The pleasures of interpretation are ...
linked to loss and disappointment, so that most of us will find the task too
hard, or simply repugnant; and then, abandoning meaning, we slip back into the
old comfortable fictions of transparency, the single sense, the truth.
Frank Kermode
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| Freud and Fliess |
During
the last academic year I attended a first year undergraduate level course on
English literature (university extramural). During the Easter term, when we
were studying Neo–Classical and Romantic poetry, our tutor asked us – in what
context I cannot now remember – how many of us believed in the unconscious. A
few students raised their hands almost immediately; most made a gesture
indicative of considerable uncertainty; and I remarked that I had read Richard Webster’s Why
Freud Was Wrong: Sin, Science and Psychoanalysis. (Harper Collins, 1995).
To which our tutor quipped that someone ought to write Why Webster was Wrong. (A fair question, perhaps, yet in
twenty–four years no one has attempted this! However, Webster is so painstakingly
fair to Freud, and has written such a finely argued case, that the critic would
hardly know where to begin: she or he would have to devote themselves to a kind
of obscure metalanguage, such as would blind the reader in the manner of
Freud.) However this may be, this small classroom
interlude set me thinking again about the – often bitter and acrimonious –
disputes over the existence (or otherwise) of the unconscious (and it is hard
sometimes to understand exactly why this
controversy generates so much heat).
I
first read Freud in my mid–twenties—starting with the Introductory Lectures, and following these up with Civilisation and its Discontents. I was
enchanted and stimulated—here were ideas I had never encountered before (with
the added bonus of Freud’s fine literary style.) But, when I moved on to other
works I quickly discovered what I regard as one of Freud’s major faults: he writes as if what he says is
axiomatically true—that is, obviously true and therefore not needing to be proved. Far from presenting us with the closely argued
conclusions of a Darwin, based on the profound examination of ‘a million
facts’, and indefatigable travel to foreign climes – Freud based his analyses
upon observations gleaned from an extremely narrow (and well–healed) strata of
Viennese society. From these observations he built theories which to me seem to
me fantastic—that is, quasi–chimerical.
For the purposes of this
critical piece I have just read Freud’s The Unconscious, in the new translation
by Graham Frankland, with an introduction by Mark Cousins (Penguin, 2005). Here is a section from
I In
defence of the Unconscious (p52):
To postulate an
unconscious is . . . entirely legitimate
in that, by doing so, we do not depart in the slightest from our customary way
of thinking, widely held to be correct.
Freud’s emphasis on the
word ‘legitimate’ indicates, I think, a fairly deep lack of confidence in the
idea he is about to postulate; while his assertion that, ‘we do not depart from
our customary way of thinking, begs the question, who’s customary way of thinking? The gullible reader can here be
fooled into thinking it axiomatic that there exists a considerable body of
‘wise’ people who really do concur with Freud’s ‘customary way of thinking.’ We
then learn that this ‘way of thinking’ is ‘widely held to be correct.’ Again,
we have to ask, ‘widely held to
be correct by whom?’ However, this apart, for an
idea to be (putatively) ‘widely held to be correct’ is not a sufficient reason for believing it to be
true—in fact it is a very good reason for treating it with extreme scepticism.
The popular ‘weathervane’ often points in a direction quite indiscernible to
the meteorologist.
What though of the
unconscious? Of what does it consist? Can it even be said exactly to consist of anything?—material, that is.
What is its purpose? How does it operate? These are hard questions, to which
moreover there seem to be no satisfactory answers—so far at least. Certainly we
cannot locate it physically, as we can the cerebral cortex. Not that this is a
legitimate reason for saying that no such entity exists. Because if the
unconscious is a function of the mind – as opposed to the brain – then that
cannot be physically located either.
I think that there is one thing to
bear clearly in mind. Which is, that the elusive (and putative) unconscious is
not to be found in any part of the brain that we would call physical (and I
assume that there is no part of the brain that we could describe as non
physical?). However, it should be noted here that Freud wrote, ‘Provisionally, our psychic typography
has nothing to do with anatomy; it refers not to anatomical localities, but to regions in the psychic apparatus,
wherever these may be situated in the body.’ [Webster’s
italics]. The
unconscious: II The ambiguity of the unconscious (p57). So, it seems we must assume that there is some
free floating ‘psychic apparatus’ which lacks a known anatomical locality (and
doubtless still does). I make no further comment on this.
I’ll continue by outlining what I
think is the most widely held conception of the unconscious. Which is that it
is the repository of primal emotions
or drives, such as are too frightening – perhaps even, terrifying? — for
subjects (people) to express or act upon. For example, someone who is cripplingly
shy in society may repress this perfectly healthy need, by – as it were –
channelling it into the unconscious (by some kind of mechanism which even Freud
seems never to have satisfactorily explained). Once repressed, these primal or
natural needs or emotions cause havoc, and are likely to re-emerge in the form
of extremely unhealthy emotions, bizarre character traits, or even mental
illness. There is much to be said for this. It is very plausible, and could
well be true at a subconscious level.
Probably most of us know of at least one person who has made their life a
misery because of their lack of courage in expressing natural and healthy
emotions—and I think we all know of people who have manifested envy or jealousy
to such a degree that it has vitiated our relationship with them. However, it
should be borne in mind that Freud regarded the unconscious as ‘A seething mass
of unclean impulses.’ Richard Webster,
publication as cited in the first paragraph. I find this a very curious notion.
And if it is true we might wonder what hope there is for any of us. (The
writer, Vincent Brome, once said to me that life for everyone was more
difficult than it might have been if evolution had not taken so many
‘inefficient’ turns).
However, if we remain
theoretically wedded to the unconscious as our ‘working hypothesis’, then
considerable problems remain. According to Freud, ‘the unconscious is
permanently locked into its own priority,’ and has a strong indifference to
anything outside it own
satisfaction.’ The Unconscious:
Introduction. Mark Cousin’s words. (pxvi). So, are we to infer from this that
there is some kind of ‘being’, which does
have a consciousness—and moreover of a deeply unpleasant character? And how can
an unconscious be conscious of itself?
But
what in Freud’s view is the complex
relationship of the unconscious to the conscious? I could paraphrase this, but
I’m not sure I could capture the strangeness of it, so I am going to quote
Freud’s own words:
Moving to a positive
[sic] account of psychoanalytic findings, we
can state that a psychic act generally goes through two phases, between which
is interposed a kind of inspection (censorship).
In the first phase the act is unconscious and belongs to the unconscious
system. If, on being inspected, it is rejected by the censorship, it is not
allowed to proceed to the second phase; it is then said to be ‘repressed’ and has
to remain unconscious. If, however, it passes the inspection, it enters a
second phase and becomes part of the system we are calling the conscious. The
fact that it belongs to this system does not however, definitively determine
its relationship to consciousness. It is still not conscious, though it
certainly is capable of consciousness
. . . i.e., certain conditions being met, it can now become the object of
consciousness without any particular resistance. The Unconscious: II
The Ambiguity of the Term ‘Unconscious’ and the Typographical Perspective. (p56)
Here we have posited
a censor: something which might be described as ‘The great decider of our fate.’ (If not Milton’s ‘. . . two-handed engine at the door’, which
‘Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.’) However that may be, we will
remember that the unconscious ‘is permanently locked into its own priority’,
and has a ‘stony indifference to anything outside its own satisfaction.’
However, as far as I am aware, only humans are capable of evincing a stony
indifference to anything (and you cannot even say that a cat or a dog is
capable of feeling satisfaction in the way that humans can). So I would suggest
that Freud is (subconsciously) attributing human characteristics to his
(highly illusive) unconscious. This is bizarre. Moreover, for the unconscious
to perform its putative tasks, it is hardly sufficient to allocate it some
limited form of consciousness, such as animals have—in fact I would suggest
that it would necessarily require a consciousness consonant with that of a
fully conscious person. How else could it perform its mighty task? And, how it
might turn upon itself in order to mutate between its two mutually exclusive
states is a riddle of riddles.
With regard to the censorship – requiring
a ‘psychic act’ to pass a ‘customs post’ if it wishes to move from the murky
waters of the unconscious to the sunny uplands of consciousness – Sartre has a
very trenchant criticism of this supposed process—which I will have to
paraphrase, as I do not have the text to hand (and of course I may not remember
it accurately). As I remember, Sartre writes that if you are going to have a
censor, then effectively you are setting up a ‘passport control’, which in turn
requires a passport officer, whose job it is to decide what (and when) certain
‘psychic’ material may be allowed to pass. It would work on our behalf, but
without our being aware of it. And – I would suggest – would necessarily have
to be conscious in order to deal
efficiently and fairly with matters of great consequence to the person it was
serving. Whatever may be the case, we are, I think, in the world of Alice in
Wonderland. We have posited it would seem three
consciousnesses: 1/ The logically
impossible consciousness of the unconscious; 2/ The consciousness of the customs officer or passport controller;
and 3/ Normal consciousness. Yet I
do not think it necessary to think in terms of a – or the – unconscious
at all. I think that subconsciousness is sufficient for the purpose in
hand. And I cannot help but think that ‘raising the unconscious’ has certain
religious overtones (of equal improbability). But there is another point: for
psychic material to be unconscious does
not require it to be ‘stored’ in a specific place. And to see the
unconscious as a ‘thing’ can only, I think, cause great confusion. This strange
‘entity’ tends to lurk at the back of people’s minds as some actual – but
entirely indefinable – dark ‘space.’ Just as the idea of hell – formless but
fearful – darkened the lives of so many people in the past (and in the present,
for those whose society has them in the grip of generational culture). So there
we have it—controversy has raged over the nature, properties, and ‘intentions’
even of something which is quite simply not susceptible of proof. (However it
is not illegitimate to believe in
things that you cannot prove.
But we do not need the unconscious in order for Freud to be right in so much of
his thinking. It is perfectly obvious
that we are only too good at deceiving ourselves; of acting – or not acting –
from cowardice; of failing to face up to the truth about ourselves (as those
businessmen and bankers who admit to having made ‘mistakes’ in the past, when
their behaviour has been downright criminal). These and many other things we
must accept to be true, but do we really need all the fantastic ‘apparatus’ of
Freud in order to understand these things? The Ego, the Id, the Superego, the
census, ‘psychic acts’, and etc. are so much obscuring baggage that we seem
hardly able to see over the top of them. I leave that as an open question, but
meantime intend to look at some other character traits of Freud that seem
almost to be peculiar to him.
I have so far examined — primarily –
Freud’s theory of the unconscious. But, when reading Richard Webster, I came across an aspect of Freud’s behaviour which I
can only describe as highly (almost criminally) irresponsible, and deeply
shameful. As a result of the ‘treatment’ carried out, the patient came within a
hair’s breadth of dying; and was even so left permanently scarred. To set the
scene: in 1887 Freud met Willhelm Fliess, to whom he immediately warmed, and
with whom he kept up a long correspondence (which he later strenuously – but
unsuccessfully – tried to keep out of the public domain). Freud’s fascination
with Fliess has never been satisfactorily explained, but if we are to go by
Richard Webster’s account, it is tantamount to being inexplicable. Webster writes that:
[Freud’s] letters to Fliess . . . show a man who,
rather than inspiring awe in others, appears both fallible and credulous. For Freud
frequently adopts towards Fleiss attitude of reverence and submission, and
looks to his younger colleague at almost every stage for guidance, advice,
and scientific enlightenment.
Freud’s attitude towards Fliess was all the more significant in view of
the ideas which the Berlin physician was committed to. For although Fliess
began his career as an orthodox nose and throat specialist, he soon stepped
into a self–created labyrinth of medical error which led him to formulate some
of the most remarkable theories in the whole of nineteenth–century
medicine. Why
Freud was Wrong, Chapter ten,
Freud, Fleiss and the Theory of Infantile Sexuality. (p220)
This insight into Fleiss’s personality and ideas is essential to the
part he played in assisting Freud with his treatment of a patient (analysand) – Emma Eckstein – who
was highly disturbed by her practice of masturbation (a practice which even
Freud could not happily square with his personal life). (Fliess here enters the
picture as the author of a book, The
Relationship between the Nose and the Female Sexual Organs (1897)—described
by one reviewer as, ‘utter gobbledegook!’)
| Add caption |
In 1895, after
having apparently identified Eckstein as a victim of nasal reflex neurosis, brought on by masturbation, Freud summoned
Fliess to Vienna to perform the ultimate operation which he advocated — the
removal of the turbinate bone in Emma Eckstein’s nose. Fliess was an
inexperienced surgeon and this was apparently one of his first ventures into
major surgery. Webster (p224).
Fliess then returned to
Berlin, but Emma Eckstein’s condition deteriorated rapidly. She suffered from
‘a purulent secretion, massive haemorrhaging, and considerable pain.’ Freud
called in another surgeon, Ignaz Rosanes. In Freud’s words they removed ‘at least
half a metre of gauze from the cavity [of the sight of the operation]. The next
moment came a flood of blood. The patient turned white, her eyes bulged, and
she had no pulse.’ Quoted Webster (p224). Webster continues:
After the cavity had been
packed the bleeding stopped and Emma Eckstein made a partial recovery. But she
continued to have severe haemorrhages. Instead of facing up to the fact that he
had damaged his patient’s health and almost caused her death through an
entirely unecessary operation, Freud tried to exculpate both himself and Fliess
by arguing that her haemorrhaging was actually hysterical, and was motivated by
an unconscious wish to ‘entice’ Freud to her bedside. Instead of revising his estimations of Fliess in the
light of this experience, Freud elevated him even higher in his regard,
describing him as a true healer, ‘the type of man into whose hands one
confidently puts one’s life and that of one’s family.’ Webster
(pp224 –5)
If this is not a form of
insanity, then it is hard to imagine what is. We may attribute to Freud’s character
the title of Anthony Trollope novel, He Knew he was Right (even when he knew he
was wrong). The idea of Keats’ ‘Negative Capability’ or Popper’s
‘defeasibility’ would, I think, have been anathema to him.
So is there nothing to be
salvaged from this unconscionable obscurantism and psychic mess of pottage?
Yes, I think that there is. We may probably reasonably say that Chaucer and
Shakespeare knew more about human nature than Freud did. But I think that it took
Freud to ‘fire the psychological pistol’, and make us more vividly aware of the
way we humans only too willingly pull the wool over our eyes; with what anger
we tend to react to criticism; what disgraceful thoughts we are capable of
entertaining; the bitterness we can nurse; the pleasure we can sometimes take
in hurting others; and of course all those terrible aspects of the human psyche
that lead to murder, torture, rape, sexual abuse, and other horrors—‘A seething mass of unclean impulses,’ indeed (not that
our souls can be made up only of such
things). However, the idea that these terrible emotions are perhaps latent in
us all, but have not manifested themselves because we have not found ourselves
in situations which might have sparked them, is – to say the very least – a sobering thought. And yet, decency tends to prevail,
and if so many of us did not get so truly upset when some tragedy strikes, we
might feel like giving up all hope.
I have often thought that Freud would
have been of inestimable service to us if he had been content to catalogue his
often acute observations of human behaviour. In the manner, as might be said,
of Peter and Iona Opie’s The Lore and
Language of School Children. Here, for example, are two observations: one
from Civilisation and its Discontents,
and another which I will have to quote from memory, both of which I have not
forgotten in decades:
We are so constituted that we can gain intense pleasure only
from the contrast, and only very little
from the condition itself.
We must learn to accept the fact of complicated
relationships.
________________________________
I will, at this point, explain why I
think I am putting so much effort into this piece—and Freud would not have been
slow in pulling me up with this! It would for him be a classic case of
denial—of his theories and of psychoanalysis. This is a trick ever up the
Freudian’s sleeve: that which you deny is that which you unconsciously believe.
It is a happy device to have at hand.
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