Writings on Art and Literature
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MERIDIAN Crossing Aesthetics Werner Hamacher & David E. Wellbery Editors From The Standard Edition the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, edited by Jam es Strachey Stanford University Press Stanford California WRITINGS ON ART AND LITERATURE Sigmund Freud with a Foreword by N eil Hertz Stanford University Press Stanford, California Reproduced by permission from James Strachey, ed., The Standard Edition o f the Complete Psychological Works o f Sigmund Freud, 24 vols. (London, 1953-74) For the Sigmund Freud text-. © 1997 by A. W. Freud et al. by arrangement with Mark Paterson For the translation and editorial apparatus: © 1997 by The Estate of Angela Harris by arrangement with Mark Paterson © 1997 by the Board of Trustees of the Leland Stanford Junior University for the selection of the anthology and the new Foreword Printed in the United States of America CIP data appear at the end of the book Last figure below indicates year of this printing: 09 08 07 06 05 04 03 02 01 Contents Foreword by N eil Hertz ix Note on This Edition xxi § Delusions and Dreams in Jensen’s Gradiva 3 § Psychopathic Characters on the Stage 87 § The Antithetical Meaning of Primal Words 94 § The Occurrence in Dreams of Material from Fairy Tales 101 § The Theme of the Three Caskets 109 § The Moses of Michelangelo 122 § Some Character-Types Met with in Psycho-analytic Work 151 § On Transience 176 § A Mythological Parallel to a Visual Obsession 180 viii Contents § A Childhood Recollection from Dichtung und Wahrheit 182 § The ‘Uncanny 193 § Dostoevsky and Parricide 234 § The Goethe Prize 256 § Medusas Head 264 Editors Notes 269 Works Cited 283 Foreword N e il H e r tz Werner Herzogs movie about Kaspar Hauser— Every Man for Himself and God Against All (1975)— begins with a mysterious tableau: Kaspar is shown in the gloomy cellar where he has been imprisoned throughout his childhood. A man in black— a father? a guardian? a jailer?— appears at the door, descends, steadies Kaspar in a sitting position, places a sheet of paper on a small stool in front o f him, forces a pen into his fist, and then, standing close behind him and leaning over him, he grasps Kaspar’s hand in his own and makes him trace lines on the paper. “Schreiben!” he whispers in Kaspar’s ear, “Schrei-ben!” telling him, “This is called ‘writing’ ” or, simply, “Write!” The scene has a history. In 1814, one of Freud’s predecessors, the German Romantic Gotthilf Heinrich Schubert, published a theory of dreaming, Die Symbolik des Traumes, in which he argued that our minds are continuously engaged with two languages, a daytime language of words and a nighttime language of images, the images that make up our dreams. There is absolutely no relation between these discourses, he believed: they go their separate ways, and our attention is ordinarily directed to either one or the other of the channels. At certain moments of half-slumber, however, we can sometimes accidentally tune in to both, and then the most nonsen sical combinations will occur to us. For example, he continued, offering an instance of such absurdity, “we think of the word IX Foreword schreiben and immediately before us we have the image of two men, one man carrying the other on his back.”1 One sign of the difference Freud’s work has made in the way we read is that we can no longer share Schubert’s confidence that this particular juxtaposition o f a word and an image makes no sense. On the contrary, like Werner Herzog, we are more likely to find it strikingly indicative, if enigmatically so. Indicative of what? There is, first, in Herzog’s version, the play o f light and darkness, the enlightenment associated with the arrival of this dark man, a sinister, though possibly enabling, figure. He has come to lean over another man, younger than he, less instructed than he. The weight of the older man’s body, the pressure of his will give substance to the voiced word: schreiben takes on its imperative force. To write, to join the world of the instructed, is to submit to that force, to feel it entering one’s body and guiding one’s hand. Writing, Freud would have us say, is Oedipal, a coming to terms with the Father, a shouldering o f the burden o f the past. But here a slight complication needs to be taken into account: what we are watching is not just a representation of Kaspar’s initiation into literacy. It is also the initial sequence of Herzog’s film, a sequence that is hard not to read as emblematic, as Herzog signing in, the director figured both by the man in black, the person who is literally directing Kaspar’s hand, and by Kaspar himself, the one whose hand is doing the marking. The possibility o f such multiple identifications— and o f such reversals o f the vec tors of influence and causation— is common in works of art; it does not so much mute the Oedipal resonance of the scene as skew and prolong its vibrations; it brings the Oedipal into touch with more general questions of representation. There is no doubt that this is a frequent source of the viewer’s or reader’s pleasure, but it can be a source of anxiety, too, if what one thinks is at issue is one’s understanding of the work. The essays on art and literature collected here testify to the ’Gotthilf Heinrich Schubert, Die Symbolik des Traumes, ed. G. Sauder (Hei delberg: Verlag Lambert Schneider, 1968 [1814], p. 5. Foreword XI strength of Freud’s commitment to understanding, to his will to interpret, but they also make clear that what interpreting meant to him was less assigning meanings to a work of art than accounting lor why the reader or viewer had been “so powerfully affected” (p. 123) by it.1 Hence these pieces frequently invoke both the pleasures and the epistemological anxieties attendant on aesthetic experience. Freud’s generic answer to the question of art’s emotional power was that it tapped into, aroused, and reconfigured unconscious energies and investments already at work “within” viewers and readers. Interpretations o f works o f art, then, like those o f neurotic symptoms or dreams or slips o f the tongue, are bound to reveal unconscious operations that are not peculiar to artists. Am ong other things, this meant that Freud’s essays on art could serve as convenient and engaging illustrations of his theories. Ever the canny explainer, he frequently used them in just this fashion: a reader seeking a brief, lucid introduction to the Freudian under standing of repression, or of displacement, or of transference, could do worse than to turn to the pages in this volume devoted to “Delusions and Dreams in Jensen’s Gradiva.” But literature and art were at times more than merely illustrative for Freud. To read the letters he addressed to Wilhelm Fliess in the fall o f 1897, when he was formulating the Oedipus complex, is to see works o f literature— Sophocles’ play, Hamlet, Grillparzer’s Die Ahnfrau (The ancestress)— providing a significant part of the mate rial, variously accommodating and recalcitrant, that Freud was working through for the first time. It is worth quoting some paragraphs from that correspondence here: as the earliest of Freud’s texts on literature, they belong in this volume. They appear in a letter of October 15, 1897, in a passage that begins with Freud complaining of the difficulties of self-analysis: 'Page references in parentheses are either to essays collected in this volume or, when preceded by SE, to volumes of The Standard Edition o f the Complete Psychological Works o f Sigmund Freud, ed. James Strachey (London: Hogarth Press, 1953-74). Xll Foreword So far I have found nothing completely new, [just] all the complica tions to which I have become accustomed. It is by no means easy. Being totally honest with oneself is a good exercise. A single idea of general value dawned on me. I have found, in my own case too, [the phenomenon of] being in love with my mother and jealous of my father, and I now consider it a universal event in early childhood, even if not so early in children who have been made hysterical. (Similar to the invention of parentage [family romance] in paranoia— heroes, founders of religion). If this is so, we can understand the gripping power of Oedipus Rex, in spite of all the objections that rea son raises against the presupposition of fate; and we can understand why the later “drama of fate” was bound to fail so miserably. Our feelings rise against any arbitrary individual compulsion, such as is presupposed in Die Ahnfrau and the like; but the Greek legend seizes upon a compulsion which everyone recognizes because he senses its existence within himself. Everyone in the audience was once a budding Oedipus in fantasy and each recoils in horror from the dream fulfillment here transplanted into reality, with the full quan tity of repression which separates his infantile state from his present one. Fleetingly, the thought passed through my head that the same thing might be at the bottom of Hamlet as well. I am not thinking of Shakespeare’s conscious intention, but believe, rather, that a real event stimulated the poet in his representation, in that his unconscious understood the unconscious of his hero. How does Hamlet the hys teric justify his words, “Thus conscience does make cowards of us all”? How does he explain his irresolution in avenging his father by the murder of his uncle— the same man who sends his courtiers to their death without a scruple and who is positively precipitate in murdering Laertes? How better than through the torment he suffers from the obscure memory that he himself had contemplated the same deed against his father out of passion for his mother, and— “use every man after his desert, and who should ’scape whipping?” His conscience is his unconscious sense of guilt.