nineteenth-century migration to America, held nearly ninety percent of the
world’s Jewish population. Their “tragic absence” today was not the work
of the Nazis alone (2009: 12). So I am aware that my urge to befriend, to
be involved in a fellowship of some sort, is no simple matter. But nor is it
mere sentimentality, nor an abstraction. It is a tangible expression, with
tangible effects, of a determination to counter nastiness, a nastiness many
of us carry inside us as much as we do the capacity for love. This need to
express love, or camaraderie, is not ultimately about Poles or Jews or any
other national or ethnic group; it is about countering the horror with
expressions of human warmth. I now know, or feel I know, more precisely
what is happening when we visit Auschwitz, and what we’re witnessing in
terms of human behaviour. The memorial site is tended endlessly. It is
212
Chapter Thirteen
cared for. It is, in a way that is hard to express, loved. It is a place of
remembrance, and an expression of devotion to the very things the Nazi’s
treated as detritus. Each item, each shoe, each hairbrush, each suitcase, is
carefully preserved and treated with the utmost delicacy. Each photograph
is looked after, each face looked at, each item of clothing cared for.
When I attended a seminar run by Evan Zimroth of Queen’s College,
the City University of New York, on American Holocaust Poetry, in
October 2010, I was struck by a comment she made while discussing Myra
Sklarew’s poem, “Lithuania,” in the preface of which Sklarew writes of
one of the “central killing places in Lithuania—the Ponar Forest outside
Vilnius” (Sklarew 2000: 14). These memorial sites, said Zimroth,
particularly the burial pits that are now mounds and in spring covered in
wild flowers, are “exquisitely beautiful,” possessing a “shocking, horrifying
pastoral beauty”.2 Of course, graveyards can be beautiful, but my surprise
had to do with the fact that these are places of cruelty, evil, atrocity where,
in Skarew’s words in “Lithuania”, “every hill is suspect, every ravine,
every tree” (37). Shocking as it might seem, Webber reminds us that at
Auschwitz “the wooden watchtowers and elevated sentry posts have been
subject to careful conservation, the barbed wire (highly susceptible to
rusting) has been renewed” (Webber 2009: 103). Some of this is about
bearing witness to atrocity, to be sure, but much of this “process of
memorialization” (88) is unquestionably about love. To read the annual
Sprawozdanie (Reports) on the work done at the Auschwitz memorial sites
is to see this in action. The cover of the 2012 Report is an aerial shot of the
perfectly-tended Birkenau site. Inside it, as each year, are letters from
heads of state voicing international support. The whole text is produced in
parallel Polish and English. There is an account of the year’s events. A
section entitled “Auschwitz in the World’s Heart” provides visitor
numbers. Page after page details the painstaking preservation work being
undertaken on everything from documents to the Birkenau barracks to the
remains of the gas chambers. There are explanations of work being done
to improve storage conditions for synthetic materials such as suitcases,
shoes and toys. A photograph shows a woman in a white coat and blue
gloves handling items from the tangle of spectacles with tender care.
But, as I say, eventually one leaves places like Auschwitz and Płaszów
and returns to the twentieth century, or would do except that the past is
part of the present. The visits to these memorial sites linger not just in the
mind but manifest themselves in our group’s behaviour, and in my
behaviour, during the rest of the trip and beyond. For our visit to
Auschwitz also involves visiting the Poland of today, and, for us this year,
crucially I now feel, the Germany of today, or at least contemporary
A Stroll through Hell in Search of Love
213
Berlin. In the days following, including my visit to the National Museum,
I find myself making connections between these memorial sites and
Krakówians and Berliners love for their cities, and preservation of their
histories, good and evil. This includes the preservation of the ruins of the
old city of Kraków in the museum beneath Rynek Główny, and of the
mummified priests in the Crypti Reformatόw Kakowskichta, the crypt of
the Franciscan monastery on Ulica Reformacka, and the preservation of
the remains of the Berlin Wall in a section along the River Spree. All these
are statements of positive meaning between people. All of them are acts
that are the diametric opposite of the viciousness of the Nazis and the grim
paranoia and control-freakery of the leaders of the so-called German
Democratic Republic. You can still experience the soulless, self-serving
managerial mentality of that world if you venture to the former Stasi
headquarters today, set as it is amid blocks of uniform housing, and
consisting of mundane offices filled with brown furniture and the dead air
of the petty vanity of vanished apparatchiks smiling smugly, not quite at
you, from their official photographs. Sekretär Walter Ulbright and
Sekretär Erich Honecker still look out at you but it’s gratifying how the
colour photograph of Honecker has faded to a uniform beige, suggesting
that eventually only the thick black frames of his spectacles will stand out.
How wonderful it is to see the way their bureaucratic worldview has been
shoved aside. The Poles and Germans preserve their recent pasts as
testament to the human spirit that overcame it.
On that sleety day in Kraków that I encountered twentieth-century
Polish art, tired and unsure if the slog through the worsening weather
would be worth it, I began by walking up from Kazimierez to see
Leonardo da Vinci’s “Lady with an Ermine” at her temporary home in
Wawel Castle, prior to her return to the renovated Czartoryski Museum.
By chance of timing I received a private audience in her darkened room
with the single light on her. She left me with a renewed sense that there
was much that is calm and beautiful in the world and galvanized me to
brave the thickening sleet northward to the National Museum. I had little
more than an hour before the museum closed. I expected little, and
certainly didn’t expect to respond strongly to whatever I’d see. This was
naive in the extreme. The benevolent feeling Leonardo’s painting had
provided was stripped from me by the first painting I saw. Gustaw
Gwozdecki’s Glowa Chiopca or “Boy’s Head” (1902), on the right as you
turn left into the gallery on the top floor, is truly horrifying. It’s all black
except for a boy’s head, slightly off centre, down lit so that the eyes are in
shadow. But the most macabre aspect of this painting is that when you
look up close the eye sockets are congealed black paint that could as well
214
Chapter Thirteen
be blackened blood. The fact that it is dated 1902 almost adds to the shock
because, like the writing of Franz Kafka, it seems to anticipate the horrors
of the century. Evidently Gwozdecki, obsessed with fundamental issues of
existence, often used empty eye sockets. The painting exudes horror, and
heralded the horrors that would periodically unfold through the century
and before my eyes in the gallery.
I moved on to some relatively benign if often uneasy paintings in that
first room, only unnerved by the fact that there was no one else in the
gallery and by those dimly lit spaces that brightened in anticipation of my
presence and darkened as I moved on. Among the paintings that caught
my attention were those by Josef Pankiewicz, including Kobieta Czeszaca
sie or “Woman Combing her Hair” (1911), and Portret dziewczynki w
czerwonej sukni (Józefy Oderfeldówna) or “Girl in a Red Dress (Josefa
Oderfeldówny)” (1897). This exquisite, soft, mildly haunting portrait is
the kind of painting that, if it were in the Musee d’Orsay, people would
crowd around to see. It’s one of a series of paintings of women and girls in
that first room, including, Olga Boznańska’s equally spooky Dziewczynka
z chryzantemami or “Girl with Chysanthemums” (1894), Władysław
lewiński’s Czesząca się or “The Combing”(1897), and Wojciech Weiss’s
Melancholik or “Melancholic” (1894), and Demon (the same word in
Polish as in English) (1904). Weiss was a name I’d heard before, but as a
socialist realist painter employed by the state. This was altogether
different, and revealed an underlying dark vision that might explain how
Weiss came to accept the hijacking of his talent by that drearily sinister
political cause. But further signs of physicality gone awry came in the next
section and from here on my unease in the gallery increased exponentially.
Leszek Sobocki’s Polok or “Pole” (1979) is a brooding, deeply melancholic
painting. It depicts the muscular, sinewy bare shoulders and arms of a
contemplative elderly man. The background is dark, but the man appears
to be leaning on a blue lit table and the light rises up to brighter blue as it
goes under his arms and up to his hands, as if he had no body but only
spirit. The sense I had that this resembles Pope John Paul II, with hair that
might almost be a skullcap, was accurate; Sobocki has circumvented the
severe censorship of the time by merging himself with the newly-elected
pontiff.
Nearby are some equally eerie heads, again by Sobocki, a series of five
on different materials, including road signs, a metal dish, a piece of wood
and the back of a cupboard door. All appear to be of the same man, but
each is somehow dismembered, or lacking substance. I look at the title:
Portrety Trumienne or “Coffin Portraits” (1974-76). They resemble,
indeed, the roman portraits on coffin lids displayed at the Natural History
A Stroll through Hell in Search of Love
215
Museum in London. Then I encounter a series of grotesque images of
women by Zbylut Grywacz, a Professor of the Academy of Fine Arts in
Kraków through much of the second half of the twentieth century.
Rozebrana (Orantka X) or “Demolished (Orant Woman 10)” (1969) is a
nightmarish version of a Marilyn Monroe figure. It has something of the
motif of the gouged out eyes in “Boy’s Head” and of the hollowed out
chest of “Pole”: yet another example of the human body distorted or
mutilated. Her hair is lacquered and she seems to be trying to make the
best of herself but, like the Poland of the time perhaps, distorts herself to
meet the world. Her face is half in shadow. Her rib cage beneath her
breasts is so dark as to suggest it’s been hacked away. She is knock-kneed,
her belly swollen, yet her hips, which clatter with her in-bent elbows, are
skin and bone. Only toward the end of this gaze do I notice the three red
marks, horizontal across her upper chest just below and between her collar
bones. They are like suppurating scars, raw red, suggestive of the skeleton
beneath. Two paintings down from this stands framed confirmation that
the underlying point of the painting — the flesh as beautiful surface, but
decay within — is a comment on communist kitsch: all surface, no
acknowledgment of what is beneath. Orantka I or “Orant Woman 1”
(1966) depicts a naked female body. It is not a woman in the sense that the
head is beyond the frame. One breast is bluish, and the thighs are
blistering red. The rib cage is muscle turning to bone; the belly is a skull,
with the pubic bone the empty cavity of the mouth. “On the surface, an
intelligible lie,” as Sabrina says of her paintings in Milan Kundera’s The
Unbearable Lightness of Being, “underneath, the unintelligible truth”
(1985: 63).
I became very conscious of dates as I continued my solitary journey
around the gallery, the light fading behind me and brightening before me,
the only sound my own quiet steps. The next nightmarish vision was
Andrej Wróblewski’s Rozstrzelanie Poznańskie (Rozstrzelanie II) or
“The Poznań Execution (Execution II)” (1949). This “features from right
to left, a businessman, a shirtless, shoeless, angry worker, a woman with
her back to us, a little boy in green shirt and shorts, and, almost in shadow,
an old lady in black with the Star of David vaguely outlined on her chest.
This is bad enough, but nothing to the painting that perhaps shocked me
the most. Again the date is significant. Again, I saw the painting, and only
then looked at the title, and thereby received the double shock, the
confirmation that the unease the painting gave me was justified by what
had been in the painter’s mind while painting it. I was first attracted by the
vibrant lively colours in the foreground, muted blues behind. I drew closer.
It was a boy, his back to us, clinging to a woman, her form decapitated by
216
Chapter Thirteen
the top of the painting. The boy’s arms are around the woman’s waist. Her
pale arms seem heavy and lifeless. Her right arm is around his back, but as
if placed there. Her left hand is stiff and flat beside her. The boy has black
hair and warm-coloured skin, a tank top of black, orange and red rings,
black shorts. The woman wears a blue, sleeveless dress and her skin is
pale and bluish. The painting, I then see, is again by Andrej Wróblewski,
and is called Syn I Zabita Matka or “Son and His Killed Mother” (1949).
The shock is akin to that moment in M. Night Shyamalan’s film, The Sixth
Sense (1999), when the Bruce Willis character realizes that he is dead. To
turn back to the painting is to feel a sense of vertigo. The boy and mother
are not standing figures. The woman lies dead. The boy lies on top of her.
He has put her arms around him but one has fallen flat against the slab.3
A corridor off the main round of rooms brought me to some photographs
as shocking as the paintings. These included Katarzyna Kozyra’s Olympia
(1996), a series of harrowing portraits that include huge photographs of a
young woman being treated for cancer. The first I see is the stark,
uncompromising portrait of an elderly lady, naked and without her teeth
in, her breasts sagging flat to her stomach, her thin legs together above
tiptoed feet. She is holding what looks like a sanitary towel, and has a
black ribbon around her neck. She looks straight at you, defiant, dignified.
One thinks of the portraits of the starving women, naked, exposed, too
weak to even raise their arms, but staring right at you from their position,
life size on the walls of a room at Auschwitz I. The second image I came
to was one of the portraits of the young woman being treated for cancer.
Propped up by her right elbow, she stretches out on a hospital bed,
wearing the same black ribbon around her neck as the elderly lady. She,
too, gazes at you calmly, not using her free left hand to cover her hairless
pubis, or any part of her hairless body. She defies you to look at her
female form. The explanation for the black ribbon and the title becomes
clear in a further photograph, where the same cancer patient has arranged
herself to mimic Edouard Manet’s Olympia (1863). She has the same bold
stare, has a similar cream bouquet as Manet’s model but somehow
attached to the side of her hairless head, and as in the Manet there is a
black woman offering her a larger bouquet. There is even the cat of
Manet’s picture. But it’s not the black cat, meek and almost invisible, that
Manet put in to symbolize prostitution. It’s a yowling, screeching, wildeyed ginger cat, recalling the ginger and white dog that features in Manet’s
own source: Titian’s Venus of Urbino (1538), which itself refers back to
Georgione’s Sleeping Venus (c 1510). Art builds on art, of course, but, as
Oscar Wilde noted, life builds on art.4 For part of the shock was that I’d
seen this image before, or an image like it, in a wholly different context. It
A Stroll through Hell in Search of Love
217
reminded me of the photographs, taken years later, of the dying Alexander
Litvinenko, poisoned by radioactive polonium in 2006. Litvinenko, too,
was dying of cancer, in the sense of radiation poisoning, but while there
are differences of circumstance, the subjects share that same uncompromising
stare.
So I wandered on through the rooms, pinching my hand to see if in fact
I’d invented all these images, so closely intertwined, and would wake up.
Passing down a corridor of paintings related to Auschwitz; a room full of
black hooks that might have been torture hooks; a wall with a small black
box with a kind of doll’s head image in it, again the eyes blank sockets, I
began to walk faster and stopped recording titles and dates. I thought
maybe it was time to leave this silent gathering. But then one final
painting beckoned me. Jerzy Nowosielski’s Egzekucja or “Execution”
(1949) is a small, unobtrusive, cartoonish painting, line drawn like
something out of a children’s book. A man in a blue suit, on stage before
an audience, is calmly checking the nooses of four women — one of them
half out of the picture, suggesting there are more beyond the frame. The
women he is about to hang have their backs to the audience, who include
us, situated some rows back with what look like coffins to our front right.
They are in their underwear, the middle one bra-less, the one on the left in
stockings, suspenders and high heels, the one on the right in knee-length
blue stockings and red shoes. The middle woman has turned her head
toward the man. We glimpse a profile. She looks calm, as do the audience,
attentive to the show, which calls to mind the magician’s trick of sawing a
woman in half and then miraculously restoring her to full body and health.
The women have the appearance of being the man’s assistants. The other
oddities are the black squares on white at the back of the stage. They
suggest the windows of prison cells. The dreadful nature of the painting
has something to do with its seemingly harmless banality, its cheerful
colours. You might easily pass it by — small as it is — as a pleasant
picture, until you register its subject.
I felt like I was continuing the nightmare when I went briefly into the
museum’s armoury. I entered a room that was so dark it seemed closed,
then each time I stepped forward display cases of weaponry, helmets and
uniforms would light up like souls stirred from their graves. These
faceless, phantom cohorts wore dark, shining armour with feathers,
armour with tassels, uniforms from all wars the Poles have fought. A
display of flags included one, dated 1862, with a cross bound in barbed
wire like the cross on the barren, snowbound wastelands where Płaszów
death camp once stood, and where, to reprise Myra Klarew’s words,
“every hill is suspect, every ravine, every tree”. Here, as at Auschwitz and
218
Chapter Thirteen
Płaszów, and at the exhibition of photographs at the Jewish Museum in
Kraków, depicting peaceful rural scenes across Galicia that were in fact
the site of mini-massacres of local Jews by their Catholic compatriots and
neighbours, I thought of some more lines from Sklarew’s poem. “I was
trying to remember something I couldn’t / possibly know” (Sklarew 2000:
36). I left the building and trudged the mile or so back to Kazimierez in
the twilight snowfall, and awoke the next morning for the bus to Berlin
with the city covered in a new whiteness. The snow thickened as we sped
toward Germany and the capital of the century’s worst crimes in a crimetorn century, and I began to write this account.
And what, you might be asking, has this to do with “thoughts of love”?
Well, everything. Museums, art galleries, memorial sites, these are all acts
of emotional connection, and very often they are acts of devotion and
sometimes acts of love. We paint what we care about. We write what we
care about, and we preserve what we care about. It’s a strange business. In
Berlin our hotel, the Michelberger, was a haven of warmth and
friendliness. When I asked a desk attendant how to ensure we could get
our students to the airport, she took my hand that held the map and
reassured me just how easy it would be. Down the road toward what was
once West Berlin across the Spree, there remains a mile long section of
wall. I walked it to the Ostbahnhof one morning in brilliant sunshine.
Beyond the west wall blinding white snow met the blue river. The fabled
Gothic turrets of the Oberbaum Bridge stood in sturdy redbrick warmth
against the blue sky. Yellow U-Bahn trains trundled on the upper tier
against the sparkling coldness of the water beneath. But the east side, the
side that the captive people would have seen daily, was in shadow,
brightened only by art work that spoke to their anger, their indignation and
ultimately their triumph. No wonder that part of Berlin in particular is so
friendly, so bohemian, so full of affection. I have never shaken the hands
of so many hotel and restaurant staff as I did in those few days in Berlin
and Kraków, during the returns-to-life that interspersed the reminders of
history. It really is as if the nastiness one witnesses, from Auschwitz and
Płaszów, to the armoury and the Stasi Museum, and the Topography of
Terror, the museum that sits on the site of the former Gestapo headquarters
and displays photos and audio material of that vicious group of thugs who
masterminded the horrors of 1933-1945, instigates in one an exceptional
urge toward fellow feeling, toward revealing and bringing out in others,
that side of humanity, of individuals, we perhaps take for granted day by
day. I felt, as the double-decker train wound its way through blue snowy
fields at dusk for our flight home, that I had strolled through hell — at
Auschwitz and in the National Museum, and at the Stasi Museum — in
A Stroll through Hell in Search of Love
219
search of life and fellowship, and found it, and that we and our students
were returning home as better people, with a better understanding of the
possibilities for horror around us and the need for us all as individuals to
counter it each day in ways large and small.
References
Bartysel, Bartosz (2012): Sprawozdanie / Report, Oświęcim: Państwowe
Muzeum Auschwitz-Birkenau w O więcimiu.
Kristeva, Julia (1982): The Powers of Horror: An Essay in Abjection,
trans. Leon S. Roudiez. New York: Columbia University Press.
Kundera, Milan (1984): The Unbearable Lightness of Being, trans.
Michael Henry Heim. London: Faber.
Megill, Allan (1987): Prophets of Extremity, Berkeley: University of
California Press.
Rorty, Richard (1982): Consequences of Pragmatism: Essays, 1972-1980,
Brighton: Harvester Press.
Shirer, William L. (1959): The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich: A History
of Nazi Germany, London: Secker & Warburg.
Sklarew, Myra (2000): The Witness Trees: Lithuania, trans. David Wolpe.
Cranbury, NJ: Cornall Books.
Stuhr, John J. ed. (2000): Pragmatism and Classical American
Philosophy: Essential Readings and Interpretive Essays, Oxford:
Oxford University Press.
Styron, William (1979): Sophie’s Choice, New York: Random House.
Webber, Jonathan (2009): Rediscovering Traces of Memory: The Jewish
Heritage of Polish Galicia, Oxford: Pittman Library of Jewish
Civilisation.
Wilde, Oscar (2004): The Decay of Lying, Whitefish, MT: Kessinger
Publishers.
Notes
1
“The corpse, seen without God, and outside of science, is the utmost abjection. It
is death infecting life,” writes Kristeva. “It beckons to us and ends up engulfing
us” (1982: 4).
2
Edan Zimroth (Queens College, CUNY) “American Holocaust Poetry: What Are
the Limits (if any)?” Seminar, Rothermere Institute, Oxford University, 20 October
2010. Zimroth discussed the poetry of Miklos Radnoti, Irena Klepfisz, and Sharon
Olds, as well as Myra Sklarew’s “Lithuania”.
220
3
Chapter Thirteen
In fact, aged fourteen Wróblewski experienced a Nazi search of the family home
in Vilnius in 1941, during which his father died of a heart attack. His mother
outlived him, dying in 1994.
4
“But you don’t mean to seriously say that you believe that Life imitates Art,”
says Cyril to Vivian in Wilde’s play, “that Life is in fact the mirror, and Art the
reality?” (2004: 15).
CONTRIBUTORS
Sonia Arribas is Researcher and Professor of Philosophy in the Humanities
Department at the Catalan Institution for Research and Advanced Studies.
She is the author (with Howard Rouse) of Egocracy (Diaphanes Verlag,
2011); and with Germán Cano and Javier Ugarte of Biopolítica y
capitalismo (Catarata, 2010).
Gavin Cologne-Brookes is Professor of American Literature and Director
of the Contemporary Writing Centre at Bath Spa University. His books
include The Novels of William Styron (1995), Writing and America (1996),
Dark Eyes on America (2005), and a travel memoir, If I’m Ever Back This
Way (2008). Also a painter, his exhibition, “Paintings 1995-2011,” held at
Corsham Court, Wiltshire, featured a portrait which now appears on the
cover of his critical memoir, Rereading William Styron (2014).
Jane Connell is a consultant psychiatrist in private practice. She has a
PhD in critical theory and conducts seminars and presents papers that
address the tensions between widely-disseminated tropes of the
imaginaries of Western theory and their texts of origin.
Polona Curk holds a PhD in psychoanalytic studies and feminist
philosophy from Birkbeck College, University of London, where she also
completed a Research Fellowship. On the basis of theories of subjectivity
derived from psychoanalysis and gender studies, she has written on topics
of agency, gender, violence, vulnerability, care, recognition, mothering,
attachment, ambivalence and ethical responsibility. Dr Curk has previously
worked as a counsellor-volunteer with victims of domestic violence, has
taught psychoanalysis and psychology of gender at Birkbeck and Goldsmiths
Colleges and Middlesex University.
Aleksandar Fatić is Research Professor at the Institute for Philosophy
and Social Theory of the University of Belgrade. He is also Director of the
Ethics Study Group of the Centre for Security Studies in Belgrade.
Aleksandar is also Deputy Chair of the Cambridge University Working
Group on Bioethics Education in Serbia. His professional interests include
applied ethics, including ethics for the public service, ethics for the
222
Contributors
security sector, ethics for psychotherapists, and philosophical counselling
as a form of contemporary applied philosophy. He is a Fellow and
Certified Counsellor of the American Association of Philosophical
Practitioners. He has published widely, and his primary current interests
include the application of philosophical methodology to the development
of professional ethics, including the ethics of counseling and therapeutic
professions.
Richard Ganis is currently an Assistant Professor in Political Philosophy
at the Lahore University of Management Sciences, Pakistan. He works
chiefly within the Continental tradition, with a focus on contemporary
moral and ethical philosophy, the Frankfurt School, and deconstruction.
His is the author of The Politics of Care in Habermas and Derrida:
Between Measurability and Immeasurability (Lexington Books, 2011),
and has contributed articles to Comparative and Continental Philosophy,
Radical Philosophy Review, and other journals.
Rachel Paine is currently completing her doctorate at Heythrop College,
University of London. She is a tutor with the Oxford University
Department for Continuing Education, specializing in the philosophy of
mind, the emotions, and the concept of the self. Her website is:
www.philosophylives.com
Gary Peters is Professor of Critical and Cultural Theory at York St John
University, UK. For many years (and still) a composer, musician, improvisor,
Gary has a background in Sociology (LSE) and Cultural History (RCA).
He has written widely on continental philosophy, aesthetics and pedagogy
and improvisation. His first book was entitled: Irony and Singularity:
Aesthetic Education from Kant to Levinas (Ashgate 2005). His second
book: The Philosophy of Improvisation was published by Chicago
University Press in 2009. He is currently working on a second book for
Chicago University Press entitled: Improvisations on Improvisation.
Fiona Peters has a PhD in English, and is currently Senior Lecturer in
English and Cultural Studies at Bath Spa University. Her research interests
are in psychoanalysis, discourses of evil, anxiety and love, and Crime
Fiction. She is the author of Anxiety and Evil in the Writings of Patricia
Highsmith (Ashgate: 2011), as well as having published book chapters and
journal articles on a wide range of topics. Current research includes pieces
on suicide and a forthcoming volume on Crime Fiction and The Gothic to
be published by Edinburgh University Press.
Thoughts of Love
223
Sanna Tirkkonen is affiliated with the Social and Moral Philosophy
discipline at the University of Helsinki. She is a charter member of the
Association for Women and Feminist Philosophers in Finland. She is a
specialist in, and has published on Foucault's ethics.
Georgios Tsagdis has a PhD from the Centre for Research in Modern
European Philosophy, the University of Kingston. His work originates in
the question of Nothing and the relation of presence to absence in the
history of occidental thought and includes essays on Heidegger and the
Inception of Logos, Foucault and the Heterology of Madness and Roy
Anderson’s Songs From The Second Floor.
Sarah Lawson Welsh has a PhD in Caribbean Studies from the Centre for
Caribbean Studies, Warwick University UK. She is currently Reader in
English and Postcolonial Literatures at York St John University, York,
UK. Her co-edited collection, Rerouting the Postcolonial: New Directions
for a New Millennium was published by Routledge in 2010. Her
monograph, Grace Nichols, was the first book-length study of this
Guyanese/Black British writer to be published and appeared in the British
Council 'Writers and their Work' series in 2007. She also coedited The Routledge Reader in Caribbean Literature, first published in
1996. She is Associate Editor of the international Journal of Postcolonial
Writing. She is also Caribbean editor for the online resource, The Literary
Encyclopaedia.
Elizabeth Drummond Young runs a course on the Philosophy of
Friendship and Love at the University of Edinburgh as part of the Open
Studies programme. After receiving her PhD from University of
Edinburgh, she has tutored and lectured on moral and political philosophy
at the University and has published articles on areas of her special interest;
supererogation and the philosophy of religion.
INDEX
Abraham, 88ff, 100-101
abuse, 31
Adorno, T. 36, 41, 48, 58
aesthetics, 165, 170
agape, 89, 159
aggression, 12
aimance, 53
Althusser, L. 1
Aphrodisia, 125
Arendt, H. 107-123
Aristotle, 127-128
Augustine, 95,107,111, 115-116
Auschwitz, 207-220
Ayerza, J. 18
Badiou, A. 1, 4, 94, 98
Barnard, S. 15
Barthes, R. 2, 89, 96
Benjamin, J. 26-45
Benjamin, W. 176-191
Bergson, H. 162
‘big other’, 16, 22
Birkenau, 212
Borromean knot, 16-18
boys, 128-129, 134
Breuer, J. 12, 24
brother, 90-93
Butler, J. 3-8, 26-45, 67, 196
care, 3, 48, 55, 57-58
caritas, 107, 114, 116-119, 121
castration complex, 14
choice, 191
Christianity, 90ff
Cicero, 99
clichés, 7-8
Coetzee, J.M. 194
community, 159
craving, 115-116, 121
cupiditas, 107, 114-119
Dabashi, H. 176-177
danger, 28-45
Dante, 99, 177
Dasein, 55
death, 91-93
‘death drive’, 14-15
Deconstruction, 52
demand, 13ff
Derrida, J. 2, 43, 47, 52-56, 58, 66,
82, 88-89, 92
desire, 13ff, 30
destructiveness, 28-45
Dewey, J. 208
dialogue, 131
distance, 176-177
Dolar, M. 3-4, 7
Dravers, P. 16
drives, 11
drunkenness, 132
Eichmann, A. 107
empathy, 170-173
ethics, 28, 45, 47, 52, 55, 127, 130,
150, 155, 167, 170, 173
Eros, 47, 50ff, 88ff, 95-98, 102,
128, 135, 150, 159, 192
evil, 107, 144, 156
Eze, E.C. 194, 204
face, 149-150
fantasy, 13, 23-24, 32-34, 41
fate, 177, 182, 186-187
‘fellow-feeling’, 155-157, 169
forgetting, 5
forgiveness, 155
Foucault, M. 38-39, 124-138
freedom, 35, 50, 93, 108, 110, 112,
180, 191
Freud, S. 10, 26, 49-50, 53ff, 69-70,
192
Thoughts of Love
friendship, 53-54, 89, 103, 107, 129,
146
Frosh, S. 36
Gaita, R. 141-153
‘giftgiving’, 53-54
Goethe, W. 176-191
grace, 118
Habermas, J. 47, 55-62
Hegel, G.W.F. 31, 57, 66-84, 92,
195
heterosexuality, 78
Heidegger, M. 3ff, 54-55, 111, 116,
209
Highsmith, P. 19
Hitchcock, A. 19-20
homosexuality, 80
Honneth, A. 48, 57-62
hospitality, 53-54
identification, 30, 159-162, 171
imaginary, 13, 16, 66
impartiality, 142, 151
individual, 111
individuation, 149
interpellation, 3-4, 7
instinct, 11
Irigary, L. 68
Isaac, 88, 99, 101
James, W. 208
jouissance, 15, 18, 22, 24
Joyce, J. 16
judging, 121
Kafka, F. 112
Kant, I. 47,50, 53-56, 58, 110, 115,
142, 146, 165
Kay, S. 19, 22
Kernberg, O. 59
Kierkegaard, S. 88-106
Kojeve, A. 66, 78-79
Lacan, J. 10-26, 66-68, 124, 135138
225
language, 2
lesbianism, 80
Levinas, E. 37, 47, 53, 149, 197
Loneliness, 119
loss, 13, 35-36
Lukacs, G. 48
lust, 117
Malabou, C. 82
Marcuse, H. 47ff
Marion, J.L. 2, 144-153
marriage, 178-180
Marson, U. 203
Marx, K. 50, 81, 195
master-slave dialectic, 66-84
‘mirror-stage’, 13
misrecognition, 58-59
Montaigne, M. 146
morality, 57, 144, 156, 179
mourning, 36
Napoleon, 78-80
narcissism, 59
narrativisation, 200
natality, 111, 121
nearness, 176-177
need, 13
neighbour, 59, 90, 102, 119, 151
Nietzsche, F. 4-8, 38, 103, 209
‘nobody’, 120
Nussbaum, M. 124, 138
obsession, 118
one, 15-16
other, 93, 149
Orwell, G. 108
Paget, H. 198
passion, 30, 115, 133
performativity, 7
person, 111
philia, 90, 95, 98, 102, 192-130
Phillips, A. 10
Pinkard, T. 67, 74-77
Plato, 80, 99, 124-138
‘pleasure principle’, 12, 14, 49, 51
226
Poland, 201, 220
Polis, 108-109, 121, 129-130
Pragmatism, 209
proximity, 90, 177-178, 183, 190
psychoanalysis, 10ff, 26, 28-45, 49,
160
real, 10-14, 16-20, 23
‘reality principle’, 51
recognition, 13, 29, 31-45, 48, 57,
59, 73-75, 156
regression 59
remorse, 143
Romeo and Juliet, 88
Rorty, R. 209
sacredness, 142ff
Said, E. 195
Salecl, R. 16
Sandford, S. 150
Sartre, J.P. 66
Scheler, M. 155-173
Secret, 101
self-consciousness, 71, 73
sex, 10, 50, 76, 117, 128, 166-67,
187
silence, 7, 88, 99-100
sinthome 16ff
Smith, A. 170
Socrates, 113, 124-138
solidarity, 58-60
solitude, 119
space, 118
subjection, 30
Index
subjectivity, 31
subordination, 30
suicide, 14
surrender, 36
symbolic, 17-18
sympathy, 155-173
Szondi, P. 69
terror, 68, 73, 81
thing, 15
‘thirdness’, 34, 37, 42, 44
Totalitarianism, 120
transference, 10-26, 125, 171
trauma, 18, 33
trust, 157
universalism, 194-195, 198
Verhaeghe, P. 15
violence, 81
vulnerability, 31, 36, 39
Walcott, D. 202
Weil, S. 144
wholeness, 14
will, 4, 33
Winnicott, D. 31-32
Wisker, G. 201-202
woman, 24
young love, 6
Zizek, S. 10-12, 19-24, 196
Zupancic, A. 15