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Spring 2012 109

Behaviorism, Catharsis, and the History of Emotion1

R. Darren Gobert

Someone had to do it: to take on the oldest, the hoariest, and yet still one of the most fraught in theatre history. After all, the history of thinking about and performance—the subject of this special section—is coterminous with thinking about κάθαρσις (katharsis), the most vexed term in Aristotle’s vexing Poetics, the foundation of Western dramatic theory. Since his earliest Renaissance commentators over five hundred years ago, criticism has puzzled over what Aristotle meant when he characterized the function of tragedy as: “through pity and fear effecting the proper purgation of these emotions”2; or “through a course of pity and fear completing the purification of tragic acts which have those emotional characteristics”3; or “to accomplish, through pity and fear, a clarification . . . concerning of the pitiable and fearful kind.”4 This array of citations illustrates the problem: what Aristotle meant by this clause hinges on a word whose interpretation remains unresolved precisely because its correct translation remains unverifiable, the word and its cognates appearing in the extant Greek corpus in various denotations. (The word “catharsis,” used by many translators, is a cheat— borrowed from the Greek word in the nineteenth century precisely to avoid having to translate it into English, as happened in French [“la catharsis,” circa 1897], German [“die Katharsis,” circa 1857], and almost certainly other languages.) We never know what Aristotle meant. His is long dead and, even setting philological issues aside, his corpus is self-contradictory: in the Poetics, he refers to his theory of katharsis from the Politics and to his theory of emotions from the Rhetoric, but the discussions in these two books are irreconcilable, and the larger Aristotelian corpus further muddies the water with discordant remarks on the emotions’ workings in Nichomachean , On the Soul, Parts of Animals, and Movement of Animals. In light of the plain inadequacy of his remarks in the Poetics, commentators need contextual—extratextual—support, but they can only selectively choose it and must ignore the counterevidence. Not knowing Aristotle’s intentions, in other words, a critic can only ever add to the history of katharsis, by which I mean the history of how the word has been translated, the clause interpreted,

R. Darren Gobert is an Associate Professor of English and Theatre Studies at York University. As a critic, he has published articles on writers such as Michel Marc Bouchard, Bertolt Brecht, Sarah Kane, Molière, and Tom Stoppard, as well as on dramatic and performance theory, in venues such as Modern Drama and Theatre Survey. As a practitioner, he has directed plays by Edward Albee, Samuel Beckett, and Anton Chekhov, among others. He recently completed a book, The /Body Stage, about the role of Cartesian thought in theatre history. 110 Journal of Dramatic Theory and Criticism and the made to signify. And thus writing about katharsis both proliferates and continues to dissatisfy. A more profitable vein of inquiry is historiographical: it interrogates how and why this or that interpretation came to cohere in a historical moment. This inquiry involves not only historicizing translations of katharsis but also historicizing the concept of that undergirds them. For emotions do have a history: critics in different times and places have meant different things when they have written of the emotions in general or pity and fear in particular—even if they have been unaware that their presuppositions about these terms were historically constituted. After all, there is no stable thing, an “emotion” (or a “feeling” or an “affect”), that exists transhistorically, transculturally, or, indeed, outside of or prior to its cultural expressions, whether tears or dramatic scripts. Perusing key theoreticians of the emotions in Western thought—such as Plato, Aristotle, Descartes, , , or —one can identify the recurrent disagreements which have structured the history of emotion and which serve to distinguish its meanings. Do emotions originate in the body, with goose bumps and hot ears, or are they products of mind, generated by the mental assessment that this or that is fearful or -worthy? Are they “irrational” (as in independent of reason) or do they attend cognitive judgments? Are they individual or social experiences: inherently solipsistic or emerging only intersubjectively? Are they active, originating with the self, or intransitive, passively received from outside? And are they best considered as causes or effects: Do I cry because I am sad or, as James and many before him would have it, Am I sad because I cry? The answers to these questions have been alloyed in various ways to produce understandings of emotion, and these understandings may have predominated in this or that cultural location. They “successively make their appearance; pass, re-pass, glide away, and mingle in an infinite variety of postures and situations,” to quote Hume’s definition of mind as a theatre where this pageant is staged.5 But however dominant a given theory may become, it too will glide away. And however promising a present epistemological framework may be for working out answers (neurological research, say), history suggests that these, too, will eventually exit the stage. The questions will be posed anew. How one understands the nature and structure of emotion, I have said, largely determines how one understands—and even translates—katharsis, and the complexity of emotion as a concept is suggested by the scores of published interpretations of Aristotle’s clause, wide-ranging in their variety. (Note, for example, that Gerald Else’s interpretation, cited at note three above, dodges the spectators’ emotions entirely, rendering katharsis a term of art denoting a desirable dramaturgical structure. Even New Criticism had its way with Aristotle.6) But the interpretive menu leans heavily on three ingredients, which correspond to the definitions of the word in the Liddell-Scott-JonesGreek-English Lexicon: a medical katharsis that discharges emotions, or “purgation”; a religious, lustratory katharsis, Spring 2012 111 or “purification”; and akatharsis of cognitive illumination, or “clarification.”7 (The third definition serves as support for my historiographical thesis: while it is now listed as a verified for an ancient word in a dead language, in a dictionary used to apprehend long-ago significations, it was added to the Lexicon only in its ninth edition, published in 1940. The ostensible rationale would have been new philological evidence, but the cultural force driving it was a resurgent cognitivist of the emotions on which katharsis acts.8) Here, I focus on some seemingly disconnected pieces of early-twentieth-century theatre history—the writings of Antonin Artaud, the research of the “Cambridge ritualists,” and the montage theory of Sergei Eisenstein—and reveal their structural consonance. I excavate the shared structure in order to historicize the presumptions about emotion that undergird it. These presumptions betray the influence of behaviorist , developed by J. B. Watson in the United States and by and in Russia. , I suggest, facilitated a resurgence of interest in katharsis as “purification,” but it also marked dramatic theory and practice well beyond Aristotelian criticism.

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In a 1933 essay, Artaud derided four hundred years of Western theatre history as an “abhorration”9 that “leave[s] the public intact” and fails to “leave an ineffaceable scar.”10 He proposed an alternative theatre in which the spectator is “seized by the theater as by a whirlwind of higher forces.”11 These formulations highlight the central features of the theatre Artaud envisioned: the coercively physical and yet metaphysical nature of the spectacle, and its irreversible effect on the material body of the spectator. Christopher Innes has defined the theatre of cruelty as the modern equivalent of classical tragedy in its emphasis on catharsis, linking Artaud with other practitioners of “holy theatre” such as Jacques Copeau and Jerzy Grotowski, who aim for their spectators’ transformation.12 Artaud, who saw himself as sui generis, would no doubt take issue with the company that Innes has him keep: “My plays have nothing to do with Copeau’s improvisations,” he indignantly protested in 1932.13 But while they are sometimes self-contradictory, the claims that Artaud makes for his theatre—claims that draw on comparisons to ancient Greek religious practices—forcefully defend the transcendental potential of theatrical emotion in ways that put him in eclectic company. Making reference to Orphic and Eleusinian mystery cults, Artaud stresses the irrevocability of his theatrical effects, which transfuse matter; his theatre, like alchemy, finds its essence—its fin“ ” and its “réalité”—in its impact on the spectator.14 In the Eleusinian rites to which Artaud alludes, the initiate undergoes an irreversible transformation, a purification that experientially enacts the infant Demophoön’s terrifying brush with the goddess Demeter, who had put him in the fire in order to confer immortality.15 This initiation 112 Journal of Dramatic Theory and Criticism is transformative, remaking its subject just as the theatre of cruelty “provokes the most mysterious alterations in the [spirit, i.e., esprit] of not only an individual but an entire populace.”16 Artaud attests that he restores theatre to the “spirit of deep anarchy” (l’esprit d’anarchie profonde) embodied by the mystery rites17—and his era was heavily invested in the claim that tragedy had evolved directly from these ecstatic ceremonies. The claim was promoted by the classicists who came to be known as the Cambridge ritualists—Jane Harrison, Gilbert Murray, Francis Cornford—whose attempts to link the origins of theatre with sacrificial rituals in ancient Greece dominated early-twentieth-century classical scholarship.18 Accordingly, the notion of Aristotelian “purification” came again to dominate discussions of katharsis, in a marked turn of events from the late-nineteenth century, when understandings of “purgation” held favor. As I have explored elsewhere, “purgation” had ascended as part of a larger rationalization of the mysteries of human in the late- nineteenth century and alongside the medicalization of human psychology that had then taken ferment.19 It is no accident that the era’s key proponent of “purgation,” the classicist Jacob Bernays, had explicated the medical basis for Aristotelian katharsis in terms fully consonant with psychotherapeutic “catharsis” as it was developed by his niece’s husband, Sigmund Freud, and his then partner Josef Breuer.20 But just as the Cambridge ritualists would come to remystify the emotional experience of theatre that Bernays had demystified, so too would the between emotions and irrationality come to be remythologized in dramatic practice more generally. When George Thomson wrote, in 1941, that theatre emerged out of the mystery cults, whose initiation rituals in turn derived from the rites of the “primitive totemic clan,” he was merely consolidating a theory (however suspect its evidence) popularized by anthropology of the early century.21 Such —soon to be systematically applied to drama criticism by Francis Fergusson’s The of a Theater22—were absorbed into the theatrical , and they stand behind Artaud’s claim that “all true culture relies upon the barbaric and primitive means of totemism whose savage, i.e., entirely spontaneous, life I wish to worship.”23 His theory thus shares deep affinities with the “mission religieuse” of Copeau (who had also self-consciously drawn from the mystery rites) and other pioneers of primitivist .24 Both men, in stressing theatrical spectatorship’s transcendental powers of conversion instead of its restorative or normalizing impact, recapitulate a resilient historical line of thought that preoccupied many Aristotelian commentators, including Gotthold Lessing and stretching back to one of the earliest, Francesco Robortello, for whom katharsis was a religious metaphor signaling the emotions’ purification. However, Artaud’s formulations go much further than Robortello or Lessing in their revolutionary fervor, which is enabled by new paradigms of emotion. These paradigms, in turn, were promulgated by behaviorism, which explicitly Spring 2012 113 articulates a program for emotional conditioning. Examining behaviorism’s model of emotion, we can consider Artaud’s theatre of cruelty in counterpoint with the secularized but no less fervent program proposed by his contemporary and Pavlov’s countryman, Eisenstein, who demonstrates that experiential transformation does not require the divine. The early-twentieth-century dissatisfaction with “purgation” theories derived from their normalizing , their clinical removal of what was seen as an element of mystery in tragic experience. Indeed, Bernays had begun his treatise on katharsis with a withering rebuttal of Lessing, whose Hamburg Dramaturgy translates katharsis as “purification” Reinigung( ) and who understands the term as denoting the “transformation” (Verwandlung) of the spectators’ emotions.25 Bernays’s work, I have said, emblematizes the nineteenth-century trend to rationalize mysteries of human experience; summarizing his critique of the purification school, Bernays deems its proponents temperamentally incompatible with the philosopher of the Poetics, with whom he claims kinship:

[N]o one who gives the matter two minutes’ reflection needs any help to realise how impossible it is that Aristotle, in a fashion totally foreign to his normal habits, should here have borrowed a philosophical term from the language of popular religion—only to miss his real aim entirely. For he cannot have had in mind the [ritual] ceremonies themselves—the incense and the ablutions . . . . No one in his right mind could seriously credit Aristotle with so pointless and obvious a piece of verbal conjuring.26

Bernays tellingly impugns the of those who endorse spectatorial purification: kein“ Besonnener” could believe in such “Taschenspielerei.” On the other hand, the antirationalist Artaud (who personally had attempted to assert religious faith in the face of normalizing medical treatments27), reanchors the theatrical experience in its ecstatic effect on its spectators: “surcharged with spirituality,” he writes in a suitably obscure passage, the theatre “ultimately evokes in the spirit an absolute and abstract purity, beyond which there can be nothing.”28 As Artaud explained to Jean Paulhan, the theatre of cruelty should confront the principle of theatre itself, which is metaphysical—his version of the truism that “there is no tragedy without transcendence,” as Karl Jaspers put it.29 In emphasizing the ecstatic elements of theatrical experience and their ability to transfuse the material body of the spectator, theorists like Artaud reclaim historically influential charges of antitheatricalists—hence Jonas Barish’s astute linking of Grotowski and Artaud to Nietzsche and Rousseau, with their vision of theatre as a “participatory rite meant to arouse and overwhelm the spectator with intense states of .”30 Artaud himself explicitly allies his stance with 114 Journal of Dramatic Theory and Criticism that of Augustine, borrowing his central metaphor of theatre as a plague that radiates out from the representation and irrevocably contaminates its audience.31 A well- rehearsed antitheatricalist line holds that the conversion wrought by the plague- like theatre is twofold. First, the actors are materially altered as a consequence of their dissemblance. For example, on the 1664 account of Pierre Nicole (who, as a Jansenist, traces his antitheatrical lineage directly to Augustine): “It is a profession in which men and women represent the passions of hatred, anger, ambition, vengeance, and especially love. They must express them as naturally and vividly as they can, and they could not do so if they did not in some way excite these passions within themselves; and if these passions are to be expressed through gestures and words, they must be first imprinted on their souls.”32 The famed theologian Jacques Bénigne Bossuet made the same point in 1694 while anticipating Artaud’s language more explicitly; for him, in acting, we take on the “esprit” of that which we imitate.33 This “esprit” spreads from the actors to the audience: “The spectator is carried along in this spirit. . . . In this way the entire device of theater only makes men impassioned.”34 Theatre acts as the agent, situating the complicit actor and then the powerless spectator as objects to be acted upon: it “makes” impassioned men. In the manner of the initiate into mystery rites, who is given over to ecstasy and thus converted to new beliefs, the object of theatre becomes subjugated to and transformed by its power. Acted upon, he is conditioned (“to be brought into a desired state”—O.E.D.) into new .35 Conditioning—a “mode of learning that leads to behaviors,” in Stanley Jackson’s succinct phrase—is not new, as Jackson illustrates with a passage from Robert Burton’s 1621 Anatomy of Melancholy that likens a man to a horse conditioned out of skittishness.36 The use of representational art in the service of such conditioning is not new, either. Robortello, for example, writes that theatrical katharsis teaches men to act differently by a process that we recognize as emotional :

when men are present at performances, and they hear and see people saying and doing things which very closely approach itself, they become accustomed to suffering, to fearing, to pitying; this, in turn, causes them . . . to suffer less and to fear less . . . . [W]hen the poets in the performance of their tragedies present persons and actions most worthy of pity . . . men learn what those things are which properly excite pity and sorrow, and which ones arouse fear. Finally, the auditors and spectators of tragedies gain this benefit, which is really the greatest one[.]37

Emphasizing that men “become accustomed” through theatre, which “in turn” “causes” men to pity and fear less, Robortello makes explicit the causal process Spring 2012 115 through which “men learn”—a process by which a theatrical effects a result on the spectator, whose fearful and pitying behaviors are thereby altered. But Robortello’s formulation is tepid compared with some twentieth-century “purification” commentaries such as Humphry House’s, which sees emotional potentiality “trained” because of the “adequate stimuli” of theatre.38 Robortello’s account predates the context that would provide him with the most explicit theoretical support. By contrast, Artaud’s claims that his theatre will “cause thinking” (faire penser) in the “organism” (organisme) by “precise means” (moyens précis) are made possible, like House’s, by his historical moment.39 For while behavioral conditioning has likely been practiced throughout history, its most vigorous and experimentally tested formulations are only a century old.40 The discourse of behaviorism rose out of Pavlov’s clinical work on conditioned reflexes and because of the influence of J. B. Watson. It is a product of the period during which psychology was distancing itself from the and attempting to establish itself as a science, and some of the anxieties of that empiricist attempt can be seen in its mechanistic understanding of the human mind. Unlike the many dualistic models of humanity that precede it, with their visions of a soul as a seat of nonphysiological reason, behaviorism sees human psychology as a sum-total set of physical responses that, with enough experimental patience, could be systematically catalogued, predicted, or differently conditioned. Simply stated, behaviorism holds that we are constituted by the manner in which we behave, and thus our subjectivity can be altered by external stimuli that change our behaviors. In this way, the behaviorist conception of the human resembles Descartes’s understanding of the soulless animal as a machine whose every activity is a physical reaction to an external stimulus—a comparison that Pavlov himself makes in his lectures.41 Despite his caveats about too hastily dismissing the Cartesian distinction between man and animal, Pavlov’s pioneering work on conditioned responses in dogs quickly led to similar work on human by including Watson and Bekhterev.42 Watson, for example, extrapolating from Pavlovian models, articulates a behaviorist account of human emotions, defining them as he would any other behavioral response: as constituted entirely by physiological changes of the “bodily mechanism.”43 In 1890, James had figured emotion as both a feeling and a physical response that could be causally related. “[W]e feel sorry because we cry,” he explained, “angry because we strike, afraid because we tremble, and not that we cry, strike, or tremble, because we are sorry, angry, or fearful, as the case may be.”44 Pavlov, Bekhterev, and Watson, on the other hand, remove one term entirely, stressing that the emotion is the response.45 As Watson puts it, “[t]he ‘cold sweat’ of fear, the ‘bursting heart,’ the ‘bowed head’ in apathy and grief, the ‘exuberance of youth,’ the ‘palpitating heart’ of the swain or maiden, are more than mere literary expressions.”46 For Watson, these expressions are not metaphoric or even metonymic 116 Journal of Dramatic Theory and Criticism signifiers of emotions like fear and anger. Rather, as Pavlov writes, fear and anger are the “reflex activities of the subcortical parts of the brain. . . . made up by a grouping together of the elementary locomotor activities.”47 Behaviorism imagines a finite number of emotional “pattern-reactions” (each definable by a set of physiological responses) that are inherited: for Watson, fear, rage, and love.48 Moreover, these have inborn stimuli. But these responses become alloyed and etiolated in response to other stimuli; they are more complexly ordered and attached to different objects by means of conditioning. Like any set of behaviors, such as speech or movement patterns, emotions adapt with the individual, becoming “schooled and habitized.”49 This prescriptive vision of emotional life is accordingly teleological, and Watson, sounding like his Soviet counterparts, predicts that our emotional habits will one day become as consistent as our other behaviors as we scientifically progress.50 He even imagines the rote manner in which utilitarian science could standardize our behaviors: starting with a “fundamental stimulus . . . which will call out the response in question,” Watson can condition other stimuli to do likewise.51 For example, Watson conditioned “hospital reared”52 children to feel fear—a set of physiological changes universally attached to the stimulus “loud noise”—in response to other stimuli of which they were “naturally” unafraid: cats, dogs, rabbits, rats.53 Like Pavlov’s experiments with dogs, such clinical studies underscore two features of behaviorism that are central to the concept of kathartic purification: an understanding of emotional responses as nonintellectual, and a preoccupation with behavioral effects that define and prescriptively construct the subject. Eisenstein’s mechanistic view of the human mind and concern with the conditions that modify behavior—and even his teleological, almost utopian view of a trained audience with standardized emotional responses—fit harmonically with the behaviorist program. Indeed, he grounded his early theory of montage (which he formulated in and for the theatre before he turned to filmmaking54) in his understanding of Pavlov and especially Bekhterev, whose work sought greater precision in the understanding of the organism and, ultimately, the social collective.55 As David Bordwell puts it, Eisenstein’s theatre and film both work “to shape the audience’s response” in order to “train the Soviet citizen in the attitudes of the new society.”56 In a clear reference to Aristotle, Eisenstein had noted that his 1925 film Strike should “stir the spectator to a state of pity and terror,”57 and, more generally, his prescriptions for aesthetically successful representations (with aesthetic success measured in terms of the spectacle’s effect on the spectator) share key features with the Poetics as it is understood by proponents of Aristotelian “purification.” Moreover, his explanation of montage and its physiological effects clarifies how the behaviorist paradigm of emotion might facilitate a katharsis of purification that transforms the spectator in the manner proposed by Artaud. Spring 2012 117

Eisenstein’s earliest discussion of montage occurs in a 1923 essay about theatrical mise-en-scène, “The Montage of Attractions.” A formal technique, montage is a method of “structuring the show” in order to facilitate “agitation”—a term that Artaud also uses to describe his goal.58 Montage seeks “the moulding of the audience in a desired direction (or mood).”59 Its raw material is not scenes in the conventional sense but rather the juxtaposition of individual theatrical “moments” called “attractions”: “any aggressive moment in theatre, i.e. any element of it that subjects the audience to emotional or psychological influence, verified by experience and mathematically calculated to produce specific emotional shocks in the spectator.”60 That these base “molecular units” of montage—equivalent to the “cruautés” out of which Artaud builds spectacle—are defined in terms of their potential for emotional influence suggests the foundational role played by emotion in Eisenstein’s project. He locates the efficacy of his theatre in its ability not only to engage its spectators emotionally but also to condition their emotional responses. The attraction, then, is an experimental stimulus like Pavlov’s ringing bell, scientifically designed to align pre-existing reflexes in directions “dictated by the production’s purpose.”61 Seeking to engage spectators emotionally is not itself radical; Eisenstein’s claims rely on an intuitive conception about art, which Noël Carroll has bluntly formulated as “emotions organize .”62 However, Eisenstein is radical in replicating behaviorism’s de-emphasis of mind. He presupposes a strategic on the part of the emotional stimulus that can act directly on the spectator’s physiology, a strategic agency, indeed, that a katharsis of purification would require. Under the sway of behaviorist reflexology in its boldest articulations, Eisenstein’s theory could claim that montage exercises a clinically reliable and verifiable effect on the emotions of the audience.63 In Strike, for example—a film whose purpose the filmmaker described as “a purely emotional revolutionary effect conditioned by the plot”—Eisenstein induces the spectators’ anger toward the police chief by cutting in documentary shots of a butcher slaughtering a bull.64 Like Watson’s infant’s fear of loud noises, the spectator’s innate sympathy for the helplessly thrashing bull thus becomes attached via association to the strikers, hindered by the police. Eisenstein was far from alone in his faith in such a reductive behaviorism; his enthusiasm, particularly common in his Soviet context but not limited to it, was shared by artists across several disciplines.65 One of the key “attractions” in montage is the actor’s body, and in a 1924 essay Eisenstein endorses a biomechanical method of acting that calls for the mechanical duplication of emotional states rather than the naturalistic representations favored by Stanislavsky and his adherents.66 In Russia, the vogue for biomechanics and the decline of Stanislavskian betrayed a fundamental shift in the paradigm of emotion; Eisenstein’s idea that an actor could duplicate an emotion by expertly embodying its physical effects suggests the extent to which behaviorist 118 Journal of Dramatic Theory and Criticism ideas had penetrated cultural discourse of the 1920s. (Reminding us forcefully of behaviorism’s debt to Cartesian animal physiology, Eisenstein’s prescriptions for actor training explicitly recall classical methods for training animals. As Richard Taylor notes, Eisenstein sought to “subjugate the actor’s mind and body to the discipline of gymnastic control and the actor himself more completely to the dictates of the director.”67 Eisenstein had even coined a word for such an actor: naturshchik or “mannequin.”) Artaud would similarly propose for his actors a “kind of affective musculature which corresponds to the physical localizations of feelings.”68 And just as Eisenstein and Vsevolod Meyerhold praised the scientific precision of biomechanically induced emotion, Artaud lauded the Balinese theatre, whose emotional precision, he claimed, is rooted in physical gesture.69 Praising the physically precise Balinese actors, Artaud recapitulates behaviorism’s foregrounding of physical responses, stressing that the actors are under the control of their physiology (which acts like [“comme dicté par”] an outside, superior force70) and not the other way around. The consonance with tragedy’s entirely somatic “purification” is clear. Moreover, Artaud connects this subjugation explicitly to the spectacle’s effect on its spectators, who themselves are seized—in this case by terror, Aristotelian phobos:

Everything is thus regulated and impersonal; not a movement of the muscles, not the rolling of an eye but seem to belong to a kind of reflective mathematics which controls everything and by means of which everything happens. . . . A kind of terror seizes us at the thought of these mechanized , whose [joy] and [grief] seem not their own but at the service of age-old rites.71

Recalling Nicole and Bossuet, both Artaud and Eisenstein emphasize the process by which muscularly induced and represented emotion spreads to the spectator, so that the stimulus of the actor’s emotional movements is meant to “call out” (Watson’s useful phrase) an emotional, i.e., physiological, response in the audience. Experiencing “motor imitation of the action,” the spectator begins—just as the actor does—to experience the appropriate emotion.72 The theatre of cruelty spreads, says Artaud, from spectacle to spectators and thus undoes the distinction between them.73 So too does Eisenstein’s montage: he asserts that the raw materials of montage are “the actor’s body” and “the audience.”74 To forge a collectivity in his audience as one forges iron, Eisenstein uses the “direct animal audience action through a motor imitative act towards a live character like oneself.”75 Artaud summarizes such a process well, stressing that the actor needs to cultivate muscularly induced emotion so that the spectator can be thrown into a trance; knowing how to cultivate these emotions, he notes, is the key to “reforging” this causal chain.76 Spring 2012 119 Articulating such processes, Eisenstein and Artaud do more than claim that the audience participates kinetically in the spectacle, a claim that would hardly necessitate a behaviorist understanding of emotion.77 Each goes farther, echoing behaviorism by making identification entirely a matter of physiology, appropriately borne more out of the narrative’s form than its content: hence Artaud’s emphasis on “” and Eisenstein’s note, in 1929, that he works by “pure physiologism.”78 Describing his innovative overtonal montage in that essay, Eisenstein is particularly explicit, calling for “totally physiological sensations” that do not rely at all on the semantic content of the images and which can produce “feeling” in the audience—what he calls the “fourth dimension” experience.79 Such transcendental effects bypass both mind and representation; they manifest physically. In this sense, the description of plague with which Artaud opens “The Theater and the Plague” (“he hears his body fluids murmuring within him; torn, failing in a dizzying collapse of tissue, his organs grow heavy and gradually turn to carbon”80) provides a poetically exaggerated but vivid image for the physiological disruption and the de-emphasis of mind that his theory promotes. Watson himself claimed that an emotional stimulus throws the “organism” into “a chaotic state,”81 and a theatre of emotion would thus be disordering and coercive for the very reasons alleged by Bertolt Brecht.82 Made muscularly to behave differently, the spectator feels differently, and, following the of behaviorism, the spectator thus becomes different. Their projects thus align with the transformations of a kathartic “purification.” As House writes in his commentary onPoetics : “tragedy rouses the emotions from potentiality to activity by worthy and adequate stimuli. . . . When they subside to potentiality again after the is over, it is a more ‘trained’ potentiality than before. This is what Aristotle calls [katharsis].”83

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In Eisenstein’s most vivid echoing of Artaud, he had noted that the play is “a semi-narcotic experience” and likened spectatorship to “the celebrated dances in animal skins of the primitive savages.”84 Artaud and Eisenstein’s analogical recourse to “primitive times” mirrors Aristotelian commentary like Harrison’s (for whom ritual worship—“none were actors, none spectators”—gave way to a corrupted drama) and Murray’s (which links Greek tragedy to the rites of Dionysus).85 And such discourse reflects the desire to understand an audience as a collective mass with communal needs. Behaviorism, with its teleological thrust and de-emphasis of mind, could provide a foundation for such an understanding. Anatomizing a behaviorist understanding of emotion, we can reconcile the contradictions upon which Artaud relies when he states that “theater, like the plague, is a delirium and is communicative”: for contagious communication, Artaud claims, occurs by “precise means” (moyens précis) whose workings can nonetheless not be articulated with 120 Journal of Dramatic Theory and Criticism

“precise reasons” (raisons précises).86 Such communication is similar to that of the Eleusinian mysteries, whose initiate, Helene Foley notes, is “made to experience” and thus “change his or her state of mind.”87 Behaviorism locates the mechanisms for such communication in the physiology of its subjects, who can be trained via conditioning, making possible a vision of the actor’s and the spectator’s physiological transformations. In this way, behaviorist- inflected accounts of kathartic purification can overcome the tentativeness of Lessing’s, which had claimed that

[w]hen he has for a long spell done nothing but copy others, [the actor] will at last have accumulated a number of little rules according to which he begins to act and through the observance of which (in consequence of the law that the modifications of the soul that induce certain changes of the body, in return are induced by these bodily changes) he arrives at a species of feeling that has not, it is true, the duration or the fire of that which arises in the soul, but is yet powerful enough in the moments of representation to bring about some of the involuntary changes of body whose forms almost the only certain clue we have as to the presence of inner feeling.88

Not hamstrung by dualistic presumptions, Eisenstein would neither have to hedge his claims about emotional authenticity as Lessing had (“einer Art von Empfindung”) nor motivate his claims about bodily changes within the soul. That is, while Lessing had claimed that “feeling is something internal of which we can only judge by its external signs,”89 Eisenstein could focus exclusively on the external signs that for him constituted, rather than indicated, “feeling.” And thus Eisenstein seems to resolve the aspect of emotion that has troubled its entire history and philosophy, and which is embedded in our emotional vocabulary: the fact that “guilt racks us” in English, “la rage nous consume” in French, “die Angst ergreift uns” in German. Artaud, Eisenstein, and theories of Aristotelian “purification” all understand the spectator as a passive body to be acted upon by means of spectacle—and this understanding presents no conceptual paradox for the emotional paradigms that inform their theories. Such a view celebrates rather than frets about the intransitivity of both the emotions and the theatrical experience—the feeling of being acted upon or swept away, as two characters discuss in Maria Irene Fornes’s environmental Fefu and Her Friends:

Cindy: What does the sweeping? Christina: An emotion . . . a feeling. Spring 2012 121

Cindy: Then emotions have bristles? Christina: Yes. Cindy: Now I understand.90

Understanding the feeling of powerlessness, the bristling heat of emotions that seem exterior to the self and beyond its control, seems never to have been easy—hence Émile Durkheim’s theory that the incomprehensibility of emotional experiences leads agents to understand it as the presence of a god.91 For the Cambridge ritualists, Durkheim was a key influence, and yet they (like Artaud) unwittingly betray the very phenomenon that Durkheim addressed by reaching back into a pre-mimetic (as they saw it) time and looking for the divine. The Aristotelian commentary that they inspired, Artaud’s theatre of cruelty, and Eisenstein’s montage of attractions each holds significance for theatre history and performance theory on its own terms, but laying these unlikely bedfellows next to one another has exegetical benefits. Consonances in their presuppositions about emotion are revealed, and these presuppositions, clear products of their time, can be more carefully historicized. Understanding the emotions has never been easy, whatever Fornes’s Cindy says. But by excavating the unstated assumptions about emotion that animate this or that performance or dramatic theory, we can at least see the theory—and earlier points in theatre history—more clearly. Doing so, we might also illuminate our present context or at least encourage scrutiny of our own conceptual underpinnings. After all, whether we are critics, actors, directors, or playwrights, our understanding of the emotions remains central to our theatrical endeavors, even if our own answers may be suspect and timebound.

Notes

1. For his research assistance, I gratefully acknowledge Alex Ferrone. 2. S. H. Butcher, trans., The Poetics of Aristotle, 4th ed. (London: Macmillan, 1922) 23. 3. Gerald Else, trans., Poetics (Ann Arbor: U of Michigan P, 1967) 25. 4. Martha Nussbaum’s paraphrase of Aristotle appears in her Fragility of Goodness (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1986) 391. 5. David Hume, A Treatise of , ed. L. A. Selby-Bigge, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1978) 253. 6. Else’s New Critical inflections are seen most clearly inPoetics 230. 7. Henry George Liddell et al, eds., A Greek-English Lexicon, 9th ed. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1940) 851. By contrast, “purgation” and “purification” are listed already at the lexicon’s beginnings. Henry George Liddell and Robert Scott, eds., A Greek-English Lexicon, 1st ed. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1843) 638. 8. See R. Darren Gobert, “Cognitive Catharsis in The Caucasian Chalk Circle,” Modern Drama 49.1 (2006), in which I trace the development of new cognitivist paradigms of emotion in the mid- to late-twentieth century and examine their impact on readings of Aristotle, such as that of Nussbaum. 9. The editors of the Gallimard Œuvres complètes correct Artaud’s typewritten manuscript’s “abhorration” to “aberration” on the basis that he dictated to a copyist. Antonin Artaud, Œuvres complètes, 16 vols. (Paris: Gallimard, 1956-) IV: 371 n.5. But given Artaud’s enthusiasm elsewhere in his writings for all manner of aberrations, and especially given this essay’s interest in combating the “conformisme” (IV: 74) of the Western theatre, the neologism abhorration may be appropriate. 122 Journal of Dramatic Theory and Criticism

10. Antonin Artaud, The Theater and its Double, trans. Mary Caroline Richards (New York: Grove, 1958) 76-77. All translations from French and German (but not Russian) have been scrutinized against the original, and any uncredited translations are my own. 11. 83. 12. Christopher Innes, Holy Theatre: Ritual and the Avant Garde (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1981) 253. 13. Artaud, Theater 109. 14. Artaud, Œuvres IV: 58. 15. The initiate thus hopes to gain, as Demophoön does, a better life in the afterworld. While the exact content of the mysteries remains unknown, their origin myth is recorded in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter: declaring that she will “lay down the rites so that hereafter / performing due rites you may propitiate my spirit,” Demeter “revealed / the conduct of her rites and taught her Mysteries to all of them, / holy rites that are not to be transgressed, nor pried into, / nor divulged”; Helene Foley, ed. and trans. The Homeric Hymn to Demeter (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1994) ll. 273-74, 475-78. On the mysteries, see Foley’s commentary, especially at 30, 69-70, and 86. 16. Artaud, Theater 26. Richards’s translation of esprit as “mind” is here unsatisfactory, for “mind” fits ill with “un peuple” and “esprit” bears no intellectual connotations. While there is no precise English equivalent, “spirit” is truer to Artaud’s sense, whose original appears at Artaud, Œuvres IV: 32. 17. IV: 51. 18. For an overview of the ritualist thesis, see the introduction to Robert A. Segal, ed., The Myth and Ritual Theory (Oxford: Blackwell, 1998) 1-11. In a defining article on Harrison, Julie Stone Peters has noted that, despite the tendency to group the scholars together, Harrison was both older and the first to articulate an inchoate version of the thesis, as early as 1890; see Peters, “Jane Harrison and the Savage Dionysus: Archaeological Voyages, Ritual Origins, Anthropology, and the Modern Theatre,” Modern Drama 51.1 (2008): 4, 13. 19. See Stanley W. Jackson, Care of the Psyche: A History of Psychological Healing (New Haven: Yale UP, 1999) 7. 20. Bernays’s Zwei Abhandlungen über die aristotelische Theorie des Drama [Two Essays on the Aristotelian Theory of Drama] (Berlin: W. Hertz, 1880) provided the late-nineteenth century with its dominant understanding of Aristotle, even achieving popular success. I explore the sometimes parallels between this text’s medicalized understanding of Aristotle and the illness of Anna O., Freud and Breuer’s first “hysteric” in R. Darren Gobert, “Dramatic Catharsis, Freudian Hysteria and the ‘Private Theatre’ of Anna. O,” Emotions: A Cultural Studies Reader, ed. Jennifer Harding and E. Deidre Pribram (New York: Routledge, 2009). By remarkable coincidence, Anna O. (Bertha Pappenheim) fell ill in the same year that Bernays’s treatise was published: 1880. Jennifer and Jonathan Barnes have translated 32 pages of Bernays’s 186-page book as “Aristotle on the Effect of Tragedy,” Articles on Aristotle, 4 vols. (London: Duckworth, 1979) IV: 154-65. 21. George Thomson, Aeschylus and Athens (London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1941) 196. See too Gilbert Murray’s similar argument in his preface to Ingram Bywater’s translation of the Poetics: Aristotle on the Art of Poetry (Oxford: Clarendon, 1920) 14-15. 22. Fergusson invokes “the Cambridge School of Classical Anthropologists” specifically, noting that “Cornford, Harrison, Murray, and others of this school have given us a new understanding of Greek Tragedy by demonstrating its roots in myth and ritual.” Francis Fergusson, The Idea of a Theater (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1949) 9. 23. Artaud, Theater 10. 24. Jacques Copeau, Notes sur le métier de comédien (Paris: Michel Brient, 1955) 40. See also John Rudlin, Jacques Copeau (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1986) 28. 25. “For whoever has endeavoured to arrive at a just and complete conception of Aristotle’s doctrine of the purification of the passions will find that . . this purification rests in nothing else than in the transformation of passions into virtuous habits”; G. E. Lessing, Hamburg Dramaturgy, trans. Victor Lange (New York: Dover, 1962) 193. The original appears at G. E. Lessing, Werke, ed. Klaus Bohnen, 12 vols. (Frankfurt am Main: Deutscher Klassiker, 1985) VI: 574. 26. Bernays, “Aristotle” 158-59; my emphasis. The original appears at Jacob Bernays, Zwei Abhandlungen über die aristotelische Theorie des Drama (Berlin: Wilhelm Herz, 1880) 13. 27. During his nine years of confinement to asylums, Artaud reconverted to and rerenounced Christianity and dabbled in Hinduism and various occult practices; Ronald Hayman, Artaud and After (Oxford: Oxford UP, 1977) 116-30. Artaud’s attitude towards both and rational psychology is captured well in the following passage from his reading notes, at Œuvres, VIII: 144: Spring 2012 123

Plus l’homme se préoccupe de lui, plus ses préoccupations échappent en réalité à l’homme, égocentrisme individualiste et psychologique opposé à l’humanisme, l’homme quand on le serre de près, cela aboutit toujours à trouver ce qui n’est pas l’homme . . . . La psychologie n’est pas la science de l’homme, au contraire. [ The more preoccupied man is with himself, the more irrelevant his preoccupations are to human , individualistic and psychological egocentrism opposed to , squeeze a man and you will always find something not human . . . . Psychology is not the science of man, on the contrary.]

28. Artaud, Theater 52. 29. “[Le] principe même du théâtre, qui est métaphysique.” Artaud, Œuvres IV: 138. Karl Jaspers, Tragedy is Not Enough, trans. Harald A. T. Reiche et al (Boston: Beacon, 1952) 41. 30. Jonas Barish, The Antitheatrical Prejudice (Berkeley: U of California P, 1981) 455. 31. “In The City of God St. Augustine complains of this similarity between the action of the plague that kills without destroying the organs and the theater which, without killing, provokes the most mysterious alterations in the [spirit i.e., esprit] of not only an individual but an entire populace”; Artaud, Theater 26. The original appears at Artaud, Œuvres IV: 32. 32. “C’est un métier où des hommes & des femmes représentent des passions de haine, de colere, d’ambition, de vengeance, & principalement d’amour. Il faut qu’ils les expriment le plus naturellement, & le plus vivement qu’il leur est possible: & ils ne le sauroient faire s’ils ne les excitent en quelque sorte en eux-mêmes, & si leur ame ne se les imprime, pour les exprimer exterieurement par les gestes & par les paroles.” Pierre Nicole, “Traité de la comédie,” Essais de morale, 13 vols. (Paris: Guillaume Desprez, 1714) III: 220. 33. “En imitant quelque chose, on en prenait l’esprit.” Jacques Bénigne Bossuet, Maximes et réflexions sur la comédie,ed. A. Gazier (Paris: Belin, 1881) 53. 34. “Le spectateur entrait aussi dans le même esprit . . . . Ainsi tout l’appareil du théâtre ne tend qu’à faire des hommes passionnés.” 53. 35. That is, as Artaud suggests, the theatre causes subsequent action, just as the plague does: “the obedient and virtuous son kills his father; the chaste man performs sodomy on his neighbors. The lecher becomes pure. The miser throws his gold in handfuls out the window. The warrior hero sets fire to the city he once risked his life to save.” Theater 24. 36. Jackson 309, 311. 37. Qtd. in Bernard Weinberg, “Robortello on the Poetics,” Critics and Criticism: Ancient and Modern, ed. R. S. Crane et al (Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1952) 322; my emphasis. 38. Humphry House, Aristotle’s Poetics: A Course in Eight Lectures (London: Rupert Hart-David, 1956) 110, 109. 39. Artaud, Œuvres IV: 83, 97, 99. 40. On the rise of behaviorism in the twentieth century and its consonance with older practices in both institutional pedagogy and , see Jackson 308-22. Jackson alerts his reader to amazing passages from Solomon Diamond’s anthology The Roots of Psychology, including one by a sixteenth-century writer that describes how a camel can be taught to dance by associating drumbeats with the application of fire to its feet. 41. Pavlov notes that studies of animal behavior had “fruitfully applied . . . . Descartes’ conception of the reflex” but always “stopped short of the cerebral cortex”—a limitation he and like-minded psychologists overcame; I. P. Pavlov, Conditioned Reflexes, trans. and ed. G. V. Anrep (New York: Norton, 1960) 4. Stressing the continuity between research on animal physiology and , for example, Pavlov had collapsed the distinction between “nervous” (i.e., physical) and “psychic” (i.e., mental) disorders by suggesting a cure for hysteria that derived from his behavioral modification of an excitable dog; 396. 42. Pavlov’s assertion that “at the present stage of our work no detailed application of its results to man is yet permissible” went unheeded, as later psychologists zealously pursued his claim that “[i]t is obvious that the different kinds of habits based on training, education and discipline of any sort are nothing but a long chain of conditioned reflexes”; 395. Bekhterev, for example, writes that reflexology “consists in investigating, from the strictly objective standpoint, not only the more elementary, but also all the higher, functions of the human being, which in everyday language are called the manifestations of 124 Journal of Dramatic Theory and Criticism

feeling, knowing, and willing, or, speaking generally, the phenomena of psychic activity—the ‘spiritual sphere.’” Vladimir Bekhterev, General Principles of Human Reflexology, trans. Emma and William Murphy (New York: International, 1932) 33. 43. For Watson, “An emotion is an hereditary ‘pattern-reaction’ involving profound changes of the bodily mechanism as a whole, but particularly of the visceral and glandular systems. By pattern-reaction we mean that the separate details of response appear with some constancy, with some regularity and in approximately the same sequential order each time the exciting stimulus is presented”; J. B. Watson, Psychology from the Standpoint of a Behaviorist (Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1919) 195 (his italics). 44. William James, The Principles of Psychology, 2 vols. (Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1981) II: 1066. 45. Bekhterev expresses this point explicitly: “The James-Lange theory, as we know, regards somatic processes as primary in emotion . . . . However, this question may be asked only by those holding the dualistic viewpoint. But for us [i.e., reflexologists] . . . this question does not arise.”General 405. 46. J. B. Watson, Behaviorism (New York: Norton, 1924) 130. 47. Pavlov 4. 48. Watson, Psychology 199; Watson, Behaviorism 124. 49. 130. 50. “We no longer react to distant and almost invisible mountains as if they were the homes of gnomes and fairies. Science, and travel have standardized our responses. Our reactions to foods are becoming standardized through the work of the food chemist. We no longer think of any particular form of food as being ‘clean’ or ‘unclean.’ We think of it now as fulfilling or not fulfilling definite bodily requirements.” Watson,Behaviorism 114. 51. 125. 52. 119. 53. 126-29; Watson, Psychology 203-06. 54. I here discuss Eisenstein’s montage from his stage work through his filmOld and New (1929), and from “The Montage of Attractions” (1923) to “The Fourth Dimension in Cinema” (1929), by which time his theories had become attenuated and his faith in reflexological conditioning had diminished. 55. Eisenstein had read and repeatedly cites Bekhterev’s work; see, for example, Sergei Eisenstein, Selected Works 1, ed. and trans. Richard Taylor (Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1988) 49, 68, 155; Taylor claims that the director had studied both of Bekhterev’s General Principles and Collective Reflexology (308 n.6). Moreover, Eisenstein’s teaching program for directors included a section on “expressive manifestation”; his assigned readings included Bekhterev and Pavlov; Eisenstein, Selected Works 3, ed. Richard Taylor, trans. William Powell (London: BFI, 1996) 86. Bekhterev’s work on individual behavior paved the way for his theory of “collective reflexology.” Trying to overcome the limitations of what he called “,” collective reflexology was the “purely objective science in the strictest sense of the word. The role of higher order elements or higher reflexes in social phenomena such as, for instance, war, collective work, exchange, the economy, the financial sphere, etc.”Bekhterev, Collective Reflexology, Part I, ed. Lloyd H. Strickland, trans. Eugenia Lockwood (Commack, NY: Nova, 1994) 1. 56. David Bordwell, The Cinema of Eisenstein (Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1993) 118-19, 117. 57. Qtd. in Bordwell 61. 58. Eisenstein, Selected Works 1 34. Artaud, Œuvres IV: 102. 59. Eisenstein, Selected Works 1 34. 60. 34. 61. 41. 62. Noël Carroll, “Art, Narrative, and Emotion,” Emotion and the Arts, ed. Mette Hjort and Sue Laver (New York: Oxford UP, 1997) 192. 63. Eisenstein, Selected Works 1 40. 64. 46. 65. Eisenstein’s Pavlovian for his zritel (viewer-subject) recall, for example, those of Meyerhold in the theatre, those of Alexander Rodchenko in photography, and those of Nikolai Ladovsky in architecture: each presumes an immobilized public to be conditioned. 66. Eisenstein had taken acting workshops from Meyerhold in 1921 and 1922, although he would later reject Meyerhold’s theories for those of Rudolf Böde, whose aim was to “bring the organism into a psycho-physical condition which will make possible a free development and a complete control of its motor powers.” Rudolf Böde, Expression-Gymnastics, trans. Sonya Forthal and Elizabeth Waterman (New York: Barnes, 1931) 47. Meyerhold’s theory, in turn, originated in the “eurhythmic” gymnastics of Emil Jaques-Dalcroze, whose impact on Copeau was similarly foundational. Paul-Louis Mignon, Jacques Copeau (Paris: Julliard, 1993) 118. 67. Eisenstein, Selected Works 3 366 n.10. 68. Artaud, Theater 133. Spring 2012 125 69. “Here is a whole collection of ritual gestures to which we do not have the key and which seem to obey extremely precise musical indications, with something more that does not generally belong to music and seems intended to encircle thought, to hound it down and lead it into an inextricable and certain system. In fact everything in this theatre is calculated with an enchanting mathematical meticulousness.” Artaud, Theater 57. It is important to be mindful of Artaud’s Orientalizing: notoriously, his failure to understand the Balinese dialogue led him to assert their theatre’s nonverbal foundation. 70. Artaud, Œuvres IV: 70. 71. Artaud, Theater 58. Artaud’s uncertainty as to whether the stage bodies, like the spectators’ bodies, should be considered individually or as a collective—an uncertainty that haunts all discussions of theatrical emotion—is made clear by scrutinizing his textual variants. For example, in this essay they include “un jeu de muscle”/ “un jeu de muscles,” “leur joie”/ “leurs joies,” and “leur douleur”/ “leurs douleurs.” The editors of the Gallimard Œuvres complètes privilege Artaud’s early manuscripts in retaining the singular for “muscle,” but they prefer “joies” and “douleurs” in the plural, as per the 1938 print version—an inconsistency that I have amended in both the original and its English translation. The original French appears at Artaud, Œuvres IV: 70. 72. Eisenstein, Selected Works 1 40. 73. Artaud, Œuvres IV: 103. 74. Eisenstein, Selected Works 1 51, 39. 75. 41. “[R]eforging someone else’s psyche is no less difficult and considerable a task than forging iron”; 49. 76. Artaud, Theater 140, in his aptly titled “An Affective Athleticism.” 77. The idea that a spectator engages with the spectacle physiologically—as, for example, when a filmgoer finds herself inching forward while watching a film hero in a suspenseful standoff—recurs throughout the history of spectacle. Two broadly contrasting examples: Robert Hanning outlines how medieval cycle plays mobilize an audience’s kinesthetic imitation of staged action—see “A Theater of Domestication and Entrapment: The Cycle Plays,” Approaches to Teaching Medieval English Drama, ed. Richard Emmerson (New York: MLA, 1990) 119-21—and Noël Carroll examines the phenomenon in horror film; seeThe Philosophy of Horror, or, Paradoxes of the Heart (New York: Routledge, 1990) 17. The experiences Hanning and Carroll explore are similar but not identical to the much-theorized notion of kinesthetic empathy. 78. Eisenstein, Selected Works 1 192. 79. 186, 183, 185. As shot lengths are varied and juxtaposed in metric montage, overtones are used within a given shot to create a host of secondary resonances both in harmony and discord with its dominant tone. This of dominant and secondary resonances produces “feeling.” Such a theory stands behind Eisenstein’s desire, when his faith in behaviorism was cresting, to film an entirely plotless adaptation of Marx’s Kapital. Bordwell 124. 80. Artaud, Theater 15. 81. Watson, Psychology 196 82. Brecht’s relationship to behaviorist paradigms of emotion evolved considerably: in his early work, he was clearly deeply influenced, but he came to reject them forcefully and to absorb—even articulate—a cognitivist model of emotion instead. See Gobert, “Cognitive Catharsis,” 12-41. 83. House 109-110. 84. Eisenstein, Selected Works 1 48, 49. 85. Jane Harrison, Mythology and Monuments of Ancient Athens (London: Macmillan, 1890) 290; Murray 15. 86. Artaud, Theater 27, Œuvres IV: 89, 33. 87. Foley 69. 88. Lessing, Hamburg 13; my emphasis. The original is at Lessing, Werke 198. 89. Lessing, Hamburg 12. 90. Maria Irene Fornes, Fefu and Her Friends (New York: PAJ, 1978) 30. 91. Émile Durkheim, The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life, trans. Joseph Ward Swain (London: George Allen, 1954) 211.