Cover Page

The handle http://hdl.handle.net/1887/47489 holds various files of this Leiden University dissertation

Author: Cheng, Chenyu Title: An incomplete inquiry : reading the filial piety stories through Lacan, or the other way around … Issue Date: 2017-04-06

An Incomplete Inquiry:

Reading the Filial Piety Stories through Lacan, or the

Other Way Around …

© Copyright by Chenyu Cheng 2017

All Rights Reserved

An Incomplete Inquiry:

Reading the Filial Piety Stories through Lacan, or the Other Way Around …

Proefschrift

ter verkrijging van

de graad van Doctor aan de Universiteit Leiden,

op gezag van Rector Magnificus prof.mr. C.J.J.M. Stolker,

volgens besluit van het College voor Promoties

te verdedigen op donderdag 6 april 2017

klokke 13.45 uur

door

Chenyu Cheng geboren te Beijing, China in 1976

Promotor:

Prof. dr. Barend J. ter Haar

Co-promotors:

Dr. Isabel Hoving

Dr. Yasco Horsman

Promotiecommissie:

Prof. dr. Ernst J. van Alphen

Prof. dr. Meir Shahar (Tel Aviv University)

Prof. dr. Daria Berg (University of St. Gallen)

Contents

Chapter 1

In Praise of Negativity: Introduction ...... 1

I. Ideological Fantasy and Filial Piety ...... 4

II. Theory and Methodology ...... 18

III. Post-Orientalism ...... 35

Chapter 2

At the “Beginning”…: the Basics ...... 55

I. The division of the Nebenmensch ...... 57

II. The Absent Mother as das Ding ...... 64

Conclusion ...... 105

Chapter 3

Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology ...... 115

I. The mOther’s Desire Reduced ...... 116

II. The Divine Intervention and the Other’s Demand ...... 137

III. The Returned Course of the Drive and the “Headless Subject” ...... 148

Conclusion ...... 158

Chapter 4

Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao ...... 165

I. An Introduction to the Surplus...... 166

II. Excrement and “Love” ...... 189

Conclusion ...... 202

Chapter 5

Perversion and the Father’s Will to Jouissance ...... 207

I. A Female Body as a Fantasy Screen ...... 212

II. The Structure of Perversion: a<>$ ...... 217

III. Perversion as a Discursive-Social Link...... 228

Conclusion ...... 235

Chapter 6

At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers ...... 239

I. The Repressed Gu Sou ...... 241

II. The Imaginary Father: the Primordial Father and His Death ...... 245

III. The Real Father: Gu Sou as the Father-of-Enjoyment ...... 248

IV. The Symbolic Father: Yao as the “Name-of-the-Father” ...... 259

V. Back to the Imaginary Father ...... 263

Conclusion ...... 272

Epilogue: Let’s Desire! ...... 281

Appendix 1: Translation of the Ershisi xiao Stories ...... 285

Appendix 2: Translation of Chinese Book Titles ...... 309

Bibliography ...... 311

SUMMARY ...... 331

SAMENVATTING ...... 333

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ...... 335

CURRICULUM VITAE ...... 337

In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 1

1

Chapter 1

In Praise of Negativity: Introduction

With the rise of China’s economic power on the global market, mainland China is now witnessing the so-called “renaissance of Confucianism.”1 One way of understanding this coincidence is to realize that China needs a new image which will suit its new position in the international community. Partly for the purpose of resisting western ideological influence (more especially the ideology of democracy), and partly due to the effective and long-lasting dominance by (Neo-)Confucianism in Chinese history, the return to the Confucian tradition becomes one of the strategies to refashion China’s cultural and national identity. In a recently published book—

The Renaissance of Confucianism in Contemporary China, the editor makes the following claim:

“China is in fact a country on its way to recapturing and rearticulating the Confucian moral and political commitments that lie at the foundations of Chinese culture” (R. Fan 1).

This (re)definition of China or Chinese culture(s) as Confucian can be questioned on the basis of current scholarship on Chinese cultural history. For one thing, by denoting the school of

“ru” (ru jia 儒家), the term of “Confucianism” itself obscures the differences within the “ru” tradition. Although the basic classics remain largely the same, interpretations of these texts have been subject to constant alterations throughout history. As a matter of fact, the ru school during the Western Han dynasty (206BCE - 8) is vastly different from its counterparts—the so-called

Neo-Confucianism—in the Song (960-1279) and Ming (1368-1644) periods. Hence, this equation of Chinese culture(s) with Confucianism is overly simplistic, even when viewed from the perspective of the “ru” tradition itself. Besides the internal diversity within the ru school, there was a vast variety of other cultures. Scholars who have turned their attention away from the 2 Chapter 1

2

cultural-political centre and focused on the marginal—women, minority communities, folklores,

underground religions, etc. — have revealed the cultural heterogeneity among the Chinese

population. Even for a single individual, he could be a Confucian and, say, a Daoist at different

times or on different occasions; it was not uncommon for a Confucian official to engage in non-

Confucian religious activities. This cultural heterogeneity gives rise to the following question: to

what extent can those people with different social-cultural backgrounds still view themselves as

Chinese?

Similar questions (but now on a more personal level) are posed by Freud in the preface to

the Hebrew translation of Totem and Taboo. Freud admits that he is a man

who is ignorant of the language of holy writ, who is completely estranged from the

religion of his fathers—as well as from every other religion—and who cannot take a

share in nationalist ideals, but who has yet never repudiated his people, who feels that

he is in his essential nature a Jew and who has no desire to alter that nature. (Preface

xv)2

He then goes on to ask himself: “Since you have abandoned all these common characteristics of

your countrymen, what is there left to you that is Jewish” (Preface xv)? At this point, Freud

himself does not have a concrete answer, stating simply that “[h]e could not now express that

essence clearly in words; but some day, no doubt, it will become accessible to the scientific mind’

(Preface xv). In her essay “Moses the Egyptian and the Big Black Mammy,” Joan Copjec finds

the answer in Freud’s last published book—Moses and Monotheism. As she demonstrates, central

to Freud’s book is the hypothesis that there was a historical figure—the Egyptian Moses, about

whom no historical record can be found; however, this unverifiable figure lies at the root of

Jewish racial identity (Imagine 82-107). In other words, if there is an essential nature shared by

all Jews, this essence is to be found in the cultural-historical unconscious, so to speak, which has In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 3

3 no empirically observable features in reality. Positing such a repressed origin gives Freud a minimal support for his racial identity and, at the same time, allows him to avoid the essentialist tendency to reduce a race (or a nation) to a number of stereotyped characteristics.

Also working within a psychoanalytic framework, Slavoj Žižek suggests that

[t]he element which holds together a given community cannot be reduced to the point

of symbolic identification: the bond linking together its members always implies a

shared relationship toward a Thing, toward Enjoyment incarnated. This relationship

toward the Thing, structured by means of fantasies, is what is at stake when we speak

of the menace to our “way of life” presented by the Other. (Tarrying 201)

The psychoanalytical notions of “Thing” and “Enjoyment” (jouissance) will be discussed in detail in the next chapter. It is sufficient to note that the Thing is not a thing; and Enjoyment is not pleasure, but “pleasure in pain.”3 These two concepts denote something unattainable in reality which can only be approached through the unconscious fantasy. Hence, “a Thing” and

“Enjoyment” mentioned by Žižek have the same status as the Egyptian Moses. For Žižek as well as for Freud and Copjec, the “essence” of a race, a community or a nation must be conceptualized in a way which does not rely on any positive features—such as beliefs, social values, etc. Rather, what holds the community together is a shared fantasy embedded in people’s way of life. What is pointedly demonstrated by Žižek (in his wide range of writings) is the social-discursive construction of this fantasy, which is realized through “the unique way a community organizes its enjoyment” (Tarrying 201, original italics). It is into this relation between social-discursive institutions and enjoyment that I strive to inquire in my study.

My hypothesis is that, in late imperial China, there was a common identity lying at the heart of various Chinese cultures and traditions; however, this identity had little to do with people’s belief or their social-gender status, but was defined by their “shared relationship toward a Thing, 4 Chapter 1

4

toward Enjoyment incarnated” which was in turn realized in their way of life. More specifically, I

will argue that, given the dominant role played by (Neo-) Confucianism in the discursive and

institutional domains, this shared relationship cannot but be influenced and structured by the

Confucian ideology. We may even speculate that there was a Confucian way of life which was

“enjoyed” by people from all walks of life, even though they did not interpret it in the same way,

and many of them had never consciously identified themselves as a Confucian. Hence, I will not

challenge the assertion that pre-modern China consisted of Confucian societies. (The pre-modern

period is technically defined in this dissertation as the period prior to the end of the last imperial

dynasty in 1912.) Instead, I would like to argue for a different conceptualization of Confucianism

itself. In my study, the term “Confucianism” is to be used in its broadest sense, as referring to the

state-orthodoxy (based on the officially sanctioned editions and interpretations of the Confucian

classics), and as indicating a particular “way of life” which structured social reality in late

imperial China.4 (By “Confucian classics,” I mean those texts which have been conventionally

regarded as belonging to the tradition associated one way or another with Confucius or his

followers.)

I

Ideological Fantasy and Filial Piety

As a way of supporting my above argument, I will focus on the notion of “xiao” 孝—filial

piety—as it was conceptualized during late imperial times. As observed by W. E. Soothill—a

Christian missionary active in China from the late 19th to early 20th century, filial piety was “the

cord of four hundred million strands which binds the nation, the clan, and the family together”

(qtd. in Kutcher 4). Today, scholars generally agree that filial piety has played the decisive role in In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 5

5 shaping the uniquely Chinese community. Norman Kutcher, for instance, states that “the devotion of young to old … was the cornerstone of Chinese civilization” (Kutcher 1).5 To what extent is this judgment correct? For one thing, it is not without reasons that filial piety made such an impression on Soothill. As a concept, the term “xiao” has certainly occupied the paramount position in the Chinese moral-discursive system. In what follows, I will provide an ultra-brief outline of the status of filial piety in imperial China.

Filial piety in state orthodoxy and other cultures

First, as widely acknowledged, filial piety is the cardinal principle of Confucian morality.

In the Xiao jing 孝經 (Classic of Filial Piety)6—one of the Confucian canonical texts,7 we find the following remark attributed to Confucius himself: “Filial piety is at the root of all virtues, from which all teachings are to be developed.”8 Similar statements can be found in various classics associated with the Confucian tradition, which grant filial piety the supreme status among all other virtues. As the cornerstone of Confucian morality, filial piety was applicable to every social subject—including the emperor himself. As demonstrated in the Xiao jing, its expected audience ranges from the emperor to the commoners. This book contains separate chapters intended respectively for the Son of Heaven (tian zi 天子)—referring to the emperor in imperial times, feudal lords (zhu hou 諸侯), high ministers and great officers (qing dafu 卿大夫), lower officials (shi 士), and commoners (shu ren 庶人). Having outlined the different purposes for practicing filial piety, the text in chapter six concludes: “therefore, from the Son of Heaven to the commoners, there is no beginning or end to [the practice of] filial piety.”9 According to the commonly accepted interpretation in late imperial times, this sentence means that “although the

Son of Heaven and the commoners are distinguished in accordance with their social status, in 6 Chapter 1

6

terms of practicing filial piety, the way [which they should follow] is not different.”10 Hence,

within the Confucian-orthodox discourse, filial piety can indeed be regarded as a cord which

ideally bound nearly all social classes.

Second, the Confucian model of filial piety played a hegemonic role, and was sustained on

the two levels of the superstructure. Louis Althusser delineates these two levels in the following

way: on the first level is the Repressive State Apparatus including “the Government, the

Administration, the Army, the Police, the Courts, the Prisons, etc.” (Althusser 142-43); the

second level is constituted by the Ideological State Apparatuses such as churches, schools,

families, political parties, the trade-union and so forth (Althusser 143).11 On the first level, the

most telling example is the imperial penal codes, according to which violation of filial norms was

considered a crime and subjected to severe punishments in nearly all imperial dynasties. T’ung-

Tsu Ch’ü states in his influential book on China’s imperial law:

Examination of the punishments for filial impiety in the law of the various dynasties

reveals that all the codes operated on the same principle: such offences were punished

more severely than analogous actions not directed against a parent or grandparent.

For instance, scolding in general received little attention, but the scolding of a parent

or grandparent was punished by strangling. (43)12

The severity of the imperial penal codes can be understood as a direct reflection and enforcement

of Confucian teaching. In the Xiao jing, the Master (referring here to Confucius) states: “the five

corporal penalties are applied to three thousand crimes, but no crimes are greater than the crime

against filial piety.”13

Confucian filial piety was also supported by the Ideological State Apparatuses. First, texts

such as the Four Books and Five Classics14 which contain teachings on filial piety formed the

core of Confucian education in late imperial times. The Xiao jing was included in the civil In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 7

7 examination curriculum for the most part of this period. For example, during the Ming dynasty, the second session of the first high-level examination required the candidates to compose an essay on a quotation from the Xiao jing (Elman 41). Second, to institutionalize filial piety as the official ideology, the state established a set of reward systems. Exemplars of filial piety were expected to be rewarded by the state and recorded in the local and/or imperial historical documents. Finally, the practice of filial piety was not an idiosyncratic act but regulated through the ritual system which was to be carried out on a daily base. For instance, according to the Li ji

禮記 (Book of Rites) —another Confucian classic,15 every son should fulfil his routine services such as helping his parents go to bed in the evening and inquiring their health in the morning.16

Later on, this rule was encapsulated in the idiom “hun ding chen xin” 昏定 晨省 which is a direct citation from the Li ji text. The frequent appearance of this idiom in traditional Chinese literatures seems to suggest that this rule was generally observed and constituted an integral part of family life.

In short, Confucian filial piety successfully established itself on both levels of the superstructure, to which everybody must be subjected. Even for those who did not believe in

Confucianism, they were still firmly placed under its governance, if they did not want to violate the legal and social code and/or wished to have a career in the state’s bureaucracy. In other words, even when a subject only cynically performed his/her filial duty in the orthodox way, he/she was inevitably, as Althusser would say, hailed or interpellated by the state ideology;17 that is, by acting as a filial subject, he/she must have already recognized his/her position in the Confucian system and thus became a Confucian subject in practice. This may explain why Confucianism had placed great emphasis on ritual-like performances: by doing certain things repeatedly in a prescribed way, you will become a Confucian “naturally,” without the need to know or believe in 8 Chapter 1

8

what you are doing. In this sense, one could argue that filial piety, as a practice, functioned to

organize people’s way of life, by which the social subjects were held together.18

Finally, the importance of filial piety is also attested to by the fact that, in order to flourish

in China, other cultural-religious discourses were obliged to incorporate filial piety into their

teachings. Take Chinese Buddhism for example. For Buddhism—a foreign religion—to take root

in China, it had to accommodate itself to the Chinese cultural circumstances. The lack of a notion

compatible with the “xiao” proved to be the weakest link in the “original” Buddhist teaching,

which was the most heavily criticized aspect during the formative period of Chinese Buddhism

and formed the major obstacle to its development in China. Hence, after a long process of

localization, Chinese Buddhism developed its own moral discourse on filial piety and produced

uniquely Chinese Buddhist sutras as such the Fu mu en zhong jing 父母恩重經 (The Sutra on the

Profound Kindness of Parents).19 The same tendency to incorporate the notion of filial piety can

also be observed in the development of other religions such as Daoism.20

Certainly, these discourses differ from one another in their conceptualizations of filial piety;

scholars have not yet reached agreement on whether these differences were complementary or

contradictory.21 As a matter of fact, during the course of their development, there were mutual

borrowings between Confucianism, Daoism, and Buddhism. This phenomenon is probably best

illustrated by the popular celebration of the ghost festival which, with ancestor worship and filial

devotion at its core, freely combined elements borrowed from these three major traditions and

had often attracted sponsorship from the Confucian state.22 By the late imperial times, China also

witnessed the proliferation of various local cults which worshiped different deities. This “happy”

coexistence of different discursive systems seems to suggest that they were, at least, not

incompatible with one another. In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 9

9

What was then the position of Confucianism? One scholar remarks: “In view of the broad patronage of non-Confucian beliefs, was there still an orthodoxy in late imperial China? There undoubtedly was and it was to be found in the socioethical realm in the moral orthodoxy that transcended differences in belief, narrowly defined” (Liu 15). I agree that Confucianism still held the orthodox position in its coexistence with other beliefs; the notion of filial piety probably functioned as the unifying force, coordinating the different discourses and traditions. However, a more specific question needs to be asked: if Confucianism represented the moral orthodoxy which supposedly transcended all differences, in what way did Confucianism overcome these differences? No matter how narrowly these differences in belief are defined, they cannot easily be explained away. A similar question can be asked about the filial piety stories: what was the relationship between the popular stories and the Confucian classics? The conventional answer to this question is that the narratives served to facilitate the transmission of the classical texts, by making them more accessible to the low-educated people.23 However, despite the fact that many of the stories were recorded in the official documents as admirable examples of moral perfectness, the filial protagonists’ behaviours, as we will see, do not always comply with the classical teachings. At times, the Confucian norms are even openly violated. In this sense, the filial piety stories can hardly be viewed as illustrations of the Confucian principles. How should we explain this discordance? If the popular story indeed facilitated the classical teachings, in what way did it fulfil this function, despite the discordance between these two sets of texts? These are the questions which I attempt to answer in my research.

Filial piety as an ideological fantasy

What does filial piety mean in the Confucian tradition? As already pointed out by many scholars, “it cannot be assumed that the concept was understood in the same way over the long 10 Chapter 1

10

course of Chinese history. Even within Confucianism, it is clear that the meaning of xiao can be

interpreted in different ways” (Chan and Tan 3). This conceptual indeterminacy indicates that the

term of “xiao” functions in the Chinese discursive landscape as a Master-Signifier. For the

Lacanians, a Master-Signifier is primarily an empty signifier, whose function is not so much to

define meanings as to provide a “quilting point” (le point de capiton) in the signifying chain.24

Because of the lack of positive meanings attached to it, the Master-Signifier registers an empty

place which is open to any other ordinary signifiers. Hence, there is “the tension between the

empty Master-Signifier and the series of ‘ordinary’ signifiers which struggle to fill in the Master-

Signifier with a particular content: the struggle for Democracy (today’s Master-Signifier) is in

what it will mean, which kind of democracy will hegemonize the universal notion” (Žižek,

Parallax View 37). For the same reason, the different meanings and interpretations given to the

“xiao” are just “the series of ‘ordinary’ signifiers” competing with one another for hegemony.

Probably as a way of securing its hegemonic position, the Confucian-orthodox discourse

strived not only to define the meaning of “xiao,” but also to transform it into a set of concrete

instructions on people’s behaviour, such as not to change your father’s way of life for three years

after his death,25 to have a son who can continue the patrilineal kinship,26 or, not to cause any

damage to your own body,27 etc. In so doing, the Confucian discourse bypassed the debate about

the meaning of filial piety, and was thus able to prevent its doctrine from undesirable

interpretations. It is tempting to view the Confucian strategy as an ancient example of two

modern concepts—the Foucauldian notion of the “micro-practices” and the Althusserian notion

of Ideological State Apparatuses: according to Žižek, “in both cases, we are dealing with a ‘drill’

which compels the subject directly, bypassing the level of Meaning” (Indivisible Remainder

106).28 It seems that what matters here most is not what filial piety means, but how it should be

enacted. In other words, Confucianism is not only a set of teachings but also a “way of life.” In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 11

11

Why is the doing more important than the knowing? To answer this question, we need first to know how ideology functions. More precisely, as Žižek asks, “[w]here is ideological illusion, in the ‘knowing’ or in the ‘doing’ in the reality itself” (Sublime Object 30, original italics)? In contrast to the conventional view which locates ideology on the side of the “knowing,” Žižek argues instead that there is “an illusion, an error, a distortion which is already at work in social reality itself, at the level of what the individuals are doing, and not only what they think or know they are doing” (Sublime Object 31, original italics). Žižek’s example is the cynical subject: he/she has kept a distance from the overt social ideology, but this attitude does not pose any challenge to the existing order. Why? It is because “cynical reason, with all its ironic detachment, leaves untouched the fundamental level of ideological fantasy, the level on which ideology structures the social reality itself” (Sublime Object 30).29 That is to say, ideology functions on two levels: certainly, it consists in “false” knowledge about our reality; however, “[t]he fundamental level of ideology … is not of an illusion masking the real state of things but that of an (unconscious) fantasy structuring our social reality itself” (Žižek, Sublime Object 33). The point here is that ideology determines not only our perception of reality, but also reality itself.

More plainly, our reality is already structured as a fantasy.

Let us consider Žižek’s other example—commodity fetishism: “When individuals use money, they know very well that there is nothing magical about it—that money, in its materiality, is simply an expression of social relations” (Sublime Object 31). The enigma is why people can still comfortably participate in the money economy. Surely, we can say that, for the individuals, they have no other choice but to accept this “reality.” However, if so, we shall all live in the

Kafkaesque universe in which money remains “thoroughly mystical.”30 Why do we not experience the mystical aspect of money, if not because what is mystical is already taken for granted, that is, (mis)recognized as reality itself? In Žižek’s words, “Kafka was able to 12 Chapter 1

12

experience directly these fantasmatic beliefs that we ‘normal’ people disavow…” (For They

Know lxxi).31 Despite all the knowledge we have about money, we are still capable of using it

comfortably without experiencing its otherness. This disavowal— this comfortable engagement

with something that we do not believe in—bears witness to the fact that there is something

beneath the ideological discourse which we cannot directly experience.

The point here is that our social reality is not only based on the two sets of State

Apparatuses as formulated by Althusser, but also, on a more profound level, determined by the

ideological fantasy. If the former is “written” on the discursive-institutional surface, which can

thus be observed and known by the social subjects, the latter is much more hidden and usually

unacknowledged. In the case of the cynical subjects, “[c]ynical distance is just one way … to

blind ourselves to the structuring power of ideological fantasy: even if we do not take things

seriously, even if we keep an ironical distance, we are still doing them” (Žižek, Sublime Object

33, original italics ). What the cynical subjects cannot consciously recognize is the fact that, by

“doing them,” they unknowingly identify with the ideological fantasy and thus participate in the

maintenance of their social reality as such. This discordance between what people believe and

what they do brings to light the division between the conscious discourse and the unconscious

fantasy. Hence, a comprehensive approach to Confucian ideology should take into consideration

both aspects.

At this point, it is necessary to clarify the status of the unconscious, in order to distinguish

it from such a notion as “cultural unconscious” postulated recently by a scholar in the field of

Chinese studies and to clear up certain misconception of Lacan. Ming Dong Gu states:

In Lacan’s reconception of the sign …, the signifier is conscious while the signified is

unconscious…. Taking cue from Lacan’s reformulation of the sign, I suggest that the

concept of cultural unconscious is such a sign composed of the binary opposition In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 13

13

between the signifier and the signified. In the concept, the signifier is “culture” which

is always visible, mostly perceivable, and largely conscious, while the signified is the

“unconscious” which is mostly invisible, largely unrecognizable, and always beyond

consciousness. (Sinologism 30-31).

Apparently, Gu is following Lacan’s theory; however, it is more than evident that he actually defines the unconscious in an “anti-Lacanian” way. Lacan’s thesis that “the unconscious is structured like a language”32 means that “language, as it operates at the unconscious level, obeys a kind of grammar, that is, a set of rules that governs the transformation and slippage that goes on therein” (Fink, Lacanian Subject 8-9);33 therefore, “the unconscious consists in chains of quasi- mathematical inscriptions, and … there is thus no point talking about the meaning of unconscious formation or productions” (Fink, Lacanian Subject 21, original italics). In short, the unconscious is a system of signifiers deprived of the signified.

By equating the unconscious with the signified, Gu actually negates the unconscious all together, misrecognizing it as the “epistemological and methodological underpinnings”

(Sinologism 1). He then construes the “cultural unconscious” as “a cultural mental structure with invisible powers that operate out of sight, but unconsciously influence, shape, and control the cultural activities of human life” (Sinologism 29). Interpreted in this way, the unconscious becomes a redundant concept, referring basically to the same thing as the social-discursive system—the hidden hand pulling the strings. The point not to be missed here is that, in Freudian-

Lacanian psychoanalysis, the unconscious is defined not as the invisible, but as the unborn. As

Lacan points out,

the unconscious is manifested to us as something that holds itself in suspense in the

area, I would say, of the unborn. That repression should discharge something into this

area is not surprising…. Certainly, this dimension should be evoked in a register that 14 Chapter 1

14

has nothing unreal, or dereistic, about it, but is rather unrealized. (Seminar XI 23,

original italics)

In other words, the unconscious is not the invisible “mental structure” which determines and

constitutes reality, but “the unrealized” which is repressed by the structure and precluded from

reality itself. As Žižek puts it,

the “unconscious” is a knowledge which must remain unknown, the ‘repression’ of

which is an ontological condition for the very constitution of being. The being chosen

by the subject has of course its support in fantasy: the choice of being is the choice of

fantasy which procures frame and consistency to what we call ‘reality’, whereas the

‘unconscious’ designates scraps of knowledge which subverts [sic] this fantasy-frame.

(For They Know 147, original italics)

That is, the unconscious is the repressed knowledge which is subversive of reality itself; and,

what is repressed is exactly the direct acknowledgement of one’s fantasy, which will reveal the

shattering fact that the consistence of reality (or, “the being chosen by the subject”) relies only on

a phantasmatic support.

For this reason, when we are facing the various advocacies of “Confucian renaissance” on

the social-political levels, it is important for us to ask: What would be the fantasy support for “the

Confucian moral and political commitments” as claimed by some scholars (R. Fan 1)? Given our

above discussion, it should be evident that there is no way of restoring the Confucian institutions

without simultaneously reviving its ideological fantasy; without the fantasy support, the

Confucian ideology cannot be maintained. To answer the above question, I will focus on the filial

piety narratives. My suggestion here is that, since fantasy resides not in what people believe but

in what they do, popular stories, which offer narratives about events and actions, may provide us

with a better access to the ideological fantasy than the Confucian classics would allow. By In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 15

15 examining the way in which the protagonist enacts the filial morality, I attempt to see how the ideological fantasy was constructed under the Confucian dominance in late imperial China.

Thereby, I hope to catch a glimpse of the unconscious side of Confucianism.

Why the Ershisi xiao?

It has been pointed out that not only the meanings but also the actions of filial piety were subject to change throughout history;34 however, the long-lasting popularity enjoyed by some of the filial piety stories suggests otherwise: there seems to be certain stability in people’s perception of filial devotion. For example, the stories collected in the Ershisi xiao 二十四孝

(Twenty-Four Exemplars of Filial Piety) had been regarded as the standard examples of filial piety for centuries until the beginning of the 20th century. That is, despite all possible variations in meanings and practices, certain elements in the popular imagination remained largely unchanged; these unchanging elements can probably be viewed as the “essence” constituting the phantasmatic structure of Confucian ideology. For this reason, I choose the stories in the Ershisi xiao as my research objects. My purpose is not to determine the meaning of filial piety, nor to explore its diversity. Rather, I intend to suspend the meaning(s) altogether, in order to analyse the phantasmatic structure as it reflected and reproduced in the narratives, whereby we may reach some understanding of its function in constructing a social reality—that is, the subject’s relation with his/her parent(s) (-in-law) and with the Master (as a hegemonic signifier and as a token of authority).35 I will now provide a rough introduction to the Ershisi xiao.

The first compilation of the Ershisi xiao is generally attributed to a local scholar called Guo

Jujing 郭居敬 from the Yuan dynasty (1279-1368). Having selected twenty-four stories passed down from earlier dynasties, Guo Jujing summarized and commented on each of the stories in 16 Chapter 1

16

verse,36 on the basis of which the most popular form of the Ershisi xiao took shape in a later

period.37 The Ershisi xiao text which I am to focus on is the version stabilized during the late

period of the Ming dynasty, and has since become the “standard” version, so to speak. Hence,

although many of the stories originated in a much earlier time, my discussion will be limited to

the discursive circumstances of the Ming-Qing period (1368-1911). In the “standard” version,

each story consists of two parts: the first part is written in prose, narrating the story; the second

part is constituted by Guo Jujing’s verse. (Because some stories in the “standard” version are

replacements of the “original” stories selected by Guo Jujing, the verses attached to these stories

in the “standard” version must have been composed by a different writer or writers). Besides

these verbal components, each narrative text is usually accompanied by an illustrating picture in

written or printed editions. Although the prose and the pictures vary slightly in different editions

of the Ershisi xiao, the structure and content of the narratives have remained constant until today.

Surely, the Ershisi xiao is not the only collection of filial piety stories;38 however, with

little doubt, it was the most popular one during the Ming-Qing period. Its popularity is partially

confirmed by Lu Xun’s 魯迅 (1881- 1936) memory of his childhood.39 Born into an elite family

at the near end of imperial times, Lu Xun became one of the most influential writers in Chinese

modern literature. He recalled that, as a gift given by a person of the elder generation, the Ershisi

xiao tu 二十四孝圖 (The Pictures of Twenty-Four Exemplars of Filial Piety) was the first book

which he owned as a child. He also told that everyone seemed to be familiar with the stories in

the Ershisi xiao; even his illiterate nanny Ah Chang 阿長 was able to tell the whole stories, as

long as she caught a glimpse of the illustrating pictures in the book (22). If Lu Xun’s memory is

to be trusted, it indicates that the popularity of the Ershisi xiao stories was pervasive among

people from all walks of life. Certainly, this by no means suggests that people would interpret In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 17

17 these stories in the same way; Ah Chang would explain these twenty-four stories quite differently than the man who gave the book to Lu Xun. However, as argued above, meanings are not our primary concern; what Ah Chang and the man both shared was, I suggest, the ideological fantasy embedded in the stories. That is, they could enjoy the same fantasy without agreeing on what it meant for them.

Despite their importance, the Ershisi xiao and other popular stories of filial piety have not attracted sufficient attention from scholars; there are only limited studies on this topic which will be discussed in due course. Here, I intend to point out one specific and largely overlooked aspect.

In general, studies on filial piety stories tend to focus on the narrative content, and usually end up in categorizing these stories in accordance with what the protagonists do in the narratives, rather than how they act and how their acts are represented.40 Another scholarly focus is on the origination, variation and transmission of the Ershisi xiao stories.41 Admirably, these studies provide us with important information on the cultural and textual backgrounds of these stories.

However, one crucial aspect has been generally neglected: there is no sufficient attention on the narrative text itself. That is, questions as to how the narrative is structured and how language is used in the text are largely unexamined. Probably due to the lack of an analytical method and/or a critical perspective, scholarly readings have remained largely on the level of categorization and description, which not only leave the narrative texts unanalysed but also fail to provide an effective criticism of Confucian ideology (if ideological criticism has ever been a concern in this field). As a way of supplementing the current scholarly achievement, I intend to carry out a narratological study of some of the Ershisi xiao stories and to re-interpret them from a Lacanian perspective. In what follows, I will explain my theoretical and methodological orientation.

18 Chapter 1

18

II

Theory and Methodology

Every approach to a literary text requires a theory (or a set of theories) to provide it with a

method and a perspective. In my following study of pre-modern Chinese narratives, I will heavily

rely on two main theories—narratology and Lacanian psychoanalysis. One of the advantages of

narratology is that, with its focus on the narrative characteristics, it provides us with a means of

(re)constructing the narrative structure. As Mieke Bal formulates in Narratology,

if characteristics can be defined, if only tentatively, these characteristics can serve as

the point of departure for the next phase: a description of the way in which each

narrative text is constructed. Once this is accomplished, we have a description of a

narrative system. On the basis of this description, we can then examine the variations

that are possible when the narrative system is concretized into narrative texts. (3,

original italics)

Narratology is thus a study of the narrative structure which helps us to see and to articulate how

the process of storytelling is organized within a narrative system.

However, we may still want to go one step further than the last phase described by Bal,

because there is something in the narrative which cannot be accounted for by the narrative system

itself. Decades ago, Peter Brooks in his important study of nineteenth–century novels expressed

his dissatisfaction with narratology, stating:

Whatever its larger ambitions, narratology has in practice been too exclusively

concerned with the identification of minimal narrative units and paradigmatic

structures; it has too much neglected the temporal dynamics that shape narratives in

our reading of them, the play of desire in time that makes us turn pages and strive In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 19

19

toward narrative ends. Narratology has, of course, properly been conceived as a

branch of poetics, seeking to delineate the types of narrative, their conventions, and

the formal conditions of the meanings they generate; whereas I am more concerned

with how narratives work on us, as readers, to create models of understanding, and

with why we need and want such shaping orders. (XIII)

Although narratology, as a theory and a practice, has been developed over the last decades,

Brooks’s assessment of its limits remains, in my view, largely valid. Formulating a narrative structure should not be the end of our inquiry; there are still questions waiting to be answered.

Why do we need to know the narrative system? Does the structure itself need to be interpreted, explained or even deconstructed? And, to put it in a Lacanian way, “[w]hat touches us in this apparently simple process [of reading]? Why do we enjoy reading certain texts and hate other texts? What is the psychic economy implied by these acts? Where and how are our bodies touched by the ‘letters’ of literature” (Rabaté 3)?

In order to address the questions which narratology is unable to answer, Brooks finds his recourse in Freud.42 Sharing the same theoretic orientation, I will instead reply on Lacanian psychoanalysis (which is based on Lacan’s reinterpretation and development of Freud). As I will demonstrate in the unfolding of my study, Lacanian psychoanalysis has several great advantages, one of which is its capacity of approaching the unsaid (or the unconscious) of a text. However, it should nevertheless be stressed at the outset that the marriage of psychoanalysis and literature is not unconditional. Problems become even more urgent, when the literary text in question was created in a society remote from the temporal-spatial location where psychoanalysis originated.

In an attempt to legitimize a Lacanian approach to pre-modern Chinese narratives, I will in the following discussion focus on the interdisciplinary and cross-cultural issues.

20 Chapter 1

20

Reading for the gap

There has been a long and ongoing debate about the possibilities and limitations of using

psychoanalytic theory for the purpose of literary studies.43 The basic question here is: how

legitimate is it to bring psychoanalysis (as a theory and a method) into other disciplines? Lacan’s

own answer to this question is:

Psychoanalysis is applied, strictly speaking, only as a treatment and thus to a subject

who speaks and hears.

In the absence of such circumstances it can only be a question of

psychoanalytic method, the method that proceeds with the deciphering of signifiers

without concern for any form of presumed existence of the signified. (Écrits 630)

On the one hand, Lacan seems to deny the possibility that psychoanalysis can be rightfully

applied to a situation outside a clinical setting; however, on the other hand, he does admit that

there could be a psychoanalytic method “applicable” to other disciplines, insofar as these

disciplines are concerned with signifiers. I intend to discuss this statement in two respects, and to

answer the following questions: What is Lacan’s view on the relation between psychoanalysis

and literature? And, what is his way of reading?

The first part of his statement is targeted at the so-called “applied psychoanalysis” in

literary studies which Lacan himself has always been highly critical of.44 However, despite his

criticism, Lacan does not confine his work to a psychoanalytic couch. On the contrary, his

reading of literature ranges from Sophocles’s Antigone in Seminar VII (1959-1960) to Joyce’s

modernist novels in Seminar XXIII (1975-1976). It is true that his theory and concepts were

developed for the purpose of clinical practices; however, it is equally true that he himself has

never shied away from using his concepts to interpret literary works. For example, in his

discussion of Hamlet, he refers repeatedly to the graphs of desire which he developed in the late In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 21

21

1950s and early 1960s.45 Lacan’s (as well as Freud’s) engagement with literature seems to suggest a close relation between psychoanalysis and literature.46 As Jean-Michel Rabaté notes,

“[n]ot only does [Lacan] show how much Freud and other practitioners rely on literary effects in many case studies, with all the subsequent narratological problems they entail, but he also follows Freud in the suggestion that there is not opposition but complementarity between the literary domain and ‘real cases’”(2).

Hence, I would like to suggest that the question is not whether we can adopt a psychoanalytic approach to literature, but how this approach should be carried out in a concrete reading of literary texts. This question leads us to the second part of Lacan’s statement quoted above. While constraining the application of psychoanalysis to clinical practices, he does suggest that there is a “psychoanalytic method” which can be used in other situations. This method, as he defines, consists of “the deciphering of signifiers without concern for any form of presumed existence of the signified” (Écrits 630). If we can understand “deciphering” as a way of reading

(or interpreting), Lacan in this short statement articulates two things regarding “what to read” and

“how to read.”

(1) What to read

To begin with, unlike the “applied psychoanalysis” which tends to trace the “cause” outside the text itself,47 Lacan’s psychoanalytic reading focuses strictly on the textual surface—that is, the signifiers. This means that such an element as the author is excluded from consideration. This thesis can probably be better explained by looking at one of Lacan’s later writings, where he states:

[i]t is because the Unconscious needs the insistence of writing that critics will err

when they treat a written work in the same way as the Unconscious is treated. At 22 Chapter 1

22

every moment, any written work cannot but lend itself to interpretation in a

psychoanalytic sense. But to subscribe to this, ever so slightly, implies that one

supposes the work to be a forgery, since, inasmuch as it is written, it does not imitate

the effect of the Unconscious. The work poses the equivalent of the Unconscious, an

equivalent no less real than it, as it forges the Unconscious in its curvature. And for

the work, the writer who produces it is no less a forger, if he attempts to understand

while it is being produced… (qtd. in Rabaté 3)48

Among other things, this statement indicates that psychoanalysis as an approach to the

unconscious cannot be applied to the author of a written text. It is because the unconscious is “the

insistence of writing,” rather than the written, which is a process, instead of a product; the

author’s unconscious is thus inevitably lost in his/her written work. Hence, as I understand it,

what Lacan is really against is not a psychoanalytic approach to literature, but the attempt to

analyse the author’s unconscious.

Can the characters in a narrative be subject to a psychoanalytic reading? Bal has once

pointed out: “Characters don’t have an unconscious, only people do. Psychoanalytic criticism

does not, or should not, consist of diagnosing characters but of understanding how texts

affectively address the reader on a level that comes close to unconscious preoccupations” (123).

Apparently, Bal suggests to exclude characters from a psychoanalytic reading of a narrative,

because “characters don’t have an unconscious.” However, upon a closer look, Bal’s objection is

a specific one. What she is against is the tendency to diagnose a character as if it is a real person.

Bal’s argument partly echoes Lacan’s concern with regard to the inaccessibility of the

unconscious in a written text. Hence, where “psychoanalytic criticism” is concerned, Bal suggests

that it should be considered as a way of “understanding how texts affectively address the reader.” In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 23

23

Can we then restore the unconscious process of a text by replacing writing with reading? If we have no access to the unconscious of a writing subject, and if the text “does not imitate the effect of the unconscious” (Lacan, qtd. in Rabaté 3) either, we can probably take the reader’s unconscious as an object, because the reader does “speak” (write/comment) and “hear” (read). In my view, as the unconscious of the writer, the reader’s unconscious mind is equally inaccessible.

Once I can reach my unconscious “thought” in the process of reading, the unconscious turns immediately into the conscious; that is, once I can recall or reflect on my own reading, the reading becomes the written which is subject to another layer of reading or interpretation. Hence, where the reader is concerned, what we can get, at best, is something which, in Bal’s words,

“comes close to unconscious preoccupations.” In short, the reader (as well as the author) should not be taken as the objects of a psychoanalytic reading.

At this point, one may want to reject the exclusion of the reader from our consideration, because, as the reader-reaction theory has demonstrated, the reader participates in the meaning- making process. However, the point here is that meaning itself is not the concern of Lacan’s psychoanalytic method which, as he contends, reads the signifiers “without concern for any form of presumed existence of the signified” (Écrits 630). This means that meanings (the signified) are, at least temporarily, suspended (or transcended) in the process of reading/deciphering. As I understand it, by suspending the signified, Lacan puts forward a new perspective on the narrative effect. For example, if I, a reader, am touched by a narrative, it is not the meaning which has affected me on an emotional-somatic level; I can simply be touched by the red colour of the clothes which a Jewish girl wears in Spielberg’s film Schindler’s List. There is a visual impact on my psyche: I am alerted; I am shocked; my eyes light up; my heart beats faster. Why? In an attempt to answer this question, I would strive to produce a set of meanings which could be related to the red colour—blood, death, the Flagellation of Christ, sacrifice, fire, passion, burning 24 Chapter 1

24

phoenix, resurrection or revolution. The meaning(s) which I have attached to a visual signifier is

no more than a secondary product which is retroactively created as a means of reabsorbing the

initial impact into the discursive framework permitted to a viewer; thereby, the “embarrassment”

of the unconscious—the inability to know why my eyes lighted up in the first place—can be

concealed. However, the question remains: “where and how are our bodies touched by the ‘letters’

of literature” (Rabaté 3)?

(2) How to read

There is something more in a narrative text than the meaning(s). This something is that

which the psychoanalytic method aims at. To begin with, as pointed out by a Lacanian

psychoanalyst,

a Lacanian analysis of language emphasizes form over content. The interpretation of a

text does not aim to uncover unconscious meaning that lies hidden beneath the

surface, or even to retrieve the ‘signified’ content …. Rather, it is the organization of

these signifiers in the text as such that is the object of study, and the formal structures

of a text are decomposed by treating language, as Saussure did, as ‘a system of

differences without positive terms’. (Parker 39, original italics)

If the object of analysis is the “organization of the signifiers,” we may consider our first task is to

(re)construct the structure of a narrative text. It is at this point that narratology may lend us a

helping hand. As argued by Bal (in the passage quoted at the beginning of this section), by

analysing the narrative characteristics, we will be able to know how the text is constructed. This

structure will in turn allow us to see and to articulate the organization of the narrative elements

such as the narrator, the characters, and so forth.49 In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 25

25

It goes without saying that, as narrative elements, the narrator and the characters are not to be examined as if they are real persons; rather, they should be regarded, in my view, strictly as a particular kind of signifiers—such as a proper name which denotes nothing other than the name

(the signifier) itself, 50 and functions merely as a place holder in a signifying system. This also implies that the content (or meanings) attached to each element—such as a character’s personality or other attributes—will not be our primary concern, even though I do not deny that, at a certain point, the content can yield important information on how to determine each element’s structural position. In short, reconstructing the narrative structure is to be taken as the first step towards further analysis. I will now turn to the second step which forms the core of

Lacan’s psychoanalytic method.

Does this concern with the structure mean that Lacan actually advocates a structuralist approach to literature, aiming to impose a closed system and thereby to generate a reductive effect on the text? The answer is “no”; this is not what Lacan means by “psychoanalytic method” which, let us recall, consists solely in “the deciphering of signifiers without concern for any form of presumed existence of the signified” (Écrits 630). What does it mean by the deciphering of signifiers without concern for the existence of the signified? Is not the very possibility of deciphering dependent on the existence of a code book? As I understand it, for Lacan, reading/interpreting a text should not be carried out in the same way as looking up a word in a dictionary; the latter presumes the existence of a body of meanings which can be fixed upon each signifier, symptom or phenomenon.51 Rather, by suspending the meaning (the signified), Lacan’s psychoanalytic method recognizes the indeterminable nature of the signifier, whereby, as we will see, the organization of the signifiers (and, for that matter, the narrative structure) can be kept open. 26 Chapter 1

26

Since Freud, it has already been noticed that something in the text resists being translated in

any meaningful way. This unique element is termed by Freud “the navel of dreams.” He states:

There is often a passage in even the most thoroughly interpreted dream which has to

be left obscure; this is because we become aware during the work of interpretation

that at that point there is a tangle of dream-thoughts which cannot be unravelled....

This is the dream's navel, the spot where it reaches down into the unknown. The

dream-thoughts to which we are led by interpretation cannot, from the nature of

things, have any definite endings; they are bound to branch out in every direction into

the intricate network of our world of thought. (Interpretation of Dreams II 525)52

Central to Freud’s reading is the navel, the location at which interpretation (that is, reading) must

stop; something must remain un-interpreted, because it “reaches down into the unknown” and is

thus undefinable. In Seminar XI, Lacan translates the “navel” as the gap: “what Freud calls the

navel—the navel of the dreams, he writes, to designate their ultimately unknown centre—which

is simply, like the same anatomical navel that represents it, that gap of which I have already

spoken” (Seminar XI 23, original italics). The gap which Lacan has spoken of is nothing but an

effect of the unconscious; “what the unconscious does,” says Lacan, “is to show us the gap …”

(Seminar XI 22). (And, as discussed above, the unconscious is to be understood as the repressed,

unknown knowledge, designating the area of the unborn.)

The gap or the navel can be found not only in dreams but also in written (spoken, visual,

and etc.) texts. At this point, we may recall Lacan’s remark on the written work (quoted earlier):

“The work poses the equivalent of the Unconscious, an equivalent no less real than it, as it forges

the Unconscious in its curvature” (qtd. in Rabaté 3). Although the unconscious as such is lost in

the written text, we can nevertheless find its trace in the textual curvature—an equivalent for the

unconscious which is no less real. I interpret the curvature as akin to Freud’s navel: like the navel In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 27

27 of the dreams which marks “a tangle of dream-thoughts which cannot be unravelled,” the curvature of the text does not define (or unravel) the unconscious, but functions to render the gap visible, whereby it undermines any totalizing attempt to interpret and to grasp the text fully.

We encounter the gap of the unconscious at the moment when we “enjoy” something in the text which touches us, but to which we cannot give meanings. This something is written into the text as a letter, or, more precisely, as the sinthome. Žižek explains: “[I]n contrast to symptom which is a cipher of some repressed meaning, sinthom53 has no determinate meaning; it just gives body, in its repetitive pattern, to some elementary matrix of jouissance, of excessive enjoyment.

Although sinthoms do not have sense, they do radiate jouis-sense, enjoy-meant” (Enjoy Your

Symptom 226). Hence, I suggest, the deciphering of signifiers without concern for any pre- existence of the signified is not deciphering in the conventional sense, because the letter (the sinthome) means nothing; “yet this nothing [is] not an empty nothing,” says Žižek, “but the fullness of libidinal investment, a tic that g[i]ve[s] body to a cipher of enjoyment” (Enjoy Your

Symptom 227). That is, this sinthome—the letter of jouissance—is a psychical register, a curvature in the text which drills a hole in the system of signification, preventing it from being closed upon itself. Hence, if we are to follow Lacan’s method, we should consider our approach to the narrative structure as a process of identifying the gap inherent in the structure itself. 54 That is to say, the structure must be viewed not as a whole, but as constituted by a hole—an excessive element—which deconstructs the structure itself. For this reason, (re)constructing the narrative structure is not the end; the structure itself demands a reading or a deconstruction.

In sum, Lacan’s psychoanalytic method of reading can be formulated in, at least, two aspects. First, the object of our reading does not consist of the author, the reader or the characters regarded as real persons. It is the textual surface—the organization of the signifiers—that constitutes the sole object of our analysis. Second, for Lacan, the purpose of reading (or the 28 Chapter 1

28

deciphering of signifiers) is not to provide a text with a definite meaning. Rather, the

psychoanalytic method aims at identifying the gap in the narrative structure, and to understand

how the gap affects the discursive formation. As we will see, this gap—usually marked by an

uninterpretable and indeterminable element (e.g. the objet petit a)55—can be found in Lacan’s

various structural formulations, such as the schema of the perverse fantasy, the mathemes of the

four discourses and so forth. Hence, in the following chapters, I will first (re)construct the

narrative structure of each filial piety story, and then compare it with the Lacanian structures.

This comparison will help us not only to explain the function of the narrative structure, but also,

more importantly, to understand the relationship between the gap and other structural elements.

To read the Chinese narrative from a Lacanian perspective is not to force the text into a

theoretical framework, but to gain a new perspective which will reshape our perception and thus

enable us to see what has so far been kept invisible.

Return to the “transcendental”: historicism or historicity proper?

My approach to Chinese narratives is certainly not the first attempt to read Chinese cultural

products through the lens of psychoanalysis. There have been some book-length studies of the

encounter between psychoanalysis and Chinese culture(s). However, efforts made in this field are

highly limited, focusing mainly on Freud and modern Chinese literature. This focus has its

historical background. In the early 20th century, Freudian psychoanalysis was first imported into

China, and subsequently exerted a strong influence on Chinese literary writings. Hence, it is

relatively “easy” to find Freud in modern Chinese literature and literary criticisms.56 In contrast,

scholarly engagement with Lacan in the field of Chinese studies is more fragmented and limited.

More often than not, scholars are content with occasional citations of Lacan’s concepts without

any adequate elaboration on them. (There are some exceptions in the study of modern Chinese In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 29

29 culture, where Lacanian theory is more sophistically employed with varying degrees of success.)57 Still, even fewer efforts have been made to systematically introduce Lacan into the field of pre-modern Chinese studies.58

Scholarly hesitation in this regard is not without reasons, which is probably due to the following concerns: (1) applying a modern theory to a pre-modern social-cultural entity is suspected to be an ahistorical approach which may distort the past reality by superimposing upon it a set of anachronistic concepts; (2) interpreting China through a western theoretical perspective bears a suspicious resemblance to Orientalism which, instead of representing China as what it really is or was, will simply recast China as the West’s other. These two concerns converge at one single question: How should we represent a society and its culture(s) which are not our own?

In the rest of this chapter, I intend to outline my stance on this issue, and to explain why Lacanian psychoanalysis, as a theory and a perspective, has a “universal” value which will help us overcome certain impasse in current scholarship.

The first thing to note is the fact that Lacan himself has never hesitated to engage with the

Eastern cultures; he has commented on Japanese calligraphy, Chinese philosophy and Buddhism in his teachings.59 The most well-known example is probably his interpretation of Zhuang Zi’s 莊

子 (ca. 369 BCE – 286 BCE) butterfly dream in Seminar XI, where he regards Zhuang Zi’s becoming a butterfly in his dream as a split between the eye and the gaze.60 This reading would certainly be rejected by “one of the most popular forms of criticism,” according to which, as

Copjec notes, “a text of whatever sort must be examined as a product of its historical context, which forms the framework of what is thinkable at a particular moment. Not only texts but historically located subjects, too, conceive themselves, we are told, in terms permitted by this framework” (Imagine 67). Hence, for Zhuang Zi, the butterfly dream had nothing to do with the 30 Chapter 1

30

split between the eye and the gaze, since the latter is not part of the discursive framework to

which Zhuang Zi belonged. Certainly, on the conscious level, Zhuang Zi could not articulate such

a Lacanian notion; however, what if Zhuang Zi’s text may actually contain something which

exceeds the author’s intention, and exceeds the discursive framework permitted to the author? In

other words, Zhuang Zi’s text may also have an unconscious aspect. It is this aspect—the aspect

to which the historical-cultural subject himself had no access—that Lacanian theory aims at; and,

it is also the aspect which fascinates me.

In the case of history, to speak of the unconscious is to realize that there is always

something beyond the scope of historicism. According to Žižek, “historicism refers to the set of

economic, political, cultural, and so on, circumstances whose complex interaction allows us to

account for the Event to be explained” (Ticklish Subject 133). This approach to social-cultural

phenomena has been pointedly criticized by Žižek and other Lacanians,61 because, viewed from

Lacan’s psychoanalytic perspective, this historicist stance errs in overlooking a crucial dimension

of the social which actually transcends the economic-political-cultural circumstances. For this

reason, Žižek puts forward the concept of “historicity proper” as an alternative to historicism. In

order to understand Žižek’s Lacanian position on this issue, we need first to have a look at

Lacan’s three registers—the symbolic, the imaginary and the Real62—which will allow us to

examine the social-cultural events through a three dimensional framework.

These three registers are the essential concepts in Lacan’s theory (which will be further

elaborated in the following chapters). Here, I will cite a passage from Žižek himself, which

demonstrates the key ideas behind these concepts. In Did Somebody Say Totalitarianism?, Žižek

uses the topic of the “other” to illustrate the three registers:

The topic of the ‘other’ is to be submitted to a kind of spectral analysis that reveals its

imaginary, symbolic and real aspects …. First, there is the imaginary other—other In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 31

31

people ‘like me’, my fellow human beings with whom I am engaged in the mirror-

like relationships of competition, mutual recognition, and so on. Then, there is the

symbolic ‘big Other’—the ‘substance’ of our social existence, the impersonal set of

rules that co-ordinate our coexistence. Finally, there is the Other qua Real, the

impossible Thing, the ‘inhuman partner’, the Other with whom no symmetrical

dialogue, mediated by the symbolic Order, is possible. (163)

The same goes for the topic of society which should also be analysed in three aspects. There are social phenomena and practices that we can observe and recognize in our daily life. These phenomena and practices belong to the order of the imaginary and are co-ordinated and made possible by the big Other—the symbolic order consisting of a set of social rules, discursive formations and epistemological models, etc. The symbolic order determines what is possible for us to see, to know, and to experience; it even determines the possibility of our fantasy.63

Besides the symbolic and imaginary orders, there is the order of the Real—the Thing (or das Ding in Freud’s words) which can neither be mediated by nor be absorbed into the symbolic- imaginary system. Hence, the concept of the Real is to be distinguished from reality. Reality is preconditioned by an epistemological limitation which demarcates the symbolic-imaginary sphere. As Žižek states, “what looks like an epistemological limitation of our capacity to grasp reality (the fact that we are forever perceiving reality from our finite temporal standpoint) is the positive ontological condition of reality itself” (Ticklish Subject 158, original italics ). In contrast, the Real is a notion denoting the Thing which exceeds the symbolic mediation, and logically precedes the epistemological limitation. However, it is important to bear in mind that this precedence of the Thing is only “logically” so, since it is thinkable only as a retroactive effect of the limit itself. I will return to this paradox in the next chapter; at this stage, another citation from

Žižek may help us to understand the status of the Real: “the Real is precisely that which resists 32 Chapter 1

32

and eludes the grasp of the Symbolic and, consequently, that which is detectable within the

Symbolic only under the guise of its disturbances” (Metastases 30). In a way, we may say that it

is this inherent social-symbolic disturbance that necessitates the notion of the Real which

articulates something radically incompatible with social reality itself.

It is in reference to the Real that Žižek’s “historicity proper” is to be understood. He states:

Historicity proper involves a dialectical relationship to some unhistorical kernel that

stays the same—not as an underlying Essence but as a rock that trips up every attempt

to integrate it into the symbolic order. This rock is the Thing qua ‘the part of the Real

that suffers from the signifier’ (Lacan)64—the real ‘suffers’ in so far as it is the

trauma that cannot be properly articulated in the signifying chain. (Metastases 199)

Later on, Žižek restates this argument in another essay and makes the following distinction

between historicism and historicity proper:

The truly radical assertion of historical contingency has to include the dialectical

tension between the domain of historical change itself and its traumatic “ahistorical”

kernel qua its condition of (im)possibility. Here we have the difference between

historicity proper and historicism: historicism deals with the endless play of

substitutions within the same fundamental field of (im)possibility, while historicity

proper makes thematic different structural principles of this very (im)possibility.

(Class Struggle 111-12,original italics )

Repeatedly, Žižek stresses that history contains an ahistorical (or unhistorical) kernel—the

traumatic Thing, “the part of the real” in its historical dimension. Hence, one could suggest that

the difference between historicism and historicity proper corresponds to the division between

historical reality (i.e. the historical changes which can be observed and articulated) and the

ahistorical Real. In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 33

33

Furthermore, Žižek points out in the above quotation that the ahistorical kernel forms the condition of historical (im)possibilities. To clarify this thesis, we can have a look at his discussion of Lacan’s theory on sexuation.

What the Lacanian ‘formulas of sexuation’ endeavour to formulate, however, is not

yet another positive formulation of the sexual difference but the underlying impasse

that generates the multitude of positive formulations as so many (failed) attempts to

symbolize the traumatic real of the sexual difference. What all epochs have in

common is not some universal positive feature, some transhistorical constant; what

they all share, rather, is the same deadlock, the same antinomy… (Indivisible

Remainder 217).

In this passage, Žižek illustrates the fact that the multitude of historical contingencies—the various formulations of sexuation, in this case—actually revolve around the same kernel, functioning as different ways of symbolizing the “traumatic real” which constitutes the ahistorical aspect of all historical specificities. This Lacanian insight allows us to adopt an anti- historicist approach to history: rather than adding another layer of symbolization (i.e. re- description or re-construction of the past), we should instead focus on the Real—the deadlock, the rock, which resists being symbolized. As I will demonstrate in the following section, this

Lacanian approach will help us overcome certain historicist impasse in the field of Chinese studies.

Keeping sight of the Real indicates by no means that we should totally ignore the historical- cultural context of each text. I am not against historicization and contextualization, but want to argue for the necessity to move beyond it. Following Žižek’s distinction between historicism and historicity proper, we should always examine our research objects on two levels. Lacan’s framework of the three registers provides us with a model which facilitates this two-level analysis. 34 Chapter 1

34

Take fantasy for example. Every particular form of fantasy ($<>a)65 bears its historical-cultural

marks. As Lacan argues, “[i]n forms that are historically and socially specific, the a elements, the

imaginary elements of the fantasm come to overlay the subject, to delude it, at the very point of

das Ding” (Seminar VII 99).66 We shall return to the structure of fantasy in following chapters;

for now, it is worthy of notice that, within the Lacanian framework, the historical-social

contingency (or specificity) is not excluded from consideration. It is the interaction between the

symbolic-imaginary domain and the domain of the Real (designated here respectively by the a

elements and das Ding) that characterizes the Lacanian approach.

If psychoanalysis can be claimed as modern and western, one way of understanding this

claim is to say that Freud and Lacan have mapped out the relation between the three registers

within a modern-western context; this by no means prevents us from (re)constructing another

map which may describe the symbolic-imaginary-Real relation characteristic of another society

(in the past or at present), because at the core of this relation is the Real—the ahistorical Thing.

As an attempt to make a small contribution to this task, my following study is to be conducted

through a two-fold procedure—a close reading of a text against its historical-discursive context,

and an examination of certain excessive (transcendental) elements which stick out of this context,

by which I attempt to understand how the symbolic and imaginary domains (that is, the domain

of reality) were structured in such a way that a successful regime was able to cope with the effect

of the Real.

Still, a few more words need to be said about “anachronism.” Copjec has put forward a

productive suggestion on this issue:

[I]f the form of Athenian tragedy is so local, tied not only to a specific place, a

particular and precisely datable time, and a unique set of social problems, it would

seem, then, according to the historicist-relativist thinking of our day, to offer nothing In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 35

35

that might help us think through the juridical and ethical issues raised by the modern

city. In fact, to begin a consideration of contemporary urban issues with a reference to

Athenian tragedy is automatically to brand oneself with the sin of anachronism. I

propose, however, that the question should not always be “How can we rid ourselves

of anachronism?”—for it is sometimes more relevant to ask “What is the significance

of anachronism?” How can we account for the temporal nomadism of figures from

the past? And, in this context, how is it possible that the drama of Antigone still

concerns us? (Imagine 13-14)

To add to Copjec, we may also want to ask another question: Is anachronism really a sin, if our purpose is not to “restore” the past reality (if it is ever possible), but to reconstruct the unconscious fantasy which the historical subjects themselves had no access to and thus had no words to articulate? Meanwhile, it is also questionable if anachronism can ever be avoided. As long as we try to represent pre-modern China with a modern and foreign language, we inevitably impose upon it a set of concepts which is absent from the traditional Chinese discourse. Hence, I will not deny that I will speak anachronistically. However, because I will speak anachronistically,

I will speak historically: I will speak from the here and now.

III

Post-Orientalism67

At the end, I would like to comment on a current trend in Chinese studies as a way of

“historicizing” my own research, and to demonstrate how Lacanian psychoanalysis—with its insight into the ahistorical dimension of history—can help us overcome certain impasse in this field. Under the influence of Said’s Orientalism, scholarly approaches to China’s social-cultural 36 Chapter 1

36

phenomenon have been more or less guided by an anti-Orientalist stance. In order not to

homogenize the cultural differences in accordance with the Euro-American criteria, some

scholars have strived to restore an “original” picture of China which is supposedly not “distorted”

by the western view. As I understand it, Orientalism as a discursive framework bears directly on

the way of representing (or reinventing) the cultural others. Inherent in the epistemological

structure of self-other opposition is the uneven power relation which privileges one term (the self)

over another (the other). However, this kind of opposition seems inevitable in all forms of

representations: as long as we start to represent something or somebody, we speak for / about it

or him/her, which entails (intentionally or unintentionally) the silence on the side of the

represented. Hence, Said, at the near end of Orientalism, poses the following questions: “How

does one represent other cultures? What is another culture? Is the notion of a distinct culture (or

race, or religion, or civilization) a useful one, or does it always get involved either in self-

congratulation (when one discusses one's own) or hostility and aggression (when one discusses,

the ‘other’)” (325, original italics)?

A similar question can also be asked about our relationship with the past: How can we

represent the ancient cultures without silencing and repressing the people living within it? It

seems to be a response to the Saidian questions that Dorothy Ko, a cultural historian, makes the

following claims: “Upon scrutiny, our certainties may turn out to be dead wrong, based as they

are on an uncritical imposition of modern perspectives onto a Chinese past that thrived on values

and body conceptions alien to ours” (Body as Attire 9). The “modern perspective” mentioned

here refers to the perspective passed down to us by the western missionaries and the western-

influenced Chinese nationalists since the 19th century. On the one hand, Ko seems to adopt an

anti-Orientalist approach to Chinese history; however, on the other hand, as betrayed by her

definition of the “Chinese past” as “alien,” this approach re-enacts the Orientalist dichotomy In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 37

37 between the self ( the present) and the other (the past). An uncritical imposition of modern perspectives onto the past is certainly problematic; however, it is equally problematic to define uncritically or unqualifiedly a different culture as “alien.”

Once this temporal alienness is displaced onto a spatial axis, it can have some real political effects. As Arif Dirlik—a prominent scholar of Chinese history—noted decades ago, with the rise of Asian countries on the global market, there is “the reification of orientalism at the level of a global ideology” which is epitomized by “the appearance of ‘cultural nationalism’ in East and

South Asia in the midst of the so-called globalization of Asian societies. One aspect of this cultural nationalism, especially pertinent to Chinese societies, is the so-called Confucian revival”

(108). Although the phenomenon of Confucian revival may have passed its heyday in the Asian region as a whole, it nevertheless continues in various forms in mainland China. By equating the

Chinese culture(s) with Confucian values, this anti-Eurocentric standpoint ironically falls prey to the same Orientalist epistemology; it conducts what Dirlik calls “self-orientalization” or “self- essentialization” (114). This celebration of national (or regional) “alienness” in comparison with the west and the avoidance of “universality” may save China from the western discursive domination; but, at the same time, it may also help to legitimize and reinforce the rule of another

Master-Signifier—such as the Confucian morality—on the regional and national levels. As Dirlik points out, “[s]elf-essentialization may serve the cause of mobilization against ‘Western’ domination; but in the very process it also consolidates ‘Western’ ideological hegemony by internalizing the historical assumptions of orientalism. At the same time, it contributes to internal hegemony by suppressing differences within the nation” (114).

At this point, Ko seems to escape from the charge of “(self-)essentialization,” to the extent that, in her study of footbinding, she indeed claims to recover the multiple meanings invested in this practice by different social-gender groups.68 Her approach is to reread the pre-modern texts 38 Chapter 1

38

produced during the time when footbinding was still regarded as an honourable practice. Dirlik

has suggested a similar approach and considered it to be the solution to “(self-)essentialization.”

He states, “[i]t is necessary, I think, to restore full historicity to our understanding of the past and

the present …, historicity that is informed by the complexity of everyday life, which accounts not

only for what unites but, more importantly, for diversity in space and time, which is as

undesirable to national power as it is to Eurocentrism” (118). Clearly, historicity for Dirlik is

utterly different from the historicity proper articulated by Žižek; the former is actually a re-

articulation of the historicist approach. The crucial questions which Dirlik fails to ask are: On

what ground and from what perspective should this everyday life be looked at and analysed? Is

there an ideologically neutral model, according to which full historicity can be restored? Is not

every method of reading and analysing the past, to a certain degree, always already “ahistorical”?

That is, the very measure of examining the data determines that the full historicity cannot be

restored, because it contains inherently an external gaze which examines the data from a safe

distance. Again, one way to overcome this external distance is to include into the historical

configuration another point of exception—the “ahistorical” kernel, that is, to see how our own

antagonism is embedded and repeated in a historical context.69

Without reflecting upon the methodological problems, Ko, in line with Dirlik’s suggestion,

strives to recover the complexity of everyday life. However, the result of this approach is quite

alarming. More urgently, it has since been welcomed by other scholars. Based on Ko’s research,

another well-known scholar remarks:

Historian Dorothy Ko’s study of foot-binding has shown that foot-binding cannot be

reduced to “a core of absolute and timeless meanings” and that the equation was very

much a discourse constructed by Western missionaries in China in the nineteenth

century, which in turn influenced reform-minded Chinese. Prior to the nineteenth In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 39

39

century, there were varying discourses about foot-binding, with opposing and

approving voices … Without going so far as to establish a blanket agency for foot-

binding, which would be false, it may not be far-fetched to say that as a form of social

practice, foot-binding itself may have granted women some form of small-scale

agency, just as high-heel shoes may enhance certain women’s sense of beauty and

well-being. (Shih 83)70

This anti-Orientalist gesture leads to the “veiled” tendency to rehabilitate, at least partially, the practice of footbinding, which is, in my view, unacceptable. It should not be difficult to see that the alleged agency which women derived from footbinding (as well as the high-heel shoes) was by itself an ideological product, which was sanctioned and even encouraged by the dominant discourse; it, in the long run, only helped to reinforce the masculine discourse on femininity and facilitated the patriarchal control over women’s body.

To put it in a Lacanian way, the woman was pushed to face a “forced choice” between your

“natural” feet or your status in the symbolic world.71 Did the woman ever have the agency to choose otherwise? The only agency she had was to willingly surrender her body to the patriarchal

Other, to transform herself from a passive victim to a self-posited agent. However, it is exactly by willingly choosing her own mutilation that she became fully integrated into the symbolic order, identifying herself with the patriarchal law. In a discussion of Greek heroines, Žižek makes a similar conclusion in "I Do Not Order My Dream”: “in this purely formal act of freely willing (of assuming as one’s own free act) that which is brutally imposed on the individual as an inevitable necessity, resides the elementary gesture of subjectivization.… [T]he woman accomplishes it for the gaze of the big Other” (182-83). It is my contention that the more the woman had welcomed footbinding, the more they became subjected to the patriarchal gaze. The agency that scholars 40 Chapter 1

40

have found in women’s self-representations/perception of footbinding is nothing but a proof of

their deeper subordination.72 Where does this anti-Orientalist interpretation go wrong?

To begin with, Ko’s very attempt to restore the different meanings invested in footbinding

is a misfired approach, because this difference is superficial. No matter if they were pro or anti

footbinding, these meanings were always already made possible by the patriarchal symbolic order,

through which social subjects (male and female) learned how to represent and understand their

own body. Hence, the apparent “varying discourses about foot-binding” are, to a great degree,

merely different manifestations of the same symbolic-discursive structure. When Ko insists

repeatedly that “footbinding was considered part of female attire, an adornment to be exact, not a

form of bodily mutilation” (Body as Attire 17), she is actually rearticulating (if not rationalizing)

the patriarchal discourse which represented and at the same time repressed the speaking/suffering

subjects (women and men alike).

Besides, according to Lacan, there is a necessary division between the subject of

enunciation and the subject of the statement (or representation): a speaking/writing subject

(endowed with the unconscious) disappears at the very moment when the subject becomes a

spoken/written signifier—the pronoun “I,” for instance. Hence, there is always something which

escapes from representations, resisting being integrated into the symbolic system; and, for this

reason, this unsymbolizable thing can never be grasped through meanings, no matter how

multiple these meanings may be. It is my suggestion that the scholarly attempt to represent the

Chinese woman is somehow misled, which serves only to reduce her body to a set of meanings,

curtailing it through a symbolic framework. For the same reason, the “original” Chinese self-

representation is always, in a sense, self-reduction which therefor demands an interpretation or

deconstruction, rather than a restoration. In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 41

41

Finally, in order not to impose our modern perspective upon the “alien” culture, Ko refuses to go beyond the horizon defined by the symbolic order which was responsible for the prevalence of footbinding in the first place. The result of this refusal is Ko’s loss of any ground on which this practice can possibly be criticized: she is obliged to examine footbinding through the lens provided by the patriarchal system.73 At this point, an inevitable question needs to be posed: in the era of post-Orientalism, on what ground can we criticize the regional/national Master-

Signifier such as the Confucian values without falling into the Orientalist trap, that is, without superimposing a judgement upon the other cultures in accordance with the western-modern norms?

An answer to this question may be hinted at in Žižek’s following statement:

Apropos of an intense religious ritual, it is a commonplace to claim that we, outside

observers, can never interpret it properly, since only those who are directly immersed

in the life-world of which this ritual is a part can grasp its meaning (or, more

accurately, they do not reflexively “understand” it, they directly “live” its meaning).

From a Lacanian standpoint, one should take a step further here and claim that even

the religious belief of those who participate in such a ritual is ultimately a

“rationalization” of the uncanny libidinal impact of the ritual itself. The gap is not the

gap between the participants directly involved with the thing and our external

interpretative position—it is to be located in the thing itself, that is, it splits from

within the participants themselves, who need a “rationalization” of meaning in order

to be able to sustain the Real of the ritual itself. (For They Know xiv)

The religious ritual is discussed here on two levels—(1) the symbolic meaning(s) of the ritual practice and (2) its libidinal impact—the Real of the thing—which necessitates the symbolic rationalization(s). According to Žižek, the outsider’s interpretation and the participant’s belief 42 Chapter 1

42

should be both located on the first level: they carry out the same symbolic function and share the

same structural relation with “the Real of the ritual” on the second level. Hence, the difference

between the outsider and the participant is no more than the difference between two symbolic

systems or, we may say, the difference between two Master-Signifiers.

For the same reason, the Chinese indigenous perceptions of footbinding do not have more

“truth value” than the western foreign interpretations, insofar as the “uncanny libidinal impact” is

concerned. The different representations of footbinding—be it the Orientalist’s “distortion” or the

Chinese’s own accounts—function merely as different ways of rationalizing and sustaining the

Real of this practice. Its uncanny impact is attested to by the fact that, besides being a token of

female chastity, the woman’s disfigured foot had always been treated by the Chinese as the most

erotic organ for centuries;74 hence, this body part can be better viewed as a kind of the

sinthome—an unsymbolizable signifier—which inscribed the senseless enjoyment onto the

social-cultural surface. Ko’s problem is that, by constraining her focus solely on the symbolic-

discursive level, she eschews the impact of the Real which was actually at the core of the practice:

in her study, the erotic aspect of footbinding is either largely left undiscussed or quickly

explained away.75 As a consequence, her research only helps to render invisible the gap which

was already opened up on the ideological edifice, not by the western-modern criticism, but by the

internal split of the practice that the Chinese men and women had strived to deal with.

My point here is that the purpose of our research is not to judge which representation has

more “truth value,” or which discursive system is better than the others; this attempt will only end

up legitimizing one Master-Signifier at the expense of another. Rather, we should always keep

focused on the gap—the unspeakable, unconscious side of every social-cultural formation—

which alone provides us with the ground, on which the Master-Signifiers (on the global and

regional/national levels) can be criticized without the recourse to any western or modern norms. In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 43

43

In other words, recognizing cultural differences is not sufficient, since these differences are part of the established knowledge of reality. Instead, we need to take one step further, to recognize the

Same. Certainly, the Same is not a particular characteristic or attribute supposedly shared by all cultures and communities, but the Thing—the ahistorical Real kernel—which remains the same for all historical societies, precisely because of its undefinable, indeterminable nature.76 This insight is one of the great contributions that Lacanian psychoanalysis can offer to the development of Chinese studies. In what follows, I will further demonstrate how a Lacanian approach will help us to deepen and to refresh our understanding of a pre-modern Chinese culture.

1 For a book-length study of the Confucian revival in mainland China, see Billioud and Thoraval.

2 This preface was first published in German in 1934.

3 In the note, Žižek states: “What should be pointed out here is that enjoyment (jouissance, Genuss) is not to be equated with pleasure (Lust): enjoyment is precisely ‘Lust im Unlust’; it designates the paradoxical satisfaction produced by a painful encounter with a Thing that perturbs the equilibrium of the ‘pleasure principle.’ In other words, enjoyment is located ‘beyond the pleasure principle’” (Tarrying 280 n1).

4 It has already been pointed out that our modern conception of “Confucianism” as a philosophy is highly reductive.

As Professor B. J. ter Haar argues, the term “Confucianism”—first coined by western missionaries in the 19th century—originally referred not only to the “ru” school as a philosophical-moral system (centring on the texts traditionally associated with Confucius as an author, editor and/or transmitter), but also to a religious culture which dominated the Chinese life (including the lives of “ru” scholars). With the end of imperial China, its cultural landscape (and, I will add, its way of life) underwent dramatic change. As a consequence, the religious aspect of

Confucianism has gradually faded away from our perspective. For this reason, a proper use of the term

“Confucianism” should incorporate at least two aspects of the “ru” tradition—namely, its philosophical-moral teachings and religious-ritual practices. See ter Haar’s “From Field to Text in the Study of Chinese Religion.”

Generally in line with this understanding, I will use the term “Confucianism” in an even broader sense; that is, the 44 Chapter 1

44

two aspects of Confucianism (or the “ru” tradition) was eventually integrated into and realized as people’s way of

life.

5 Drawing on early texts and medieval stories, Donald Holzman makes a similar argument: “This strong tie binding

succeeding generations one to another and ancestor worship (another aspect of the same phenomenon) are part of the

essence of Chinese culture” (199). Holzman also suggests that filial piety was so central to the Chinese life that it can

be compared to the worship of the God in the west.

6 For the sake of convenience and because of the varied translations, the titles of Chinese books will be kept

untranslated in my study. I will provide a list of translations of these titles in an appendix.

7 There has been a debate about the origin of the Xiao jing, whose authorship (or authorships) has been variously

attributed to Confucius, Zeng Zi 曾子(also known as Zeng Can 曾參 who was Confucius’ disciple) or Zeng Zi’s

disciples. The book gained great popularity since the Han period (206 BCE-220). Two versions of the Xiao jing are

available—the new-script text (jin wen 今文) and the old-script text (gu we 古文). Despite some textual variations,

there is no significant difference between these two versions. Since the reign of Xuan Zong 玄宗 (712-56) of the

Tang Dynasty, the new-script text had become the official version of this book. For more information, see Boltz; Gao

13-29. The text which I rely on is the new-script text from the Xiao jing zhushu 孝經註疏 with Xing Bing’s 邢昺

(932-1010) commentaries, collected in the Qin ding si ku quan shu 欽定四庫全書. For an English translation of the

old-script text, see Gao 1-12.

8 All translations of the Chinese texts are mine, unless otherwise indicated. The Chinese text is found in the first

chapter of the Xiao jing: “夫孝, 德之本也, 教之所由生也”. See Xiao jing zhushu, juan 1, 4A.

9 “故自天子至於庶人, 孝無終始”. See Xiao jing zhushu, juan 3, 2B

10 “天子庶人尊卑雖别，至于行孝，其道不殊。” see Xiao jing zhushu, juan 3, 2B-3A.

11 In total, Althusser lists eight categories of the Ideology State Apparatus. See Althusser 143.

12 The imperial law permitted the parents to punish or persecute their children for being unfilial or disobedient. When

this punishment caused the death of the child, the parents were to receive no, or only slight, punishment. In the case

of persecution, “the authorities demanded no evidence, nor did they raise any objections to punishment asked [by the

parents]. The law states clearly: ‘When a father or mother prosecutes a son, the authorities will acquiesce without

question or trial” (Ch'ü 28-29). Hence, one of the repeated theses in T’ung-Tsu Ch’ü’s book is that “[t]he law was the In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 45

45

chief instrument through which the parental will was recognized and implemented” (27). For some of the legal cases recorded during the Qing period, see Bodde and Morris 223,315, 409.

13 “五刑之屬三千, 而罪莫大於不孝.” The text is found in chapter 11 in the Xiao jing. See Xiao jing zhushu, Juan 6,

4B. The five corporal penalties are: mo 墨 (tattooing), yi 劓 (amputation of one’s nose), jing 荆 (flogging) or fei 剕

(amputation of one’s foot), gong 宫 (castration), and dabi 大辟 (death penalty).

14 The Five Classics are the Shi jing 詩經(Book of Songs), the Shu jing 書經(Classic of Documents), the Li ji 禮記

(Book of Rites), the Yi jing 易經(Classic of Changes), and the Chunqiu 春秋(Spring and Autumn Annals), which have been regarded as the essential part of Confucian canonical texts since the Han period. The concept of Four

Books was promoted by the Neo-Confucian school during the Southern Song dynasty (1127-1279). Two chapters— the “Da xue” 大學 (“Great Learning”) and the “Zhong yong” 中庸 (“Doctrine of the Mean”) — were selected from the Li ji, which, together with the Lun yu 論語 (Analects) and the Meng zi 孟子, form the Four Books. Zhu Xi’s 朱熹

(1130-1200) commentaries on the Four Books—collected in the Sishu zhangju jizhu 四書章句集注(Collected

Commentaries on the Chapters and Sentences in the Four Books)— remained ultra- influential until the end of imperial China. Since the Yuan dynasty (1279-1368), the Four Books and Five Classics had constituted the core of the civil examination curriculum. For a comprehensive study of civil examinations in late imperial times, see Elman.

15 Ranked among the Five Classics, the Li ji is “a ritualist’s anthology of ancient usages, prescriptions, definitions and anecdotes” (Riegel 293). The texts collected in the Li ji seem to have originated during various periods. For more bibliographical information, see Riegel.

16 The Li ji text reads: “For all sons it is the rule:—in winter, to warm (the bed for their parents), and to cool it in summer; in the evening, to adjust everything (for their repose), and to inquire (about their health) in the morning 凡

爲人子之禮, 冬温而夏凊, 昏定而晨省”. Legge’s translation, see Legge’s Sacred Books of China, Part III, vol. I, 67.

The first part of the instruction is acted out in story 10 (Shanzhen wenqin 扇枕温衾) in the Ershisi xiao. The Li ji text is found in chapter 1 “quli shang 曲禮上,” see Li ji zhushu, juan 1, 20A.

17 For Althusser’s elaboration on the ideological interpellation, see Althusser 170-77.

18 In a study of Chinese ritual practice, James J. Watson also notices the discordance between practice and belief, and argues that the state’s control in late imperial China focused less on what people believed and more on what they 46 Chapter 1

46

actually did. He maintains: “The standardization of ritual practice almost always took precedence over efforts to

legislate or control beliefs. This, I would argue, had profound consequences for the creation of a unified cultural

system. By enforcing orthopraxy (correct practice) rather than orthodoxy (correct belief) state officials made it

possible to incorporate people from many different ethnic or regional backgrounds, with varying beliefs and attitudes,

into an overarching social system we now call China” (10-11).

19 For a comprehensive study of the early development of Buddhism in China, and the Buddhist responses to filial

piety, see Zürcher, esp. 281-85. For a reading of the Fu mu en zhong jing, see Cole 132-58. For studies of Buddhist

discourse on filial piety, see Cole; Lo; and Teiser.

20 Daoism is a label covering a set of philosophical thoughts and religious practices which are traditionally viewed as

developed from the Dao de jing 道德經 and the Zhuang zi 莊子. The term Daoism used in this chapter refers to the

Daoist religion. For studies of filial piety in Daoism, see Liao; Kohn; and Kunio.

21 For example, one important characteristics of the Buddhist filial piety is its emphasis on the mother-son

relationship, which requires the son to repay his mother’s kindness by saving her from the other-worldly punishment

in her afterlife. This mother-oriented teaching leads some scholars, such as Alan Cole, to conceive of the Buddhist

version of filial piety as a challenge to Confucian father-oriented model. See Cole, 14-40. In reference to the ghost

festival strongly influenced by Buddhism, Stephen Teiser states otherwise: “If the ghost festival fostered the

acceptance of traditionally marginal roles, it also affirmed the motivating ideal of mainstream Chinese life, filial

devotion” (12). To this discussion, I would like to add: the emphasis on the mother-son relationship was the Buddhist

adjustment, rather than challenge, to the Confucian-orthodox tradition. For one thing, the Buddhist version of filial

piety is based on the notion of a sinful but loving mother. See Cole 1-13. In a patriarchal Confucian society where

the nature of a “gentlemen” (jun zi 君子) had, since the time of Mencius, been considered essentially good, it would

be intolerable to view one’s father as originally sinful. (I propose, even the son himself would not like the idea that

he himself is fundamentally a sinner.) Hence, within the male-dominated circumstance, only women, that is, mothers,

can be perceived as sinners who alone need to be saved (by men) from the other-worldly punishment.

22 The ghost festival was celebrated annually on the fifteenth day in the seventh month according to the Chinese

calendar. On this day, people went to the Buddhist or Daoist temples to make offerings to their ancestors. As Teiser

states, “Buddhist and Taoist versions of the seventh-moon festival grew out of a common structure” (41). They In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 47

47

facilitated the ancestor worship which was at the root of Confucianism. For a study of the ghost festival in medieval

China, see Teiser.

23 For example, Jon L. Saari in a note on the Ershisi xiao states that this book was read “as a supplementary children’s text to provide concrete examples of the principles contained in more substantive texts, such as the Hsiao ching [Xiao jing] and Chu Hsi’s [Zhu Xi] Hsiao Hsueh [Xiao xue]” (299 n3).

24 Basically, due to the arbitrary relation between the signifier and the signified, no definitive meanings can be fixed upon a signifier. Hence, the signifying chain is characterized by the forever sliding of signification. The Master-

Signifier functions here to anchor the sliding signifying chain, whereby the signifiers can receive certain meanings.

As Žižek states, “the Master is the one who invents a new signifier, the famous ‘quilting point’, which stabilizes the situation again and makes it readable…The Master adds no new positive content—he merely adds a signifier which, all of a sudden, turns disorder into order” ( Parallax View 37).

25 According to the first chapter “Xue er” 學而 in the Lun yu 論語 (Analects), Confucius states: “not changing your father’s way [of life] for three years [after his death] can be called filial piety (三年無改於父之道，可謂孝矣)”.

See Lun yu jizhu, juan 1, 5B.

26 In chapter 7 (“Lilou shang” 離婁上) of the Meng zi, the text sates: “There are three ways of not being filial,

[among which] having no [male] descendant is the greatest (不孝有三, 無後為大)”. See Meng zi jizhu, juan 4, 15A.

27 In the first chapter of the Xiao jing, it states: “[Your] body, [your] skin and [your] hair are received from [your] parents; [you should] not dare to damage it. It is the beginning of filial piety (身體髮膚，受之父母, 不敢毁傷。孝

之始也)”. See Xiao jing zhushu, juan 1, 5A.

28 For Žižek’s analysis of the difference between these two notions, see Indivisible Remainder 106-07.

29 For the Lacanians, “fantasy” has a specific meaning, which does not refer to illusions, but is on the side of reality.

The Lacanian notion of fantasy will be further discussed in following chapters.

30 Milena Jesenska who had an intensive correspondence with Kafka once wrote about him: “Above all, things like money, stock-exchange, the foreign currency administration, typewriter, are for him thoroughly mystical (what they effectively are, only not for us, the others)” (qtd. in Žižek, For They Know lxxi).

31 It should be briefly pointed out that, in the Freudian-Lacanian tradition, disavowal is a different mechanism than repression. In the case of fetishism, what is at work is not the subject’s repression of an idea or perception, but the 48 Chapter 1

48

curious combination of acknowledgement and denial. This combination is called disavowal which is usually

formulated as: “I know well, but all the same…” For a good reading of this formulation, see Mannoni.

32 In “Science and Truth,” Lacan states: “the unconscious, which tells the truth about truth, is structured like a

language” (Écrits 737).

33 The most famous rules organizing the unconscious are condensation and replacement in Freud’s words, or

metaphor and metonymy in Lacan’s.

34 Keith Knapp states: “the particulars of xiao—the concrete actions recognized as embodying it and to whom it was

addressed—were often subject to change” (qtd. in Chan and Tan 1).

35 In the Confucian classics, the Master (zi 子) usually refers to “Confucius” less as a historical figure than as the

discursive authority.

36 This version of the Ershisi xiao is usually called “Ershisi xiao shixuan” 二十四孝詩選 (“Selected Poems of the

Twenty-Four Exemplars of Filial Piety”), which is also known as “Quanxiang ershisi xiao shi xuan” 全相二十四孝

詩選.

37 For more information on the formation of the Ershisi xiao, see Osawa.

38 For a survey of the collections of filial piety stories, see Gao134-37.

39 Lu Xun was among the modern intellectuals who most severely attacked the Confucian tradition.

40 See, for example, Keith Knapp’s study of the “reverent caring” in Selfless Offspring 113-36. Knapp has provided

so far the most concentrated study of the filial piety stories.

41 For examples of this kind of study on the Ershisi xiao, see Osawa; B. Wang; Y. Jiang.

42 In Reading For The Plot, Brooks states: “We can … conceive of the reading of plot as a form of desire that carries

us forward, onward, through the text”, and “[d]esire is in this view like Freud’s notion of Eros, a force including

sexual desire but larger and more polymorphous, which … seeks ‘to combine organic substances into ever greater

unites.’ Desire as Eros, desire in its plastic and totalizing function, appears to me central to our experience of reading

narrative … I find in Freud’s work the best model for a ‘textual erotics.’” (37).

43 For the encounter between psychoanalysis and literature, see Literature and Psychoanalysis: The Question of

Reading: Otherwise, edited by Shoshana Felman, which is still one of the best books addressing this issue. In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 49

49

44 For Lacan’s attitude towards “applied psychoanalysis”, see Lacan, Écrits 629-30. One of the limitations inherent in

“applied psychoanalysis” is summarized by Shoshana Felman: “If the thrust of the discourse of applied psychoanalysis is, in tracing poetry to a clinical reality, to reduce the poetic to a ‘cause’ outside itself, the crucial limitation of this process of reduction is that the cause, while it may be necessary, is by no means a sufficient one”

(Jacques Lacan 38).

45 See, for example, Lacan, “Desire and the Interpretation of Desire in Hamlet.”

46 Freud’s engagement with literature is probably more familiar to us. His reading of Hoffmann’s “The Sandman” in

“The Uncanny” and his borrowing of the term “Oedipus complex” from Sophocles’s Oedipus Rex are among the most well-known examples.

47 See the quotation from Felman in note 44 above

48 This passage originally appears in Lacan’s “C’est à la lecture de Freud ...”, a preface in Robert Georgin’s Lacan

(Lausanne: L’Age d’Homme-Cistre, 1977), 15.

49 Lacan’s own analysis of the “The Purloined Letter” seems to be an example. Without going into the details, it is sufficient to note that Lacan formulates a triangular structure which frames the relationship between characters in the fiction. This structure repeats itself, when the three structural positions are taken by different characters. See Lacan’s

“Seminar on ‘The Purloined Letter’”, Écrits 6-48. For readings of this essay, see Žižek, Enjoy Your Symptom 11-27; and Felman, Jacques Lacan and the Adventure of Insight 27-51.

50 In his discussion of the “proper name” understood in the Lacanian sense, Bruce Fink states: “Lacan … implies that what is stated when a proper name is pronounced is equivalent to the signified of that proper name; in other words, when a proper name is pronounced, there is no difference between what is stated and its meaning (for a proper name denotes only what is known by that name)” (Lacan to the Letter 133). That is to say, the signifier (what is stated) is the same as the signified (the meaning attached to the signifier); a proper name has no reference external to the name itself.

51 In terms of the dictionary, Lacan points out that there is a kind of language which has nothing to do with the dictionary. See Soler, Lacan 23-26.

52 For an insightful reading of the Freudian notion of “navel”, see Felman, “Postal Survival” 63-67.

53 It is unclear why Žižek omits the e from the word “sinthome.” 50 Chapter 1

50

54 Or, in Soler’s words, deciphering for Lacan is an act of extracting the particular signifier of jouissance: “The act of

deciphering consists in extracting a signifier or a series of signifiers from the analysed material of the symptom”

(Lacan 22).

55 As we will see in following chapters, the objet petit a has a double meaning, referring to the non-existing object-

cause of desire and the surplus enjoyment (jouissance). In both senses, it embodies the element which is either absent

from or exceeds the system of signification.

56 For studies focusing on Freud and Chinese modern literature, see, for example, Jingyuan Zhang’s Psychoanalysis

in China: literary transformations 1919-1949; Wendy Larson’s From Ah Q to Lei Feng: Freud and Revolutionary

Spirit in 20th century China. The recently published volume—The Reception and Rendition of Freud in China:

China's Freudian Slip edited by Tao Jiang and Philip J. Ivanhoe—contains several essays which use Freudian

concepts to interpret pre-modern Chinese cultural-social practices.

57 See, for example, Jeremy Tambling’s Madmen and Other Survivors: Reading Lu Xun’s Fiction; several of Rey

Chow’s essays in Ethics After Idealism: Theory, Culture, Ethnicity, Reading; and Guanjun Wu’s The Great Dragon

Fantasy: A Lacanian Analysis of Contemporary Chinese Thought.

58 John Hay’s “Boundaries and Surfaces of Self and Desire in Yuan Painting” is the only essay which I have come

across to use Lacan as the main reference point in a study of pre-modern Chinese cultural practice.

59 For a rough outline of Lacan’s encounter with Chinese culture(s), see L. Lin 136-40. In this essay, Lin may have

overestimated the Chinese influence on Lacan’s theoretical development. At certain points, this essay shows the

tendency to sinicize (if not to oversimplify) Lacan’s concepts, such as the Real.

60 The Lacanian notion of the gaze will be briefly discussed in the last chapter of this dissertation. Briefly speaking,

the difference between the eye and the gaze is that “[w]hereas the eye represents the cogito—the conscious, self-

reflexive subject and the subject of knowledge—the gaze represents the desidero: the subject of the unconscious and

of desire” (Berressem 175).

61 Copjec’s introduction to her book Read My Desir is another insightful essay on this issue. See Copjec, Read My

Desire 1-14.

62 The Lacanian “real” is utterly different from our common understanding of this word. To distinguish it from such a

notion as “reality,” some scholars have written the “Real” with the capital R. I will henceforth follow this mode. But, In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 51

51

meanwhile, the “real” with the lower case “r” is still used by others, such as the English translations of Lacan’s work, which will therefore appear in my citations.

63 In Seminar X, Lacan states: “the fantasy … is in its totality on the side of the Other” (27), where the Other

(marked by the letter A) refers to the “locus of the signifier” (26).

64 Žižek refers here to a passage in Lacan’s Seminar VII. It reads: “the Thing is that which in the real, the primordial real, I will say, suffers from the signifier…” (118).

65 “$<>a” is Lacan’s formula of fantasy, which is to be discussed in detail in chapter 3. For a reading of this matheme, see note 15 in chapter 3 below.

66 Briefly speaking, das Ding is the Thing of the Real, while the a (objet petit a) is the “remainder of the Real” produced through the process of symbolization, which is thus subject to the influence of the symbolic and imaginary orders. I will discuss the relation between das Ding and objet petit a in chapter 3 below.

67 I use the term “post-Orientalism” to refer simply to the era after the publication of Said’s Orientalism.

68 Footbinding was a popular custom in late imperial China, which involved the mutilation of women’s feet. For another book-length study of this practice, see Ping Wang’s Aching for Beauty.

69 In Žižek’s words, “the only way to save historicity from the fall into historicism, into the notion of the linear succession of ‘historical epochs,’ is to conceive these epochs as a series of ultimately failed attempts to deal with the same ‘unhistorical’ traumatic kernel (in Marxism, this kernel is of course the class struggle, class antagonism)”

(Enjoy Your Symptom 94).

70 Shih’s remark is based on Ko’s other essay “Bondage in Time: Footbinding and Fashion Theory.”

71 Ko would argue at this point that “the concept of a ‘natural body’ was alien” for the pre-modern Chinese, because

“[m]en and women achieved their goals—be they religious, material, social, or sensual—by working their bodies”

(Cinderella's Sisters 206). Probably, it is true that the term of “natural body” had no significance for the pre-modern

Chinese; however, there was an indigenous concept of the body which is not much different from the “natural body” as we understand it—namely, the body given by one’s parents which should be protected from any damage. As we have already seen, according to the Confucian classics such as the Xiao jing, not damaging one’s body is the beginning of filial morality. (See note 27 above.) That is to say, a “natural” body understood as an un-deformed body did exist in the traditional Chinese discourse. This notion only differs from ours in one respect: it was seemingly applicable only to men. Hence, Ko’s argument actually conceals the cultural discrimination which unequally treated 52 Chapter 1

52

the male and female bodies. If it is true that men and women achieved their goals by working their bodies, in the

Confucian system, men did it by preserving the body, while women by breaking it.

72 For Ko’s more recent study on women’s representations of footbinding, see Cinderella’s Sisters, esp. 206-25.

73 The most telling example of Ko’s stance is her insistence on viewing women’s body from the insider’s perspective.

To resist “the modern discourse of ‘natural versus crippled body,” Ko adopts the formula of “burdens and uses”

promoted by men such as Li Yu 李漁(1610-1680)—a Ming playwright and connoisseur of bound feet. See Ko,

Cinderella’s Sister 206.

74 As another scholar points out, “The effects and affects of footbinding are twofold. On the one hand, it satisfies the

demand for reason, morality, and the logic for order, work, and the accumulation of wealth, as well as the need to set

boundaries for class and gender. … On the other hand, bound feet serve as the symbol of eroticism, the object of

desire. And the realm of eroticism is that of extravagance, expenditure, chaos, transgression, and ruin, set in contrast

with the realm of reason … (P. Wang 57).

75 To avoid this “obscene” aspect of footbinding, Ko simply discredits sources such as the “connoisseurship literature,

which details the erotic attraction men found in the bound foot” (Body as Attire 9), arguing that “when footbinding

was a valorized practice in imperial China—a marker of genteel status—this genre of vulgar writing was, by

definition, unthinkable” (Body as Attire 9-10). However, as a matter of fact, in one of the most well-known literati

novels—titled Jin ping mei cihua 金瓶梅詞話 —created at the end of 16th century when footbinding reached its

heyday, the woman’s bound foot is already portrayed as the most erotic organ, and forms a central motif in the novel.

Curiously, Ko’s discussion of the Jin ping mei in her later work—the Cinderella’s Sister—focuses mainly on

women’s making of shoes. The powerful sexual impact of the female foot upon men is mentioned only in passing.

Instead, she turns her attention to other literary works, stressing that the bound foot is usually portrayed as “a body of

production, not eroticism” (Cinderella's Sisters 177). Certainly, not every representation of the bound foot is erotic;

however, it by no means suggests that the bound foot was not perceived as an erotic organ in late imperial times.

Moreover, why are “production” and “eroticism” mutually exclusive? Being a body of production does not conflict

with being a body of eroticism.

76 My argument draws on Alain Badiou’s thesis on the ethics which shifts our focus from “the ethics of differences”

to the Same. As he states, “what we must recognize is that these differences hold no interest for thought, that they In Praise of Negativity: Introduction 53

53

amount to nothing more than the infinite and self-evident multiplicity of humankind…” (26). Hence, “the real question—and it is an extraordinarily difficult one—is much more that of recognizing the Same” (25, original italics); and “[t]he Same, in effect, is not what is (i.e. the infinite multiplicity of differences) but what comes to be. I have already named that in regard to which only the advent of the Same occurs: it is a truth. Only a truth is, as such, indifferent to differences. This is something we have always known, even if sophists of every age have always attempted to obscure its certainty: a truth is the same for all” (27, original italics). For a Lacanian discussion of

Badiou, see Žižek, Ticklish Subject 127-70. 54

At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 55

55

Chapter 2

At the “Beginning”…: the Basics

Let us start from the very beginning. At the beginning, there was chaos, as the most well- known Chinese creation myth goes.1

Heaven and earth were as chaotic [hundun 混沌] as an egg; Pan Gu 盤古 was born

inside. [After] eighteen thousand years, heaven and earth were divided. The yang was

pure and became heaven; the yin was murky and became earth; Pan Gu was in

between. Undergoing transformations nine times each day, [Pan Gu] was more sacred

than heaven, and holier than earth. Heaven rose one zhang 丈2 each day; earth

thickened one zhang each day; Pan Gu grew one zhang each day. In this way, [after]

eighteen thousand years, the heavenly number [tian shu 天數] became extremely high,

the earthly number [di shu 地數] extremely deep, and Pan Gu extremely tall.

Thereafter, the three sovereigns [san huang 三皇]3 came into being. The numbers

begin with one, are established at three, become accomplished at five, flourish at

seven, and remain at nine. Therefore, heaven is distanced from earth by ninety

thousand li 里.4

There is another “narrative”: according to Kaja Silverman,

[i]n his seventh seminar, Lacan advances another creation story… Like Timaeus’s

creation story, Lacan’s features a mysterious nonentity which, although itself devoid

of any essential defining attributes, is capable of assuming an infinitude of visual

forms. And Lacan’s creation story, too, attributes to this nonentity a generative force. 56 Chapter 2

56

This prime mover is what Lacan calls das Ding, the impossible nonobject of desire.

(World Spectators 15)

Indeed, Lacan states in Seminar VII that “[r]ight at the beginning of the organization of the world

in the psyche, both logically and chronologically, das Ding is something that presents and

isolates itself as the strange feature around which the whole movement of the Vorstellung turns”

(57). However, Silverman is not entirely right, because, according to Lacan, at the beginning,

there was another entity called Nebenmensch, of which das Ding (the Thing) and the Vorstellung

(representation) constitute two components. Lacan’s discussion of das Ding begins with a

quotation from Freud’s Project for a Scientific Psychology: “the complex of the Nebenmensch is

separated into two parts, one of which affirms itself through an unchanging apparatus, which

remains together as a thing, als Ding” (Seminar VII 51).5

How are these two “creation stories” related to one another? Certainly, there is a vast

temporal-spatial gap between psychoanalysis and Chinese mythology. Apparently, das Ding and

the Nebenmensch are notions which are too alien for the pre-modern Chinese to have any bearing

on the Pan Gu myth. However, what if the different “stories” are merely different attempts to

articulate the same Thing—the impossible ahistorical kernel, around which, as argued earlier, all

cultural-historical specificities revolve? In what follows, I will argue that the Nebenmensch is not

unlike the hundun; and the figure of Pan Gu is probably one of the earliest attempts to represent

das Ding.

At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 57

57

I

The division of the Nebenmensch

What is the Nebenmensch—the person next to you, the neighbour? Strachey has translated

Nebenmensch as “fellow human-being” (Freud, Project 331); Freud, in Project for a Scientific

Psychology, defines this term as “the [subject’s] first satisfying object and further his first hostile object, as well as his sole helping power,” in relation to which “a human-being learns to cognize”

(Project 331). Following Freud’s teaching, Lacan states that the Nebenmensch “functions as the first apprehension of reality by the subject” and “has the most intimate relationship to the subject

(Seminar VII 51). He also stresses the unmistakable ambivalence conveyed by the term, remarking that “[t]he formula is striking to the extent that it expresses powerfully the idea of beside yet alike, separation and identity” (Seminar VII 51). The first thing to note is that, in the

Freudian-Lacanian view, the Nebenmensch has a certain logical (if not temporal) precedence: the

Nebenmensch is, for Freud, the first object of our experience, and, for Lacan, the subject’s first apprehension of reality. Besides, the Nebenmensch is also regarded as constituting “the most intimate relationship” with the subject (in Lacan), and functioning as the “sole” helper (in Freud).

In psychoanalysis, this initial intimate relationship between the Nebenmensch and an individual is probably best captured by the idea of a mother-child dyad. As Copjec points out,

“the mother-child dyad is privileged in Freud from the beginning. In the 1895 Project for a

Scientific Psychology… this dyad makes an early appearance with the primordial mother appearing in the form of the Nebenmensch” (Imagine 34). However, this mother-child relationship is not without ambivalence, as the Nebenmensch/primordial mother is experienced as both satisfying and hostile, “besides yet alike.” This divided experience bears on the division of the Nebenmensch. As we have seen in Lacan’s citation of Freud (quoted above), the 58 Chapter 2

58

Nebenmensch is split into two parts, one of which is das Ding. Another part is termed by Freud

the Vorstellung—the attributes of an object, in Lacan’s words.6 This division is summarized by

Copjec as follows:

Lacan designates the two components of the subject's experience of the Nebenmensch

as (1) das Ding, that part which “remains together as a [Fremde, alien] thing” and

thus, as Freud says, “evades being judged”; and (2) Vorstellungen, ideas or

representations through which the Nebenmensch can be cognized or remembered.

(Imagine 34-35)

In order to further understand the Nebenmensch and das Ding, we need first to have a closer look

at the Vorstellungen. With a direct reference to the primordial mother, Copjec further specifies

the definition of the Vorstellungen, stating that “[t]he various aspects of the mother, what she was

like, will be captured by the Vorstellungen, the system of representations or signifiers that form

the relatively stable and familiar world we share in common with our ‘fellow human-beings’ or

neighbors” (Imagine 35). The Vorstellung is here equated with the functions of “representations”

and “signifiers.” By relating the Vorstellung to a “world we share in common with our ‘fellow

human-beings,’” Copjec places the Vorstellung within an intersubjective space sustained by a

shared signifying system; the Vorstellung can thus be understood as referring to the imaginary-

symbolic formations that constitute the empirical mother—the mother whom we know in reality.

Accordingly, we may also understand the Nebenmensch as designating the initial state

where the Vorstellungen (representations, knowledge and memories etc.) are not yet formed; at

this stage, the primordial mother cannot but be experienced as unknowable, formless, chaotic, or,

in the Chinese terminology, as hundun. At this point, we may discern the connection between

psychoanalysis and Chinese mythology. The Pan Gu myth tells us that, at the beginning, heaven

and earth were as chaotic as an egg. At first glance, this origin of the knowable world is not as At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 59

59 chaotic as the myth claims: it has nameable attributes (heaven and earth) and a shape (egg). Led by this mythical description, some scholars assert that the hundun is a circle containing yin and yang.7 What is left unnoticed is the mixture of two different temporalities in the mythical narrative. In the myth, the creation of the world is narrated from a retrospective viewpoint, that is, from an external perspective situated after the formation of the world. It is only after the yin-yang duality has been formed and after heaven has been separated from earth that the narrator is able to view what existed before the creation as a mixture of yin and yang or that of heaven and earth. In other words, if the narrative perspective is located at the impossible moment prior to the creation, the narrator would not be able to know anything about heaven and earth, since they were not yet created as such. Hence, the first sentence in the Chinese creation story mixes up two different temporalities —the time after the creation, and the time (or rather the non-time) prior to it. In this way, the myth (and its modern interpretation) serves to cover up the ultimate enigma of human origin, by rendering the “hundun” somehow knowable.8

Hence, to analyse the Pan Gu myth, we need first to separate the two temporally and logically overlapped notions—heaven and earth on the one hand, and the hundun on the other.

That is to say, we should insist on the original meaning of “hundun” and disentangle it from the yin-yang or heaven-earth oppositions. As the chaos, the hundun denotes the initial unspeakable and unknowable state of things; its contents—heaven and earth, or yin and yang—are the attributes (or the Vorstellungen) which are only retrospectively associated with the hundun. In this sense, we may compare the hundun with the Nebenmensch—the very first experience of the first object prior to the subject’s apprehensions of its attributes. Or, more precisely, the hundun can be compared to the primordial mother; its maternal aspect is clearly hinted at by the image of an egg, into which another entity—Pan Gu—was born. Hence, resembling the notion of the primordial mother, the hundun gives expression to the subject’s first raw experience of the 60 Chapter 2

60

external world which, due to the lack of Vorstellungen, is characterized as chaotic. As the myth

tells, the formation of the knowable world (constituted by the Vorstellungen) is only realized by

an internal split of the hundun.

Who or what is Pan Gu? And, what is das Ding—another component of the Nebenmensch?

Lacan states: “The Ding is the element that is initially isolated by the subject in his experience of

the Nebenmensch as being by its very nature alien, Fremde” (Seminar VII 52). If the Ding is an

isolated element, the question is: From what is it isolated? The most obvious answer is: from the

Vorstellungen. As Copjec states, “some aspects of the primordial mother cannot be translated into

these representations, since they are, Freud says, ‘new and non-comparable’ to any experience

the child has of itself. … The Ding-component is this alien, untranslatable part of the

Nebenmensch, which is thus forever lost to the subject and constitutes, as Lacan puts it, ‘a first

outside’” (Imagine 35). If, as argued above, the representations of the primordial mother

constitute part of our symbolic-imaginary reality—the “stable and familiar world we share in

common with our ‘fellow human-beings’” (Copjec, Imagine 35), the Ding is thus isolated not

only from the Vorstellungen but also from reality itself. Therefore, the status of das Ding as the

“first outside” should be understood in a double sense: it is external to the subject him/herself,

and, more radically, absent from the intersubjective reality. In other words, as opposed to reality,

das Ding belongs to the domain of the Real—a domain which resists being translated, integrated,

into the symbolic-imaginary order (that is, the order of the Vorstellungen). Hence, the Ding-

component renders the Nebenmensch alien: there is always something in her (the mother or the

neighbour) which is radically inaccessible for me; this something which the mother/neighbour

refuses to share with me makes the Nebenmensch hostile.

Now, let us return to Pan Gu—a strange creature. It is usually believed that Pan Gu

represents the first man or a male creature who was created at the moment when the hundun is At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 61

61 split into three parts—heaven, earth and Pan Gu. However, if so, why is Pan Gu holier than heaven and earth? Is it not a fact that heaven and earth have always been regarded as the most sacred entities and worshiped by the human beings in the Chinese world? My suggestion here is that Pan Gu is not human at all. (For this reason, I will use the pronoun “it” to denote Pan Gu.)

As the myth tells, Pan Gu was born in the egg and thus prior to the formation of the world. A text quoted in the Kang Xi zidian 康熙字典 (Dictionary of Kang Xi) states:9 “the one named Pan Gu was the beginning of husbands and wives, the yin and the yang, and the ancestor of heaven, earth and a myriad of things.”10 Hence, Pan Gu was imagined not quite as a human being, but as the origin of all things. Upon a closer look, it is not difficult to note that Pan Gu is different from the other entities. Unlike heaven/yang and earth/yin which are defined as pure and murky respectively, Pan Gu has no defining attributes, but a comparative feature of “being holier.”

Moreover, although usually regarded as a man, Pan Gu is actually undefinable: since it underwent countless transformations and thus assumed an infinitude of forms, it is impossible to say what it was; there are no fixed Vorstellungen about it. In this sense, the image of Pan Gu matches the picture of das Ding which Silverman has drawn: das Ding, “although itself devoid of any essential defining attributes, is capable of assuming an infinitude of visual forms” (World

Spectators 15). This lack of an essential defining attribute allows us to see Pan Gu as the Ding- component of the Nebenmensch, which “cannot be translated into these representations” (Copjec,

Imagine 35) such as yin or yang, pure or murky.

Is it not revealing that this origin of all things and all humans can only be designated by a proper name—a signifier—which has no reference external to the name itself?11 Pan Gu changed all the time; it was everything. Yet, nothing in the world was as the same as Pan Gu itself. As an entity, Pan Gu dispersed after the division of the hundun, that is, after the formation of the 62 Chapter 2

62

Vorstellungen. If heaven and earth, yin and yang, and the myriad of things constitute the

knowable world, Pan Gu must be viewed as something lost therein. Hence, Pan Gu existed only

as a signifier, a proper name which, as the term of das Ding, registers nothing but a loss or a

“nonentity.” As pointed out by Colette Soler, “[t]he Thing is a fixed kernel of being, which no

signifier represents but which may have a proper name” (Lacan 14). Meanwhile, despite the

countless transformations undergone by Pan Gu, this unchanging signifier yields a sense of

stubbornness: there is something which refuses to change—an element which, we may say,

“affirms itself through an unchanging apparatus, which remains together as a thing, als Ding”

(Freud, qtd. in Lacan, Seminar VII 51). Hence, we can probably regard Pan Gu as a designation

of the Ding—an isolated feature around which “the whole movement of the Vorstellung turns”

(Lacan, Seminar VII 57).

In short, at the beginning, there is the Nebenmensch experienced as chaotic, which is then

divided into the Vorstellungen and das Ding. In the Chinese creation myth, these three logically

separated entities converge in the maternal image of an egg: the hundun—made of the mixture of

heaven and earth (Vorstellungen)—contains within itself the figure of Pan Gu (das Ding). It is

striking to note that, at the end of the myth, the numerological description of the world starts with

the number one which is then followed by the number three. The number two and other even

numbers are excluded from the set. If we can interpret this numerological account as narrating the

division of the hundun (the number one) into the three sovereigns (the number three), we must

recognize that what is not counted here is Pan Gu. As the text indicates, the three sovereigns—

heaven, earth and human beings—came only after Pan Gu’s numerous transformations. Hence, if

the set of numbers can be regarded as a description of the countable and thus knowable world,

this world must be understood as founded on a repressed origin—Pan Gu as the isolated Thing of

the maternal egg (or, the primordial mother). However, at the same time, this set of numbers is At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 63

63 also an accurate description, because it contains the empty places marked by the missing numbers; thereby, it indexes the nonentity which cannot be represented by a signifier/digit or by any positively countable objects.

If, as Copjec points out, Freud’s theory of the division of the Nebenmensch accounts for

“the subjective constitution of knowledge of reality” (Imagine 34), the above discussion of the

Chinese myth in comparison with the Freudian-Lacanian notions of the Nebenmensch and das

Ding may demonstrate that, after the late medieval times, the Chinese constitution of knowledge was structured in a way which was not unlike the structure formulated by psychoanalysis. This may also prove the existence of a common ground on which psychoanalysis can shed some new light on the ancient Chinese world. However, admittedly, one essential notion related to das Ding is lacking in the Chinese myth—namely, the Thing as the “nonobject of desire” (Silverman,

World Spectators 15). Desire comes into play, only when the symbolic-intersubjective network is already established. Hence, to apprehend the relation between das Ding and desire, we need to move from the mythical space emptied of human subjects to the symbolic-imaginary reality. For this purpose, I will focus on one of the Ershisi xiao stories which narrates a son’s relation with his missing mother—the absent origin of his being. In a way, this story can be regarded as complementary to the creation myth: if the latter focuses mainly on the formation of human perception of the external world, the former, as I will demonstrate, deals with other related questions such as: How is the human subject brought into being? What is his/her relation with das Ding? 64 Chapter 2

64

II

The Absent Mother as das Ding

Story 24— “Qiguan xunmu 棄官尋母” (Abandoning His Official Post, Searching for His

Mother)12

When Zhu Shouchang 朱壽昌 of the Song 宋 dynasty was seven years old, his

biological mother [sheng mu 生母] surnamed Liu 劉 was envied by his official mother

[di mu 嫡母];13 she was driven out of the family and married [another man]. The

[biological] mother and the son had not seen each other for fifty years. During the

reign of Shen Zong 神宗 [1067-1085], [Zhu Shouchang] gave up his official position

and went to the region of Qin 秦. He bid farewell to his family, vowing that he would

not return until he found his mother. When he arrived in Tong Zhou 同洲, he found

her who, at that time, was in her seventies.

Separated from his mother at the age of seven,

[He] had been apart [from her] for fifty years.

Once they met each other,

The aura of happiness moved Heaven.

Some information on the inter-textual background of story 24 should be introduced at the

outset. First, in the Ershisi xiao, this story is not the only one involving an absent mother. Stories

1, 4 and 19 narrate a son’s relation with his stepmother, in which the biological mother is dead.

The question is: Why is it that the filial piety stories always feature one mother, even though

polygamy was widely practiced in pre-modern China, which often allotted a child more than one At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 65

65 mother in reality? That is, when the second mother is involved in the narrative, why is the biological mother always absent who is either dead or missing? Second, searching for one’s missing parent (usually the mother) is by no means unique to story 24, but forms one of the popular motifs in the filial piety stories. For example, we find this motif in the Buddhist story of

“Mu Lian jiu mu” 目連救母 (“Mu Lian Saving His Mother”) which constituted the focus of the ghost festival (mentioned in chapter 1). Finally, story 24 was not only a popular story but also included in orthodox texts such as Zhu Xi’s 朱熹 (1130-1200) Xiao xue 小學 (Elementary

Learning)14 and an official historical document—the Song shi 宋史(History of the Song Dynasty) compiled during the Yuan dynasty (960-1279),15 where Zhu Shouchang is listed among the outstanding exemplars of filial piety. What made this motif of searching for one’s parent(s) especially appealing to the pre-modern Chinese audience? And, why did the state promote such an action which was usually portrayed as carried out at all costs? My hypothesis is that answers to these questions hinge on the relation between the missing mother and das Ding—the nonobject of desire. In what follows, I intend to justify my suggestion and to demonstrate how das Ding affected the social-symbolic order, and how the subject’s desire for the Thing was sustained and at the same time controlled by the filial morality.

To begin with, we can formulate the narrative structure in accordance with the division of time. In the Ershisi xiao text, two temporal indications are provided: (1) the son was at the age of seven; (2) fifty years have passed. Accordingly, this story can be divided into four phases:

1. Phase 1 consists logically of the events that occurred before the son’s reaching the age

of seven. Because these events are not narrated in the text, I will call this phase the

“pre-historical” period. 66 Chapter 2

66

2. Phase 2 corresponds to the time when the son was seven years old. A crucial event

happened during this period.

3. Phase 3 is marked by the fifty-year temporal gap, during which nothing seems to have

happened.

4. Phase 4 covers the period after the span of fifty years, which constitutes the climax of

the narrative.

Phase 1: the “pre-historical” Mother

Narratologically speaking, we can call the first phase an ellipsis—“an omission in the story

of a section of the fabula” (Bal 100).16 It occurs, “when a certain part of the time covered by the

fabula is given absolutely no attention at all…” (Bal 100). Hence, on the textual level, “[a]n

ellipsis cannot be perceived: according to the definition, nothing is indicated in the story about

the amount of fabula-time involved” (Bal 101). However, this invisibility does not mean

insignificance; as Bal argues, “[t]hat which has been omitted—the contents of the ellipsis—need

not be unimportant” (101). There can be many reasons for this omission. For example, the events

may have been too painful to be narrated; or, the actor may intend to deny or undo these events

(Bal 101). Hence, in certain cases, it is meaningful to reconstruct what has possibly taken place

during this part of time. In order to do so, we must rely on a logical deduction in accordance with

the information available to us (Bal 101). In the case of story 24, what happened during the

earliest phase of the son’s life is unknown. The only thing that we can be certain about is that he

was not yet separated from his biological mother. This fact may allow us to perform a “mythical”

reconstruction of this pre-historical period.

In psychoanalysis, the initial period of a person’s life is termed “pre-Oedipal phase.” In the

Freudian tradition, it “[q]ualifies the period of psychosexual development preceding the At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 67

67 formation of the Oedipus complex,” during which “attachment to the mother predominates in both sexes” (Laplanche and Pontalis 328). That is, in contrast to the Oedipal mother-father-child triad (which will be discussed below), the pre-Oedipal structure features a mother-child duality.

Although this mother-son unity is not represented in story 24, it can nevertheless be noticed in another Ershisi xiao story. Story 3— “Yaozhi tongxi 嚙指痛心” (Biting Her Finger, Paining His

Heart)—narrates the unbroken connection between a son and his mother: when the son Zeng Can

曾參 was away from home, his mother sent a signal to him, asking him to return. She did it by biting her own finger. Although the son was not nearby, he nevertheless received the mother’s message. Having felt a sudden ache in his heart, Zeng Can hurried home. What is highlighted in this story is the shared experience: the mother’s pain can be communicated to and felt by the son, which foregrounds the mother-son unity. It should be pointed out that “heart” (xin 心) in the traditional Chinese context did not refer exclusively to an organ; it was also perceived as carrying out certain psychical functions.17 In the latter sense, the “xin” is closer to the English word “mind.”

Hence, the mother-son connection as portrayed in the story may suggest less a bodily unity than a psychological interdependence. After all, these two protagonists are separated by a spatial distance; physically, they form two separated entities. However, undeniably, these two separated bodies are connected with one another; and “pain”—whether it is bodily or psychically experienced—functions here as the link.

A very “naïve” question is: if Zeng Can’s mother indeed had the ability to

“telecommunicate” with her son through a bodily experience, why did not she simply scratch her skin, which would achieve the same effect but bring to the son a less painful experience? Why is pain highlighted here? My suggestion is that, except the experience of pain, there are no other forms of “telecommunication”; that is, pain is the only link sustaining the mother-son unity. Why? 68 Chapter 2

68

There is a psychoanalytical explanation, to which we will return soon. Suffice it here to say that,

in story 3, pain is certainly not portrayed as something unwelcome, which can probably be called

“pleasure in pain”—that is, jouissance as the excessive enjoyment. And, according to Bruce Fink,

“[j]ouissance is …what comes to substitute for the lost ‘mother-child unity’” (Lacanian Subject

60). In other words, to maintain this unity after separation is necessarily a painful but enjoyable

task which cannot but be perceived and represented as pain.

If pain indeed alludes to jouissance—a substitute for the mother-child dyad, this experience

betrays the fact that the pre-Oedipal unity has already been lost in the diegetic reality. Hence,

what is narrated in story 3 is not the “original” mother-child unity but a desperate attempt to

return to the pre-Oedipal stage. The question is then: How is the separation between the mother

and the child realized? The most succinct answer is: separation is entailed by a cut. Resembling

the split of the hundun, the cut initiates the formation of the knowable world; what happened

prior to the cut (or the separation) will thus remain forever mythical. Hence, one of the possible

reasons for the narrative ellipsis in story 24 is that something in the son’s life—the pre-Oedipal

period—is simply unknowable and therefore must be omitted.

Phase 2: the cut

The second phase of story 24 stages the process of separating the son from his biological

mother, which, I would like to suggest, narrates the “Oedipus complex”—a crucial stage at which

a child is initiated into the social-symbolic network. Apparently, this story has nothing to do with

the Oedipus complex, since this term has usually been conceived of as designating a child’s love

for one parent and his/her hatred towards another.18 However, if we approach this concept from a

Lacanian perspective, it will become clear why the Oedipus complex concerns us here. To begin

with, I need to justify the use of the term in this context. As we know, this Freudian concept is At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 69

69 derived from the Greek tragedy Oedipus Rex, and thus has a very specific historical-cultural background. For this reason, we may wonder if this concept can be applied to a Chinese case.

That is, did Oedipus exist in pre-modern China? If not, this concept will appear irrelevant.

However, unlike us, Freud, without being bothered by its historical-cultural origin, insists that the

Oedipus complex has a universal value: “Every new arrival on this planet is faced by the task of mastering the Oedipus complex; anyone who fails to do so falls a victim to neurosis” (Three

Essays 226 n1). To what extent is this universal claim valid?

In an attempt to prove its universality, Ming Dong Gu strives to uncover the “oedipal themes” in the Chinese context, arguing that “Oedipus does exist in Chinese literature, but it is an

Oedipus disfigured. Because of moral repression, oedipal representation has been so distorted and so artfully disguised that it looks as though it did not exist” (Filial Piety Complex 62). He then continues to identify four “Chinese” complexes: “the Oedipus complex in Chinese literature disintegrates and is transformed from a nuclear complex to a multiplicity of individual complexes: father-complex, mother-complex, son-complex, and daughter-complex” (Filial Piety Complex

63). Take for example the “father-complex” which is defined as “father’s fear of patricide” (Filial

Piety Complex 63). According to Gu, one example of the father-complex is found in the story of

Shun 舜19 which narrates how Shun escaped from his father’s plot to murder him. In a way,

Shun’s father resembles Laius in Oedipus Rex; this Chinese story can therefore be viewed as an example of the oedipal theme.

However, at this point, we must ask: did the theme of killing one’s own son in Chinese literature have the same meaning as it does in Freud’s reading of Oedipus Rex? In his discussion of the method of interpreting dreams, Freud points out that “the same piece of content may conceal a different meaning when it occurs in various people or in various contexts” 70 Chapter 2

70

(Interpretation of Dreams I 105). That is to say, the meaning of a narrative theme is

overdetermined, which may vary in its structural significance according to its textual and cultural

contexts. (As I will argue in the last chapter, Laius and Shun’s father actually represent two

different paternal functions, and are thus structurally different from one another in terms of their

relation with the son). Hence, even though oedipal themes may indeed appear in traditional

Chinese narratives, it does not prove directly the existence of the Oedipus complex in Chinese

literature.

Besides, one may also wonder to what extent the “father complex” defined as father’s fear

of patricide is still related to the Oedipus complex. Freud indeed speaks occasionally about

various complexes such as “father complex,” “mother complex” and so forth; however, for Freud,

“the seeming diversity of the qualifications ‘mother’, ‘father’, etc., only refers in each case to a

different dimension of the same Oedipal structure … Thus he speaks of a father complex when he

wishes to accentuate the ambivalent relationship with the father” (Laplanche and Pontalis 74). In

other words, among all these complexes, Oedipus (the child) remains as the focus; it is the child’s

emotional relation with each of the parents that forms the central point in the seemingly diverse

complexes. Hence, when Gu defines the “father complex” as the father’s fear of patricide, where

the focus is shifted from the son (Oedipus) to the father, he is actually speaking about something

other than the Oedipal structure.20

A more striking problem lies in Gu’s assumption that “[s]ince the Chinese child is born of a

father and a mother like the Western child, and struggles through the early years of childhood to

form his or her identity in relation to his or her parents, the psychological configuration cannot

but be structured by what Freud calls the Oedipus complex in the mental dimensions” (Filial

Piety Complex 61). Gu bypasses the question as to how the biological parents are related to the

child’s formation of identity. It seems that he presupposes an equation between the biological At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 71

71 parents and the parents whom the child identifies with. Following his logic, we could argue that the Oedipal complex is not universally applicable, because not every child grows up with his/her biological parents of different genders; it would also be irrelevant for a child growing up in pre- modern China, because, as we will see, the (biological) father was usually absent from the child’s life in his/her early years. Gu makes a common mistake, confusing the parental functions with the biological parents.

By questioning Gu’s approach, I have no intention to challenge Freud’s insistence on the universal significance acquired by the Oedipus complex. Rather, my suggestion here is that its universality must be articulated from a different perspective. To legitimize my attempt to apply the Oedipus complex to a pre-modern Chinese narrative, I will rely on Lacan’s approach to the

Freudian notion which will enable us to overcome the above mistakes often made by scholars. It is true that the Oedipus complex is based on a child-mother-father relation. However, as Lacanian psychoanalysis has taught us, this triangular relationship is first and foremost a symbolic structure; that is to say, besides the empirical parent(s) with whom the subject constitutes an imaginary identification,21 there is a third, symbolic agency involved. As summarized by Sean Homer, “the

Oedipus complex represents a triangular structure that breaks the binary relationship established between the mother and child in the imaginary” (53).22 Here, it is important to note that the imaginary should be understood not only as the imagination of a non-existing thing but also as what Žižek calls “the mirror-like relationships of competition, mutual recognition, and so on”

(Did Somebody Say Totalitarianism 163); that is, the essential feature of the imaginary is the binary relation consisting of two elements—the subject and the other (such as one’s mirror image, or the imago of one’s parent).

Different from the imaginary mother-child dyad, the Oedipus complex involves a third symbolic element, whose function is to make this imaginary unity impossible. Usually, it is the 72 Chapter 2

72

father who assumes the third position in the Oedipal triad; however, as a paternal function, this

“father” does not have to be male, but can well be carried out by a mother or anyone else. In the

Lacanian terminology, this paternal-symbolic position is called the “Name-of-the-Father”

(Homer 53). What is highlighted by this term is the idea that the father involved in the Oedipus

complex is not a person of flesh and blood whom the child loves or hates, but a “Name,” that is, a

special signifier or a function of language.23 Throughout Lacan’s teaching, this term is invested

with multiple significances which will be explored in the following chapters. At this stage, what

concerns us most is one of its fundamental functions—namely, the Name-of-the-Father as the

symbolic authority which allows us to be inscribed into the symbolic universe.

One example attesting to the symbolic function of the Name-of-the-Father is our social

identity, such as our name written on an identity card, which, in the most common situation, is

marked by the father’s family name (or, by the family name of one’s husband who is or will be

the father of one’s children). Žižek once comments on the function of the family name, stating

that “the family name comes from the father—it designates, as the Name-of-the-Father, the point

of symbolic identification, the agency through which we observe and judge ourselves” (Sublime

Object 108). And, on another occasion, he points out that “the symbolic identification … confers

us a place in the intersubjective space” (Enjoy Your Symptom 88). In short, the Name-of-the-

Father is a symbolic agency; by identifying with it, a child is able to be registered into the

intersubjective social network, and to subject him/herself thereafter to the Father’s control, that is,

to the control of social-symbolic rules.

The Name-of-the-Father, as the third term, intervenes into the mother-child dyad as a cut,

or in Lacan’s words, as the “symbolic castration.” The first thing to note is that, for Lacan, the

castration has nothing to do with the male genital, but occurs only on the symbolic level. Hence,

what is at issue here is neither the girl’s having already been castrated, nor the boy’s fear of At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 73

73 potential castration. Rather, the symbolic castration refers to the severing of the mother-child unity which, as we will see, leads to the loss of jouissance and the loss of the wholeness of one’s being. This loss is the fate that every individual must undergo in order to become a social, speaking subject. As a consequence of the symbolic castration, our experiences become framed and mediated by the signifiers. In relation to the radical repression of language, Žižek argues that

“what Lacan (at some point) called symbolic castration or the prohibition of incest—a negative gesture … sustains the very symbolic form, so that even when we say, ‘This is my mother!’ the mother is already lost. That is to say, this negative gesture sustains the minimal gap between the symbolic and the Real, between (symbolic) reality and the impossible Real” (Less Than Nothing

307). When the words “my mother” are uttered, what we get is the Vorstellung of the mother— the signifier standing in for her in the signifying chain. As a consequence, the mother’s being is forever lost through the process of symbolization. This is why “the signifier kills the thing it signifies” (Fink, Lacan to the Letter 125).

To state it differently: the symbolic castration (or the incest taboo) results in the division of the pre-Oedipal, primordial mother (the Nebenmensch) into an empirical mother (the

Vorstellungen of the mother) whom we know and remember in our symbolic-imaginary reality and the impossible maternal Thing (das Ding) in the Real. Due to the intervention by the symbolic agency, the subject has only a mediated relation with the mother; that is, the mother can only be approached through representations and signifiers which are in turn enabled by the symbolic order represented by the Father, or, more precisely, by the Name-of-the-Father. In a broader sense, what the symbolic castration achieves is the establishment of the symbolical system: as Lacan argues, “the prohibition of incest is nothing other than the condition sine qua non of speech” (Seminar VII 69); the cut which severes the mother-child dyad preconditions the symbolic world.24 Thereby, it demarcates the domain of reality (made up of Vorstellungen) and, 74 Chapter 2

74

at the same time, posits an outside—that is, the Ding-component of the Nebenmensch. Here, we

may recall Copjec’s statement: “The Ding-component is this alien, untranslatable part of the

Nebenmensch, which is thus forever lost to the subject and constitutes, as Lacan puts it, ‘a first

outside’” (Imagine 35).

In short, following the symbolic castration, the Oedipus complex resolves in the child’s

identification with the Name-of-the-Father, whereby the child is transferred from an imaginary

dual relation with his/her mother into a symbolic-family system constituted by the child-mother-

Father. As Shoshana Felman puts it, “[w]hat matters, in Lacan’s perception of the Oedipus as

constitutive of the qualitative difference between the Imaginary and the Symbolic, is the fact that

the triangularity of the Symbolic narratively functions as the story of the subversion of the duality

of the Imaginary” (Jacques Lacan 105). This does not mean that the imaginary order is

henceforth subtracted from the symbolic structure, but that the imaginary dual relationship cannot

but be framed and mediated by the symbolic triad. We can still fantasize the primordial mother

and build a mirror-like relation with the empirical mother (with whom we identify or compete);

however, these imaginary relations become possible only when we have already entered the

symbolic domain, and acquired the ability to formulate the Vorstellungen, to recognize her image

and to speak the word “mother.”25 In this sense, the Oedipal triad articulates not only the family

structure but also the general structure of human relationship which consists of the subject (the

child), the imaginary other (the empirical parents, for example) and the big Other (the Name-of-

the-Father).

Hence, if the Oedipus complex is universal, it is not because, as Gu claims, everyone “is

born of a father and a mother” and has to form an identification with them, but because it outlines

the general human condition: without entering the triangular relationship which structures our

reality, no one could ever be able to become a speaking social subject. To speak is to accept the At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 75

75 rule of language; to become a social subject is to let the big Other break the imaginary duality and to enter the intersubjective relation ruled by the Name-of-the-Father. In this sense, Gu’s another invented term “filial piety complex” becomes redundant. He states: “In all the Chinese works that I have analysed, oedipal desires are always related to parental demands for filial piety or children’s fulfilment of filial duties. Since the moral dynamics of filial piety has exerted such a profound shaping impact on oedipal themes in Chinese literature, we may as well call the

Oedipus complex in Chinese culture a ‘filial piety complex’” (Filial Piety Complex 82). In this so-called “filial piety complex,” we can identify three elements which fit neatly into the Oedipal triangular structure. There are the child and the parents who form the imaginary relation between the subject (the child) and his/her other (the empirical parents). The third position in the Oedipal triad is occupied by the “moral dynamics of filial piety” which is issued, in the last analysis, by the big Other, that is, the social-symbolic order. Hence, the “filial piety complex” is not a disguised form of the Oedipus complex, but a perfect example of it.

Now, let us return to the Ershisi xiao stories. We can begin with a comparison between stories 24 and 3. These two stories share one common feature—the absence of the father26— which nevertheless generates two opposing effects: story 3, as discussed above, features the unbroken connection between the mother and the son, while story 24 dramatizes its opposite— the separation between the son and his (biological) mother. Besides, the family structures portrayed in these two stories are also different. In story 3, the third character is introduced as an unexpected guest, that is, an outsider, against which the closed circle of the mother-son relationship stands in relief. In contrast, the narrative text of story 24 begins with a triad consisting of the son, the son’s biological mother and his official mother.

This triad was actually a common family structure in pre-modern China: when a child was born by his/her father’s concubine, he/she would usually have two mothers. Due to the 76 Chapter 2

76

hierarchical kinship system, the father’s wife was regarded as the child’s official mother, despite

the lack of any biological connections. In this sense, we may view the official mother as a

symbolic mother—the mother existing only within the symbolic, kinship system. More often than

not, this symbolic mother carried out the paternal function within the inner chamber, because of

the father’s constant absence.27 In pre-modern China, there was a rigid separation between

genders, which determined that men’s access to women’s private domain was highly constrained.

As Francesca Bray demonstrates in her study of traditional Chinese household, “[i]n late imperial

China all houses, rich or poor, marked off a separate space for women. Men were expected to

spend most of their waking hours outside, and their access to the interior spaces was controlled”

(129).28 Children of both sexes were kept within the mother’s domain; but, according to the

instruction given by Sima Guang 司馬光 (1019-1086)—a prominent Neo-Confucian scholar and

statesman, the boys must leave the inner chamber at the age of ten (Bray 130).29 This implies that,

during the first years of his life, the son had very limited contact with his father.30 It was

particularly true for the elite families that one’s mother (or mothers) played the predominant role

in shaping one’s childhood. However, this by no means suggests that the Oedipus complex was

lacking in traditional Chinese families, because the paternal function can be fulfilled by anyone

who is placed at the third position in the Oedipal triad. (It is also possible that one person can

fulfil two different functions, being a mother and, at the same time, representing the Name-of-

the-Father.)31

The relationship between the different mothers was not always harmonious; domestic

conflicts between women have always been one of the popular themes of traditional Chinese

literature. In story 24, this conflict is described as the official mother’s envy (du 妒) toward the

biological mother. I translate the character du as “envy” rather than “jealousy” for the following At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 77

77 reason. Lacan, through an etymological connection, associates “envy” with the “evil eye” as opposed to “an eye that blesses” (Seminar XI 115). The Chinese character “du” connotes the feeling of hatred,32 which is thus the opposite of “blessing.” Hence, “du” is close to the meanings that the “evil eye” may allude to. The question is then: to what is the official mother’s “evil eye” attracted? Lacan states that the evil eye “carries with it the fatal function of being in itself endowed … with a power to separate” (Seminar XI 115, my italic), and that “the envy … makes the subject pale before the image of a completeness closed upon itself…” (Seminar XI 116, my italic). The example which Lacan provides here is “the little child seeing his brother at his mother’s breast, looking at him amare conspectus, with a bitter look, which seems to tear him to pieces and has on himself the effect of a poison” (Seminar XI 116). According to Lacan, what the little child envies is not the mother’s breast which is of no use for him, but the irreversibly lost completeness represented to him by his brother’s possession of the breast.33 What arouses the feeling of envy is not (or not simply) the subject’s lack of the object (the mother’s breast) but the exclusive relationship between the object and the other who apparently has it. It is in response to the “completeness closed upon itself” that the gaze of the “evil eye” or the hatred of “du” is generated in an attempt to separate, to break up the completeness. If my discussion (or rather hypothesis) of the pre-historical phase of story 24 is valid, that is, if the ellipsis in the story can be reconstructed as the pre-Oedipal mother-son unity, we may understand the official mother’s envy as targeted at this unbroken connection between the son and his biological mother. It is therefore a logical consequence that her “evil eye” would cast a castrating gaze which is to sever their closed dual relationship.

My suggestion here is that the official mother functions in the narrative as the third term which intervenes into the mother-son dyad, by driving the biological mother out of the family.

That is, the official mother can be viewed as a substitute for the absent father, occupying the 78 Chapter 2

78

place of the big Other / the Name-of-the-Father within the Oedipal triad, and carrying out the

paternal function to castrate the child, by rendering his “incestuous” attachment to the mother

impossible. It is the third element that is lacking in Zeng Can’s family structure, which makes it

possible to imagine an unbroken mother-son unity. Another reason to associate the official

mother with the big Other is that she envies the biological mother. If envy is rooted in one’s lack

of completeness, the feeling of envy only betrays the fact that the official mother herself is

incomplete. As already mentioned in the previous chapter, and as we will see, one of Lacan’s

important tenets is that the big Other—the symbolic order—is not a whole but constituted by a

hole; that is, the Other is always a desiring Other which lacks and thus desires something. Is not

the “evil eye” a vivid mark of the hole which disturbs and constitutes the official mother—the

stand-in for the symbolic authority?

As argued above, the resolution of the Oedipus complex leads simultaneously to two

consequences: the integration of a child into the social-symbolic network and the loss of the

maternal Thing which constitutes the subject’s first outside. The first consequence is not stressed

in the Ershisi xiao text, but clearly indicated in another source. According to the Song shi, after

the mother’s being driven out of the family, Zhu Shouchang continued to live with her for a few

years; he then returned alone to his father’s household. Here, the mother-son separation overlaps

with the son’s (re)integration into the patriarchal symbolic order (epitomized in the narrative by

the father’s kinship system).34 The second consequence of the Oedipus complex is staged in both

texts: the outcast mother becomes literally an embodiment of the “outside.” In the strict

Confucian sense, when the mother ceased to be the father’s wife or concubine, she was no longer

regarded as the child’s mother.35 Having been expelled from the family-kinship system, the

divorced mother became an outsider isolated from the social-symbolic domain to which the son

belonged. It should also be noted that the biological mother does not return to her natal family but At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 79

79 remarries to another man, becoming a member of another family. The mother’s remarriage further stresses that there is no longer any family-symbolic connection between the son and his mother; their relation must be considered purely biological, or we may say, Real.

Phase 3: the lost Thing

After the separation between the son and his biological mother, nothing is narrated in the story, except the fact that they did not see one another for fifty years; it seems that nothing had happened during this long period. The questions are: Is the silence caused by the lack of events?

Or, is it because the events are too “painful” or too excessive to be narrated? Logically, the first possibility is “unrealistic,” since something must have happened during the fifty years. Compared with phase 1—an ellipsis, the third phase of this story can be called a summary. A section of the fabula is not totally omitted but summarized, even though no concrete event is narrated. The summary can create different effects and serve various functions, such as providing background information or quickly summarizing unimportant events.36 In addition, in comparison with the ellipsis which is unperceivable and thus non-existing on the textual surface, the summary may also serve to register a gap—a visible but empty place—in the text. That is, as shown in story 24, the ellipsis omits not only the events occurring during the elided years, but also the temporal register of these events, about which nothing is stated. As a result, we would generally be blind to the pre-historical/pre-Oedipal period. The summary, by registering the temporal span of certain untold events, makes this blindness impossible. In the case of story 24, it is impossible for us not to notice that there is a gap between the event of the mother-son separation and the son’s subsequent searching for his mother fifty years later. The reader may wonder what may have happened during this long period. I would like to fill in this gap with recourse to other sources; 80 Chapter 2

80

yet, this by no means indicates that this gap created in the Ershisi xiao text has no meaningful

functions, which, as I will argue, may serve to represent something unrepresentable.

According to other sources such as the Song shi, during the fifty years, Zhu Shouchang has

suffered from his longing for his lost mother. After fruitless searches for his mother, he resorts to

the Buddhist methods, such as burning his back and head, and copying the Buddhist sutra in his

own blood.37 Viewed from the Confucian orthodox perspective, Zhu Shouchang’s performance

cannot but appear to be a violation of the rule of filial piety. As already mentioned in the previous

chapter, the Xiao jing instructs that filial piety begins with not bringing any damage to one’s own

body. Despite its violation of the Confucian norm, this episode was nevertheless recorded in the

official history as an admirable example of filial devotion. It seems that, in certain cases, the

Confucian symbolic rule can be suspended. Or, in other words, the Father’s rule seems to be

insufficient to address the subject’s longing for the lost mother, which in turn suggests certain

excessive elements in the mother-son relationship, insofar as this relation is examined from the

orthodox perspective. The son’s recourse to Buddhism further indicates that his desire to find the

lost mother cannot be satisfied through the Confucian symbolic order, which thus requires an

“extra-ordinary” method. (It was extra-ordinary, in the sense that such a method was not

instructed by the Confucian teaching and thus exceeded the “normal” standard.) It is probably

due to its “extra-ordinary” or rather excessive nature that this episode is omitted from the

orthodox text such as Zhu Xi’s Xiao xue and registered only as a temporal gap on the textual

surface.

The meaning behind the Buddhist methods is obscure for the modern readers; the Song shi

text does not provide any explanations about how these methods could contribute to Zhu

Shouchang’s effort to find his mother.38 However, no matter what the meaning could be, one

thing is certain: the key ingredient of these methods is pain. Is the self-inflicted pain a token of At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 81

81 jouissance, just as the pain experienced by Zeng Can which functions to sustain the imaginary unity with the mother? To this question, I will return soon. What is certainly staged in the son’s performance is the fact that the lost mother does not disappear; she is remembered by the son in a bodily way and must be found again. More precisely, viewed from the Lacanian perspective, what is indicated by the son’s determination to find his mother is something akin to das Ding, since, following Freud, Lacan states that “[d]as Ding has, in effect, to be identified with the

Wieder zu finden, the impulse to find again …” (Seminar VII 58).

Lacan states several times in seminar VII that das Ding is that which the subject strives to find again. Why? Why is das Ding so unforgettable? One possible answer is that, as Copjec argues, the loss of das Ding “depletes the whole of my own being.”

At the core of this matter of the unforgettable but forever lost Thing, we find not just

an impossibility of thought, but a void of Being. The problem is not simply that I

cannot think the primordial mother, but that her loss opens up a hole in being. Or, it is

not that the mother escapes representation or thought, but that the jouissance that

attached me to her has been lost and this loss depletes the whole of my being.

(Imagine 35-36, original italics)

As discussed earlier, Copjec has equated the primordial mother with the Nebenmensch, of which das Ding is one component which resists being translated into the Vorstellungen—another component of the Nebenmensch. In this passage, das Ding—the lost but unforgettable Thing—is associated directly with the impossible jouissance which “attached me to her.” For the Lacanians, the loss of the Thing and the loss of jouissance designate the same effect—the loss of the attachment to the primordial (or the pre-Oedipal) mother, which is then experienced as the depletion of the wholeness of one’s own being. Hence, if the Thing is unforgettable, it is because 82 Chapter 2

82

I can never forget the lost piece of my own being; the Thing must be found again, because my

being must be completed again.

To sate this point differently: the “original” wholeness enabled by the mother-child unity is

an idea formulated retroactively, which derives from the ontological lack of every speaking

subject. As argued above, the signifier kills what it signifies. At the moment when I announce the

word “I,” I am no longer the enunciating subject; by identifying with a signifier, I become the

subject of a statement. The speaking subject of flesh and blood is thus represented and repressed

by the signifier. For this reason, the being of the speaking subject is forever lost in the signifying

chain. I can only refer to myself as something already symbolized—that is, as a signifier or an

image; there is always something in me which exceeds my own knowledge and is thus lost in the

symbolic-imaginary reality. This inaccessible part of me can probably be understood as the being

prior to the process of symbolization, which is lost, in the sense that it is beyond my conscious

grasp and thus non-existent in my reality. However, on the other hand, I do sense it in various

ways, through dreams, symptoms, desire and the inability to enjoy fully. In other words, there are

traces left behind by the lost being; this sense of loss is articulated by the theorists as “a hole in

being.” This hole determines that every subject is always barred ($)—“the subject as barred by

language, as alienated within the Other” (Fink, Lacanian Subject 41).39

Akin to the symbolic castration, alienation is Lacan’s another key concept explaining the

tension between being/jouissance and the symbolic order. In seminar XI, Lacan maintains that

alienation involves a vel (Latin for “or”)—an either/or choice between “meaning” (the big Other,

the symbolic order) and “being.”40 In Fink’s words, “[a]lienation is essentially characterized by a

‘forced’ choice which rules out being for the subject, instituting instead the symbolic order and

relegating the subject to mere existence as a place-holder therein” (Lacanian Subject 53, original

italics). That is, in order to become a speaking subject, and to have a place within the symbolic At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 83

83 system, an individual has to choose meaning, that is, to be reduced to a mere signifier—a proper name or a pronoun such as the “I”; part of his/her being is thus replaced with and cancelled out by this signifier.

It is a forced choice, because “[i]n Lacan’s vel,” says Fink, “the sides are by no means even: in his or her confrontation with the Other, the subject immediately drops out of the picture”

(Lacanian Subject 51, original italics). In the battle between the two parties, the subject is unavoidably defeated by the Other; he/she cannot chose otherwise.41 Or, in other words, the choice has already been made for the individual in advance. As Žižek puts it, “the situation of the forced choice consists in the fact that the subject must freely choose the community to which he already belongs, independent of his choice—he must choose what is already given to him. The point is that he is never actually in a position to choose: he is always treated as if he had already chosen” (Sublime Object 165-66, original italics ). Between being and meaning, the subject cannot but choose the latter. A piece of my being is thus forever lost, insofar as I am living within a human community determined by the Name-of-the-Father. For this reason, the lost being as preceding or exceeding our social reality has to be imagined as maternal, that is, as something opposed to the Father. Hence, to repeat Copjec’s thesis, the loss of the maternal Thing and the incompleteness of the subject’s being are one and the same thing.

Our incompleteness is attested to by the fact that we can never be fully satisfied. We are barred subject, and barred primarily from jouissance. Lacan maintains:

We must keep in mind that jouissance is prohibited to whoever speaks, as such—or,

put differently, it can only be said between the lines by whoever is a subject of the

Law, since the Law is founded on that very prohibition…

But it is not the Law itself that bars the subject’s access to jouissance—it

simply makes a barred subject out of an almost natural barrier. For it is pleasure that 84 Chapter 2

84

sets limits to jouissance, pleasure as what binds incoherent life together, until another

prohibition—this one being unchallengeable—arises from the regulation that Freud

discovered as the primary process and relevant law of pleasure. (Écrits 696)

Jouissance is defined here as that which is prohibited by the Law and entailed by the violation of

pleasure (principle). As argued above, the Law—the symbolic prohibition—castrates the subject

by severing the pre-Oedipal mother-child dyad; this separation leads to the loss of jouissance,

since jouissance is that which, as Copjec suggests, attached the subject to the primordial mother

(Imagine 36). Here, Lacan points out that, besides the Law, there is another law at work in setting

limits to jouissance. This “law of pleasure” is also called the “pleasure principle” and defined by

Lacan as “a mode of operation which is precisely to avoid excess, too much pleasure” (Lacan,

Seminar VII 54). Hence, the pleasure principle works together with the Law, and is thus on the

side of the symbolic order,42 which facilitates the symbolic castration by making jouissance

“almost naturally” unbearable and thus unattainable.

This opposition between jouissance and the pleasure principle has profound implications

for our understanding of pain—the sensorial experience which is so prevalent in the filial piety

stories. Simply put, the normal state of things or the state of pleasure is preconditioned by the

lack of jouissance; the pleasure principle functions exactly as a defence against too much

enjoyment. Similarly, as determined by the symbolic order, our reality is precisely constituted by

a lack—a lack of being or the maternal Thing; fullness leads to excess, derailing the homeostasis

sustained by the pleasure principle and the Law. For this reason, one could argue that the very

attempt to recover the “original” fullness is potentially transgressive, which amounts to the

undoing of the symbolic castration. Consequently, this attempt will necessarily involve the

violation of the pleasure principle, and thus lead to the inevitable experience of unpleasure or

pain. In this sense, one could argue that it is only through the experience of pain that we can At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 85

85 probably overcome the sense of lack, and reach what lies beyond the pleasure principle and thus beyond social-symbolic reality. As Žižek states, “enjoyment (jouissance, Genuss) is not to be equated with pleasure (Lust): enjoyment is precisely “Lust im Unlust”; it designates the paradoxical satisfaction produced by a painful encounter with a Thing that perturbs the equilibrium of the ‘pleasure principle.’ In other words, enjoyment is located ‘beyond the pleasure principle’” (Tarrying 280 n1). Only when the law of pleasure is voilated, that is, when pain is entailed, we may be able to regain some sense of jouissance—the missing link which attached me to the lost Thing.

(At this point, it probably needs to be stated that jouissance discussed in my study is necessarily phallic, in the sense that it is related to the symbolic castration, that is, to the impossibility of full satisfaction. As Fink explains, “the satisfaction I take in realizing my desire is always disappointing. This satisfaction, subject to the bar between the signifier and the signified, fails to fulfill me—it always leaves something more to be desired. That is phallic jouissance” [Lacan to the Letter 160, original italics]. Lacan’s theorization of jouissance does not stop here; it is further developed in his twentieth seminar, where he distinguishes the

Other/feminine jouissance from phallic jouissance.43 To challenge Lacan’s early theory of jouissance, feminist theorists such as Julia Kristeva, Luce Irigaray and Hélèn Cixous have tried to redefine jouissance, by postulating different kinds of jouissance which are feminine.44 For two simple reasons, I will not delve into the series of redefinitions of jouissance. First, because there are not one but several different conceptions of feminine jouissance, an adequate examination of the existing discussions on this issue exceeds the ability and purpose of my study. Second, in so far as the feminine jouissance is conceived of as something other than phallic jouissance, the former cannot be approached through the filial piety stories, since these didactic narratives were products of phallic fantasies and intended to serve the patriarchal interests.45) 86 Chapter 2

86

Finally, we need to distinguish between jouissance as such and the jouissance as “pleasure

in pain.” As Lacan as well as Copjec clearly indicate in the above cited passages, jouissance as

such is the lost, prohibited enjoyment, from which the subject is forever barred. Once the

symbolic castration has been successfully executed, the “innocent” experience of enjoyment or

fullness becomes inaccessible, which appears in reality only in the form of pain. Or, we may use

Žižek’s words “Enjoyment incarnated” to designate this experience.46 It should also be noted that,

in his explanation of jouissance (quoted above), Žižek does not talk about the Thing, but a

Thing—something countable. I suggest that a Thing is referred to here as an incarnated form of

the Thing; the former stands in temporarily for the latter. Hence, the “satisfaction produced by a

painful encounter with a Thing” is not jouissance as such, but a certain strange enjoyment which

is aroused, when the constraint of the pleasure principle is breached. It is in relation to the

“pleasure in pain” as distinguished from jouissance as such that we should understand Fink’s

argument that “[j]ouissance is … what comes to substitute for the lost ‘mother-child unity’”

(Lacanian Subject 60).47 Hence, the pain represented in the filial piety stories—the wound

engraved into Zhu Shouchang’s flesh and the ache felt by Zeng Can in his heart48—may actually

stage the “pleasure in pain” and allude simultaneously to the presence of, or the subject’s

encounter with, an impossible Thing.

Accordingly, we can interpret the mother in the stories as a Thing—a stand-in for the Thing

in the diegetic reality. However, there is a difference between the mother in story 3 and the

missing mother in story 24. In the former, the mother is located within a direct mother-son

relationship, and thus renders immediately the Thing imaginary, because the Thing has never

existed as such. If Lacan says that “[r]ight at the beginning of the organization of the world in the

psyche, both logically and chronologically, das Ding is something that presents and isolates itself

as the strange feature around which the whole movement of the Vorstellung turns” (Seminar VII At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 87

87

57), he refers here to das Ding as the already lost Thing—something isolated from the

Vorstellung. In other words, right at the beginning of the world of the Vorstellungen, there is the absence of the Thing. Hence, the only genuine representation of the Thing is its absence. Is not this absence literally registered by the temporal gap in the Ershisi xiao text of story 24? It sates only: “the son and mother had not met one another for fifty years.” Without saying anything else, the text actually foregrounds the lost connection between these two characters. If the biological mother in the previous phases can be read as a primordial, pre-Oedipal mother, this lack of connection in phase 3 transforms her into an inaccessible mother or, we may say, a representative of the lost maternal Thing.

Moreover, as argued above, the third phase is a summary, registering a gap in the text; this gap can probably be interpreted as a literal rendering of the void in the symbolic order, through which the Thing makes itself felt in (the diegetic) reality. As argued by Žižek, “the void in the

Other (the symbolic order) … [is] designated, in Lacan, by the German word das Ding, the Thing, the pure substance of enjoyment resisting symbolization” (Enjoy Your Symptom 9-10). Žižek highlights here two essential points characterizing the relationship between das Ding and the symbolic order: (1) as the pure substance of enjoyment, das Ding is incompatible with the symbolic order; (2) das Ding is the void in the Other. Because of this incompatibility, das Ding is absent from reality and thus can only assume a negative presence as a void. It is crucial to stress the preposition “in” in Žižek’s statement, which indicates the fact that the Thing is the beyond within the big Other; that is, the Thing is not simply absent, but registered as the Nothing within the symbolic-imaginary reality. In Lacan’s own words, das Ding is “the beyond-of-the-signified”

(Seminar VII 54).49

It is significant to note that Lacan constrains das Ding’s beyondness to the signified, not to the signifier, which implies a possible relation between the Thing and a signifier. He states that 88 Chapter 2

88

“the Thing only presents itself to the extent that it becomes word …” (Seminar VII 55). However,

the “word” referred to here is not a signifying unity, but the French “mot.” Lacan argues: “‘Mot’

refers essentially to ‘no response.’ ‘Mot,’ La Fontaine says somewhere, is what remains silent; it

is precisely that in response to which no word is spoken” (Seminar VII 55). In other words, the

Thing presents itself in the form of a silent, “dumb” word. To illustrate this view, Lacan uses as

an example the comedy of the four Marx brothers and associates Harpo Marx, the “terrible dumb

brother,” with the dumb word, asking rhetorically:

Is there anything that poses a question which is more present, more pressing, more

absorbing, more disruptive, more nauseating, more calculated to thrust everything that

takes place before us into the abyss or void than that face of Harpo Marx, that face

with its smile which leaves us unclear as to whether it signifies the most extreme

perversity or complete simplicity? (Seminar VII 55)

This passage makes it clear that the dumb word, the word of “the beyond-of-the-signified,” is the

word eluding interpretation and thus beyond meanings, which does not signify or represent

anything or anyone. This “word” is thus a pure signifier—a signifier without signified; the only

thing which it signifies is the Nothing. Hence, although das Ding is that which resists

symbolization, it nevertheless has the ability to have its effect felt in the symbolic order; it takes

the form of the mot, the dumb word, marking a silent void in the middle of the symbolic

constellation. This dumb word has the same structural function as the number two excluded from

the numerological representation of the world in the Pan Gu myth, both of which index the Thing,

by marking a non-position (or, non-place) in a symbolic formation.

To further understand this Lacanian thesis, we can have recourse to Žižek’s metaphor of the

black hole. in The Indivisible Remainder, he mentions “the parallel between the Black Hole and

the traumatic Thing … in Freud and Lacan” (229); and, in Looking Awry, he states: “The At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 89

89

‘reality’ … obtains its consistency only by means of the ‘black hole’ in its center (the Lacanian das Ding, the Thing that gives body to the substance of enjoyment), i.e., by the exclusion of the real, by the change of the status of the real into that of a central lack” (19). Situated in the middle of a galaxy, the black hole—a seemingly empty space (the mot, a dumb thing which does not shine)—is surrounded by a system of celestial bodies (the empirical reality which can be observed and represented). The metaphor of the black hole illustrates the Lacanian idea that it is not enough to conceive of das Ding as simply lost and thus beyond the symbolic order; this beyondness must be understood as from within. As the black hole, das Ding is not simply non- existent, but ex-sists as the Nothing,50 as the radical negativity. Again, due to this void, the big

Other is not a whole but centres around a hole. It is only by walling off the hole that the symbolic reality can achieve its apparent consistence. Hence, this hole is not something which can be overcome, but a constitutive element of the symbolic-imaginary order itself. It is due to this constitutive lack that our reality is formed or posited as such.

It is in the form of a void—a curious presence in its absence—that das Ding presents itself.

In a way, the temporal gap in the Ershisi xiao text resembles the spatial gap metaphorically represented by the black hole, both of which allude to an absent presence. After being driven out of the son’s family, the biological mother disappears from the text (or the symbolic order); nothing about her is narrated or known. If nothing has happened during the fifty years, it is probably because there is only the nothingness which can be registered on the symbolic-textual level. Hence, unlike Zeng Can’s mother who constitutes an imaginary unity with the son, Zhu

Shouchang’s biological mother is rendered here closer to the lost Thing. However, as the black hole which is only perceived as empty, the temporal gap is actually saturated with the unseen substance: as we have observed in the Song shi text, the absent mother manifests herself as an unforgettable Thing which is bodily remembered by the son; in the Ershisi xiao, the mother’s 90 Chapter 2

90

unseen presence is retroactively indicated by the son’s embarking on a search for her. The son’s

action reveals the fact that the lost mother has always been remembered by him, and thus ex-

sisted as an invisible presence—a hole—in the familial-symbolic system.

The curious presence of the absent mother illustrates the ambiguous position occupied by

das Ding in the symbolic order and in its relation to the subject. Lacan argues:

[D]as Ding is at the center only in the sense that it is excluded. That is to say, in

reality das Ding has to be posited as exterior, as the prehistoric Other that it is

impossible to forget—the Other whose primacy of position Freud affirms in the form

of something entfremdet, something strange to me, although it is at the heart of me…

(Seminar VII 71)

In the diegetic reality, the lost mother has been driven out of the family, and is thus posited as an

exterior—the pre-historical Other. However, she is at the same time at the heart of the son. His

search for her clearly indicates the primacy of her position as the strange but unforgettable Thing,

the Thing which must be found again. In short, within the triangular family relationship between

the son, the official/symbolic mother (the stand-in for the big Other) and the biological mother, it

is in the last element that the constitutive lack should be located, around which the narrative is

constructed.

Until the third phase, story 24 has followed closely the Lacanian conception of das Ding;

however, at the end, it seems to depart from the trail mapped by Lacan. As we know, the pleasure

principle which aims at maintaining a state of homeostasis prohibits us from a direct encounter

with a Thing, because this encounter will bring about too much pleasure—that is, the “pleasure in

pain.” If the absent mother can indeed be interpreted as a Thing, the pleasure principle seems to

be non-functional at the end of the story, where it climaxes in the son’s reunion with his lost

mother. The ending poem comments on the event, stating that the happiness was so strong that it At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 91

91 even moves Heaven. Rather than being crashed by the “extreme pleasure,” the son seems to embrace it happily. How should we explain this unthinkable reunion?

Phase 4: the Thing “refound”

Zhu Shouchang embarks on a search for his biological mother; this action can probably be read as driven by his desire for the maternal Thing. Desire as such is the inevitable human condition resulting from the symbolic castration. As Homer states: “‘[T]he Name-of-the-

Father … breaks the mother/child couple and introduces the child into the symbolic order of desire and lack” (51). Hence, in a way, we may understand desire as the state which defines the subject’s relation with the Thing. Lacan states:

The world of our experience, the Freudian world, assumes that it is this object, das

Ding, as the absolute Other of the subject, that one is supposed to find again. It is to

be found at the most as something missed. One doesn’t find it, but only its

pleasurable associations. It is in this state of wishing for it and waiting for it that, in

the name of the pleasure principle, the optimum tension will be sought; below that

there is neither perception nor effort. (Seminar VII 52)

If the loss of das Ding is the cause of my desire, Lacan points out here that this desire will never be satisfied, because das Ding can only be found as something missed. Hence, in a passage quoted at the beginning of this chapter, Silverman calls das Ding “the impossible nonobject of desire” (Silverman, World Spectators 15). This impossibility indicates that, in “the world of our experience,” our relation with das Ding can only assume a negative form, whose existence (or rather ex-sistence) is sensed through desire—the state of “wishing for it and waiting for it”; desire therefore attests to the ontological lack of our reality, whose object is structurally non-existing and thus unattainable. Hence, one crucial Lacanian thesis is that “[d]esire is at the very core of 92 Chapter 2

92

our being and as such it is essentially a relation to lack; indeed, desire and lack are inextricably

tied together” (Homer 72, original italics); or, in Fink’s words, “[l]ack and desire are coextensive

for Lacan” (The Lacanian Subject 54).

As Lacan argues, due to the regulation of the pleasure principle, das Ding can only be

found as “the optimum tension” in the state of “wishing for it and waiting for it.” This wish (or

desire)51 can never be fulfilled, because “below that there is neither perception nor effort”; that is,

except desiring for it, there is no other way to approach the Thing. This impossibility of

satisfying one’s desire for the Thing is seemingly reversed at the end of story 24, where the

narrative resolves the tension by staging a real reunion between the subject and his lost mother.

Not content with the state of “wishing for it and waiting for it,” Zhu Shouchang embarks on a

journey of refinding das Ding. At the end, without being constrained by the pleasure principle, he

was able to enjoy fully the unity with the maternal Thing. On the one hand, we can interpret this

story as a purely phantasmatic construction, because such a union is only possible in a fantasy or

in a dream. By rendering the Thing attainable, this story fulfils the ideological function to “fool”

people into accepting a false image of reality: filial subjects were encouraged to pursue

something impossible and promised a satisfying reward.

However, on the other hand, we should also notice that the last phase of the story is not

framed within a social reality at all; that is to say, the “happy” ending is not employed simply as a

veil concealing the real state of things, but constructed as an outcast of reality itself. Before his

embarking on his search for the mother, Zhu Shouchang bids farewell to his family, and quits his

official position in the government. These two actions, which are the necessary conditions for his

journey, amount to the subject’s total withdrawal from the existing symbolic order—the political,

social, and familial domains—and thus signify the subject’s symbolic death. Hence, the

precondition for the “happy” ending is that the subject himself has already entered the curious At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 93

93 place where life continues outside the social-symbolic world; or, one may argue that, in the last phase of story 24, the filial son withdraws into the zone between two deaths—his real and symbolic deaths.

At this point, a few more words need to be said about the different deaths. In The Sublime

Object of Ideology, Žižek argues that “[i]n a way, everybody must die twice” (134), and formulates the two deaths in various ways. First, he points out the distinction between “natural death, which is a part of the natural cycle of generation and corruption … and absolute death— the destruction, the eradication, of the cycle itself …” (Sublime Object 134). One of his examples of the absolute death is the victim in the Sadeian fantasy, who has survived all torments and maintained her beauty: “It is as though, above and beyond her natural body (a part of the cycle of generation and corruption), and thus above and beyond her natural death, she possessed another body, a body composed of some other substance, one excepted from the vital cycle…” (Žižek,

Sublime Object 134). In his another formulation of the two deaths, Žižek states: “Lacan conceives this difference between the two deaths as the difference between real (biological) death and its symbolization, the ‘settling of accounts’, the accomplishment of symbolic destiny

(deathbed confession in Catholicism, for example)” (Sublime Object 135).

Upon a closer examination, we can notice that Žižek has actually theorized not two but three different deaths—the real or natural death, its symbolization and the absolute death which overcomes the natural death itself. The last two deaths bear directly on the symbolic order but have opposing significances. If the real death can be understood as a traumatic event for humankind, its symbolization functions to reconcile the real thing into the symbolic system, by which death itself becomes part of our knowledge. As shown in another example which Žižek cites from Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams, the dead father can only die completely, when he knows that he is dead (Sublime Object 134).52 That is, he must die twice—his natural death and 94 Chapter 2

94

his acknowledgement of this death. Without this acknowledgment, the dead father will return.

(The “deathbed confession” can be understood as a symbolic procedure by which the subject

becomes aware of and acknowledges his/her impending death.)

The need to symbolize the natural/real death explains why death rituals were performed

lavishly in pre-modern China, where people usually believed that, after the physical death, life

was to continue in another world. The death ritual, which constitutes an essential part of the

Confucian ritual system, was staged probably not only for the living who can express their

mourning through the ritual performance, but also for the dead—or, the life after death— who

can thus be reminded of his/her own death. In other words, the symbolic death functions to

register and to realize the natural death on the symbolic level, so that the dead loses not only

his/her natural life but also his/her symbolic life within the human world. Only after the

symbolization of the real death, we can say that death is completed: the dead will remain

thereafter only as a name—a dead signifier—which renders him/her doubly dead.

Žižek’s other form of the symbolic death is the absolute death which negates “the natural

cycle of generation and corruption.” As shown in the case of the Sadeian fantasy, the absolute

death is the very opposite of the natural death, which can probably be viewed as the death of the

death, a suspension of the natural law. Moreover, as Žižek states, “the ‘second death’, the radical

annihilation of nature’s circular movement, is conceivable only in so far as this circular

movement is already symbolized/historicized, inscribed, caught in the symbolic web—absolute

death, the ‘destruction of the universe,’ is always the destruction of the symbolic universe”

(Sublime Object 135, original italics). In this sense, we may understand the absolute death as the

death of the symbolic order itself, which generates an ironic effect—the absolute life, so to speak,

a life which is beyond the symbolized natural circle and thus never dies. Hence, this absolute

death denotes paradoxically the life caught between the two deaths: while beyond the natural At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 95

95 death, it is however not the normal life situated within the symbolic reality; it is rather the undead life which transgresses the symbolic law and thus symbolically dead. This unsymbolizable life designates the Real; and, according to Žižek, “[t]his place ‘between the two deaths’ … is the site of das Ding, of the real-traumatic kernel in the midst of symbolic order” (Sublime Object 135).

In a certain sense, Zhu Shouchang’s symbolic death can be viewed as belonging to the absolute death: by withdrawing from his social-familial life, he not only registers his death in the social-symbolic universe, but also suspends or, we may even say, eradicates this symbolic world altogether. Hence, the last phase of story 24 takes place in the liminal zone between the two deaths which marks the structural site of das Ding. For this reason, we should interpret the

“happy” ending of this story as a restatement of Lacan’s theory in a reversed form— das Ding is to be found only in the impossible space of the Real, that is, in the void of the big Other. This thesis, I suggest, is attested to by various filial-piety-related narratives such as the following two stories.

In pre-modern China, one of the most famous stories featuring the motif of a son’s searching for his absent/dead mother was the story of “Mu Lian jiu mu” (mentioned above).

Although regarded generally as belonging to the Buddhist tradition, this story was nevertheless integrated into the main discursive system, constituting a part of the common knowledge in pre- modern China. It tells that Mu Lian’s mother was a sinful woman. After her (natural) death, she was sent to the deepest hell, where she suffered endlessly from the most dreadful torments. In order to save his mother, Mu Lian searched heavens and hells, and finally met her. At the end, the mother was saved by the son’s patronage of a Buddhist temple, and ascended to the Heaven of

Thirty-Three.53 In a way, the sinner’s life in the hell can be compared to the victim in the Sadeian fantasy: they both survive the most horrifying tortures. Following Žižek, we may say that the sinful mother possesses another body, which is above and beyond her natural body, and thus 96 Chapter 2

96

above and beyond her natural death. In this sense, I suggest that the concept of the hell in the

Buddhist story can be interpreted as a religious and mythical formulation of the place between the

two deaths; and the sinful mother who occupies this place can accordingly be viewed as an

embodiment of the Thing. It is therefore not surprising to note that the son’s encounter/reunion

with the dead/absent mother occurs only in the inhuman underworld.

As depicted in the story, the heavens are less extraordinary than the hells. We are told that

Mu Lian finds his father in Brahmā’s Heaven, where he is still subject to the cycle of birth and

death, but enjoys more pleasure and suffers from less pain (Teiser 172). It seems to me that

Brahmā’s Heaven is not much different from a “normal” society which follows the “natural” law

(of generation and corruption) and is organized by the pleasure principle. In this way, we may

regard the heaven as a reflection of an ideal social-symbolic space. In contrast to the father’s life

in the heaven, the mother’s life in the hell illustrates the unsymbolizable life—the life which has

failed to comply with the moral rules and thus incompatible with the symbolic order. For this

reason, the mother must be punished; however, the endless punishment itself renders her life

indestructible, which has somehow escaped from the “natural” circle of generation and corruption.

We can thus describe the mother as “alive while dead”: “to be ‘alive while dead’ is to give body

to the remainder of Life-Substance which has escaped the symbolic colonization” (Žižek,

Parallax View 121).54 Hence, the hell is not simply a place of the dead; it rather contains the

absolute life—the Life-Substance exceeding the symbolic and “natural” constraints. (An

interesting question is: from what is the mother saved? Is not the bodily suffering in the hell an

indication of the “extreme pleasure”—that is, jouissance?) Consequently, we can read the

opposition between the heaven and the hell as a Buddhist rendering of the opposition between the

symbolic order and the order of the Real, and that between the symbolized life and the undead

Life-Substance. At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 97

97

For the above reasons, it is probably not farfetched to see the mother’s final rebirth in the

Heaven of Thirty-Three as a triumph of the symbolic order over the untamed Life-Substance: she finally sought reconciliation with the Buddhist authority. The consequence is that, due to her reintegration into the symbolic system, the mother as a Thing embodying the unsymbolizable life is lost forever; in a way, she has died twice—her natural death and the death of her absolute life.

At the end of the story, the symbolic intervention (represented by the Buddhist temple) not only saves the mother from the torments (or jouissance) but also leads to the renewed separation between the mother and the son. Since the mother no longer needs to be saved, the son loses the legitimate reason to seek reunion with her. This again brings us back to the thesis that the maternal Thing can only be found in the impossible space between the two deaths.

There is another ghost story with a long history, which is titled “Guimu zhuan” 鬼母傳

(The Story of the Ghost Mother).55 It tells that a woman died during her pregnancy. When her tomb was reopened, people surprisingly found:

The grave clothes and bones of the corpse had mostly turned to dust. The only living

thing they could see was a baby boy….Sometimes he looked in one direction and

made as if he wanted to climb into his mother’s arms; sometimes he looked in the

other direction and made tugging motions on his mother’s clothes. In fact, the boy

still recognized this dead mother as his living one, and howled as though he were

seeking refuge in her.

Alas, this poor child! People ordinarily suffer at parting from the living, but this

boy suffered at parting from the dead!56

According to Judith Zeitlin, “the configuration here is a mise-en-scène for the trope of death as the regeneration of life. But the exemplary tale’s glorification of maternal love and filial piety as 98 Chapter 2

98

moral instincts transcending death helps counteract the residual uncanniness of the image”

(Zeitlin 36-37). Zeitlin is right in discerning the link between death and life. However, by

conceiving of death as the “regeneration of life,” this reading undermines the uncanny effect of

the undead life—the life which is beyond the circle of regeneration and corruption. That is, in my

view, the ghost mother embodies not so much death as life itself; she is dead in the symbolic-

human world, but possesses nevertheless another life which is envisioned in the story as a spectre

of the absolute life transgressing the natural law and the symbolic universe altogether. We again

witness here the coincidence between the symbolic death and the life above and beyond the

natural death. Hence, as the hell in the story of Mu Lian, the tomb of the ghost mother marks the

liminal space between the two deaths, where life continues after death; the mother is alive while

dead.

For this reason, I would like to argue that the uncanny effect of this story is not

counteracted by “moral instincts transcending death,” but denied by the moral interpretation

which strives to domesticate the untamed/unsymbolized life. In other words, what is at issue here

is not death but the undead, indestructible Life-Substance. The poor child is not suffering from

his parting from the dead, but from his parting from life itself which is embodied by his inhuman

ghost mother; or, more precisely, he is suffering from being separated from “das Ding, the Thing,

the pure substance of enjoyment resisting symbolization” (Žižek, Enjoy Your Symptom 9-10).

Unsurprisingly, this separation is initiated by the human/symbolic intervention into the pre-

symbolic chora:57 the opening of the tomb marks the moment of the symbolic castration which is

to sever the closed circle of the mother-son dyad. Again, this story dramatizes the fact that the

pre-symbolic, pre-Oedipal wholeness supposedly enabled by the mother-son unity can only be

(re)found in the impossible place in the netherworld, between the two deaths. At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 99

99

Besides, the ghost mother also highlights another essential nature of das Ding. If das Ding can only be found as something missed in reality, this missing object is vividly represented in the story through the ghost mother who is invisible for the human eyes. People see only the boy; however, the boy’s movement nevertheless suggests to them that there is something else on the scene. The boy’s bodily gesture therefore registers the “something missed,” something which is absent, but nevertheless leaves a trace behind. Hence, the invisible mother constitutes the hole in the system of representation, which in turn indicates that the mother is a singular Thing; that is, she is not an object of the shared knowledge and experience. We may recall Copjec’s following statement: in reference to the Ding-component of the Nebenmensch, she states that “[a] hole thus opens in the system of signifiers since those that would enable us to recall these new and noncomparable or singular aspects of the mother are simply unavailable, they simply do not exist.

The Ding-component is … thus forever lost to the subject” (Copjec, Imagine 35). The uncanny effect of this story lies in its staging of a liminal moment: when situated on the threshold of the human world, “the boy still recognized this dead mother as his living one”; at this moment, the ghost mother as a singular object which is unrecognizable to the social subjects can still be perceived by her son. This phantasmatic construction highlights a double effect of the mother’s singularity. On the one hand, the maternal Thing is precluded from the intersubjective reality and thus forever lost to the subject; on the other hand, it is exactly because of its un-shareable nature that the Thing can be imagined as the unique object for the subject alone. As illustrated by the ghost mother, the inhuman Thing is only “visible” to her son; she is the mother/Thing for the boy alone.

The singular aspect of das Ding may explain why story 24 ends with the mother-son reunion and omits the subsequent events. According to the historical record in the Song shi, Zhu

Shouchang’s mother remarried another man and had several children. After the encounter with 100 Chapter 2

100

his mother, Zhu Shouchang brought his mother and her other children back home. Because of his

filial devotion, he was rewarded and re-entered the officialdom. Why are these experiences not

narrated in the Ershisi xiao story? Was not his re-establishment in the social-symbolic order more

encouraging for the readers who were expected to follow Zhu Shouchang’s example? My

suggestion here is that the opposite may be true. The mother whom Zhu Shouchang brought back

to his family-kinship system is no longer the maternal Thing which a subject longs for. She has

mothered other children and therefore becomes an object of a shared experience. The mother

whom Zhu Shouchang has to share with other social subjects (his half siblings) cannot be the

unique mother “visible” only to him; the mother-son dyad is thus irreversibly broken. Hence, the

Ershisi xiao story has to end at the most satisfying moment when the mother can still be imagined

as the singular Thing. It was probably not one’s achievement in the social-symbolic domain, but

the “extreme happiness” entailed by one’s unity with the Thing (and thus the completeness of

one’s own being), that was the most satisfying and enjoyable reward for the pre-modern Chinese

readers.

In a way, Zhu Shouchang’s withdrawal from the social-family life comes very close to

what Žižek calls the “symbolic suicide”— the real act. He states: “the act … is that of symbolic

suicide: an act of ‘losing all,’ of withdrawing from symbolic reality, that enables us to begin

anew from the ‘zero point,’ from that point of absolute freedom called by Hegel ‘abstract

negativity’” (Enjoy Your Symptom 49, original italics). However, if Zhu Shouchang’s act in

phase 4 can indeed be read as a gesture of “symbolic suicide,” why was he regarded as an

exemplary subject of the society which he actually withdrew from? There are several possible

answers.

First, Žižek differentiates the “symbolic suicide” from the “demonstrative suicide.” The

latter is orchestrated in accordance with the logic of sacrifice. He states: “[B]y the very act of At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 101

101 sacrifice, we (presup) pose the existence of its addressee that guarantees the consistency and meaningfulness of our experience” (Enjoy Your Symptom 64, original italics). Hence, “the

‘demonstrative’ suicide still addresses the big Other” (Enjoy Your Symptom 68): one commits the demonstrative suicide, when one sacrifices one’s life for the big Other (the nation, the party, the ideal, etc.), which is thus not free from the rule of the symbolic order. In contrast, the symbolic suicide is not a sacrifice, because “the ‘symbolic’ suicide cancels the very presupposition of the ‘big Other’” (Enjoy Your Symptom 68). In this sense, the symbolic suicide can be viewed as a way of realizing the absolute death which negates the symbolic universe altogether. To a certain degree, we can view Zhu Shouchang’s “symbolic death” as a combination of the two forms of suicide: it has the form of the “symbolic suicide,” but is ironically endowed with the logic of the “demonstrative suicide”; that is, by withdrawing from symbolic reality, he does not commit a “symbolic suicide,” but performs a symbolic sacrifice for a Thing—a substitute for the Thing.

At first glance, this act appears to be a negation of the Name-of-the-Father. However, upon a closer examination, we must realize that Zhu Shouchang’s “symbolic death” is meant to be temporary. As the text indicates, he swears that he will not return until he finds his mother. That is to say, the symbolic order is not negated, because he does expect a possible return. This expectation also betrays that the outcaste mother is imagined in the story as something which can be refound. Hence, Zhu Shouchang’s gesture of “symbolic death” is based on the presupposition that the maternal Thing exists, whereby the Ershisi xiao narrative stages a phantasmatic lure—an imaginary, empirical mother usurping the place of the maternal Thing. In this way, the filial piety story actually serves to conceal the gap—the “zero point” free from the symbolical constitutions, and thereby denies the “abstract negativity” and the possibility of “absolute freedom.”58 102 Chapter 2

102

Moreover, since this lure is posed within the moral discourse on filial piety, it also

functions to sustain an ideological fantasy which, as demonstrated by Žižek, actually teaches

people how and what to desire.59 That is to say, story 24 functions to institutionalize the empirical

mother (or the parents) as the “standard object of desire,” so to speak, by which the subject’s

desire as such—that is, the lack itself—is actually denied. In this sense, Zhu Shouchang’s

“symbolic death” can be understood as a symbolic sacrifice: he sacrifices his symbolic life, not

for the Thing, but for a symbolically prescribed substitute; his sacrifice is thus staged as part of

the ideological fantasy. At this point, it should become clear that, even though the filial son has

apparently violated the Confucian written rules—such as, not damage your own body, or not treat

your divorced mother as a family member, he can still be regarded by the state orthodoxy as an

exemplary subject, insofar as this figure can be employed to sustain the ideological fantasy.

Second, story 24 fulfils its ideological function through a rigid division between the two

spaces—the social-symbolic space versus the space of an outside (or, the space between the two

deaths). According to Žižek, this kind of separation sustains the reign of the Phallus. One of his

important theses is that

the pre-symbolic ‘eternally Feminine’ is a retroactive patriarchal fantasy—that is, it is

the Exception which grounds the reign of the Phallus (like the anthropological notion

of an original matriarchal Paradise, which was ruined by the Fall into patriarchal

civilization and which, from Bachofen onwards, firmly supports patriarchal ideology,

since it relies on the notion of teleological evolution from matriarchy to patriarchy).

(Metastases 151).

In the spatial dimension, the “eternally Feminine” Exception is imagined in the Chinese stories as

an outside isolated from the normal social-familial domain, and embodied by a divorced mother

or a ghost. It is by carving out the space of a feminine/maternal outside that the patriarchal rule At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 103

103 was able to define and sustain itself. In the pre-modern Chinese context, this Exception may be termed the “super-yin” which Zeitlin uses to denote the world of the ghost and the dead;60 in contrast, the world of the living is usually called “yang shi” 陽世 (the world of yang). Hence, femininity—the yin aspect—was not only one element in the yin-yang opposition which frames the human world, but also perceived as the very outside (or excess) of the world itself. It is in contrast to the “super-yin” element that the human world itself can be defined as yang/masculine/patriarchal.

If the feminine/maternal Thing has a subversive power, this power is avoided exactly by the spatial separation between the social-symbolic space and the space between the two deaths—that is, the space of the Thing, such as the hell and the tomb in the two ghost stories. What Zhu

Shouchang exemplifies here is the (re)enactment of this separation: when he has made his choice and decided to leave the symbolic world, he is no longer a subject as such. Hence, his searching for the mother is not made by a social subject. Thereby, das Ding can still be safely posited as an exterior in relation to the patriarchal-symbolic reality. The subject’s gesture of “symbolic death” becomes the very means of safeguarding the division between the Real and the symbolic; the ideological effect of this story resides therefore in its maintenance of the phantasmatic construction of the yin-maternal Exception. Hence, for the Lacanians, to activate the feminine subversive force is to reclaim its true position: that is, the feminine or the yin element is not the

Exception separated from the phallic-patriarchal regime, but, as already argued, the void transgressing the regime from within; the space between the two deaths is the very limit of the symbolic order, rather than its outside. In Žižek’s words, “‘[f]eminine’ is this structure of the limit as such, a limit that precedes what may or may not lies in its Beyond: all that we perceive in 104 Chapter 2

104

this Beyond (the Eternal Feminine, for example) are our own fantasy projections” (Metastases

151, original italics).

Finally, there is an “either/or” choice implied in the last phase of story 24: the protagonist

must choose between his social being and his outcaste mother, which seems to repeat the

fundamental choice between being (das Ding) and meaning (the Name-of-the-Father). However,

the alienating effect of the forced choice is seemingly reversed here: rather than choosing the

Name-of-the-Father (the subject’s symbolic identity), Zhu Shouchang decides not to give up on

his desire and chooses instead the maternal Thing. To a certain degree, Zhu Shouchang’s choice

resembles the “authentic ethical act: an act which reaches the utter limit of the primordial forced

choice and repeats it in the reverse sense” (Žižek, Enjoy Your Symptom 89). The Lacanian

example of the authentic ethical act is “Antigone’s suicidal ‘No!’ to Creon” (Žižek, Enjoy Your

Symptom 89). However, why is Zhu Shouchang’s “act” appearing less subversive or less tragic

than Antigone’s? My suggestion here is that the repeated choice in the filial piety story is not a

forced choice at all; and, at the end, the son betrays his desire.

The first thing to note here is that the narrative constructs an ideal situation in which social-

family constraints are generally lifted. That is to say, the forced choice appears in the diegetic

reality as a real one: the subject is free to choose what he wants. On the one hand, this apparent

free choice conceals the social antagonism between the state and the family.61 On the other hand,

it also distinguishes Zhu Shouchang from Antigone: when the former makes his choice, there is

no Creon-like figure positioned in the narrative. Hence, the choice between the Name-of-the-

Father and the maternal Thing is posed in a phantasmatic space free from a coercive symbolic

authority. Or, one could argue that, when the choice is posed, the diegetic reality is already

somehow separated from the symbolic domain. Hence, in contrast to Antigone whose “No!” is

not articulated in vacuum, but addressed to Creon, Zhu Shouchang does not speak “No!” to At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 105

105 anyone or anything. That is, Antigone situates herself at the utter limit, rather than in a phantasmatic outside, by which she opens up the impossible space in the symbolic order. It is this limit—the traumatic Real kernel inherent to the symbolic order itself—that the Ershisi xiao story tries to conceal, by positing an imaginary exception to the symbolic universe.

Besides, what the son has chosen is not the impossible object of desire, but, as argued above, the lure which is already ideologically determined by the Father. By falling prey to the ideological lure, Zhu Shouchang actually conducts an unethical deed, insofar as the ethical is to be understood in the Lacanian sense. At this point, we need to remember the Lacanian ethical imperative: “do not give up on your desire!” One way of understanding it is to insist on the equation between desire and lack: in Žižek’s words, “‘do not compromise your desire’ can only mean ‘do not put up with any of the substitutes for the Thing, keep the gap of desire open’”

(Indivisible Remainder 95). The Lacanian imperative is thus an ethical call for safeguarding the ontological lack—the void which defines every subject and depletes the whole of the big Other. It is only through desire/lack that the hole in the Other—the “zero point” of the absolute freedom from which the existing social regime can be transcended and transgressed—is opened up. When the filial piety story ends with a happy reunion between the son and his lost mother, desire—the ontological state of “wishing for it and waiting for it” (Lacan, Seminar VII 52)—is simultaneously terminated. Hence, at the end, the son gives up on his desire/lack; the symbolic reality is no longer experienced as lacking something.

Conclusion

In this chapter, I have tried to demonstrate that the notion of das Ding—the maternal

Thing—is essential for understanding the phantasmatic space constructed in the filial-piety- 106 Chapter 2

106

related stories. In various ways, they re-narrate the symbolic castration, which helps to sustain the

division between the Father’s symbolic reality and the maternal Real; at the same time, these

narratives also re-enact the ideological construction of the Real as a feminine/yin Exception

external to the masculine/yang world. Story 24 differs from the others, in that it stages a

phantasmatic reversal of the symbolic castration, climaxing in a “happy” reunion between the son

and the lost Thing (embodied by his biological mother). In the Buddhist story of “Mu Lian Saves

His Mother,” the mother-son reunion is followed by a re-separation; and, in “Story of the Ghost

Mother,” the mother as an inhuman singular Thing never reappears to the son after his integration

into the human society. Hence, I have suggested that the Ershisi xiao story carries out a special

ideological function: by supplying the social subject with an imaginary substitute (an empirical

parent) for the Thing, it imposes an ideological control over the subject’s desire. More

importantly, since the Thing is not only unattainable for the social subject but also absent from

reality itself, this replacement of the Thing with an imaginary substitute functions simultaneously

to conceal the big Other’s own lack/desire. In other words, there is an overlap between the

subject’s desire/lack and the desire/lack of the Other; this implies that it is only through the

subject’s desire that the Other’s lack can be kept open. This intrinsic relation between these two

desires/lacks will be discussed in detail in the following chapter.

1 It is generally agreed that the following myth was first recorded in the Sanwu liji 三五曆記 and the Wuyuan linianji

五遠歷年紀 by Xun Zheng 徐 整 during the Three Kingdoms Period (220–280). These two books are now lost, but

some parts of the texts are preserved as citations in other documents. The text translated here is originally from the

Sanwu liji and cited in the Yiwen leiju 藝文類聚 edited by Ouyang Xun 歐陽詢 (557-641) and others. It is also

suggested that this story may have its origin in India.

2 1 zhang is about 3.3meters. At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 107

107

3 The three sovereigns (san huang) refer to Heaven (tian huang 天皇), Earth (di huang 地皇) and Man (ren huang 人

皇).

4 1 li is equal to 0.5 kilometer. The Chinese text reads: “天地混沌如雞子，盤古生其中，萬八千歲.。天地開闢，

陽清為天，陰濁為地，盤古在其中，一日九變，神於天，聖於地。天日髙一丈，地日厚一丈，盤古日長一丈。

如此萬八千歲，天數極髙，地數極深，盤古極長，後乃有三皇。數起於一，立於三，成於五，盛於七，處於

九，故天去地九萬里。” See Ouyang Xun eds., Yiwen leiju, juan 1, 4B-5A. For a different translation of the myth, see Girardot 193. Focusing on the Daoist tradition, Girardot provides a thorough study of the Pan Gu myth and the meaning of hundun,

5 See also Freud, Project 331.

6 “Everything in the object that is quality can be formulated as an attribute; it … constitutes the earliest

Vorstellungen…” (Lacan, Seminar VII 52).

7 As Wu Xiaodong interprets, “[t]he so-called ‘Chaos is like an egg’ is like the image of Taiji. It is a circle, the earliest qi. This circle contained yin and yang, the source of Heaven, Earth and human” (X. Wu 168-169).

8 As Russel Grigg points out that, for Lacan, “myth covers over this bit of impossibility by giving it a sense, a ‘bit of meaning,’ in the form of a fiction. The myth is, thus, a fictional story woven around this point of impossibility, or the real, which is why Lacan says that there is indeed truth in myth, but that it is truth that has the structure of fiction”

(55).

9 The Kang Xi zidian was commissioned by the imperial court of Kang Xi (1662-1722) and published in 1717.

10 “盤古氏，夫婦隂陽之始也，天地萬物之祖也.” See Yuding Kang Xi zidian, juan 20, 64A. This text appears originally in Ren Fang’s 任昉 (460－508) Xu yi ji 述異記.

11 For the notion of proper name, see note 50 in chapter 1.

12 For the sake of convenience, I have numbered the twenty-four stories in accordance with their sequence in a late

Qing edition republished in 1993 by Zhongguo shudian 中國書店. The sequence of the stories varies in different editions.

13 The “official mother” refers to the father’s wife. Implicitly, Zhou Shouchang was born by his father’s concubine. 108 Chapter 2

108

14 See Zhu Xi, Yuding xiao xue jizhu, juan 6, 11A-B. Zhu Xi 朱熹 (1130-1200) was a leading (Neo-)Confucian

scholar during the Southern Song period (1127-1279), whose paramount role in shaping the intellectual landscape in

late imperial China can never be overestimated. His writings and commentaries on the Confucian classics had since

constituted the cornerstone of the state orthodoxy until the early 20th century. For the importance of Zhu Xi’s Xiao

xue, see Kelleher.

15 See Tuo Ke Tuo eds. Song shi, juan 456, 20A-21B.

16 A fabula is defined as “a series of logically and chronologically related events that are caused or experienced by

actors” (Bal 5). I will discuss the fabula in detail in chapter 3 below.

17 It is pointed out that “what is conventionally translated as the ‘heart’ or the ‘mind’, in its double role as the locus

of both the emotional and the cognitive mental functions, occupies the middle ground between the deeper layers of

interior selfhood, on the one side, and the interface of the inner self with its surrounding natural and human

environment, on the other” (Plaks 113).

18 Freud’s theory of the “Oedipus complex” has been developed throughout his career. At one stage, he formulates

different forms of the Oedipus complex. The positive form refers to “a desire for the death of the rival—the parent of

the same sex—and a sexual desire for the parent of the opposite sex. In its negative form, we find the reverse picture:

love for the parent of the same sex, and jealous hatred for the parent of the opposite sex. In fact, the two versions are

to be found in varying degrees in what is known as the complete form of the complex” (Laplanche and Pontalis 283).

In short, in the Freudian sense, the Oedipus complex involves one’s split feelings towards the two parents, which, in

the last analysis, consists in a triangular relationship. For an account of Freud’s development of the “Oedipus

complex,” see Simon and Blass.

19 This story is also collected in the Ershisi xiao, see story 1. For Gu’s discussion, see Gu, “Filial Piety Complex” 64-

65.

20 Actually, another term has been coined to designate this “father-complex” which is now usually called “Laius

complex.” See, for example, Maratos. This coinage of a new term may indicate that multiple structures or

mechanisms are at work in Oedipus Rex; not every one of them is Oedipal.

21 There is a distinction between imaginary identification and symbolic identification. Suffice it to say that imaginary

identification is based on one’s identification with an image (i(a))—one’s own mirror image, or the imago of one’s

parent, by which the subject’s ego (moi) is created. Hence, any forms of identification with an empirical person At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 109

109

belong to the order of the imaginary. Symbolic identification is different, in that it is based on one’s identification with, for example, the father’s point of view, rather than his imago. Symbolic identification leads to the establishment of the subject’s ego-ideal (I(A)). “[T]he ego-ideal is essentially a point outside of the ego from which one observes and evaluates one’s own ego as a whole or totality, just as one’s parent observes and evaluates it” (Fink,

Lacan to the Letter 116-17). For an explanation of the distinction between imaginary identification and symbolic identification, see Evans 82-83; and Fink, Lacan to the Letter 116-18.

22 Homer adds quickly that there is always a third element—the imaginary phallus—involved in the mother-child dual relationship (53). I will discuss the imaginary phallus in the following chapter.

23 The Name-of-the-Father is a paternal metaphor which is thus different from the set of ordinary signifiers. As Éric

Laurent points out, one way of understanding this metaphor is that, “after the functioning of the paternal metaphor, the subject knows that the only thing he can name of that forbidden jouissance of the mother is the phallic signification of everything he says, of every one of his demands throughout his life. Everything we say has phallic signification” (73).

24 Lacan in his seventh seminar points out the obvious: “in the ten commandments, it is nowhere specified that one must not sleep with one’s mother” (Seminar VII 69). It by no means indicates that the incestuous crime is tolerated by the Ten Commandments. Rather, the very possibility of articulating the Ten Commandments is based on the fact that the “incest taboo” has already been executed all along, which constitutes the precondition for speech and, for that matter, for all forms of laws and moral-social norms.

25 As Fink remarks, even in the case of the pre-Oedipal period, “what we deal with as analysts are the retroactively constituted meanings, not the pre-Oedipal relations that preceded them” (Fink, Perversion 62 n14).

26 The absence of the father is actually characteristic of many literary texts created during late imperial times. As

Ping-chen Hsiung notes, “[i]n the memorial literature related to family elders in late imperial China, there was often the conspicuous absence of the father, and this not just regarding the upper class” (162).

27 The official mother’s paternal/symbolic position can be demonstrated by the fact that she was usually the one in charge of children’s education, even when she had no biological connection with these children. As Francesca Bray observes, “[f]amily instructions of late imperial times stressed that it was important for a wife to take the education of concubine’s sons in hand herself, lest their birth mother’s lowly origins taint their characters” (354). Hence, at 110 Chapter 2

110

least ideally, for the children, it was the official mother who was the first representative of the symbolic authority,

and the first symbolic agency introducing the children into the symbolic world.

28 For a detailed discussion of the spatial and social separation between genders, see Bray 122-50.

29 Although the rigid rule of gender separation in one household was largely a Neo-Confucian ideal, its impact on

people’s everyday lives cannot be underestimated, due to its orthodox position in late imperial times.

30 Ping-chen Hsiung, in her study of childhood in late imperial China, points out that the rigid father-child separation

did not prevail in every household. However, she does describe those who had an intimate contact with their father as

the “lucky toddler.” See Hsiung 162.

31 As Fink points out that the paternal function can be well fulfilled by a mother, when she refers to the father’s name

as a symbolic authority. Even when the father is dead, “she can keep him alive in her children’s minds by asking

them, ‘What would your father have thought about that?’ or by saying, ‘Your father wouldn’t have liked that one

bit.’… The paternal function here is served by the noun ‘father’ insofar as the mother refers to it as an authority

beyond herself, an ideal beyond her own wishes …” (Clinical Introduction 81, original italics).

32 According to the Gudai hanyu cidian 古代汉语词典 (The Dictionary of Ancient Chinese Language), “du” means

“ji hen” 忌恨; the first character “ji” denotes the feeling of jealousy or envy, while the second character “hen” means

“hate.” See “du.”

33 Lacan points out: “Everyone knows that envy is usually aroused by the possession of goods which would be no

use to the person who is envious of them” (Seminar XI 116). In other words, it is not the use value of the object (the

mother’s breast) that is at the root of envy. Envy aims at something else which, to a certain degree, exceeds the

object itself. Lacan’s term for this something else is the objet petit a: “the envy that makes the subject pale before the

image of a completeness closed upon itself, before the idea that the petit a, the separated a from which he is hanging,

may be for another the possession that gives satisfaction, Befriedigung” (Seminar XI 116). We will return to the term

of objet petit a in the next chapter. Sufficient it to say that the objet petit a is the lost object which causes our desire.

34 See Tuo Ke Tuo, Song shi, juan 456, 21A.

35 The Confucian mourning regulation attests to the fact that the divorced mother should not be regarded as a family

member. In the Li ji, we find the following rule: “the one who is the offspring of his father should not wear mourning

for his divorced mother (為父後者為出母無服).” This passage appears twice in the chapter “Sangfu xiaoji” 喪服小 At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 111

111

記. (According to the commentators, this rule should only be applied to the father’s successor, that is, the son who would become the master of the household.) See Li ji zhushu, juan 32, 8A, and juan 33, 23B. Since, in the Confucian tradition, wearing mourning for one’s deceased parents is the basic filial requirement, the prohibition on mourning for one’s divorced mother indicates that, at least on the symbolic level, the divorced mother should not be regarded as one’s legitimate mother.

36 For the notion of summary, see Bal 102-03.

37 “用浮屠法灼背燒顶, 刺血書佛經.” See Tuo Ke Tuo, Song shi, juan 456, 21A.

38 It has been pointed out that burning one’s body and copying Buddhist scriptures in one’s blood were practiced as a way of expressing one’s filial devotion. See, for example, Yu, esp. 38-46; Kieschnick. However, I have not been able to find any explanation which could link these practices directly to the theme of regaining one’s lost parent.

39 “$” is the Lacanian symbol for the barred subject, with “S” referring to “subject” and “/” to “barred”, see Fink,

Lacanian Subject 41.

40 For Lacan’s discussion of the vel of alienation, see Seminar XI, chapter 16, 209-13.

41 There are some exceptions. For example, “psychosis can be understood as a form of victory by the child over the

Other, the child forgoing his or her advent as a divided subject so as not to submit to the Other as language” (Fink,

Lacanian Subject 49, original italics).

42 Lacan states: “Once the separation between the fictitious and the real has been effected, things are no longer situated where one might expect. In Freud the characteristic of pleasure, as that dimension which binds man, is to be found on the side of the fictitious. The fictitious is not, in effect, in its essence that which deceives, but is precisely what I call the symbolic” (Seminar VII 12). In other words, once the symbolic castration or the incest taboo is realized, the almost natural principle becomes a symbolic agency.

43 Lacan’s theorization of the Other/feminine jouissance is found in his Seminar XX Encore. For introductory works on this book, see Reading Seminar XX, edited by Suzanne Barnard and Bruce Fink.

44 For a study of French feminist responses to psychoanalysis, see Jane Gallop’s Feminism and Psychoanalysis.

45 For example, Cixous considers the feminine jouissance as “women’s libido,” arguing that “[t]here is a bond between women’s libidinal economy—her jouissance, the feminine Imaginary—and her way of self-constituting a subjectivity that splits apart without regret” (Cixous and Clément 90). This woman with her feminine libido and 112 Chapter 2

112

subjectivity is simply inaccessible for us, because she is absent from those texts which do not bear the traces of her

writing.

46 We have seen this term “Enjoyment incarnated” in chapter one, cited from Žižek’s Tarrying with the Negative, 201.

47 In Fink’s word, there are two different forms of jouissance: “jouissance before the letter, before the institution of

the symbolic order (J1)” and “a jouissance after the letter, J2” as “the leftover or byproduct of symbolization”

(Lacanian Subject 60 ). In his later teaching, Lacan makes a distinction between jouissance and the surplus

jouissance; the latter is the leftover of the symbolic process. I will discuss the surplus jouissance in chapter 4 below.

48 It is also possible to read the self-inflicted pain as an attempt to restage the cut—that is, the symbolic castration, by

which the subject attempts to relinquish jouissance. However, one of the Lacanian insights is that the very process of

self-sacrifice or self-renunciation of jouissance generates the surplus jouissance. As Žižek puts it, “the very

renunciation of libidinal satisfaction becomes an autonomous source of satisfaction, and this is the ‘bribe’ which

makes the servant accepts his servitude” (Ticklish Subject 106-07). I will return to the surplus enjoyment in chapter 4

below.

49 In developing Freud’s Entwurf (Project for a Scientific Psychology), Lacan states: “Das Ding is that which I will

call the beyond-of-the-signified. It is as a function of this beyond-of-the-signified and of an emotional relationship to

it that the subject keeps its distance and is constituted in a kind of relationship characterized by primary affect, prior

to any repression. The whole initial articulation of the Entwurf takes place around it” (Seminar VII 54). Here, Lacan

makes it clear that das Ding is the pre-repression, that is, pre-symbolic object; it therefore has no meaning/signified

for the subject, because, as Fink indicates in a remark on this passage, “[t]he subject comes into being as a defense

against it, against the primal experience of pleasure/pain associated with it” (Lacanian Subject 95, original italics).

50 Lacan uses the term “ex-sist” to describe the ontological status of the Real. “The real, therefore, does not exist,

since it precedes language; Lacan reserves a separate term for it, borrowed from Heidegger: it ‘ex-sists.’ It exists

outside of or apart from our reality. Obviously, insofar as we name and talk about the real and weave it into language

and thereby give a kind of existence to that which, in its very concept, has only ex-sistence” (Fink, Lacanian Subject

25, original italics). At the “Beginning”…: the Basics 113

113

51 In a sense, “desire” and “wish” can be understood as denoting the same thing. The word “desire” is a translation of

Lacan’s “désir” which is in turn a translation of Freud’s term “Wunsch.” Strachey has translated “Wunsch” as “wish” in The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud. See Evans 36-37.

52 Freud reports that “a man who had nursed his father during his last illness and had been deeply grieved by his death, had the following senseless dream some time afterwards. His father was alive once more and was talking to him in his usual way, but (the remarkable thing was that) he had really died, only he did not know it” (Interpretation of Dreams II 430, original italics). Žižek’s reading of this dream is not following Freud’s interpretation strictly. For

Freud, this dream expresses the dreamer’s unconscious self-reproach, because he had wished his father’s death. For

Freud’s interpretation, see Interpretation of the Dreams II 430.

53 For a summary of the popular version of this story see Teiser 171-77. For variations of this story in popular culture and in Buddhist sutras, see Teiser; and Cole.

54 See also Žižek, Plague of Fantasy 89. The counterpart of being “alive while dead” is to be “dead while alive,” that is, “to be colonized by the ‘dead’ symbolic order” (Žižek, Parallax View 121).

55 This widely circulated story is collected in the Yuchu xin zhi 虞初新志 (The Magician’s New Records) compiled by Zhang Chao 張潮 and published during the late seventeenth century.

56 Zeitlin’s translation, see Zeitlin 36.

57 Borrowed from Plato’s Timaeus, chora denotes an enclosed space such as a womb or a receptacle. Kristeva coins the term “semiotic chora” to describe a pre-symbolic rhythmical space where the mother’s body regulates the signifying process. As Kelly Oliver states, “[t]he maternal body is the organizing principle of the semiotic chora, because the chora is the space in which the mother’s body regulates the oral and anal drives”; “[i]t is the place of the maternal law before the Law” (Reading Kristeva 46).

58 On another occasion, Žižek defines “freedom as the state ‘between the two deaths’ when my symbolic identity is suspended” (Metastases 83 n7).

59 In The Plague of Fantasy, Žižek argues that “fantasy does not mean that when I desire a strawberry cake and cannot get it in reality, I fantasize about eating it; the problem is, rather: how do I know that I desire a strawberry cake in the first place? This is what fantasy tells me” (Žižek, Plague 7, original italics). 114 Chapter 2

114

60 Zeitlin states: “From a certain perspective the phrase ‘female ghost’ is even something of a tautology. To put it

crudely, within the terms of yin-yang complementary opposites, a ghost is ‘super-yin,’ an intensification of the

qualities or phases associated with yin as opposed to yang. Thus a ghost occupies virtually all points along the

symbolic axis of yin (associated with cold, dark, moisture, earth, lower, death, femininity, etc.) as defined against the

symbolic axis of yang (associated with warmth, light, dryness, heaven, upper, life, masculinity, etc.)” (Zeitlin 16).

61 In reality, the situation was much more complicated. In Mourning in Late Imperial China, Kutcher provides a

detailed discussion of the subject’s struggle with the dilemma between his symbolic-political duty and his loyalty to

his parents. There was no easy way to choose between them. Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 115

115

Chapter 3

Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology

In the sixth chapter of the Xiao jing, it states: “[One should] be cautious of one’s behavior and be frugal in one’s spending, so that [one] can support [yang 養] one’s parents. This is the commoner’s [way] of practicing filial piety.”1 The character yang translated here as “to support” also means “to feed”, or “to keep something or somebody alive,” which stresses that to be filial is to satisfy the parents’ physical needs to survive, such as their needs for food. Actually, as Knapp points out, one of the earliest meanings of the character “xiao” (filial piety) is “presenting food”

(113). Later on, “yang” became more frequently used in combination with another character

“gong” 供 meaning “to supply,” “to provide,” and, by extension, “to offer something respectfully.” Knapp renders the word gongyang 供養 as “reverent caring” or simply “reverent feeding” (114).2 Having pointed out that the theme of “gongyang” was essential to the filial piety stories since the Eastern Han dynasty (25-220), Knapp explains: “Gongyang combines the concepts of feeding and giving respect, thereby enabling one to display esteem for parents through the manner in which one meets their physical needs” (114). Hence, for Knapp, food is an object fulfilling two functions: it is the object of the parents’ need and the object with which the children demonstrate their respect for their parents.

However, as illustrated by the stories which I will read in this and the next chapters, satisfying the parents’ need is insufficient to explain the function of food. As Knapp himself remarks, “[o]ne of the most common means of performing gongyang was offering delicacies…,” which “honored parents because such food-stuffs were costly and difficult to obtain” (115). In other words, central to the practice of gongyang was not food in general but the delicacies; this 116 Chapter 3

116

indicates that something other than the parents’ need is at work in the practice of gongyang,

because, viewed from the Lacanian perspective, need is organic and manifested “first of all at the

level of hunger and thirst” (Lacan Seminar XI 164), which can thus be satisfied by the simplest

things. Hence, if delicacies were the essential ingredient in the filial piety stories, what is at issue

here is probably not the parents’ need. It may be true that, by performing gongyang, one intended

to display esteem for one’s parents; however, this intention was not realized by meeting the

parents’ psychical needs. As psychoanalysis has taught us, besides need, there are other

economies—such as desire and the drive—at work in structuring human relationships. Hence, to

understand the function of food in the context of filial piety, I will read, in this chapter, two

Ershisi xiao stories through a Lacanian perspective.

I

The mOther’s Desire Reduced

Story 11— “Yongquan yueli”湧泉躍鯉 (Carps Leaping out of a Surging Spring)

Jiang Shi 姜詩 of the [Eastern] Han 漢 dynasty [25-220] served his mother with

extreme filial piety. His wife, surnamed Pang 龐氏, attended her mother-in-law even

more cautiously. The mother was disposed to drink water from a certain river; the

wife thus often went out to fetch the water and offered it to her mother-in-law. The

mother also liked [to eat] sliced fish; the couple thus often prepared the fish and

brought it to the mother. They even invited the neighbour’s mother to share it.

Suddenly, a spring emerged beside their house; the water tasted like that from the

river. Every day, out of the spring leapt two common carps3 which Shi would catch

and provide to his mother. Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 117

117

Beside the house emerged a sweat spring;

Every day appeared two carps.

The son was conscious of serving his mother;

The daughter-in-law was more filial towards her mother-in-law.

Jiang Shi’s serving his mother was a popular story recorded in various sources including the official history of the Eastern/Later Han dynasty—Hou han shu 後漢書(History of the Later

Han Dynasty) complied by Fan Ye 范曄 (398-445).4 The popularity of this story was probably derived from the magical event with which the story climaxes. In the pre-modern Chinese context, the sudden emergence of a spring and the endless availability of carps were very likely to be interpreted as divine rewards for the son’s as well as his wife’s filial devotion. However, what is highlighted in this magical event is neither the filial subject nor the mother, but the objects—the spring and the carps. It is not difficult to note that the entire narrative is constructed around a series of objects. Given their central position in this narrative, one inevitable question is thus:

What is the function of the objects in building a familial relationship? In order to answer this question, I will begin my reading by reconstructing this story on the level of the fabula, which is intended to facilitate my later discussion on this issue.

A narratological reconstruction

According to Bal, “[t]he fabula, understood as material or content that is worked into a story, has been defined as a series of events” (7); and, an event, as the most important element in a fabula, is regarded as “the transition from one state to another state, caused or experienced by actors” (189). By the word “transition,” Bal stresses that “an event is a process, an alteration” 118 Chapter 3

118

(189). Hence, I understand an event as opposed to a static state, which consists of certain

movements or activities. Accordingly, actors are those who “cause or experience” this process;

they “are agents that perform actions” (6). In story 11, we can identify three main actors—the son,

his wife, and the son’s mother, whose relationship with one another will be the focus of my

following discussion. Another narratological notion which I will rely on is “the narrative cycle.”

Bal states: “According to Aristotle as well as Bremond, three phases can be distinguished in

every fabula: the possibility (or virtuality), the event (or realization), and the result (or conclusion)

of the process” (196). The following table shows an example of the narrative cycle.5

Table 1—An Example

Possibility Event Result Liz wants to earn a diploma a. She prepares for the exam a.1. She passes the exam (realization) (conclusion ) a.2. She fails the exam (negative conclusion) b. She does not prepare for _ the exam (no realization)

The first and the last phases (the possibility and the result) can be regarded as two states which

are linked to one another through an event. In a, the event forms a process, by which an attempt

is made to realize the possibility and leads to a positive or negative result. In contrast, event b

fails to do so; consequently, the narrative cycle is incomplete.

According to this formulation, we may restructure story 11 as follows:

Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 119

119

Table 2—Fabulas of the Mother

Possibility Event Result Before the divine 2.1 Jiang Shi’s mother _ She is provided with the intervention likes to drink water water by Jiang Shi’s wife from a certain river 2.2 Jiang Shi’s mother _ She is provided with the likes to eat sliced fish fish by Jiang Shi and his wife After the divine 2.3 (Jiang Shi’s mother _ She is provided with intervention likes to eat sliced fish) carps by Jiang Shi

This set of fabulas focuses on the mother, in the sense that she is considered as the main actor causing an event. However, as this table shows, the events which realize the possibilities are missing in the narrative. What did the mother do to bring about the result? Did she ask for the object? And, how did she ask? No answers to these questions are provided in the text. This lack of events registers a hole in the narrative circle and depletes the mother’s activity. In this sense, we can only view her as an effaced actor, since her actions are omitted, non-existing in the narrative text.

If we construct the fabulas with a focus on the son and his wife, the table will be shown as follows:

Table 3—Fabulas of the Son

Possibility Event Result Before the 3.1 (Jiang Shi’s wife wants She fetches the water She provides the water divine to provide her mother- to her mother-in-law intervention in-law with water from a river) 3.2 (Jiang Shi and his wife They prepare the fish They serve the mother want to serve the mother the prepared fish with sliced fish) After the 3.3 (Jiang Shi wants to Jiang Shi catches the Jiang Shi provides the divine provide his mother with carp carp to his mother. intervention fish/carps)

120 Chapter 3

120

Three features shown in this table are worthy of attention. First, we can observe a neat parallel

between the son and his wife. This feature is demonstrated at the very beginning of the text, in

which the two actors are introduced as mirror images of one another. We are told that both the

son and his wife have great filial piety towards the son’s mother. This definition allows us to

construct the phase of possibilities in table 3, even though they are not articulated directly by the

narrator. Besides, since the son and his wife are depicted in a neat parallel structure and carry out

the same function as the agent providing service to the mother (-in-law), they can be viewed as

belonging to the same class of actors. Hence, I would like to term these two actors collectively as

son-actant. (“An actant is a class of actors that shares a certain characteristic quality” (Bal 202).)

Placing the two actors in the class of son-actant is not only because this story is registered mainly

under the son’s name (Jiang Shi),6 but also due to the well noted phenomenon that filial women

were, to a great degree, regarded as “surrogate sons.”7 This convergence of two genders into the

male gender is manifested in the story through a series of replacements: first, the “wife” in fabula

3.1 is replaced with the “couple” in fabula 3.2; the latter is in turn replaced with the “son” in the

last fabula.

Second, table 3 shares with table 2 one common characteristic: the mother is absent from

any events (or processes) in both sets of fabulas. In table 2, the events concerning the mother’s

activities are missing; in table 3, she is not directly involved in the events either which consists

only of the son-actant and an object (fish, water, etc.). The mother returns in the phase of result,

where she and the son-actant are confronted with one another. Their relationship can therefore be

summarized as: “the son-actant serves the mother an object,” or “the son-actant provides an

object to the mother.” The mother-child relationship is thus portrayed in the story as a subject-

object opposition, with the son-actant functioning as the (grammatical) subject, and the mother as Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 121

121 a (direct or indirect) object. This structural relation highlights the contrast between an active subject and his object-like mother who lacks activities.

It should be stressed here that the eclipse of the mother’s actions in the narrative is not due to the lack of details, but concerns the narrative-symbolic construction of her image. Surely, readers can fill in the missing information with their imaginations or presumptions; one may want to follow the traditional Chinese thought, arguing that the mother was very active in raising the son; the latter is merely repaying her kindness. The main problem of this argument is that, even though this assumption is correct, this active mother is extra-textual, who is therefore not an object of our reading. The narrative analysis is intended exactly to differentiate the mother in a real-life situation from the mother as a narrative character, and to demonstrate that there is a structural gap in the narrative-symbolic construction: as Table 2 shows, it is not possible to construct a complete narrative circle, if we consider the mother as an active actor. Hence, insofar as her interaction with the son-actant is concerned, the mother is represented in the text as utterly passive, whose extra-textual activities belong to the domain of the readers’ imagination and non- existing in the diegetic reality.

When it comes to the subject-object or activity-passivity oppositions, we tend to associate the first term (subject/activity) with the dominator /agency, and the second term (object/passivity) with the dominated / lack of agency, which indicates an unequal power relation in favour of the first term. However, if this is the case in story 11, it would be strange that this story could ever be selected and circulated as an exemplary case of filial piety, since the power structure interpreted in this way runs counter to the predominant discourse on filial piety which requires the child’s absolute obedience and submission to his/her parents. How should we then explain the mother’s non-activity and her passive role? There are two ways of answering this question. 122 Chapter 3

122

First, the relationship between the son-actant and the mother can be rephrased as: “the son-

actant wants to serve his mother,” with the son-actant and the mother serving the roles of a

subject and an object respectively.8 However, in order for the subject to realize his goal, he must

rely on other powers, among which is the mother’s own intention. For example, the mother could

refuse to accept the food provided by the son-actant, thereby preventing the subject from reaching

his goal. Hence, although positioned as a passive object, the mother can nevertheless be regarded

as palying the role of the power which is defined as “those who support the subject in the

realization of its intention, supply the object, or allow it to be supplied or given”; accordingly, the

son-actant becomes the receiver—“[t]he person to whom the object is ‘given’” (Bal, 204). In

other words, if the subject succeeds in realizing his intention to serve the mother, it is because she

lets herself be served, giving herself as the object of his intention. In this way, the subject and the

object coalesce respectively with the receiver and the power, which complicates the power

relation suggested by the subject-object opposition. Remarking on the coalescence of roles, Bal

states: “Seen grammatically, the active subject is passive in his role of receiver: he must wait and

see whether he will receive the desired object. On the other hand, the passive object is also

subject, and therefore more autonomous, in the role of power. The apparently passive object

actant is, as power, the decisive factor in the background” (205).

Another way of answering the above question is to view the object-like mother as a

personalized X supposedly possessed by the Master. According to Žižek, “[t]he secret of the

Master, what is ‘in Master more than himself’, that unfathomable X which confers upon him the

charismatic aura, is nothing but the reverse image of the ‘custom’, the subject’s symbolic rite …”

(For They Know 263).9 Žižek implies that the charismatic aura does not result from the Master’s

activity. It is through the subject’s service—his/her custom and rite—that the Master’s aura is

created; the unfathomable X is produced exactly by the subject’s activity. Or, to state it Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 123

123 differently, the Master does not need to secure his position by doing anything. Ironically, it is his non-activity that differentiates the Master from the active subject, whereby the X—the Master’s

Otherness—is rendered most tangible. Because the X is that which the subject does not have, it also distinguishes the Master from an other, preventing the subject from forming a mirror-like relation with him. Hence, through his/her activity, the subject not only generates the charismatic aura, but also posits the Master as his/her Other.

In this sense, I suggest that, in the filial piety story, the mother’s non-activity can be interpreted as a narrative device to establish the contrast between the mother and the son-actant, which, by intensifying the latter’s activity, actually highlights the former’s Otherness, rendering her as a stand-in for the Master within a familial structure. This narrative device is most strikingly demonstrated in another Ershisi xiao story. In story 12—“Kemu shiqin 刻木事親” (Carving

Wooden Sculptures, Serving His Parents), the parents are otherized to the extent that they are actually represented as two wooden statues receiving the son’s daily service. In this way, the contrast between the active son-actant and the non-active mother reflects the ultimate opposition between the subject (son-actant) and his Other. Actually, in accordance with the Confucian social-family system, the parents have always occupied the position of authority within the parent-child relationship, standing in for the big Other in an daily situation.

However, it should be pointed out at this point that this mother is not quite the symbolic big

Other, but that which Fink usually calls the mOther. In a clarification of his use of terms, Fink states:

In Lacan’s work, the term “other” with a lowercase “o” almost always means

someone with whom you have an imaginary relationship (someone similar to yourself,

someone like you), whereas “Other” with a capital “O” generally refers to a person or 124 Chapter 3

124

institution serving a symbolic function (legislating, prohibiting, putting forward

ideals, and so on), though it often designates the mother in a real or imaginary

capacity. For clarity’s sake, I try to use “Other” for the symbolic function and

“mOther” for the mother as real or imaginary… (Clinical Introduction 232 n8)

Following Fink, I will designate the mother in story 11 with the term “mOther” for two reasons:

first, as argued already, the mother is staged in the narrative as someone akin to the Master who

possesses the X and is thus not an other similar to the son-actant himself; second, strictly

speaking, she is not the Other either, since she does not actually carry out the symbolic functions

such as “legislating, prohibiting, putting forward ideals.” Hence, to distinguish her from the other

and the Other, I will henceforth refer to the mother in story 11 as the mOther which designates

the imaginary dimension of the Master.10

Finally, taking into consideration all three phases in the narrative circle, we can notice that

every phase contains an object; in contrast, the mOther is absent from the phase of events in both

tables, and the son-actant from the phase of possibilities in table 2. It is also important to note that,

in the entire story, the confrontation between the mOther and the son-actant never occurs without

involving an object. In this way, the object seems to occupy a quintessential position in the

narrative, functioning to mediate between the son-actant and the mOther. Take for example

fabula 3.2 (or fabula 2.2). It is only via the fish that the mOther and the son-actant are able to

encounter each other in the last phase. Hence, as depicted in this story, the familial relationship

takes the form of a triad consisting of the mOther, the son-actant and an object. Besides, we

should also take into consideration the role played by the divine intervention which brings out the

magical event. What is the function of the fourth element which interferes in the familial triad?

Does the relation between the mOther and the son-actant remain the same after the divine Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 125

125 intervention? In what follows, I will attempt to provide a psychoanalytically informed analysis of this triangular structure and the role played by the divine agency.

The mOther’s desire > φ

In the previous chapter, we have discussed at some length the function of the Oedipus complex which replaces the imaginary mother-child duality with a symbolic triad made up of the child, the mother (as an imaginary other) and the Father (as the symbolic big Other). At this point,

Homer reminds us that “the imaginary is never simply a dual structure—there is always a third element involved” (53). The third element in the imaginary is termed by Lacan the “imaginary phallus”; by becoming the phallus—the imaginary object of the mother’s desire, the child strives to maintain his/her unity with her. Hence, when a triangular relationship is concerned, we have two psychoanalytical models: the symbolic Oedipal triad and the imaginary triad consisting of the mother, the child and the imaginary phallus. Let us start with the second model.

To begin with, we need to differentiate the “phallus” from the “penis.” As Dylan Evans points out, “Lacan usually reserves the term ‘penis’ for the biological organ, and the term

‘phallus’ for the imaginary and symbolic functions of this organ” (143). He then provides a clear outline of the difference between the imaginary and the symbolic phalluses, which I am to summarize as follows: during the pre-Oedipal period, the phallus is an imaginary object (φ) which is believed by the child to be the object of the mother’s desire. In order to satisfy the mother, the child identifies with the imaginary phallus by being it. The intervention of the father makes this identification impossible, which forces the child to relinquish his/her attempt to be the imaginary phallus for the mother. This impossibility of being the mother’s phallus is an effect of the symbolic castration (-φ). Hence, in the Oedipal relationship, the phallus no longer refers to the imaginary object, but becomes a signifier of desire of the Other (ϕ) (Evans 144-45).11 Besides, 126 Chapter 3

126

“[i]nsofar as desire is always correlated with lack,” says Fink, “the phallus is the signifier of lack”

(Lacanian Subject 102, original italics). In short, if the imaginary phallus is an object that

supposedly satisfies the mOther’s desire, the symbolic phallus is the registration of desire itself,

indicating that the castrated organ is that which no one has but every one longs for.

(At this point, a few words need to be said about the phallus in Lacanian psychoanalysis.

As Elizabeth Grosz observes, “feminists cannot afford to ignore the a priori privileging of the

masculine within his account, nor can they too readily accept Lacan’s claim that the phallus is a

signifier like any other” [Phallus 322]. I am fully aware of the feminists’ concern; however, there

are good reasons why we should not dismiss this concept so quickly. First, the significance of the

phallus has remained so pervasive that we cannot analyze a social-cultural artifact produced in a

patriarchal society without reference to it. Second, for Lacan, the phallus is not “a signifier like

any other,” but the signifier of lack, which enables us to “see” the truth of the Father: the Father

who supposedly has the phallus is actually an “imposter”; what he has is nothing but the lack.

Hence, the strength of Lacan’s theory lies exactly in its ability to deconstruct the patriarchal

system from within by undermining its privileged signifier.12)

Later on, Lacan introduces another term—objet petit a, the object-cause of desire, which

Lacan calls “a symbol of the lack” (Seminar XI 103). According to Yannis Stavrakakis, “the

concept of objet petit a gradually takes, in the work of Lacan, the place of the symbolic phallus.

The objet-cause of desire takes the place of the signifier of desire” (50).13 To further examine the

relation between the objet petit a and desire, I will start with Fink’s following statement:

[W]hat I want, as a subject, is recognition by the Other, and this recognition takes the

form of being wanted: I want to be wanted. In order to be wanted, I try to figure out

what the Other wants so I can try to be it and thereby be wanted. I desire the Other's

desire for me. Object a in the matheme for fantasy [$<>a], at one level, can be Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 127

127

understood as the Other’s desire for me; thus, in my fantasy, I imagine myself in

relation to the Other’s desire for me. (Lacan to the Letter 119, original italics)

What is demonstrated in this passage is a phantasmatic translation of the objet petit a: the signifier of the Other’s desire is interpreted in the subject’s fantasy as “the Other’s desire for me.”

On the one hand, this interpretation seems to indicate a direct relationship between the subject and the Other: I, as the desired object, am situated directly in the Other’s desire. However, on the other hand, Fink’s text makes it clear that the Other’s desire for me is never direct but mediated by another object. That is, I can be desired/wanted by the Other, only when I have figured out and become what the Other wants. Hence, in a fantasy, the Other’s desire (as “the

Other’s desire for me”) always involves another object—the object which supposedly satisfies the Other. This satisfying object can probably be understood as the imaginary phallus (φ)—the imaginary object of the Other’s desire; by becoming or possessing it, I image myself as the object situated in the Other’s desire, becoming the “me” in “the Other’s desires for me.” Hence, we have here a triad: the relationship between the subject ($) and the Other’s desire (a) is mediated by an object (φ). The question is: to what extent does this triad bear on the triangular structure in story

11.

We can make the following suggestion: the mOther is a desiring Other who wants something. The son-actant is a desiring subject whose desire is to be desired/wanted by the mOther. By having the object which satisfies the mOther’s desire, the son-actant attempts to situate himself in the mOther’s desire and become connected with her, that is, to be wanted/desired directly by the mOther. Now, let us see if this suggestion can be fit into the story.

In the first fabula, we are told that the mOther is disposed to drink the water fetched from a certain river. However, because of the lack of activities on the mOther’s side, this disposition is not articulated directly by the mOther herself. Hence, we do not know if this relation between the 128 Chapter 3

128

mOther and the object is narrated from the mOther’s perspective or supposed by the son-actant.

Consequently, it is impossible for us to interpret the mOther’s “true” attitude towards the object.

The only thing which can be deduced from the text is that the son-actant takes the water as the

object supposedly satisfying the mOther. And, as demonstrated through my above analysis, it is

exactly by obtaining the object that the son-actant is able to be confronted (and even united) with

the mOther in the last phase of the fabula. For this reason, we may view the water as the

imaginary object (φ) of the mOther’s desire; by possessing it, the son-actant ($) attempts not only

to satisfy the mOther but also to be situated within the mOther’s desire (a). Hence, what we

observe in the first fabula is a phantasmatic reduction of the objet petit a (a signifier of desire) to

the imaginary phallus (a concrete object—the water in this case—which the son-actant

misrecognizes as the object of the mOther’s desire).

The mOther’s desire = a

That the subject’s desire is to be desired or recognized by the Other is one way of

understanding the crucial Lacanian thesis that our desire is always the desire of the Other. Žižek

formulates a three-level reading of this thesis (Indivisible Remainder 167-68). First, on the

imaginary level, my desire is influenced by the desire of the others with whom I identify or

compete. The relationship between Jiang Shi and his wife can probably be explained on this level.

The son’s wife wants what her husband wants: one is filial; another one is even more so. Second,

on the symbolic level, this thesis can be interpreted in two ways: one has already been discussed

above—that is, the subject’s desire to be wanted by the Other; the other one concerns the fact that

“what I desire is predetermined and decided at the Other Place of the anonymous-transsubjective

symbolic order, it is ‘mediated’ by the symbolic network of the cultural tradition to which I

belong” (Žižek, Indivisible Remainder 167). Finally, on the level of the Real, the subject’s own Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 129

129 desire hinges on the question “Che vuoi?” (“What do you want?”) which is addressed to the

Other. This question constitutes the ultimate enigma of the Other’s desire and, as we will see, has no ready answer in the symbolic order. The Other’s desire in the Real will help us to understand the narrative development from fabula 2 to fabula 3.

The second fabula (fabula 3.2) features a less specified object: the mother likes to eat sliced fish; but, we do not know what kind of fish it is. This uncertainty is changed in the last fabula where the fish is defined as a carp. No matter how trivial this difference may appear to be, the objects in the two fabulas are of different natures: the discordance between “fish” and “carp” is as great as the distinction between a genus and its species. Hence, we can observe here a reduction of a genus (“fish”) to a specific species (“carp”). To further understand the significance of fish, we need to have a closer look at the Lacanian notion of the objet petit a: besides being a signifier of desire, the objet petit a is also the object-cause of desire—the lost object whose loss causes desire. One way of clarifying this term is to compare it with the objects of need and demand.

According to Fink, “[b]iologically determined strivings (say, for nourishment) are referred to by Lacan as ‘need’”; “a demand is a need that is addressed to another person” (Clinical

Introduction 235 n4, original italics). In other words, a demand is a function of signification; it articulates one’s need to another person who will then interpret this articulation through the symbolic-signifying system. A baby’s cry can be regarded as the most rudimentary form of articulation by which the baby’s need is addressed to its mother (or other caretakers). Once the need is articulated, something else is generated. Lacan states: “the very satisfactions demand obtains for need are debased (sich erniedrigt) to the point of being no more than the crushing brought on by the demand for love…” (Écrits 580). That is, when the mother satisfies the baby’s need, the baby would take the mother’s response to its cry (demand) as a token of love. Hence, the baby’s cry is not only a demand for food or other objects of need, but also a demand for the 130 Chapter 3

130

mother’s love. (For this reason, the baby’s demand for love can still be satisfied, even if the

mother does not provide him/her with an object of need, but instead replaces it with a hug.)

Hence, the demand for love transcends the “natural” need, in the sense that it requires no

particular object; once the need is translated into a demand, the object of need is somehow

negated or transcended.

Desire is different: “desire is neither the appetite for satisfaction nor the demand for love,

but the difference that results from the subtraction of the first from the second, the very

phenomenon of their splitting (Spaltung)” (Lacan, Écrits 580). Žižek, in his reading of this

definition of desire, identifies the thing which remains after the subtraction of need from demand

as the objet petit a:

Desire is what in demand is irreducible to need: if we subtract need from demand, we

get desire. In a formulation typical of the anti-Hegelian attitude of his late teaching,

Lacan speaks here of “a reversal that is not simply a negation of the negation”—in

other words, one that is still a kind of “negation of the negation,” although not a

“simple” one …. This “reversal” is a “negation of the negation” insofar as it entails a

return to the object annulled by the passage from need to demand: it produces a new

object which replaces the lost-sublated object of need—objet petit a, the object-cause

of desire. (Tarrying 121-22, original italics)

In this sense, one could argue that the objet petit a is that which is produced through

symbolization (i.e. demand as an articulation) but has no reference in reality, since it is neither a

natural object (the object of need) nor the Other’s love (the object of demand).

Hence, in Seminar XI, Lacan defines the objet petit a as a lost, non-existing organ: “The

objet a is something from which the subject, in order to constitute itself, has separated itself off as

organ. This serves as a symbol of the lack, that is to say, of the phallus, not as such, but in so far Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 131

131 as it is lacking” (Seminar XI 103). Defined in this way, the objet petit a bears a close relation to das Ding—the impossible nonobject of desire; it differs from das Ding only in its function. If, as repeatedly argued, das Ding constitutes the hole of the symbolic order, the objet petit a functions somehow to fill out this hole: “Objet a is a kind of ‘positivization,’ filling out, of the void we encounter every time we are struck by the experience of ‘This is not that!’ In it, the very inadequacy, deficiency, of every positive object assumes positive existence, i.e., becomes an object” (Žižek, Tarrying 122). It is important to note that the word “positivization” is written inside quotation marks, which expresses the paradoxical nature of the objet petit a: it is not a positive thing which we can find in reality; rather, its positivity functions only to give body to the inadequacy or the lack inherent in the articulated, symbolized world. This is why the objet petit a is the signifier of desire and the “symbol of lack”: it indexes the lack; it is the lack embodied. In this sense, we may also understand the objet petit a as an expression of the Thing in the imaginary and symbolic orders. Or, in Žižek’s words, “das Ding is the absolute void, the lethal abyss which swallows the subject; while objet petit a designates that which remains of the Thing after it has undergone the process of symbolization” (Plague 81).14

However, the objet petit a as the remainder of the Thing does not remain as something which can be positively located in reality, but as a fantasy object through which the effect of the

Real can be felt. In reference to fantasy $<>a (which can be read as the castrated/split subject in relation with the object-cause of desire),15 Žižek metaphorically describes the objet petit a as an empty frame, stating that: “a as the fantasy-object is an object that is an empty form, a frame that determines the status of positive entities” (Metastases 181). Situated within a fantasy, the objet petit a functions as an empty frame (or a genus) defining the structural position of each object placed within the frame (or under the genus). However, there are no positive objects which can be equated perfectly with the empty frame; no species can be said as the same as the genus. 132 Chapter 3

132

Therefore, this indeterminacy of the objet petit a decides not only that, as pointed out in the

previous chapter, desire is by definition unsatisfiable, but also that, in reality, desire moves in a

metonymic way between objects, searching forever for the perfect match. As Lacan states,

“man’s desire is a metonymy” (Écrits 439); and, according to Fink, “the term ‘metonymy’ here

impl[ies] simply that desire moves from one objet to the next, that in and of itself desire involves

a constant slippage or movement. Desire is an end in itself: it seeks only more desire, not fixation

on a specific object” (Clinical Introduction 26).

Hence, if the family triad in story 11 is structured entirely in accordance with the economy

of desire, we can construct a different version of the last fabula. For example, the mother wants to

eat all kinds of fish; and the son-actant, by adopting the mOther’s desire as his own, also desires

to catch different sorts of fish on different days. Accordingly, the spring should supply the family

with carps on Monday, trout on Tuesday, eels on Wednesday, etc. (Since it is a story, why not

shark’s fins in the weekend?) However, the mOther, as well as the son-actant, would remain

unsatisfied, and want something new. Although this episode is purely a hypothesis, it

nevertheless demonstrates the fact that the fish is not simply an object; as a genus, it necessarily

implies a wide diversity of objects. Hence, the fish is different from the water in the first fabula,

because the former is no longer a positive object, but serves as the objet petit a—an empty frame

which cannot be equated with any particular objects.

In other words, there is a shift in the nature of the objects: the imaginary phallus (the water)

is replaced with the objet petit a (the fish) in the second fabula. With this replacement, the

subject-object relationship is changed accordingly: the son-actant associates himself no longer

with the imaginary phallus but with the objet petit a—the object-cause and the signifier of the

mOther’s desire/lack. For this reason, we may argue that the family relationship depicted in the

second fabula is structured like a fantasy $<>a: the fish occupies the place of the objet petit a, Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 133

133 whose lack of a fixed reference signifies and causes the mOther’s desires/lack; it is through this undeterminable object that the son-actant ($) situates himself in relation to the mOther’s desire.

However, this fantasy remains underdeveloped in the narrative. With the introduction of the carp, the narrative changes its direction. What is emphasized at the end of the story is the son-actant’s

(as well as the mOther’s) fixation upon a particular object —the carp. What does this fixation mean? And, what are its implications for the relation between the mOther and the son-actant?

The mOther’s desire > D

As shown in Fink’s argument quoted at the beginning of this section, our relation with the

Other is based on the question as to what the Other wants. In Lacan’s words, it is the question

“Che vuoi?” addressed by the subject to the Other (Écrits 690). And, as pointed out above, for

Žižek, it is in response to this question that the subject confronts the Other’s desire on the level of the Real. What makes the Other’s desire Real is the unanswerable nature of this question. As

Fink argues, desire “springs from lack, and no one can say what he or she really wants, desire having no unique object” (Clinical Introduction 64). The same goes for the Other’s desire: it is simply impenetrable, because the object of desire alludes to the Thing/the Real as the absolute beyond which is by definition unarticulable. In Žižek’s words, “the Other’s desire confronts me with the opacity of the impossible Real that resists symbolization” (Indivisible Remainder 168, original italics). If we will never be able to know for sure what the Other wants, it is because of the Other’s own inability to articulate its desire; that is, the Other does not know either the answer to the question “Che vuoi?” This impossibility to articulate the Other’s desire is partially veiled and partially represented in the narrative through the mOther’s non-activity: she is utterly passive, never acts, and never speaks directly. The lack of events in table 2 can thus be interpreted as indicative of the opacity of the mOther’s desire. If the text fails to narrate the 134 Chapter 3

134

mOther’s articulation of her desire, it is not because the mOther refuses to tell what she wants,

but because she does not know what she desires. What we have here is thus “a kind of ‘white’

desire that emerges when I encounter an Other whose actual wants are not clear, although he does

seem to want something from me…” (Žižek, Indivisible Remainder 168, original italics).

One crucial aspect concerning the subject’s confrontation with the Other’s desire is omitted

in the Ershisi xiao text—namely, the subject’s anxiety which, for reasons to be discussed soon, is

somehow resolved. According to Lacanian psychoanalysis, facing the unknowable desire of the

Other, the subject experiences enormous anxiety. To illustrate this effect, there is probably no

better way than to cite Lacan’s fable of a female praying mantis which bits off the head of its

male partner during their copulation. Lacan pictures that he wears a mask of a mantis, without

knowing if it resembles a male or a female one. At this moment, he is confronted with a female

praying mantis. He then argues:

Since I didn’t know which mask I was wearing, you can easily imagine that I had

some reason not to feel reassured in the event that, by chance, this mask might have

been just what it took to lead my partner into some error as to my identity. The whole

thing was well underscored by the fact that, as I confessed, I couldn’t see my own

image in the enigmatic mirror of the insect’s ocular globe. (Seminar X 5-6)

Facing the Other (the female praying mantis), the subject has no idea about what the Other wants

from him, because he does not know what kind of object he is in the Other’s eyes. This

uncertainty distinguishes anxiety from fear: while fear is related to a particular danger, anxiety is

aroused when we do not know if the Other is dangerous or not, because of the Other’s

unknowable desire.16

This fable also suggests that anxiety may be even more unbearable than fear. In order to

avoid this dreadful feeling, the subject will desperately want to find an answer to the question Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 135

135

“Che vuoi?” Fink maintains: “The unknown nature of the Other’s desire is unbearable here; you prefer to assign it an attribute, any attribute, rather than let it remains an enigma” (Clinical

Introduction 61). Fantasy is one way of dealing with the enigma of the Other’s desire, which provides the objet petit a as an answer, even though no objects found in reality can ever match the fantasy-object.17 Naming an object for the Other is another strategy, whose effect is to turn desire into a demand.

This jumping to conclusions transforms the Other’s desire—which, strictly speaking,

has no object—into something with a very specific object. In other words, it

transforms the Other’s desire into a demand …, a demand addressed to the subject

who does the naming. Whereas desire has no object, demand does. (Fink, Clinical

Introduction 61, original italics)

In this sense, the reduction of a general term (fish) to a specific object (carp) can be understood as

“jumping to conclusions” of the mOther’s desire, which, by naming an object for the mOther, answers the subject’s (the son-actant’s) question of “Che vuoi?” Hence, the fixation on a particular object in the last fabula can probably be interpreted as a process which transforms the mOther’s desire into a demand. It explains why anxiety is lacking in the narrative: there is no anxiety in the diegetic reality, because the mOther’s desire is never fully rendered as a Real thing, which is either satisfied by an imaginary object or quickly negated and translated into a demand.

In other words, what is staged in the narrative is the process by which the mOther’s desire is cancelled out.

Another crucial point in Fink’s argument is that the answer (the demand) is uttered not by the Other, but by the subject him/herself “who does the naming.” That is, in the process of naming, the Other plays a passive role, whose speeches or gestures are subjected to the subject’s interpretation. For this reason, we can provide another explanation of the lack of events in table 2: 136 Chapter 3

136

how or whether the mOther asks for the object is of little importance, because what is at stake

here is the son-actant’s interpretation, or rather reduction, of the mOther’s desire. That is,

regardless of how and/or what the mOther has said to the son-actant, the effect of her speech is

always determined by the latter’s interpretation. Hence, the gap—represented by the lack of

events in table 2—is filled out in table 3, when these events are narrated from the perspective of

the son-actant.

More importantly, the son-actant himself does not make this interpretation on his own,

because he can only do so in the place of the big Other. As pointed out above by Žižek, that the

subject’s desire is always the desire of the Other also means: “what I desire is predetermined and

decided at the Other Place of the anonymous-transsubjective symbolic order, it is ‘mediated’ by

the symbolic network of the cultural tradition to which I belong” (Indivisible Remainder 167).

For one thing, the carp is not an object chosen randomly, which, unlike other kinds of fish, has

been regarded in the Chinese culture as bearing an auspicious significance. Hence, the

transformation of fish into carp is culturally informed, which is intended to convey certain

meanings. For this reason, this transformation can also be interpreted as a reduction of an empty

signifier of desire (object petit a) to a signified, which was culturally and symbolically

determined or even demanded. This symbolic agency is represented in the narrative by the divine

power—the ultimate authority in the traditional Chinese world, from which every political-

cultural-social regime derived its mandate. As I will argue below, it is through the divine

intervention—the magical emergence of a spring and two carps—that the object of demand

transforms the family relationship, which answers the question “Che vuoi?” for the son-actant.

In short, what is demonstrated in this story is, to a great degree, the changes in the function

of the objects: it is first transformed from an imaginary object (the water) of the mOther’s desire

into the objet petit a (fish)—the object-cause and the signifier of her desire—which is then turned Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 137

137 into an object of demand or a signified (carp). Hence, in the third fabula, the son-actant is no long related to the mOther’s desire as such, but tied to a demand. Thereby, the formula of fantasy

$<>a (the subject in relation to the object-cause of desire) is transformed into $<>D —“the subject in relation to demand” (Fink, Lacanian Subject 174). (The letter D denotes “demand.”)

The latter matheme which is used by Lacan to formulate the drive suggests that, in order to further understand the ideological function served by this story, we need to change our perspective from desire to the drive.

II

The Divine Intervention and the Other’s Demand

$<>D

There are two ways of reading the matheme $<>D, depending on how the letter D should be interpreted. The first reading associates D with the Other’s demand to transform a child’s natural body into a cultural product. The most often cited example is the parent’s demand on the child to become toilet trained. As Fink puts forward, “the anal drive, for example, comes into being due to the parents’ demands that the child become toilet trained, that it learn to control its excretory functions” (Perversion 63-64 n 24). Consequently, the libidinal energy is channelled into certain parts of the body, such as the anus, which become subsequently the erogenous zones.

According to Lacan, these bodily zones form the sources of the drives, from which the drives depart and to which they return.18 Explained in this way, the drive seems to have little to do with story 11, since we cannot easily locate such a bodily zone in the narrative. However, there is another way of interpreting the D, which is directly relevant to our current concern. 138 Chapter 3

138

In The Lacanian Subject, Fink puts forward another explanation of Lacan’s matheme for

the drive, arguing that “[t]he formula of fantasy—implying desire—is often reduced to that of the

drive in neurosis, as the neurotic takes (or mistakes) the Other’s demand for his/her desire” (174).

Here, the Other’s demand assumes a role different from the one discussed above. Rather than

cultivating the child’s natural body, the Other’s demand serves as a replacement of the Other’s

desire. Fink states in another book:

The idea here is that, in the neurotic’s fantasy, ($<>D) instead of ($<>a), the subject

adopts as his or her “partner” the Other’s demand—that is, something that is static,

unchanging, ever revolving around the same thing (love)—instead of the Other’s

desire, which is fundamentally in motion, ever seeking something else. (Lacanian

Subject 186-87 n21)19

As already discussed above, the Other’s demand results from the process of naming, by which the

unnameable phantasy-object a is reduced to a specific object. Here, the difference between the

Other’s demand and the Other’s desire is further clarified as a contrast between something which

is “static” and something which is “in motion.” The image of demand as “something that is static,

unchanging, ever revolving around the same thing” seems to be an accurate description of the

mOther’s fondness of a specific type of water in story 11.

In our earlier discussion, I have suggested that the water in the first fabula functions as the

imaginary object of the mOther’s desire. However, the mOther’s attachment to a particular object

already betrays that something other than desire is at work. From the beginning to the end of the

story, the water has always been represented on the level of “species.” The mOther does not like

water in general, but a specific type of water—the water fetched from a certain river. According

to the Hou han shu version of the story, she even suffered from thirst, when Jiang Shi’s wife, who

went to fetch the water, failed to return in time. Apparently, the water functions here as an object Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 139

139 of need, which is expected to relieve the mOther’s thirst. However, the point here is that the mOther’s thirst is not caused by the lack of water, but by the lack of a particular type of water.

On the level of need, the mOther can solve her problem by drinking some other kinds of water, such as the water from a well. If her thirst cannot be relieved in this way, it is probably because she is suffering from the “thirst” for certain satisfaction which has nothing to do with need.

Moreover, since this satisfaction can be delivered by a particular object, it simultaneously indicates that what is satisfied here is not desire as such, because desire, as argued above, cannot be satisfied and moves forever in a metonymic way between objects. Hence, the mOther’s fondness of the water is portrayed in the story not as something “fundamentally in motion, ever seeking something else,” but as “something that is static, unchanging, ever revolving around the same thing.”

However, strictly speaking, the water in the first fabula is not yet a demand, because, as pointed out earlier, a demand is an articulation. Since the mOther is portrayed as utterly passive and speechless, the position of enunciation is denied to her. And, insofar as the object is not articulated, it is not fully symbolized and thus remains to be an imaginary object—a particular object imagined by the subject (the son-actant) as the object which fills out the mOther’s lack/thirst. The status of the object is changed after the intervention of the divine power which introduces the third position—the symbolic order—into the mother-son relationship. It is my contention that the magical event can be understood as a divine enunciation which articulates and posits certain specific objects—the water from the spring and the carps. It should also be noted that, although the water from the spring tastes exactly like the water from the river, the location of the water is changed; this change may indicate a shift in the object’s position which is transformed from an imaginary object into an object of a symbolic demand. That is, if the divine power served in the traditional Chinese culture as the ultimate emblem of symbolic authority 140 Chapter 3

140

which issued the mandate, we may argue that the divine presence in the form of a spring

metaphorizes the location of the symbolic order—the place where all articulations and thus all

demands are formulated. Hence, the water in fabula 1 is different from the water in fabula 3: if

the former is an imaginary object, the latter is now placed at the locus of the symbolic order and

can thus be viewed as the statement of a symbolic enunciation, that is, the object of the Other’s

demand.

Hence, the water from the spring as well as the carps can be interpreted as the

divine/symbolic answer to the question “Che vuoi?”, which not only solves, for the son-actant,

the enigma of the mOther’s desire, but also transforms her desire into the Other’s demand. The

determinant role of the symbolic order is clearly demonstrated in the narrative: it is not the son-

actant who decides to reduce the object-cause of desire (fish) to a specific object (carp). This

reduction is rather decided for him by the divine power. The mysterious emergence of the spring

and the carps is something beyond the son-actant’s (and the mOther’s) control and intention.

Hence, in the end, it is the big Other which articulates the demand on the subject: “Serve your

mother the carp and the water.” However, what if the mOther does not like the carp at all?

Although this demand is apparently made on her behalf, the mOther is actually cancelled out at

this moment. Consequently, the mOther’s desire is replaced with and reduced to the Other’s

demand, which has profound implications for the subject.

A failed separation

The big Other as a demanding agency is not unique to story 11, which can be observed in a

broader context. As we have seen in chapter 1, the criteria for being a filial subject are prescribed

in a very concrete fashion, such as to have male offspring, to preserve your body, etc. This list of

criteria not only determines how the child should serve his/her parents, but also functions, in my Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 141

141 view, as a means of naming the object of the mOther’s (the parents’) desire and thus turning desire into demands. In this way, the uncertain a (an empty frame sustaining desire) is replaced with the D (a demand articulating a specific object); the big Other—the Confucian discourse on filial piety— answers for the subject the question “Che vuoi?” by which the filial subject is told what he/she is for the mOther as well as for the big Other itself, and how to assume his/her position with respect to them. For this reason, this model of filial piety may have actually appealed to many subjects in reality, since it protected the subject from the anxiety aroused by a direct confrontation with the enigma of Other’s desires. The Lacanian insight here is that, despite all the demands imposed upon an individual subject, the Father—the symbolic agency of the big

Other— is a pacifying figure. As Žižek puts it, “‘father’ for Lacan is not the name of traumatic intrusion, but the solution to the deadlock of such an intrusion, the answer to the enigma. The enigma, of course, is the enigma of the (m)other’s desire (what does she really want, above and beyond me, since I am obviously not enough for her?); and ‘father’ is the answer to this enigma, the symbolization of the deadlock” (Totalitarianism 60, original italics). By subjecting himself

/herself to the Father’s words, the subject escapes from anxiety, which, as I will argue, is achieved at the expense of his/her freedom.

At this point, a very naïve question needs to be asked: Why does the subject believe in the

Other’s words? How can the big Other avoid a “questioning” subject who doubts about the

Father’s answer? Another related problem concerns the relation between the drive and the symbolic order. If, as propagated in story 11, the ideal relationship between a subject and the

(m)Other (i.e. the mOther as well as the big Other) is structured like the drive “$<>D,” it would seem strange that the drive can serve as a support for the symbolic order, because, as Jacques-

Alain Miller points out, “[t]he drive couldn’t care less about prohibition; it knows nothing of prohibition and certainly doesn’t dream of transgressing it. The drive follows its own bent and 142 Chapter 3

142

always obtains satisfaction” (Lacan's Text 423).20 Hence, if the drive is immune to the symbolic

regulation, how can story 11 serves as an exemplar case of a social morality?

To answer these questions, we may start with the fundamental question “Che vuoi?”. Since

when is the subject able to pose this question concerning the Other’s desire? As pointed out in

chapter 2, human subjectivity begins with a castrating cut which corresponds to the moment of

alienation—the moment when an individual is confronted with a forced choice between meaning

and being. To become a social subject, the individual cannot but choose meaning; as a

consequence, a piece of his/her being—the objet petit a as a castrated organ—is lost forever.

Hence, the subject is constituted by an inherent lack. The next moment following alienation is

“separation” which refers generally to the moment when the child realizes that his/her parent(s)—

the child’s Other— is (are) also lacking and thus desiring something. Here, the term separation

should be distinguished from the separation of a child from his/her primordial mother. As Žižek

argues, it is not that “the subject experiences that now he is separated for ever from the object by

the barrier of language, but that the object is separated from the Other itself, that the Other itself

‘hasn’t got it’, hasn’t got the final answer…” (Sublime Object 122, original italics). It is the

recognition of the Other’s own desire/lack that leads the subject to ask the question “Che

vuoi?”—“What do you want from me?”

Meanwhile, the child is also confronted with the radical indeterminacy of the Other’s desire.

According to Fink, “[i]n separation we start from a barred Other, that is, a parent who is him or

herself divided: who is not always aware (conscious) of what he or she wants (unconscious) and

whose desire is ambiguous, contradictory, and in constant flux” (Lacanian Subject 54). The

Other’s uncertainty of his/her desire is sensed by the subject in the Other’s discourse. In

discussing the notion of separation, Lacan maintains: Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 143

143

A lack is encountered by the subject in the Other, in the very intimation that the Other

makes to him by his discourse. In the intervals of the discourse of the Other, there

emerges in the experience of the child something that is radically mappable, namely,

He is saying this to me, but what does he want? (Seminar XI 214, original italics)

Separation generates many effects on the subject, among which is, as demonstrated in Lacan’s statement, the child’s ability to question the meaning of the Other’s speech. To rephrase Lacan’s words, we may say that, facing a desiring Other, the child says to him/herself: “I do not believe what he has said to me. He is really after something else. What is it?” This question may not pose a direct challenge to the Other’s authority; it nevertheless shows a distance between the subject and the Other, which saves the former from a total alienation by the latter; hence, Žižek has viewed separation as a process of “de-alienation.”21 In this transition from alienation to separation, we observe a gradual decrease in the Other’s domination over the subject.

Let us now return to the filial piety story. As argued above, the second fabula describes the son-actant’s relation with the mOther’s desire for fish, which features the structure of a fantasy

$<>a, with “fish” functioning as an indeterminate signifier (a) of the mOther’s desire. This relationship can probably be understood as corresponding to the stage of separation, in which the mOther’s lack is implied but also concealed by the objet petit a: as a fantasy-object, the objet petit a serves as an answer to the question “Che vuoi?”; however, because it itself is unattainable in reality, this object also indicates simultaneously a lack. Hence, according to Lacanian theory, fantasy should be traversed. The purpose of psychoanalysis is to enable the subject to see the nothingness behind the fantasy scene, to confront him/her with the abyss of the Other’s desire/lack.22 144 Chapter 3

144

In this sense, the unanswerable question of “Che vuoi?” actually opens up the possibility of

freedom, insofar as freedom is to be understood in the Lacanian sense as coincident with the void

of the symbolic order.

[F]reedom does not mean that I simply get rid of the Other’s desire—I am, as it were,

thrown into my freedom when I confront this opacity as such, deprived of the

fantasmatic cover which tells me what the Other wants from me. In this difficult

predicament, full of anxiety, when I know that the Other wants something from me,

without knowing what this desire is, I am thrown back into myself, compelled to

assume the risk of freely determining the co-ordinates of my desire. (Žižek, For They

Know lvi)

This possibility of “freely determining the co-ordinates of my desire” is denied in story 11 by the

divine/symbolic intervention which, by providing an answer to the mOther’s desire, not only

prevents the subject from making a free decision, but also, more significantly, cancels out the

fundamental question of the mOther’s desire. It seems as though there is no question about her

desire; she knows what she wants; she wants the carp, because the Father/ the big Other says so.

As a consequence, the son-actant’s fantasy ($<>a) is not traversed, but transformed into his

relation with the Father’s words; or, we may even say, the ideological fantasy, as pictured in story

11, is structured like the drive ($<>D), by which the subject relates himself not to the mOther’s

desire/lack but to the Other’s demand. The result is that, when the objet petit a—the lost object

which both conceals and marks the lack—is replaced with a concrete object/signified, the

(m)Other’s desire/lack is simultaneously denied. As Žižek warms us, “[w]ithout this lack in the

Other, the Other would be a closed structure and the only possibility open to the subject would be

his radical alienation in the Other” (Sublime Object 122). Hence, if separation can be viewed as a

kind of “de-alienation,” the reduction of desire to the Other’s demand functions to reverse the Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 145

145 transition from alienation to separation, whereby it undoes the effect of “de-alienation” and closes the space between the Other and the subject.

The radical alienation in the Other makes it difficult, if not impossible, for the subject to question the Other’s words and thus its demand. It is because, without going through the stage of separation, the child would not be able to become aware of the fact that the Other is also barred by language, whose own discourse is split and uncertain. When the effect of separation in undone, the Other’s demand—as an articulation—is consequently deprived of its dialectical dimension.

Demand almost always implies a certain dialectical mediation: we demand something,

but what we are really aiming at through this demand is something else—sometimes

even the very refusal of the demand in its literality. Along with every demand, a

question necessarily rises: “I demand this, but what do I really want by it?” Drive, on

the contrary, persists in a certain demand, it is a “mechanical” insistence that cannot

be caught up in dialectical trickery: I demand something and I persist in it to the end.

(Žižek, Looking Awry 21)

Although Žižek talks here about “my demand,” it can nevertheless be translated as the demand of the Other, because any demand cannot but be formulated in the place of the big Other—that is, in language and in the symbolic order which I belong to. Following Žižek’s argument, we should admit that the Other’s demand does not always constitute the drive; in a “normal” situation, the subject will not subject him/herself totally to the Other’s words.

However, this dialectical dimension of demand is avoided in story 11. As all other Ershisi xiao stories, it does not fail to yield a sense of certainty. The son-actant is certain about the

Other’s demand; he never asks in the text: I am demanded to provide the carp to my mother; however, does she really want it? Questions of this kind may have actually been asked by subjects in reality; but, for the discursive system, these doubts are doomed to be excluded from 146 Chapter 3

146

its representation or construction of an exemplary subject. Hence, I suggest that the ideal

Confucian subject (as exemplified by the son-actant in story 11) is the subject who never doubts

about the Other’s words/demands and devotes him/herself to the Other’s demand without ever

questioning if the demand can be interpreted differently, or even be refused. The subject without

doubts is a totally alienated subject; however, at the same time, he/she also escapes from the

anxiety provoked by the Other’s desire.

When the dialectical dimension is subtracted from demand, the drive takes the control over

the subject. To rephrase Žižek’s words, we may summarize story 11 as follows: “On the behalf of

the mOther, the divine power (the big Other) demands the carp, and the son-actant persists in it to

the end.” This dimension of the drive can be observed at the end of the story; the text reads:

“Every day, out of the spring leapt two carps which Shi would catch and provide to his mother.”

What is highlighted in this passage is the repetitive nature of the object (of the Other’s demand)

and the son-actant’s continuous movement around it. By obtaining this object, the subject returns

to the same thing repeatedly and endlessly. This repetitive movement represents vividly what

Žižek calls a “mechanical” insistence. In this way, the drive functions as the glue sticking the

subject to the demand issued by the big Other. (It probably needs to be stressed here that the drive

could also belong to the mOther: she insists on the demand to the end. However, since the

mOther is portrayed in the story as an utterly passive object, it is difficult to situate her on the

subjective position ($) in the matheme of the drive ($<>D).) In short, story 11 serves a particular

ideological function: by replacing the objet petit a with a demand, this story engineers a structural

mutation of the fantasy ($<>a), changing it into the structure of the drive ($<>D). Once giving in

to this transformed fantasy, the subject will mistake the demand (or a set of demands) as the

(m)Other’s desire, and become subsequently transfixed upon it. The drive is thus reproduced Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 147

147 through this variegated fantasy, functioning to trap the subject within an alienating relation with the (m)Other. Thereby, the Other’s hold over its subjects is completed.

One carp too many: excess and enjoyment

By devoting himself/herself to the Other’s demand, the filial subject not only avoids the anxiety provoked by the Other’s desire, but also gains something else. As mentioned above,

“[t]he drive follows its own bent and always obtains satisfaction” (Miller, Lacan's Text 423).

Hence, if the ideological fantasy was indeed structured like the drive, we may suspect that this fantasy also provides the subject with a double gain—the gain of an escape from the anxiety and the gain of satisfaction which a desiring subject is deprived of. If, as argued in chapter 2, the lack of satisfaction characterizes the “normal” state of things in reality, satisfaction itself will appear to be something excessive. This excessive aspect of the drive is observable in story 11: Why are there two carps, when only one mOther needs to be served? There are too many carps! It is also worthy of notice that, in the Chinese context, “fish” has usually been used as a symbol of

“surplus” goods, expressing the wish to have more property than one really needs.23 Besides, it is probably not without reasons that the number two is posed here. In Chinese numerology, even numbers are generally regarded as yin, while the odd numbers as yang. As discussed in chapter 2, the number two and other even numbers are repressed from the numerological representation of the knowable world in the Pan Gu myth; and, the yin/ghostly element always suggests something excessive for the yang/human world. Hence, we have plenty of reasons to interpret the staging of two carps in the narrative as a way of representing the excessive surplus elements which, as we will see in the following chapter, embody the return of the repressed.

In order to re-conceal or to re-absorb this excessive surplus object, the narrative has to introduce a “surplus” actor—the neighbour’s mother. In terms of narrative analysis, this actor can 148 Chapter 3

148

be disregarded, since she appears only in a non-functional event—that is, in an event which does

not lead to the development of the narrative.24 In other words, this surplus actor has no “use value”

in the narrative, functioning here solely to cover up the surplus fish. However, this concealment

is not fully successful, in that it only helps to add one more surplus element to the narrative-

symbolic structure, which in turn betrays the fact that something in the text is simply

unexplainable. Hence, my suggestion here is that these surplus elements are not staged in the

narrative for no reasons, whose function is to give presence to certain enjoyment—the enjoyment

which is lacking in reality and thus appears to be excessive in comparison with the normal state

of things. The questions are then: How does the drive achieve its satisfaction and generate the

excessive element as its necessary by-product? And, how was the excessive aspect of the drive

brought under control or even employed for the benefit of the Other in the traditional Chinese

context? These are the questions which I attempt to answer in the last part of this chapter.

III

The Returned Course of the Drive and the “Headless Subject”

The returned course

In terms of the drive’s satisfaction, Lacan maintains in Seminar XI: “If the drive may be

satisfied without attaining what, from the point of view of a biological totalization of function,

would be the satisfaction of its end of reproduction, it is because it is a partial drive,25 and its aim

is simply this return into circuit” (179, my italics). Three points need to be stressed here. First,

the drive’s aim should be differentiated from its goal. Lacan distinguishes between these two

terms through the French word but (aim or goal), stating that Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 149

149

When you entrust someone with a mission, the aim is not what he brings back, but the

itinerary he must take. The aim is the way taken. The French word but may be

translated by another word in English, goal. In archery, the goal is not the but either,

it is not the bird you shoot, it is having scored a hit and thereby attained your but.

(Seminar XI 179, original italics)

Simply put, we may understand the aim as a process and the goal as the result achieved through this process. In Žižek’s words, “[t]he goal is the final destination, while the aim is what we intend to do, i.e., the way itself” (Looking Awry 5).

This leads us to the second point that the drive’s aim is to “return into circuit.” On the basis of Lacan’s distinction between the drive’s goal and its aim, Žižek argues:

Lacan’s point is that the real purpose of the drive is not its goal (full satisfaction) but

its aim: the drive’s ultimate aim is simply to reproduce itself as drive, to return to its

circular path, to continue its path to and from the goal. The real source of enjoyment

is the repetitive movement of this closed circuit. (Looking Awry 5)

To illustrate the closed circle of the drive, Žižek has recourse to the Greek myth of Sisyphus.

Having been punished by Zeus, Sisyphus was condemned to push a huge stone up the hill only to have it rolled down again. This endless and “doomed” process of pushing up the stone exemplifies the libidinal economy of the drive: “once he reaches his goal, he experiences the fact that the real aim of his activity is the way itself, the alternation of ascent and descent” (Žižek,

Looking Awry 5). Here, the goal of the drive is to have the stone pushed up to the top of the hill, while the drive’s aim is to repeat the action of pushing, to bring it into a circle.

In story 11, the drive’s circular movement takes the form of a repeated alteration between the carp’s “disappearance” and “(re)appearance.” According to the text in the Ershisi xiao, the spring supplies two carps each day which are just enough for the two mothers’ consumption. This 150 Chapter 3

150

indicates a temporal trajectory of the carps’ emergence and disappearance, which can probably be

compared to the stone’s spatial “alternation of ascent and descent” in the Sisyphus myth. One

difference between the Chinese story and the Greek myth seems to be that, in the former, there is

a lack of labor. Unlike the task of pushing a stone up the hill, the act of catching the carps seems

to be effortless. However, where the drive is concerned, the emphasis is placed not on the

subject’s labor per se, but on the drive’s circular movement. As Lacan argues, “[w]hat is

fundamental at the level of each drive is the movement outwards and back in which it is

structured” (Seminar X 177). What story 11 and the Sisyphus myth have in common is the

narrative representation of this “outwards-and-back” trajectory which is captured by the repetitive

pattern of an object’s movement. Hence, to apply Žižek’s argument to the Chinese case, we may

interpret the story in the following way: once the son-actant reaches his goal (of catching the fish),

he experiences the fact that the real aim of his activity is the way itself, the repeated action of

“catching.” Thereby, the libidinal economy of this story is laid bare: by returning to its circuit—

through the endless repetitive movement of fishing, the subject’s drive realizes its aim, which,

according to Žižek as well as Lacan, forms the real source of the subject’s enjoyment.

At this stage, it also needs to be pointed out that the carp is not the object of the drive, but

an object constituting the goal. The drive’s object is, according to Lacan, the objet petit a. He

states:

In any case, what makes us distinguish this satisfaction [of the drive] from the mere

auto-eroticism of the erogenous zone is the object that we confuse all too often with

that upon which the drive closes—this object, which is in fact simply the presence of

a hollow, a void, which can be occupied, Freud tells us, by any object, and whose

agency we know only in the form of the lost object, the petit a. The objet petit a is not

the origin of the oral drive. It is not introduced as the original food, it is introduced Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 151

151

from the fact that no food will ever satisfy the oral drive, except by circumventing the

eternally lacking object” (Seminar XI 179-80).

The object of the oral drive is not the food, but the lost maternal breast which constitutes one form of the objet petit a.26 In the drive, the objet petit a remains a lost object whose loss creates an empty place. One of the differences between desire and the drive is that, in desire, the place of the objet petit a is left empty, while, in the drive, this empty place can be occupied by any positive objects. The carp can therefore be seen as such a positive object which finds itself occupying the place of the void, and around which the drive’s circular movement is oriented.

Finally, when Lacan says that the drive can be satisfied simply by its aim, he points out another key difference between the drive and desire. If desire is by definition unsatisfiable, the drive, on the contrary, is always satisfied, because the drive achieves its satisfaction not by attaining the impossible object, but through “the repetitive movement” circling around one particular object. Hence, in story 11, we can sense certain enjoyment entailed by the son-actant’s endless effort to provide the mOther with carps; this enjoyment, as argued above, is encapsulated by the surplus elements such as the carps which are not only the symbol of surplus goods but also excessive in terms of amount. However, it should be clear by now that it is not the carp but the endless process of catching it that forms the source of enjoyment; the carp can actually be replaced with any other objects, insofar as this object can enable the circular movement of the drive. It thus seems to me that the function of the Other’s demand is exactly to determine which object should be placed at the centre, around which the subject’s drive turns.

As Žižek puts it, “desire desperately strives to achieve jouissance, its ultimate object which forever eludes it; while drive, on the contrary, involves the opposite impossibility—not the impossibility of attaining jouissance, but the impossibility of getting rid of it” (Ticklish Subject

293, original italics). Constantly situated in a relation to the (m)Other’s demand (D), the son- 152 Chapter 3

152

actant ($) is placed under the domination of the drive ($<>D) which generates certain satisfaction.

Hence, we may even argue that the son-actant derives his satisfaction exactly from his relentless

service for his mOther; insofar as this service continues, he cannot but “endure” his enjoyment.

Moreover, there is another important difference between desire and the drive. If every social

subject is a subject of desire (in the sense that we are all constituted by an essential lack), we

cannot say the same about the subject’s relation with the drive, because, strictly speaking, there is

no “subject of the drive.” I will now turn my attention to the issue of subjectivity.

The “headless subject” versus the “subject with holes”

There is no subject of the drive, because “the drive assumes its role in the functioning of the

unconscious” (Lacan, Seminar XI 181); that is to say, the drive is somehow isolated from the

conscious subject. This is why, as Miller states, “[t]he drive couldn’t care less about prohibition;

it knows nothing of prohibition and certainly doesn’t dream of transgressing it” (Lacan's Text

423). If the drive is immune to the symbolic regulation, it is because the drive is unconscious

about it. Hence, the drive is always excessive and somehow alien to the symbolic order. Again,

we are confronted with the troubling questions: Why was the ideological fantasy (as reflected in

story 11) structured like the drive, with the objet petit a replaced with the Other’s demand? How

can the excessive effect of the drive be contained? Answers to these questions may hinge on the

issue of subjectivity. By reading another Ershisi xiao story, I intend to show how this story

supplements story 11, and how the conscious subject is recovered from the drive.

Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 153

153

Story 7— Luru fengqin 鹿乳奉親 (Serving the Parents with Deer Milk)

Tan Zi 郯子 of the Zhou 周 dynasty had the disposition to be extremely filial. Both

[his] parents were old and suffered from an eye disease. [They] longed to “eat”27 deer

milk. Tan Zi complied with his parents’ will. [He] then dressed in a deerskin, and

went into the deep mountains, where he [sneaked] into a herd of deer to obtain the

milk, in order to provide it to his parents. Hunters saw him [disguised in the deerskin],

and were about to shoot him. Tan Zi told them the whole situation, and avoided [being

shot].

The aged parents longed for deer milk,

[The son] dressed in the clothes made of the fur of a deer.

If [he] did not speak loudly,

[He] would return from the mountains carrying arrows.

This story can be divided into three parts: (1) The parents long for the deer milk; (2) the son strives to provide the milk for the parents; (3) the son escapes from the misfortune of being mistakenly shot by hunters. Since the parents are always positioned as the child’s Other in the orthodox discourse and in the Ershisi xiao, we have in the first part of the story a desiring Other.

In the beginning of the text, we are told that the parents are not only old but also suffering from an eye disease. They are probably blind. Even though we do not have a solid ground to follow the

Freudian equation between blindness and castration,28 we can at least argue that these parents embody a deficiency; their disabled eyes can be interpreted as a mark of the Other’s incompleteness. Besides, the text uses the word “si shi” 思食—meaning “to long to eat”—to define the relationship between the parents and the object (the milk); the word si (longing) allows 154 Chapter 3

154

us to associate the “deer milk” with the Other’s desire/lack. Finally, as suggested by the

subsequent events, the deer milk is something difficult to obtain and thus absent from the social

reality; it can thus be interpreted as a pure signifier referring to a certain impossible object. Hence,

at this stage, it is not far-fetched to see the “deer milk” as similar to the “fish” in story 11,

occupying the place of the objet petit a—the object-cause and the signifier of the Other’s desire

(longing). This understanding is ironically confirmed by the text, when the character “si”

(longing) is replaced with another character “yi” 意.

Rather than saying that “the son strives to satisfy the parents’ longing/desire,” the text reads:

“Tan Zi complied with the parents’ ‘yi’” (Tan Zi shuncheng qinyi, 郯子順承 親意). The

character “yi” has multiple meanings, such as “wish,” “intention,” “idea,” or “meaning.” When

used in this particular sentence, “yi” can be translated as “will” or “command,” such as the same

character used in the words “tian yi” 天意(Heaven’s will) or “zhi yi” 旨意(decree). The verb

“shun cheng” (“to comply with,” or “to obey”) further enhances the sense of “command”

conveyed by the “yi.” Besides, when the character is translated as “meaning” or “idea,” it denotes

the signified, rather than the signifier; that is, “yi” is related to something concrete and fixed.

Hence, we may view “yi” as synonymous with “demand” which articulates a concrete object. The

replacement of the parents’ “si” with “yi” suggests a change in the status of the object (the deer

milk) which is transformed from an empty signifier into the signified, and from an absent object

of desire (si) into a positive object of demand (yi). If Tan Zi is established here as an exemplary

subject, this story prescribes how a subject should react to the Other’s desire: for a filial son, the

object supposedly desired by the parents is to be taken as an object of their demand. And, this

demand is deprived of its dialectical dimension: the son has no doubt as to what the parents really

want from him; he embarks on a search for it. Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 155

155

Resembling story 11, this current story portrays the parents-child relationship as dominated by the structure of the drive $<>D—a subject (Tan Zi) situated in a relation to the Other’s (the parent’s) demand. The object of the parents’ “yi” functions subsequently not only as the answer to the son’s question of “Che vuoi?”, according to which the son measures his position in the

“eyes” of the Other, but also as the object constitutive of the goal of the drive. If, in story 11, the goal consists in the action of catching the carps, this goal assumes in the current story the form of the son’s obtaining the deer milk. These two stories differ from one another in one respect: while story 11 places emphasis on the drive’s circular movement as demonstrated through the alternation of object’s disappearance and reappearance, the current story stresses another dimension—the disappearance and reappearance of the subject. In the second part of story 7, Tan

Zi dresses himself in a deerskin, so that he can infiltrate into the herd of the animals. His successful “metamorphosis” suggests that, at the time, he actually exits the human world, and merges into the animal kingdom, becoming one of them; that is, among other things, we can observe here the disappearance of a social subject.

This fading of the subject is actually essential for the economy of the drive, since, according to Lacanian theory, the drive has no subject as such. Or, in Lacan’s own terms, there is only “a headless subject” in the drive’s outward-and-back movement (Seminar XI 181). Since, as pointed out above, “the drive assumes its role in the functioning of the unconscious” (Lacan,

Seminar XI 181), we may understand the “headless subject” as equivalent to the unconscious subject. Lacan further contrasts the “headless subject” with the “subject-with-holes” in his topology of subjectivity. He maintains:

The object of the drive is to be situated at the level of what I have metaphorically

called a headless subjectification, a subjectification without subject, a bone, a

structure, an outline, which represents one side of the topology. The other side is that 156 Chapter 3

156

which is responsible for the fact that a subject, through his relations with the signifier,

is a subject-with-holes (sujet trouè). (Seminar XI 184)

To begin with, since the “holes” of the subject result from “his relations with the signifier,” the

“subject-with-holes” can be understood as designating the conscious-social subject who is

dominated by the signifiers. This description should not surprise us, because, as discussed earlier,

every social subject is brought into being by the symbolic castration,29 and thus defined by a hole.

This opposition between the subject-of-holes and the headless subject actually articulates

the split of the subject into the conscious-social subject and the unconscious, non-symbolized

“subject”; they constitute the two sides of one coin. As opposed to the conscious subject who is

under the government of the social-symbolic order, the “headless subject” of the drive can be

understood as the one who exits the human society and returns to the pre-symbolic/animal

domain. Hence, in my view, the episode of Tan Zi’s merging with the animal horde is designed in

the narrative to stage the unconscious territory where the social subject fades away and turns into

the inhuman “headless subject” of the drive. The social subject is to reappear in the third part of

the story.

The agency which brings out the conscious subject is, I suggest, the intervention of another

subject or another subjective position.30 This seems to be the message conveyed by the text in the

last part of story 7, which reads: “Hunters saw him [disguised in the deerskin], and were about to

shoot him. Tan Zi told them the whole situation, and avoided [being shot].” The hunter’s

intention to shoot allows us to interpret him as a social subject who is trying to fulfil his social

function as a hunter. It is in response to this social subject that Tan Zi reveals himself; he reveals

himself not only by undressing the deerskin but also by his speech. As indicated in the verse, it is

only by talking loudly that the son is able to avoid a tragic end. Why is it not enough to simply

stand up and take off the deerskin? Why is the act of speaking stressed here, if not because only Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 157

157 speech can grant an individual the full status as a social subject? Hence, what is actually staged here is the (re)appearance of a (social) subject—a conscious speaking being as opposed to the headless or animal-like “subject”; and, this subject (re)emerges in response to the intervention of another social subject. That is, the last part of story 7 restructures an intersubjective-social network where the “headless subject” can be re-subjectivized. In this way, this story demonstrates how the trajectory of the drive can be interrupted by language. The hunter’s arrow does not reach Tan Zi, because there is no need to drill another hole into Tan Zi’s body; at the moment of encountering the other subjects, Tan Zi is already a subject-with-holes.

In short, the other subject functions here to break the drive’s endless circle, by re- introducing the “headless subject” into a proper intersubjective-social context. This strategy to

“tame” the drive allows us to put forward an alternative explanation of the general Confucian attitude towards society. As often argued, Confucianism is distinguished from other discourses by its community-oriented doctrines, which has strongly disapproved self-solitude, and enthusiastically encouraged (male) individuals to engage in social-public affairs. If my above discussion can be justified, this Confucian concern should be viewed as a response to the side effect generated by the ideological fantasy (which is structured like the drive): the social-public interaction between subjects was probably one of the antidotes to the excessive force entailed by the drive; it served to break, at least temporarily, the endless circle of the drive’s self-repetition by constantly reintegrating the “headless subject” into the social-symbolic system. This complementary relationship between the Confucian doctrine and the ideological fantasy will be the topic of my next chapter.

158 Chapter 3

158

Conclusion

The conventional reading of the theme of gongyang (reverent care) in filial piety stories

tends to treat food as an object of the parents’ psychical need; by satisfying the parents’ need, the

child expresses his/her filial esteem. The function of these stories has thus been explained as

follows: “they elevate the humble concept of yang [care or feeding] to an exalted form of

nurturing, gongyang, which calls attention to a parent’s superior status within the household”;

and, “adult sons and daughters (in-law) should subordinate their own wishes to those of their

parents” (Knapp 136). In this chapter, I have put forward an alternative interpretation, arguing

that the food staged in the stories is not an object of need. As demonstrated in my analysis, the

function of the food actually undergoes a transformation, which is reduced from the objet petit a

related to the mOther’s desire to the object of the Other’s demand. Hence, the protagonist’s

serving his parents(s) with a special food cannot be interpreted simply as a form of nurturing,

since the food functions primarily as an answer to the question “Che vuoi?.” It follows that what

is at stake in the narratives is not only the propagation for the parent’s superiority within a

household, but also, more importantly, the construction of an ideological fantasy, through which

the subject learns how to relate him/herself to the (m)Other (i.e., the parents [in-law] as well as

the big Other).

The important Lacanian insights which I have tried to stress in this chapter are: our desire is

always the desire of the Other; fantasy teaches us how to response to the latter desire, because, as

Žižek points out, “fantasy, phantasmic formation, is an answer to the enigma of ‘Che vuoi?’”

(Plague 9). For this reason, there would be nothing unique to the filial piety stories, if they aim

simply at encouraging a subject to subordinate his/her wishes to those of their parent(s). Hence,

another key point of my discussion is that the fantasy constructed by the filial piety stories has Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 159

159 somehow mutated into the structure of the drive, by which the subject is situated in a relation not with the (m)Other’s desire/lack but with a demand. That is, unique to the filial piety stories is their positing a concert object of demand as the definite answer to the enigma of the (m)Other’s desire. The ideological effect of this particular form of fantasy is that it prevents the subject from recognizing the (m)Other’s lack/desire, and thus facilitates the latter’s total control over the former. However, as we have seen, the drive is an excessive force which threatens constantly to transgress the symbolic order. Hence, the filial piety narratives carry out simultaneously another function: by creating an explanation of, or a solution to, the excessive element, they attempt to contain and to neutralize the transgressive force generated by the ideological fantasy itself.

1 “ 謹身節用，以養父母。此庶人之孝也。” See Xiao jing zhushu, juan 3, 1A-B.

2In the context of filial piety, Knapp has rendered “yang” variously as “to provide sustenance,” and “to nurture parents with food or physical care.” (113). For a more detailed discussion of the meanings of yang and gong, see

Knap 113-15.

3 The fish indicated here is li yu 鯉魚—the Chinese term for the common carp. I will in my following discussion use the general term carp to denote the common carp.

4 See Fan Yu (Fan Ye), Hou han shu, juan 114, 3A-4A.

5 This table is structured on the basis of Bal’s example, see Bal 196.

6 In other contexts, this story can well be regarded as attributed mainly to Jiang Shi’s wife. For example, in the Hou han shu, this story is classified as an example of female filial piety, and included in the chapter titled Lienü zhuan 列

女傳 (“Biographies of Exemplary Women”). See Fan Yu (Fan Ye), Hou han shu, juan 114, 3A-4A.

7 The term “surrogate sons” is borrowed from Knapp who states: “Women can become filial only in the absence of men—that is, they can be filial only insofar as they are surrogate sons” (185). He also observes that “with the exception of not marrying in order to reverently care for one’s in-laws [after the death of her husband], the acts of filial piety that women engage in are not very different from those of their male counterparts. It is thus difficult to 160 Chapter 3

160

say that there were distinct forms of female filial piety” (184). Hence, insofar as Jiang Shi is alive and present in the

narrative, his wife will remain as his shadow.

8 This relationship can be compared to the model of a love story, such as “John wants to marry Mary.” See Bal 203-

205.

9 Žižek’s thesis draws on a passage in La Boétie’s Slaves by Choice.

10 According to Žižek, there is “the complex interconnections within the triad Real-Imaginary-Symbolic: the entire

triad is reflected within each of its three elements” (For They Know xii). This means that the Master as the social-

familial authority has simultaneously three registers. In accordance with Fink’s distinction between the Other and the

mOther, we can refer to the Master’s symbolic dimension as the Other, and its imaginary and real dimensions as the

mOther.

11 See also Fink, The Lacanian Subject 101- 04.

12 With reference to “voice/speech”—another privileged term in the western tradition, Žižek shows the same

deconstructive strategy employed by Lacan: “In Lacan (and Hegel) … the very privileged term of metaphysics is

asserted as the form of appearance of its Other: ‘voice’ itself is simultaneously the medium of self-transparency and

the opaque foreign body which undermines the subject’s self-presence; ‘centre’ is supplement itself; etc.”

(Indivisible Remainder 174, n 10).

13 Yannis Stavrakakis formulates the difference between the object petit a and the phallus in the following way: “it

would be plausible to argue that both the phallus and the objet petit a correspond to the same field but viewed from

different angles, from the angle of the signifier and from the angle of the object, something which signifies the shift

in Lacan’s interest from the symbolic aspect of desire to its real dimension” (50-51).

14 Žižek’s another way of distinguishing between das Ding and the objet petit a is to view the former as purely ontic

and the latter as purely ontological: “The status of the Thing is purely ontic, it stands for an irreducible excess of the

ontic that eludes Lichtung, the ontological clearance within which entities appear …In contrast, the status of a is

purely ontological—that is to say, a as the fantasy-object is an object that is an empty form, a frame that determines

the status of positive entities” (Metastases 181).

15 In the matheme for fantasy ($<>a) , the diamond “<>” has multiple meanings which cannot be determined out of a

concrete context. According to Fink, Lacan uses the “<>” to denote: “alienation (˅) and separation (˄), greater than Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 161

161

(>), less than (<), and so on. It is most simply read: ‘in relation to,’ or ‘the subject's desire for its object’ (Clinical

Introduction 238, n15).

16 In a discussion of Lacan’s fable, Fink states: “The anxiety you feel may well be worse in the case in which you do not know whether you are disguised as a male or a female, than in the case in which you know you are disguised as a male. (Indeed, in the latter case what you experience is simply fear of a specific fate that is soon to befall you.)

Hence, you may prefer to assume or conclude that your death is nigh because you are dressed as a male, even if you are not sure this is true” (Clinical Introduction 60-61, original italics).

17 Žižek states: “Fantasy appears, then, as an answer to ‘Che vuoi?’, to the unbearable enigma of the desire of the

Other, of the lack in the Other; but it is at the same time fantasy itself which, so to speak, provides the co-ordinates of our desire—which constructs the frame enabling us to desire something” (Sublime Object 118).

18 For Lacan’s discussion of the erogenous zones as sources of the drive, see Seminar XI 172

19 Fink suggests that the process of separation is needed to formulate a proper fantasy: “Separation would then be understood as the process whereby the Other’s demand (D) is replaced in the neurotic’s fantasy by the Other’s desire

(object a)” (Lacanian Subject 187 n21).

20 This passage is also cited by Fink in A Clinical Introduction, 208.

21 In The Sublime Object, Žižek states: “it is precisely this lack in the Other which enables the subject to achieve a kind of ‘de-alienation’ called by Lacan separation … This lack in the Other gives the subject—so to speak—a breathing space, it enables him to avoid the total alienation in the signifier not by filling out his lack but by allowing him to identify himself, his own lack, with the lack in the Other” (Sublime Object 122, original italics).

22 According to Žižek, “fantasy is not to be interpreted, only ‘traversed’: all we have to do is experience how there is nothing ‘behind’ it, and how fantasy masks precisely this ‘nothing’” (Sublime Object 126)

23 The Chinese character for “fish” (yu 鱼 ) and that for “surplus” (yu 余) are homophones. Hence, a dish of fish is a must-have on the dinner table on the New Year’s Eve, which is meant to bring a good omen for the coming year. The wish embedded in the fish is to have surplus goods each year.

24 A functional event is defined as follows: “Functional events open a choice between two possibilities, realize this choice, or reveal the results of such a choice” (Bal 191).

25 For Lacan, all drives are partial (Seminar XI 175): “The whole point of the article [Freud’s “Drives and Their

Vicissitudes”] is to show us that with regard to the biological finality of sexuality, namely, reproduction, the drives, 162 Chapter 3

162

as they present themselves in the process of psychical reality, are partial drives” (Lacan, Seminar XI 175). Insofar as

the finality of sexuality is concerned, the drives can only be partial, since they do not participate into its finality, that

is, reproduction. In this sense, Evans argues that “Lacan argues that the drives are partial, not in the sense that they

are parts of a whole (a ‘genital drive’), but in the sense that they only represent sexuality partially; they do not

represent the reproductive function of sexuality but only the dimension of enjoyment” (47). The drive’s partiality can

also be understood in another way. According to Marie-Helene Brousse, “Lacan says that the drive is always partial,

meaning that it involves the erogenous zones which are never linked with objects, and are always partial” (113).

26 Lacan identifies four partial drives: the oral drive, the anal drive, the scopic drive and the invocatory drive, which

are related respectively to four objects: the breast, the excrement, the gaze and the voice. See Lacan, Seminar XI

103- 04. In Seminar X, Lacan identifies five forms of the objet petit a at five stages—the breast at the oral stage, the

excrement at the anal stage, the gaze at the scopic stage, the voice at the invocatory (or the superego) stage, and a

lack in the phallic stage. See Seminar X 294-95. At the phallic stage, the psychical economy is no longer the drive

but desire; Lacan states: “At the level of the phallic stage …the a function is represented by a lack, namely, the

missing phallus that constitutes the disjunction that joins desire to jouissance” (Seminar X 294-95).

27 The character used here is “shi” 食 which literally means “to eat.” It is a Chinese tradition that “eating” covers a

wider range of activities than it does in the West, referring to both “eating” and “drinking.”

28 For example, in his reading of E. T. A. Hoffmann’s “The Sand-Man,” Freud argues: “Elements in the story …

seem arbitrary and meaningless so long as we deny all connection between fears about the eye and castration; but

they become intelligible as soon as we replace the Sand-Man by the dreaded father at whose hands castration is

expected” (Uncanny 231-32). In Hoffmann’s version, the Sand-Man is a terrifying figure who steals children’s eyes,

by throwing sand into their eyes.

29 As argued by Žižek, “by being filtered through the sieve of the signifier, the body is submitted to castration,

enjoyment is evacuated from it, the body survives as dismembered, mortified” (Sublime Object 122, original italics).

This evacuation of enjoyment (or jouissance) by the signifier creates the constitutive lack which defines every social

subject. Therefore, the “dismembered” body is no longer a whole, but marked by a hole. For Lacan’s discussion of

the subject-with-holes, see Seminar XI 184.

30 As Lacan indicates, “[t]his subject, which is properly the other, appears in so far as the drive has been able to show

its circular course” (Seminar XI 178). As I understand it, the subject who appears is not the “headless subject,” but a Fantasy Transmuted: The Drive and Ideology 163

163

subject as the other, that is, a subject who occupies a position external to the drive. It is to this other position that the drive’s circular movement is shown. 164

Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao 165

165

Chapter 4

Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao

In the last chapter, I have suggested that, in the filial piety stories, the subject’s fantasy

($<>a) is somehow reconstructed like the drive ($<>D). Consequently, the desiring subject—a subject situated in relation to the objet-cause of desire (a)—is replaced with the subject dominated by the drive. The distinction between these two forms of subjectivity is formulated by

Žižek in the following way: “while the subject of desire is grounded in the constitutive lack (it ex- sists in so far as it is in search of the missing Object-Cause), the subject of drive is grounded in a constitutive surplus—that is to say, in the excessive presence of some Thing that is inherently

‘impossible’ and should not be here, in our present reality” (Ticklish Subject 304, original italics).

In this passage, Žižek formulates the desire-drive difference as the opposition between “the constitutive lack” and “a constitutive surplus.”

In reference to the surplus, Žižek on another occasion states: “The ultimate lesson of psychoanalysis is that human life is never ‘just life’: humans are not simply alive, they are possessed by the strange drive to enjoy life in excess, passionately attached to a surplus which sticks out and derails the ordinary run of things” ( Parallax View 62). If, as argued in the previous chapter, the exemplary subject in the traditional Chinese system was ideally situated in a relational structure which resembles the drive, we may also suggest that this system itself was somehow “grounded in a constitutive surplus.” As we have already seen in story 11, there is something (such as the second carp) which is too many to be contained within the familial structure; to domesticate, or rather to consume, the surplus object, the narrative must involve a surplus and extra-family character (the neighbour’s mother). In this chapter, I intend to deepen 166 Chapter 4

166

our understanding of the surplus object, and to answer the following question: To what extent can

the derailing effect of the “passionate attachment to the surplus” be tamed and be transformed

into a constitutive element of social ideology?

I

An Introduction to the Surplus

Loss and the Surplus Enjoyment

As discussed earlier, Žižek’s has compared the objet petit a with an empty frame,1 which

constitutes the subject’s phantasy, but is not correlative to any positive objects; that is, the objet

petit a, as a fantasy-object, lacks an existence in reality and thus sustains our desire for it.

However, once this empty frame finds its presence in our daily life, it will entail a totally

different effect; hence, Žižek’s other metaphor for the objet petit a is an empty box of chocolate

bar which is nevertheless nicely wrapped and has a definite price (of the “chocolate bar”

supposedly contained within the box) (Metastastases 179). The basic idea conveyed by this

metaphor is this: “Rather than a pure ‘this’, the object without properties, a is a bundle of

properties that lacks existence” (Metastastases 179). The wrapped box and the definite price are

the “properties” or descriptions of something contained in the box; however, this something is

nothing but the void. The lost breast is such a wrapped and valued void constitutive of our

fantasy and sustaining our desire. At this point, this metaphor seems to articulate the same idea as

the one conveyed by the “empty frame.” However, undeniably, as situated in a possible reality,

this empty box immediately reveals something which disturbs the normal state of things; it looks

stupid and unthinkable. Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao 167

167

In a strikingly similar fashion, a Chinese story illustrates the same object. In the book Han fei zi 韓非子 written by Han Fei 韓非 (ca. 281-233BCE)—one of the key thinkers in early China, we find the famous story usually called “Maidu huanzhu”買櫝還珠 (Buying the Box and

Returning the Pearl).2 It goes roughly that a man bought a beautiful box containing a pearl. Upon receiving his purchase, he opened the box, and gave the pearl back to the seller. The man who bought an empty box is usually ridiculed for only paying attention to the surface and totally overlooking the essence. However, what if the man is a Lacanian subject? That is, by returning the “essence” (the pearl), he may actually get the objet petit a—a “wrapped void,” as Žižek would say. Undeniably, this story indeed conveys a sense of ridiculousness. Why does not the man keep both, by which he can have the box without losing the pearl (and, of course, the money he paid actually for the pearl)? The very act of “returning the pearl” cannot but appear to be unnecessary and excessive.

This unnecessary and excessive act forms the key point of the story, which, in my view, realizes a double negation. First, it negates the practical function of the box, by which this object is deprived of its use value. This empty box somehow reminds us of Rachel Whiteread’s sculpture of the Houses: an internal space of a house is filled up and thus loses its “normal” function. As Žižek comments, “what we get is a massive object which directly gives body to the void itself… The uncanny effect of these objects derives from the way in which they tangibly demonstrate the ontological incompleteness of reality: such objects, by definition, stick out; they are ontologically superfluous, not on the same level of reality as ‘normal’ objects” (For They

Know xxviii). The Chinese story provides a complementary example: rather than filling in a space which should be kept empty, the deprivation of the content hollows out a space which should be occupied. In both cases, the loss of its “normal” function renders the object superfluous, 168 Chapter 4

168

which in turn generates the uncanny “sticking-out” effect. Hence, with regard to the Chinese

story, we may argue that, by the simple act of returning the pearl, the man transforms the box into

a surplus object—an object which has no practical functions and thus loses its “rightful” place on

the level of reality; or, in Žižek’s words, it embodies “the excessive presence of some Thing that

is inherently ‘impossible’ and should not be here, in our present reality” (Ticklish Subject 304).

Second, what makes the man truly “ridiculous” is not his lack of attention to the essence,

but his effort to negate this essence, by which he turns a superfluous thing into the very essence

of his purchase: it is the box containing nothing which deserves the man’s investment; his

satisfaction is achieved exactly at the moment when the pearl is returned to the seller. Why does

the man not keep the box and the pearl? If he does so, the box would remain a “normal” object.

Thus, this negation also attests to the effect that, by losing the pearl, something extra is created;

the man’s satisfaction is achieved not by buying the box, but, to a greater degree, by losing the

pearl. This particular type of loss which paradoxically creates the gain of something else is

articulated by Lacan through the notion of “entropy.” In the thermodynamic sense, entropy refers

to the loss of energy. For Lacan, as Mladen Dolar explains, jouissance is the energy; and entropy

designates the loss of jouissance. The agency or the apparatus which generates an entropy is the

signifier (Hegel 140- 41). As argued already, the process of symbolization which colonizes our

natural body with the signifiers deprives the body of jouissance. However, something more is at

work: “The signifier mortifies jouissance, it mortifies the body, but that very loss is at the same

time something that produces a residue, a surplus, a surplus jouissance”;3 “[t]he strange

thermodynamics of jouissance revolves around the fact that the loss of energy becomes itself the

source of another kind of energy, that there is no way simply to lose or be rid of jouissance”

(Dolar, Hegel 141). Here, Dolar points out the difference between the surplus jouissance and

jouissance as such: while the latter is forever lost, the former which is gained through the process Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao 169

169 of entropy (loss) is the unavoidable by-product of the very process which aims at evacuating jouissance from the body; that is, the loss of jouissance generates the surplus jouissance.

The coincidence between loss and the surplus jouissance is captured by the notion of waste.

As Alenka Zupančič puts it, Lacan “delinearizes and condenses the moments of loss and supplementary satisfaction or enjoyment into one single moment, moving away from the notion of an original loss (of an object), to a notion of loss which is closer to the notion of waste, of a useless surplus or remainder, which is inherent in and essential to jouissance as such” (Surplus

Enjoyment 157, original italics). We can thus view the box deprived of its content as one example of the waste, which captures the idea of gaining satisfaction through loss. Hence, the ridiculousness of the Chinese story derives ultimately from the effect that a beautiful object is suddenly turned into a piece of waste; by doing so, the man gains his satisfaction which may be termed the surplus jouissance.

Lacan designates the surplus jouissance with the term “objet petit a”— a leftover of the symbolizing process;4 in Zupančič words, “[t]he objet a … is a positive waste” (Surplus

Enjoyment 159). If, as the object-cause of desire, the objet petit a can only be represented as something forever missing, it now finds a positive presence in the form of the waste. It is this surplus side of the objet petit a that is illustrated by the beautiful but empty box depicted in the

Chinese story (as well as in Žižek’s metaphor of the empty chocolate box). This story highlights not only the inseparable relation between the lack and the surplus, but also the coincidence between loss and enjoyment. Rather than denying the man’s satisfaction, loss itself becomes the agency which enhances and even enables enjoyment. Here, we can discern the libidinal economy embedded in the story, which explains not only the “absurdity” of this narrative, but also the long-lasting fascination that the Chinese people have with it in the last two millenniums. We may 170 Chapter 4

170

even argue that, since early times, the absurd, surplus object has always been part of Chinese

cultural imaginations.

The Vorstellungsrepräsentanz and the Stain

Another way of apprehending the two faces of the objet petit a is via the pair of the

Vorstellungsrepräsentanz and the stain. First employed by Freud, the Vorstellungsrepräsentanz

has been translated as “the ideational representative,” referring to the “[i]dea or group of ideas to

which the instinct becomes fixated in the course of the subject’s history; it is through the

mediation of the ideational representative that the instinct leaves its mark in the psyche”

(Laplanche and Pontalis 203). On the basis of the Freudian thesis, Lacan distinguishes between

the two components of the term—namely, representative (repräsentanz) and representation

(vorstellung), and renders it as “representative of representation” (Seminar XI 218). Following

Lacan’s translation, Žižek, at one occasion, provides us with a simple definition: “Vorstellungs-

Reprasentanze [is] the (symbolic) representative of (or, rather, stand-in for) the impossible,

foreclosed representation” (Plague 227, original italics). With close reference to the

Vorstellungsrepräsentanz, Žižek develops another notion—the stain, with which the

Vorstellungsrepräsentanz constitutes a linguistic relation. Because my subsequent examination of

several Chinese narratives will rely heavily upon their intricate relation, a slow and careful

discussion of these two terms is inevitable.

Let us begin with Žižek’s reading of Hitchcock’s The Lady Vanishes. He pays particular

attention to certain objects shown in the film —such as the tea-bag bearing the words of “Miss

Froy’s tea brand” which appears suddenly on the dining-car’s windowpane. This object attests to

the existence of Miss Froy. Žižek remarks that “the name ‘Froy’ and the empty tea-bag on the

windowpane exemplify what Lacan, in his reading of Freud, conceives as Vorstellungs- Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao 171

171

Repräsentanz: the signifier which acts as a representative—a trace—of the excluded (‘repressed’) representation, in this case the representation of Miss Froy, excluded from the diegetic reality”

(His Bold Gaze 238). In the same essay, he also contrasts the Vorstellungsrepräsentanz with the stain such as the birds in Hitchcock’s Birds, arguing that

the intrusion of the stain in the scenes from Birds and Psycho is of a psychotic nature:

here, the non-symbolized returns in the guise of a traumatic object-stain.

Vorstellungs-Repräsentanz designates a signifier which fills out the void of the

excluded representation, whereas a psychotic stain is a representation which fills out

a hole in the Symbolic, giving body to the ‘unspeakable’—its inert presence testifies

that we are in a domain where ‘words fail’. (His Bold Gaze 238-39, original italics)

It seems that the Vorstellungsrepräsentanz and the stain are conceptualized here as two ways of serving the same function—to fill out the void in reality; the former is a signifier, while the latter a representation.

Žižek further theorizes the relation between the two terms in the following way:

‘Reality’ is the field of symbolically structured representations, the outcome of

symbolic ‘gentrification’ of the Real; yet a surplus of the Real always eludes the

symbolic grasp and persists as a non-symbolized stain, a hole in reality which

designates the ultimate limit where ‘the word fails’. It is against this background that

Vorstellungs-Repräsentanz is to be conceived as an attempt to inscribe into the

symbolic order the surplus that eludes the field of representation. (His Bold Gaze 239)

At this stage, Žižek defines the stain as “a surplus of the Real,” and the Vorstellungsrepräsentanz as a way of symbolizing the surplus element. Hence, in comparison with the non-symbolized stain, the Vorstellungsrepräsentanz is secondary, carrying out the symbolic function to inscribe 172 Chapter 4

172

this stain into the symbolic order. This relation is schematized by Žižek as a relation between a

signifier and a signified:5

Vorstellungs-Repräsentanz

Stain

This linguistic relation seems to indicate that the stain is the “foreclosed representation” repressed

under the bar, while the Vorstellungsrepräsentanz functions as the representative standing in for

the repressed.

If we examine closely Žižek’s discussion of the stain, we can notice that there seems to be

an inconsistency. In reference to Birds and Psycho, Žižek views the stain as the return of the non-

symbolized, arguing that “a psychotic stain is a representation which fills out a hole in the

Symbolic” (His Bold Gaze 239, original italics), while, later on, the stain itself is defined as the

non-symbolized, “a hole in reality” (His Bold Gaze 239). In my view, this inconsistency is

caused by Žižek’s departure from Lacan’s own thesis on the Vorstellungsrepräsentanz, which is

resolved, when Žižek returns to Lacan, and changes the status of the Vorstellungsrepräsentanz in

his later writings.

In Seminar VII, Lacan maintains that “the term Vorstellungsrepräsentanz … is a matter of

that which in the unconscious represents, in the form of a sign, representation as a function of

apprehending—of the way in which every representation is represented insofar as it evokes the

good that das Ding brings with it” (71-72). The first thing to note is that, for Lacan, the

Vorstellungsrepräsentanz is “a matter of that which in the unconscious represents …

representation”; that is, as a signifier or representative, the Vorstellungsrepräsentanz functions in

the unconscious, rather than in the symbolic order. What this signifier represents is something Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao 173

173 which evokes “the good that das Ding brings with it.” In saying so, Lacan indicates that our access to das Ding—the maternal Thing—is doubly blocked. First, we cannot apprehend das

Ding itself, but only “the good” associated with it. Lacan also points out that “to speak of ‘the good’ is already a metaphor, an attribute” (Seminar VII 72). That is to say, the “good” is already a kind of representation. Second, the good—as a representation—cannot be represented directly: it can only be “evoked.” In this sense, we may understand the “good that das Ding brings with it” as referring to the impossible representation which is evoked by another representation—a representation functioning as a presentative, that is, as the Vorstellungsrepräsentanz.

Moreover, the Vorstellungsrepräsentanz is not an ordinary signifier in the symbolic order, but, as Lacan argues, a signifier repressed under the symbolic surface. This point is further stressed in Seminar XI, where Lacan states that “[t]he Vorstellungsrepräsentanz is the binary signifier [S2]” and that

[t]his signifier constitutes the central point of the Urverdrängung [primal

repression]—of what, from having passed into the unconscious, will be, as Freud

indicates in his theory, the point of Anziehung, the point of attraction, through which

all the other repressions will be possible, all the other similar passages in the locus of

the Unterdrückt [repressed], of what has passed underneath as signifier. This is what

is involved in the term Vorstellungsrepräsentanz. (Seminar XI 218)

In this passage, Lacan re-insists that the term Vorstellungsrepräsentanz is a matter concerning primarily the unconscious and the symbolic repression. Attuned to this point, Žižek revises his earlier thesis on the Vorstellungsrepräsentanz, arguing that

what is “primordially repressed” is the binary signifier (that of Vorstellungs-

Repräsentanz): what the symbolic order precludes is the full harmonious presence

of the couple of Master-Signifiers, S1-S2, as yin-yang, or any other two 174 Chapter 4

174

symmetrical “fundamental principles.” The fact that “there is no sexual

relationship” means precisely that the secondary signifier (that of the Woman) is

“primordially repressed,” and what we get in the place of this repression, what fills

in its gap, is the multitude of “returns of the repressed,” the series of “ordinary”

signifiers. ( Parallax View 38, original italics)

Rather than being “an attempt to inscribe into the symbolic order the surplus” (His Bold Gaze

239), the Vorstellungsrepräsentanz is now defined as the binary signifier which itself is repressed

by the symbolic order. Our reality, as dominated by the paternal Master-Signifier (S1), is based

on the exclusion or repression of the maternal signifier which would enable us to apprehend “the

good that das Ding brings with it.” Hence, what is precluded from the field of representation is

not only the Thing, but also its signifier. It is for this reason that the Vorstellungsrepräsentanz

functions only in the unconscious, whose presence in reality is structurally impossible.

Following Žižek’s later interpretation of the term, we can revise his earlier formulation of

the Vorstellungsrepräsentanz–stain relation as follows: the Vorstellungsrepräsentanz itself is that

which is repressed in the field of representation, and thus constitutes the lack, the hole, in reality;

this hole marks the location of the “return of the repressed.” The repressed signifier will return, I

suggest, not only as the “ordinary signifiers,” but also as the stain—a representation of something

which should not be there. If the ordinary signifiers aim at covering up, rationalizing, or

symbolizing the hole in the symbolic order, the stain seems to work in the opposite direction, and

to traumatize the entire field of reality. This point is clearly articulated by Žižek in his reading of

the Birds, who argues, let us recall: “the non-symbolized returns in the guise of a traumatic

object-stain” which “give[s] body to the ‘unspeakable’” (His Bold Gaze 238-39). Is not the tea

bag appearing suddenly in The Lady Vanishes already a stain which not only indicates the

repressed existence of Miss Froy, but also generates an uncanny shock in the diegetic reality of Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao 175

175 the film? Hence, we may conclude that if the Vorstellungsrepräsentanz is that which is repressed by the symbolic order, the stain is a positive object which gives body to the return of the repressed. If my above discussion is correct, I would like to reverse Žižek’s schema as:

Stain

Vorstellungsrepräsentanz

The Vorstellungsrepräsentanz, as the repressed signifier, is precluded from the field of representation, which returns to the surface of the symbolic order as a stain—a strange object sticking out of the bar. The stain in turn becomes a kind of signifier or representative standing in for some Thing which should not be there but has returned to reality.

Another important thesis put forward by Žižek in The Parallax View is that these two elements—Vorstellungsrepräsentanz and the stain—are not two separated entities, but the two sides of one coin; the difference between them is a matter of topology. As he argues, “the empty place in the structure is strictly correlative to the errant element lacking its place: they are not two different entities, but the front and the back of one and the same entity, that is, one and the same entity inscribed onto the two surfaces of a Moebius strip” ( Parallax View 122). This correlative relation between the lack (Vorstellungsrepräsentanz as a repressed signifier) and the surplus object (the stain exceeding the symbolic grasp) is the key to understanding the paradoxical nature of the objet petit a. If, as Žižek states, “the stain as such has the status of the objet petit a (surplus enjoyment)” (Enjoy Your Symptom 137),6 we may view the Vorstellungsrepräsentanz as correlative to the objet petit a as the void, that is, as the object-cause of desire. Hence, as I understand it, the stain and the Vorstellungsrepräsentanz are the two forms that the objet petit a assumes on different topological levels. Given Žižek’s formulation of the difference between the 176 Chapter 4

176

“constitutive lack” in desire and the “constitutive surplus” in the drive (cited at the beginning of

this chapter), we may argue that the objet petit a is both the lack and the surplus: the former

sustains desire, while the latter is constitutive of “the strange drive to enjoy life in excess,

passionately attached to a surplus which sticks out and derails the ordinary run of things”

(Parallax View 62).

In short, the relation between the Vorstellungsrepräsentanz and the stain explains how the

objet petit a as the “constitutive lack” (the objet-cause of desire) can be turned into the objet petit

a as the “constitutive surplus” (the object of the drive): this transformation is realized through the

return of the repressed. As two sides of one coin, these two faces of the objet petit a cannot be

separated from one another: for one thing, without the loss or the primordial repression

(Urverdrängung), there would not be any returns of the repressed. That is to say, the stain is the

necessary by-product of the symbolic repression. Insofar as desire is founded on the Law and

prohibition, what is prohibited in desire will return in the form of a surplus which forever “stains”

the symbolic order. In what follows, I will focus on the surplus side of the objet petit a and its

narrative manifestations in the Ershisi xiao stories, by which I attempt to understand the role of

the stain in constructing an ideological fantasy.

The Magic food as the return of the repressed

Story 18—“Kuzhu shangsun 哭竹生筍” (Crying to a Bamboo, Bringing out Bamboo Shoots)

Meng Zong 孟宗 of the State of Wu 吴 [229-280], whose style name is Gong Wu 恭

武,7 lost his father in his youth. His aged mother was very sick. In the “winter month

(dong yue 冬月),”8 she longed to eat the thick soup made with bamboo shoots. Zong

had no idea of how to obtain [the ingredient]; he then went to a bamboo wood, where Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao 177

177

he held a bamboo stalk and cried. His sense of filial piety moved Heaven and Earth.

Instantly, the earth cracked open, from which emerged a few shoots. He brought them

home and prepared the soup for his mother. Having finished the soup, the mother’s

illness was cured.

Shedding tears in the northern cold wind,

Miserable are the few stalks of bamboo.

Instantly emerged the winter shoot,

[It is] Heaven’s intention to forecast [the mother will be] safe and sound.

Story 19—“Wobing qiuli 卧冰求鯉” (Lying on the Ice in Search for Carps)

Wang Xiang 王祥 of the Jin 晉 dynasty [265-420], with the style name of Xiu Zheng

休徵, lost his mother at an early age. His stepmother, surnamed Zhu 朱氏, had no

affection towards him. She often brought to his father false accusations against him.

As a result, [Wang Xiang] lost his father’s love. The [step]mother had a desire to eat

raw fish. It was at the time when the ice was freezing. Xiang undressed himself and

lay down on the ice in search of fish. The ice suddenly cracked automatically, from

which two carps leaped out. [Wang Xiang] brought the carps home to provide [them]

to the mother.

There are stepmothers in the human world,

There is no another Wang Xiang under Heaven.

Until today, on the surface of the river,

An impression [can be found of Wang Xiang’s] lying on the ice.

178 Chapter 4

178

Knapp’s research shows that filial piety stories featuring the motif of miracles were not rare

and particularly proliferated during the early medieval period (ca. 100-600). Most of the stories in

the Ershisi xiao originated in this period, including the two stories quoted above. Knapp also

points out that this motif is incompatible with Confucius’s teaching, since, according to the Lun

yu 論語 (Analects)—one of the Four Books which allegedly collects Confucius’s speeches, the

Master—that is, Confucius himself— “never spoke about the strange, the violent, the chaotic and

the spirit.”9 As a way of explaining this apparent incompatibility, Knapp suggests that filial piety

stories of this kind were the product of the so-called Correlative Confucianism—the ruling

discourse during the early medieval period. He argues:

in many ways the early medieval filial piety stories conveyed the messages of

Correlative Confucianism—that man can affect the spirits through his moral behavior,

that the moral universe is deeply concerned with the actions of people and will send

down miracles to reward the virtuous and disasters to chastise the immoral, that a

hierarchy within the family that privileges seniors and subordinated juniors was

“natural,” and that government office should be assigned on the basis of merit. (111)

Unlike the “original” Confucius’s teaching, Correlative Confucianism stresses the paramount role

played by the supernatural elements—Earth, Heaven and the spirits. Hence, for Knapp, it is not

surprising to find that stories created in keeping with this brand of Confucianism are full of

miracles.

Knapp’s argument may explain the origin of this sort of stories; it is however inadequate to

account for their continuous popularity during late imperial times, when Correlative

Confucianism had long lost its dominant position and the Lun yu became a major part of the

Confucian canon. For example, an extended version of story 19 is found in the Xiao xue10 written Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao 179

179 by Zhu Xi whose commentary on the Lun yu was used as the essential text for education in late imperial China. How should we then explain this apparent discordance between the stories which feature miracles and Confucius’s teaching that avoids such topics? I will approach this question through a Lacanian perspective, by which I intend to supplement Knapp’s study on this issue.

Knapp groups these miracle tales into four categories. According to his system, the above two stories belong to the first category:11

The first category is one in which an exemplar’s sincere filial piety causes the spirit

world to aid the exemplar in his or her completion of a filial act. This kind of miracle

enables a son or daughter to complete an impossible filial act, or at least one that is

difficult to accomplish. A typical example is a tale in which a filial son searches for

an out-of-season food that his parent desires. ( 94)

Food features in these stories as an essential element. Knapp’s generalization correctly points out one side of the object: the out-of-season food is related to the parent’s desire. What is insufficiently discussed is the transformation of the impossible food into something available.

The unanswered questions are: What does the miracle realize or change, in terms of the position of the food within the diegetic reality? And, if the food is that which supposedly satisfies the parent’s desire, what is the relation between the food and the filial son?

The common motif shared by the two Ershisi xiao stories is the impossible food which is untimely required by a (step)mother. Since, as in other filial piety stories, these two mothers are occupying the position of authority within the mother-son relationship, they can thus be viewed as the sons’ mOther—an empirical representative of the big Other. Hence, at the beginning of each story, we have a desiring mOther—the ill mother in story 18 and the “evil” stepmother in story 19. In the texts, the ill mother is described as “longing for” (si 思) the bamboo shoot, and 180 Chapter 4

180

the stepmother as “wanting/desiring” (yu 欲) to eat fish. Both “longing” and “wanting/desiring”

indicate a lack which is marked in the narratives by the fact that the object of their desire—the

out-of-season food—is unattainable. Hence, at this stage, the food is positioned on the level of

the object-cause of desire—the objet petit a as the non-existing object which is beyond the

subject’s reach.

With the intervention of a miracle, these two narratives take a decisive turn which

transforms the impossible food into something attainable. We need now to pay particular

attention to the following details which narrate the miraculous moments:

Story 18: “Instantly, the earth cracked open, from which emerged a few shoots.”

Story 19: “The ice suddenly cracked automatically, from which two carps leaped out.”

Here, these two objects—the bamboo shoot and the carp— are described as emerging from

nowhere, in the sense that they initially have no place in the diegetic reality. For these objects to

emerge, it requires a supernatural force to break the surface (the earth and the ice sheet) of the

normal world. What do these miracles signify? To answer this question, we should start probably

with the premise that the filial acts in these two stories take place in the winter; their

extraordinariness is preconditioned by the reader’s knowledge of the seasonal characteristics. We

know that, when the temperature is low, certain things cannot be done: the bamboo shoot does

not grow in the winter; it is difficult to fish on the river, because it is frozen.

This knowledge transforms a natural phenomenon into a cultural product, introducing us

into a symbolically framed reality. Hence, the seasonal background functions to frame the events

within a symbolic structure; in this structure, the proper place for the two objects (the bamboo

shoot and the fish) is the non-place. In other words, they must remain absent, if the symbolic

façade is to remain intact. In the stories, this façade is literally symbolized by two hard Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao 181

181 surfaces—the earth and the ice sheet—which demarcate two domains. Above the surface is the domain of reality which is structured in accordance with the symbolic order; the other domain is the unseen territory hidden beneath the surfaces. We may thus interpret the two “natural” surfaces as metaphorical representations of the bar which separates the conscious world from the unconscious, and the imaginary-symbolic order from the order of the Real. Accordingly, we may also read the surfaces as the bar between the field of representation and that which must be precluded from this field. Hence, prior to their emergence, the bamboo shoot and the carp can be interpreted as located in the unseen territory and thus repressed by the symbolic order.

Their structural position as the repressed allows us to associate these objects with the

Vorstellungsrepräsentanz. As argued above, the repressed signifier returns to reality in two forms either as the ordinary signifiers or as the stain. I suggest that these two forms of the return of the repressed pertain to the functions served by the magic objects. First, at the beginning of the story, it is not entirely correct to view the “carp” and the “bamboo shoot” as objects, because they are non-existing and therefore cannot be treated as normal objects. Hence, it may be more accurate to consider them as the “ordinary signifiers”: they function not only to signify the mOther’s desire/lack, but also to cover up, to rationalize and to symbolize the hole opened up by the desire.

However, once the signifiers become objects and obtain positive presences in the diegetic reality, the fish and the bamboo shoot turn into something different, something which, rather than covering up the hole, gives body directly to the void. The magical emergence of the impossible object can thus be read as another manifestation of the return of the repressed; thereby, the

Vorstellungsrepräsentanz is turned into a stain or a surplus—an object which is “not on the same level of reality as ‘normal’ object” (Žižek, For They Know xxviii). Now, we can better understand the function of the magical events. By opening up the surfaces, the supernatural force actually breaks down the façade of the symbolic structure, so that the return of the repressed 182 Chapter 4

182

becomes possible. In other words, what we observe here is a transformation of the objet petit a as

the lost object into the objet petit a as a surplus—or, in Žižek’s words, as an “errant element

lacking its place” in reality ( Parallax View 122); hence, the positive presence of the two objects

cannot but be perceived as something breaking up and sticking out of the symbolically structured

surfaces.

Within the field of representation, the return of the repressed (represented by the emergence

of the carp and the bamboo shoot) can only be depicted as a miracle, as something mysterious

which is beyond any rational explanations; or, as Žižek puts it, “mysticism … stands for the

encounter with the Real” (Metastastases 117). In this sense, we may interpret the mystical

appearance of these objects as the invasion of reality by a piece of the Real. This reading

complicates the standard understanding of filial piety stories. On the one hand, we can follow

Knapp and read the irrational account of miracles as an ideological strategy which, by

introducing a higher authority into the discursive space, legitimizes the hierarchical system within

the family. On the other hand, if the magical food can be viewed as an embodiment of what Žižek

calls “surplus of the Real” (His Bold Gaze 239) or an unsymbolizable stain, we may accordingly

place the food on the same level as the bird in Hitchcock’s Birds which does not support but

traumatizes the social reality.

However, undeniably, the magical food is different from the bird. What makes the former

less traumatic than the latter? I suggest that it has everything to do with the discursive system, in

which this object was created. Unlike the bird which is treated as the raw, inhuman Thing, the

unseasonal food in the Chinese stories is explained as a heavenly reward. That is to say, divine

agencies such as Heaven and Earth were employed as a discursive strategy to re-inscribe the stain

into the symbolic order, translating it as a miracle; thereby, the excessive force inherent in the

surplus object could be contained. Hence, my reading of the filial piety stories differs from Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao 183

183

Knapp’s in one crucial dimension. Knapp views the miracles as secondary, which is discursively created to “naturalize” the hierarchical socio-familial system. However, what if the miracle in itself is primary?

Given our earlier discussion about the Lacanian notion of the entropy and the dialectic relation between the stain and the Vorstellungsrepräsentanz, it should be clear by now that the stain—the surplus object such as the magical food—is not something which is added from without and can thus be deleted at will; rather, it is the inherent by-product of the symbolic system itself. In a certain sense, one could argue that Confucius’s teaching which precludes the abnormal things from proper speech is grounded on the lack, on the foreclosure of the

Vorstellungsrepräsentanz, while Correlative Confucianism (or other similar theories) can be viewed as a means of coping with the return of what is repressed by Confucius’s speech: by interpreting the “return of the repressed” as a heavenly reward (or punishment), Correlative

Confucianism was able to provide the surplus element with certain meanings, and thereby to create a discursive place for it. Rather than eliminating or re-repressing the stain, Correlative

Confucianism simply disguises it by involving a supernatural agency. In other words, Correlative

Confucianism was a necessary supplement to Confucius’s teaching, which helped to contain the stain, and to domesticate its excessive force.

Knapp is not wrong in arguing that Correlative Confucianism attempted to demonstrate that

“the hierarchy within the family … was ‘natural’” (Selfless Offspring 111). Is it not striking to note that the social system has to be naturalized by a supernatural force which itself is not natural at all? It further suggests that there was something in the social system which demanded an explanation but could not find it on the level of reality. By introducing the notion of a moral universe, Correlative Confucianism strived to explain the “abnormal things” which Confucius’s teaching even refused to speak of. In short, my point here is that the “miracles” were not (or not 184 Chapter 4

184

only) created to legitimize the social system; instead, the discourses centring on the supernatural

elements served to contain the “miracles” themselves. That is to say, the miracle was the

disguised stain—the waste of the Confucian symbolic universe—which pre-existed and

necessitated those discourses such as Correlative Confucianism and its later counterparts.

Hence, Correlative Confucianism complemented, rather than conflicted with, Confucius’s

teaching. Without the former, the latter would not be able to defend itself against the return of the

Real. The two seemingly incompatible systems can thus be treated as the two sides of one coin,

dealing respectively with the two sides of the objet petit a. This is why, even after Correlative

Confucianism had already lost its dominant position, its function was nevertheless maintained,

and carried out by other discourses such as Buddhism and the religious Daoism. The co-existence

of different discourses suggests that Confucian orthodoxy desperately needed other discourses, so

that, whenever the repressed stuck out from beneath the bar, the crack on the ideological façade

could always be explained (or symbolized) and thus be repaired. The timeless popularity enjoyed

by these miracle stories bears witness to the long lasting influence of the logic formulated by

Correlative Confucianism which had remained as the unwritten law lurking behind the

hegemonic canonical texts.

Finally, if the surplus objects in these two stories embody the impossible object of the

mOther’s desire, what kind of objects are they for the filial sons? For one thing, in order to obtain

these objects, the sons must do something: Meng Zong in story 18 cries in a bamboo wood;

Wang Xiang in story 19 lies naked on the ice. Let us start with Meng Zong’s cry. On the one

hand, we can interpret it as resembling a baby’s cry, by which a need is articulated and

simultaneously transformed into a demand for love. In this way, the son’s cry can be understood

as a kind of speech addressed to the Other—the divine authority, demanding for His love.

However, on the other hand, this comparison is not sufficient, since the son is not a baby, but a Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao 185

185 social speaking subject; he has the linguistic means of articulating his need and demand. Hence, for a speaking subject, a cry has a different function than speech; we cry, when something needs to be expressed but cannot be articulated through speech. Crying is a vocal expression, through which something unspeakable is uttered; something which is repressed by the system of speech finds its way back to the vocal surface. In other words, the son’s cry already embodies a certain surplus element which gives a vocal representation to the return of the repressed. As a consequence, the bamboo shoots miraculously stick out of the earth, which seems to materialize the vocal surplus, transforming it into the object which can be consumed by the mOther.

In story 19, the filial son lies naked on the ice, in an attempt to melt it down. To understand this act, we need to examine it in its discursive context. As Knapp observes, “early medieval stories indicate that gongyang [reverent caring]12 consists of furnishing parents with delicacies; however, underscoring its importance, the authors emphasize the deprivations that filial children inflect upon themselves to secure these luxuries” (118-19). It seems that, in the case of gongyang, the filial act actually consists of two parts—(1) providing the parents with special food, and (2) the filial subject’s performance of self-deprivation. In a way, the second part underscores the essential feature of gongyang, without which the act of providing food would not be recognized as an exemplary case of filial devotion. In other words, what is at stake here is not the food per se but the child’s self-deprivation.

Knapp is right in pointing out the importance of self-deprivation; however, in my view, this performance is not intended simply “to secure these luxuries.” As demonstrated in story 19 which is considered by Knapp as one of the most famous examples of self-deprivation (120), the son’s effort to obtain the food is logically and practically fruitless. (The fruitlessness is attested to by the fact that the ice sheet opens up by itself, rather than melting due to the son’s body temperature). Hence, the question is: if self-deprivation cannot serve effectively as a means of 186 Chapter 4

186

obtaining the food, what is its function? To answer this question, we may start by considering

what the son is actually deprived of. On the most superficial level, he is deprived of his clothes;

he must expose his naked body. By lying on the ice, the second deprivation is stressed: he is

deprived of adequate warmth and thus of comfort. In this sense, we can conclude that Wang

Xiang’s self-deprivation leads to the breach of the pleasure principle; he deprives himself of the

pleasure, which generates pain, or rather the “pleasure in pain.”13

In a way, Wang Xiang’s practice of self-deprivation resembles the ascetic’s self-

renunciation of all worldly pleasure; but, according Žižek, the ascetic also enjoys, and enjoys

precisely through this renunciation:

The fundamental ‘perversion’ of the human libidinal economy is that when some

pleasurable activity is prohibited and ‘repressed’, we do not simply get a life of strict

obedience to the Law deprived of all pleasures—the exercise of the Law itself

becomes libidinally cathected, so that the prohibitory activity itself provides a

pleasure of its own. Apropos of the ascetic, for example, Hegel emphasizes how his

endless mortification of his body becomes a source of perverse excessive enjoyment:

the very renunciation of libidinal satisfaction becomes an autonomous source of

satisfaction, and this is the ‘bribe’ which makes the servant accept his servitude.

(Ticklish Subject 106-07)

Wang Xiang’s lying naked on the ice can probably be compared to the ascetic’s mortification of

his body, which transforms self-deprivation into the very means of producing the “pleasure in

pain”—that is, the surplus enjoyment as a “reward” for his filial servitude. As a consequence, two

carps leap out of the frozen river. Resembling the bamboo shoots in story 18, the carp—the

surplus object—functions in the narrative to materialize and to encapsulate the surplus enjoyment.

Let us note that there are again two carps.14 Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao 187

187

To sum up, we can observe the homology between the filial piety stories and the story of the “ridiculous” man who buys an empty box: in all three cases, the loss, the negation, or the repression of certain things leads paradoxically to the gain of something else, something which is initially unattainable in the diegetic-symbolic reality. This something is termed, in the Lacanian terminology, the “surplus enjoyment.” One key difference between the Ershisi xiao stories and the story of the “ridiculous” man must be pointed out here: while the latter enjoys for himself, what is emphasized in the Ershisi xiao is the mOther’s jouissance. That is, the surplus object obtained through the son’s effort is intended for the mOther, to fill up her lack/desire; similarly, the carps in story 11 are also meant to be fed to the mOther. (This difference is probably the only reason why the man buying an empty box was ridiculed, while the filial protagonists regarded as moral exemplars.)We may thus conclude that these filial piety stories feature an overlap between two layers of jouissance: the subject’s surplus jouissance becomes a means of satisfying the

Other. It illustrates the ideological function of jouissance that Žižek has observed in the film The

Matrix.

Žižek is attracted to a particular scene in The Matrix: the millions of human beings are kept alive in water-filled cradles, so that they can generate the energy for the matrix—the metaphor for the big Other. The question which Žižek asks is: “Why does the matrix need human energy?

The purely energetic solution is, of course, meaningless…” (Enjoy Your Symptom 262).

According to him, “[t]he only consistent answer is: the matrix feeds on the human’s jouissance— so we are here back at the fundamental Lacanian thesis that the big Other itself, far from being an anonymous machine, needs the constant influx of jouissance” (Enjoy Your Symptom 262). The same question and answer can be applied to the filial piety stories. Take story 19 for example.

Why does Wang Xiang need to lie naked on the ice? The purely attempt to melt down the ice is, of course, meaningless. The only consistent answer is: the mOther needs to feed on the son’s 188 Chapter 4

188

surplus enjoyment. (Wang Xing’s lying on the frozen water is probably not much different from

the human body lying in the water-filled cradle). In the Chinese case, the mOther who stands in

for the big Other personalizes the abstract matrix. The parent-child relationship can thus be

compared to the relationship between the matrix and the millions of human beings who generate

energy for the matrix: the son works to produce jouissance, not for himself, but for the parents—

the personalized big Other. In a more implicit fashion, the filial piety stories convey the same

message as the film The Matrix does: for the big Other to maintain its normal function, it has to

feed on the human’s (the filial subject’s) jouissance.

According to Žižek, this scene of the matrix’s feeding on human energy stages the perverse

fantasy of “the reduction of the subject to an utter instrumentalized passivity” (Enjoy Your

Symptom 264); what is actually shown in The Matrix is thus that “our reality is that of the free

agents in the social world we know, but in order to sustain this situation, we have to supplement

it with the disavowed, terrible, impending fantasy of being passive prisoners in the prenatal fluid

exploited by the matrix” (Enjoy Your Symptom 264). The filial piety stories probably stage the

same fantasy which underlies the son’s activities in the diegetic reality. In appearance, the son

acts freely, inflicting upon himself the self-willed sufferings; however, in the end, his free acts

were merely a veil concealing his real status as an instrumentalized apparatus generating

jouissance for the Other.

It is worthy of notice that, in pre-modern China, this fantasy is not an idiosyncratic

imagination, but constitutive of an essential part of the orthodox discourse15 and integrated into

the very system of the symbolic universe. Confucian discourse on filial piety functioned just as

one of the strategies to legitimize, to normalize, or to “naturalize” this “cannibalistic” relationship

between the subject and the big Other. That is, what is staged in the story forms the very core of

the ideological fantasy, which was taught and implanted into the subject’s psyche, and thereby Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao 189

189 helped to construct social reality. The popular practice of gegu liaoqin 割股疗親—which required a child to feed his/her ill parents (-in-law) a piece of flesh cut off from his/her own body16—was just one example of the short circuit between the cannibalistic perverse fantasy and social reality. It is thus not surprising to see that more than half of the stories in the Ershisi xiao centre on the motif of feeding one’s parent(s)(-in-law). As demonstrated so far, what the parents eat is not food, but the magical object—the objet petit a as the surplus enjoyment. This fantasy of being an instrument of the Other’s jouissance will be further discussed in the next chapter. I will now turn to story 21 which illustrates another way of containing/consuming the surplus object.

II

Excrement and “Love”

Story 21—“Changfen youxin 嘗糞憂心” (Tasting the Feces and Having Worries in His Heart)

Yu Qianlou 庾黔娄 of the Southern Qi 南齊 dynasty [479-502] was the magistrate of

the county Chanling 孱陵. [Yu’s] stay on his post lasted less than ten days, before he

suddenly trembled with fear and perspired. [He] immediately quit his job and returned

[home]. [When he arrived home,] his father had just fallen ill for two days. The doctor

said: “if [you] want to know whether his illness is to be cured or become serious, you

only need to taste his excrement. The bitter taste is good.” Yu Qianlou tasted [his

father’s] excrement; it tasted sweet. [Hence,] his heart was full of extreme worries. In

the evening, he bowed deeply to the North Star, asking to replace his father’s death

with his own.

[He] stayed in the county less than ten days, 190 Chapter 4

190

When his father met with a serious illness.

Hoping to replace his father’s death with his own,

He looked at the North [Star] with worries aroused in his heart.

What is most striking about this story is the son’s act of tasting his father’s excrement. For

modern readers, this act is unimaginable and even perverse. However, rather than being viewed

as an obscene story, it is collected in Zhu Xi’s Xiao xue which formed the very core of (Neo-)

Confucian orthodoxy.17 As described in the narrative text, this piece of human waste has an

important “practical” function: it reveals the secret of the father’s physical condition. In other

words, despite its direct resemblance to the Lacanian waste—that is, “a useless surplus or

remainder, which is inherent in and essential to jouissance as such” (Zupančič, Surplus

Enjoyment 157, original italics), the father’s waste seems to occupy a different position, since it

is not a useless thing but has a medical function. However, if the simple act of tasting the

excrement was valued as an extraordinary example of filial devotion, the excrement must possess

some outstanding qualities which distinguish it from other useful things. In this sense, the

excrement cannot be viewed as a normal object either. Hence, to understand this story, we need

to ask: What kind of object does the excrement represent? What kind of function does this object

serve with regard to the father-son relationship in this story?

In Lacanian psychoanalysis, the excrement is one form of the objet petit a; and, Lacan

identifies it as the object of the anal drive. He argues,

The anal level is the locus of metaphor—one object for another, give the faeces in

place of the phallus. This shows you why the anal drive is the domain of oblativity, of

the gift. Where one is caught short, where one cannot, as a result of the lack, give Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao 191

191

what is to be given, one can always give something else. That is why, in his morality,

man is inscribed at the anal level. (Seminar XI 104)

It is important to bear in mind that, for Lacan, the phallus is first and foremost the castrated organ which is owned by no one, and therefore can be viewed as synonymous with the lack. As Lacan maintains in Seminar X, “[a]t the level of the phallic stage … the a function is represented by a lack, namely, the missing phallus that constitutes the disjunction that joins desire to jouissance”

(294-95).18 As compensation for this lack, the anal object acquires somehow a symbolic function, which, as a kind of signifier, metaphorizes and replaces the castrated, missing organ (the phallus).

Hence, the excrement can be treated as a “gift” which is to be exchanged between subjects, and supposedly to provide satisfaction. To supplement Lacan’s above thesis, Žižek stresses the surplus side of the object, viewing the symbolic function of the excrement as secondary. He states that “prior to this symbolic status of a gift, and so on, the excrement is objet a in the precise sense of the non-symbolizable surplus that remains after the body is symbolized, inscribed into the symbolic network: the problem of the anal stage resides precisely in how we are to dispose of this leftover” (Metastastases 179). Story 21 quoted above provides us with an opportunity to examine the Confucian way of solving this problem. In what follows, I am to read this story against a broader cultural background.

Dao and excrement or “agalma and shit”

Generally speaking, excrement has usually been perceived as the limit of the imaginary- symbolic world. For example, when Zhuang Zi 莊子 claimed that the Dao is everywhere,

Dongguo Zi 東郭子 challenged him by way of asking him to specify the meaning of

“everywhere.” Zhuang Zi in response answered that “it is in the ant.” Dongguo Zi was unsatisfied, 192 Chapter 4

192

because there is something beyond the level of the ant which is still unnamed. When Zhuang Zi

claimed that “the Dao is in the excrement and urine,” Dongguo Zi finally fell silent, giving no

further response.19 The Daoist philosophy is not my concern; what interests me here is the

discursive place occupied by the excrement. The conversation between Zhuang Zi and Dongguo

Zi reveals not only that, within the order of things, the excrement is placed on the lowest level,

but also that it sets the limit of the symbolic order. Beyond the waste, there is nothing which can

be talked about. Hence, when the excrement was named, Dongguo Zi retreated into silence.

This Daoist conversation may remind us of the dialog between Parmenides and Socrates in

Plato’s Parmenides which is summarized by Žižek as follows:

Parmenides raises a question that perplexes Socrates and forces him to admit his

limitation: are there also Ideas of the lowest material things, Ideas of excrement,

dust …? Is there an eidos for “things that might seem absurd, like hair and mud and

dirt, or anything else totally undignified and worthless?” (Žižek, Less Than Nothing

39).

Žižek interprets Parmenides’s question as pointing out a key Platonic paradox, stating that

“[w]hat lurks behind this question is not only the embarrassing fact that the noble notion of Form

could also apply to excremental objects, but a much more precise paradox that Plato approaches

in his Statesman, in which he makes a crucial claim: division (of a genus into species) should be

made at the proper joints” (Less Than Nothing 39). Hence, according to Žižek, the scandalous

unity between the Form (or eidos) and the excremental objects bears directly on the paradoxical

structure of genus.

[E]very genus, in order to be fully divided into species, has to include such a negative

pseudo-species, a “part of no-part” of the genus, all those who belong to the genus but

are not covered by any of its species. This “contradiction” between a genus and its Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao 193

193

species, embodied in an excessive group whose consistency is purely “negative,” is

what sets a dialectical process in motion. (Less Than Nothing 39)

The Platonic paradox of the genus is exemplified by the division of all human beings into

Greeks and Barbarians. For Plato, this division is a mistake: as pointed out by Žižek, “‘barbarian’ is not a proper form because it does not designate a positively defined group (species), but merely all persons who are not Greeks. The positivity of the term ‘barbarian’ thus conceals the fact that it serves as the container for all those who do not fit the form ‘Greek’” (Less Than Nothing 39). In other words, the two species—“Greek” and “barbarians”—are not on the same level: the former is defined by a positive feature, that is, by what it is, whereas the latter lacks such a feature, and therefore can only be defined by what it is not; the term “barbarian” is thus containing those elements which do not fit and thus exceed the positively defined species. We can also put it differently by understanding this negative definition as resulting from the fact that these excessive elements are that which cannot be symbolized or be named, and therefore have no place in the system consisting of a series of positively defined objects.20 Hence, what is concealed by the positive term such as ‘barbarian’ is not only the unsymbolizable surplus but also the fact that the symbolic system itself is incomplete, lacking a positive term which could define the surplus object as what it is. The point here is that, for the genus to be complete, the symbolic system—the system made up of species—must include into itself a “part of no-part,” or, as Žižek says elsewhere, “the errant element lacking its place” ( Parallax View 122).

The above seemingly digressed discussion is meant to point out that it is not that there is a

Form/genus for the undignified thing, but that the undignified thing itself is a necessary support for the Form/genus, without which the latter cannot complete itself. This Platonic paradox can thus be explained through the notion of the objet petit a. To make this point, Žižek quotes a passage from Dolar: 194 Chapter 4

194

There are two very different, sharply opposed, views of the object in Plato—agalma

and junk (shall we say “agalma and shit” to make for a better slogan?)—which should

ultimately be made to converge in the concept of object a, and the theory of the object

has to account for both from the same pivot. (qtd. in Less Than Nothing 40)

Žižek then concludes: “The objet a is thus the name for the ultimate unity of the opposites in

Plato” (Less Than Nothing 40). In place of the opposition between the Form and the undignified

excremental objects, we have here a united pair—the “agalma and shit” which form the two sides

of the objet petit a. Lacan borrows the term agalma from Plato’s Symposium, in which the

agalma designates the hidden treasure concealed within a box (Evans 128). In Lacanian

psychoanalysis, the agalma is the imaginary register of the objet petit a—the phantasmic object

“in me but more than me.” As Žižek’s maintains, “the agalma [is] secret treasure, which

guarantees a minimum of phantasmic consistency to the subject’s being. That is to say: objet petit

a, as the object of fantasy, is that ‘something in me more than myself’ on account of which I

perceive myself as ‘worthy of the Other’s desire’” (Plague 8).21

Following this logic, we can give the Daoist story a Lacanian interpretation. I have no

intention to claim that the Dao is as the same as the agalma or the Form; however, the similarity

between them can be argued at least in one respect: on the most basic level, they refer to a certain

essence which supposedly underlies the worldly, empirical things. Hence, we can understand the

Dao and the excrement as structurally corresponding to the pair of “agalma and shit”: the Dao is

the inner treasure of all things, while the excrement is the essential support of the Dao. In other

words, it is not that the Dao resides in the excrement, but that they are the two sides of one and

the same thing; the excrement is the obverse of the Dao. This is why the conversation between

Zhuang Zi and Dongguo Zi stops at the moment when the excrement is named: when the

excessive surplus element is included into the list, the Dao completes itself. Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao 195

195

As argued above, the excrement marks the limit of the symbolic order, which demonstrates

Žižek’s thesis that “a surplus of the Real always eludes the symbolic grasp and persists as a non- symbolized stain, a hole in reality which designates the ultimate limit where ‘the word fails’”

(His Bold Gaze 239). If the positive term such as “barbarian” aims at concealing the lack or the hole in the symbolic system, the anal object gives the lack a positive presence. That is, the hole is rendered visible by the presence of a stain, through which a piece of the Real intrudes into the symbolic system; the excrement completes and, at the same time, undermines the Dao. Hence, in my view, the Daoist conversation between Zhuang Zi and Dongguo Zi demonstrates not only that the excrement is perceived within the traditional Chinese culture as a surplus emerging at the moment when “the word fails,” but also that this surplus of the Real and the Dao—or, the agalma as the imaginary core of all things —converge at the same point. In this way, the Daoist story actually undermines the imaginary aspect of the Dao. My understanding of the Daoist position is this: in the end, the “true” essence of the empirical world resides in a piece of waste—that is, the surplus of the Real.

From the agalma to the excrement and back

If the coincidence between the Dao and the excrement in Zhuang Zi’s speech functions somehow to weaken the imaginary notion of agalma itself, a similar coincidence in the filial piety story seems to achieve a different effect, where the fantasy of the agalma maintains intact.

To reach this conclusion, we need first to see how the father’s excrement is connected with the agalma. Facing the father’s illness, the doctor fails. All other bodily symptoms cannot provide enough indications of the father’s condition. In order to know the situation of the father’s being, the son has to resort to the excrement. What does it mean? We can understand the bodily symptoms—such as the father’s pulse or the colour of his tongue—as a set of signifiers which 196 Chapter 4

196

can be decoded, or to be translated into meanings, by the doctor who is the person supposed to

know.22 The patient’s symptoms and the doctor’s knowledge constitute the body of medical

discourse which in turn forms a part of the symbolic order and thus constructs the perceivable

surface of the father’s being. Hence, the doctor’s failure to know indicates the gap between the

symbolically structured surface of the father’s body and his being: knowing the father’s bodily

signifiers is not enough to know his fate; it seems that the father’s fate actually relies on an

unseen cause, that is, on something which is beyond or exceeds his symbolized body. This

something can probably be denoted by the Lacanian term “agalma.” Following Žižek’s definition

of the agalma cited above, we may argue that, for the son as well as the doctor, there is a secret

treasure in the father, which guarantees a minimum of consistency to his being; it is the innermost

core of the father’s being, on which his fate depends. In this way, the filial piety story, through a

medical discourse, reinforces the fantasy of the agalma, and thereby renders the father as the one

who has got it—the objet petit a.

This agalma is represented in the story as something associated with the excrement.

Knowing (tasting) the excrement is a way of knowing the father’s fate, which indicates an

imaginary-discursive connection between the excrement and the agalma. Hence, we may

interpret the anal object as the treasure (agalma) falling from its hidden place, which, resembling

the impossible food in stories 18 and 19, sticks out of the symbolic surface. Given what we have

discussed so far, this sticking-out effect allows us to interpret the excrement as a surplus object

which forms the limit of the symbolic order; hence, when the words—the bodily symptoms as

signifiers—fail, the son, in order to know the father’s condition, has to have his last recourse to

the excrement. Moreover, as argued in the previous section, the surplus object usually entails a

traumatic effect on reality, which is strikingly demonstrated in Hitchcock’s Birds. In the Chinese

context, the derailing aspect of the anal object found its most vivid manifestation in the popular Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao 197

197 belief that the excrement possesses certain killing force. This belief had caused the fear of certain

“black magic” which involved the use of human excrement and urine. For example, as B. J. ter

Haar points out, among the causes of a widespread fear and social disorder in 1557 was the rumour that some magicians used dirt and excrement to harm people (White Lotus 176). This popular fear attests to the structural position occupied by the anal object in the traditional Chinese society; this dreadful power of the excremental object cannot be explained, unless we situate this object at the place of the objet petit a, which, as Žižek maintains, “designates that which is subtracted from reality (as impossible) and thus gives it consistency—if it gets included in reality, it causes a catastrophe” (Less Than Nothing 654, original italics). In other words, the agalma and the excrement are two faces of the objet petit a: when hidden beneath the surface of reality, the object petit a is imagined as the agalma—an unattainable object which causes our desire and love; however, once this hidden treasure is extracted from the symbolically covered body, it turns immediately into the unsymbolizable surplus which disturbs and even subverts our reality.

A telling example given by Žižek is Tom Tykwer’s film Perfume: The Story of a Murderer.

The protagonist has a special ability to sense a person’s smell. He is especially attracted to women’s smell and dreams to preserve this smell even after the women’s death. Having killed a number of young women, he succeeds in extracting the smell from their bodies and preserving it in the form of perfume. When a subject is exposed to the odour of the perfume, he/she will lose his/her sanity. Just before he is about to be executed, the protagonist spreads the perfume among the audience waiting to witness his execution. Everyone, except the protagonist himself, is somehow “drugged” and engages in a collective sex with one another. According to Žižek, “[t]his irresistible perfume is the ultimate odor di femina, the extracted ‘essence’ of femininity: whenever ordinary humans smell it, they suspend all rational restraint and engage in a sexual orgy” (Less Than Nothing 654). If the female odour is the essence—the agalma—of the women, 198 Chapter 4

198

the protagonist’s relation with them illustrates Lacan’s thesis on love: “I love you, but, because

inexplicably I love you something more than you—the objet petit a—I mutilate you” (Seminar XI

268, original italics). It is not the person, but the imaginary object—the objet petit a as the

agalma—that the subject loves. However, once the loved object is extracted from the person,

becoming included into reality, it turns immediately into the dangerous perfume, or the dreadful

excrement in the Chinese case, which causes catastrophes.

Following Žižek’s reading of the Perfume, we may view the father’s excrement in story

21as something similar to the perfume, both of which represent the essence of a beloved

person—the women in the film and the father in the filial piety story. Accordingly, the son’s

tasting his father’s excrements resembles the murderer’s effort to extract the women’s odour:

through an intimate contact with the extracted object, the subject bypasses all the perishable

appearances of the beloved person and reaches directly to the core of his/her being. In this sense,

we must read the son’s act as the ultimate expression of his filial love: it is neither the father’s

imago nor his symbolic position, but the agalma—the imaginary register of the objet petit a

which is in him but more than himself and now externalized in the form of the excrement, that

constitutes the ultimate object of filial love. Hence, unsurprisingly, self-exposure to one’s

parent(s)’s excrement and/or urine constitutes one of the most popular ingredients in filial piety

stories. We find in the Rulin waishi 儒林外史 (Unofficial History of the Confucians)23 a similar

episode, in which the filial son helps his paralyzed father to go to the toilet. What makes this

episode special is the way in which the son serves his father: he basically transforms himself into

a toilet, letting the father sit on his shoulder, when he empties himself.24

However, the filial piety stories differ from the Perfume in one crucial aspect: unlike the

film, the stories do not end with a social catastrophe. What makes the filial piety stories different? Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao 199

199

One detail in story 21 deserves our attention. According to the doctor, if the father’s excrement has a bitter taste, he will recover his health. This piece of information indicates that the excrement is not a totally unsymbolizable stain. Its taste can be understood as one of the symptoms which can be deciphered in accordance with the doctor’s medical knowledge. Hence, the taste of the excrement is a signifier and can thus be registered in the symbolic system.

However, on the other hand, it is undeniable that the taste of the excrement is not an ordinary signifier. Why does not the doctor examine the excrement by himself? The doctor’s refusal to do so may suggest that this signifier is something which should not or cannot be directly known, or acknowledged, by the symbolic order (represented here by the doctor himself as the one supposed to know). In other words, we may interpret the taste of the excrement as a kind of

Vorstellungsrepräsentanz—the repressed signifier precluded from the public-symbolic domain, and thus constitutive of a private secret possessed only by the son. Or, we may view the excrement as another image of the singular object—the object which cannot be grasped by our shared knowledge and therefore must be precluded from the intersubjective reality; hence, the father’s excrement and the invisible ghost mother (discussed in chapter 2) are the two sides of the same coin.

This detail in the story has two functions. First, by providing a medical explanation, it not only rationalizes an “irrational” behaviour—the son’s “consumption” of a piece of the excrement, but also veils the raw, unsymbolizable substance with a symbolic covering; second, by precluding the anal object from the public sphere, the filial piety discourse actually provides an instruction to contain the surplus object within the father-son private relationship. That is to say, if the excrement is able to remain as a loved object in the filial piety story without causing a social catastrophe, it is because this object has already been isolated from the public-social domain. 200 Chapter 4

200

Hence, to a certain degree, the father’s excrement can still be viewed as a hidden treasure which

is not completely included into social reality.

The same logic can be used to explain another Ershisi xiao story. The text of story 23—

“Diqin niqi 滌親溺器” (Cleaning His Parent’s Chamber Pot)—reads: “Although [the son, Huang

Tingjian 黄庭堅] himself is of a noble and prominent status, [he] served his mother with extreme

sincerity. Every evening, [he] personally washed her chamber pot.” Ample stories of this kind

can be found in various historical sources from the early medieval period (Knapp 51-52). Knapp

observes the following feature: “Even though the protagonists of the early medieval tales were

primarily men from locally prominent, upper class families, the tales often portray them, on their

parents’ behalf, performing menial or disgusting task, which were usually done by servants or

slaves” (51). His explanation of this feature is:

despite servants or slaves being available, filial sons insist on doing all the menial

tasks necessary for their parents’ care. That is because, since only the son knows how

much his parents have sacrificed on his behalf, only he can serve them with the

sincerity and devotion that they deserve. (52)

However, this explanation cannot account for why, in these stories, the sons do not do all the

menial works, but focus only on the most “disgusting task.”

Besides, according to Knapp, what is at issue here is the notion of repaying one’s parent’s

kindness. He argues: “Since a mother displays love for her child by performing a myriad of

menial tasks on his behalf, the child who received that tender nurturing must repay it in kind”

(52). However, in my view, this notion is just one of the attempts to rationalize the son’s

behaviour. For one thing, especially in the rich, prominent families, the tedious and harsh works

of raising children were usually done by servants and slaves who were the people performing a Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao 201

201 myriad of menial tasks on the children’s behalf. The parents, especially the fathers, were probably never involved in childcare.25 Later on, Knapp puts forward another theory, arguing that

“[t]he motif of a filial son who acts the part of either a servant or a hired laborer stresses that he elevates the status of his parents by degrading his own. For Confucians, humbling oneself is an essential means by which one honors others” (54). It could be one of the reasons why Huang

Tingjian performs a servant’s task. However, I would like to suggest here another possible interpretation.

One simple question is: why is it that other menial or disgusting tasks, such as washing the father’s feet, or combing the mother’s hair, were not as popular as those acts which involve a direct contact with the parent’s excrement or urine? That is to say, if self-humiliating is the only issue, this intention can be realized through various means; why is the anal object usually highlighted in the stories? Given our above discussion about the cultural perception of the excrement in traditional China, we can put forward the following argument: Besides being a gesture of self-debasement, the son’s insistence on washing the chamber pot by himself may have been his effort to contain the non-symbolizable object within a private domain; by keeping a distance between the anal object and the other subjects, the son may have attempted to keep this dreadful object from a public exposure, even though the other subjects are the son’s own servants.

Given the fact that story 21 is included in Zhu Xi’s Xiao xue, we may consider it as a reflection of the (Neo-)Confucian way of disposing the waste. It seems that the Confucians were alert to the danger of the surplus object; it must be kept in secret, if the consistency of reality is to be maintained.

Finally, there is another crucial aspect which distinguishes the filial piety stories from

Perfume and the popular fear: the anal object highlighted in the Ershisi xiao stories is not anyone’s excrement, but the waste produced by the parents—the stand-in for the big Other. That 202 Chapter 4

202

is to say, the filial love is different from the murderer’s love for the perfume. If the latter centres

on the feminine essence which is subversive for the masculine society, the former stresses the

anal side of the patriarchal system, demonstrating the fact that the stain (epitomized by the

father’s excrement) is the necessary product of the patriarchal system itself. That is, what is

strikingly displayed in the Ershisi xiao stories is the obscene side of the big Other. Moreover,

unlike the popular fear of the excrement, the filial piety stories transform the father’s waste into

an object of love, whereby the filial discourse manages to reabsorb the unsymbolizable surplus

into the symbolic-moral system.

To sum up, in contrast to the Daoist position which, as argued above, aimed at undermining

the imaginary-phantasmatic nature of the agalma (the Dao), the Confucian discourse on filial

piety worked in the opposite direction: with recourse to other discourses—such as the medical

discourse, it aimed at sustaining the fantasy of the agalma as the Other’s inner treasure; and, by

advocating this particular model of filial love which encourages the subject to contain the

excremental object within the private parent-child relationship, the Confucian system was also

able to (re)elevate the waste generated by the system itself to the status of the agalma as a secret

family treasure. In a way, we may say that the task of the filial subject was to reabsorb or, we

may say, to consume the Father’s waste; they were expected to love not only the imaginary inner

treasure of the big Other but also the waste produced by it, whereby the self-destructive aspect of

the patriarchal system was brought under control.

Conclusion

In this chapter, I have focused on the two topological sides of the objet petit a—namely, the

objet petit a as the constitutive lack and the objet petit a as the constitutive surplus. The former Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao 203

203 can be related to the Vorstellungsrepräsentanz—the repressed signifier which “evokes the good that das Ding brings with it” (Lacan, Seminar VII 72) and is thus absent from reality, while the latter embodies the return of the repressed, functioning as the unsymbolizable stain which encapsulates a piece of the Real and is thus capable of disturbing and even traumatizing reality itself. One crucial Lacanian insight is that every social-symbolic system generates its own waste—the surplus enjoyment as the by-product or the remainder of the symbolic process which aims at evacuating jouissance as such. Hence, insofar as the consistency of our reality is based on the lack of jouissance, the surplus jouissance cannot but entail a derailing effect. One of the problems that every society needs to deal with is thus how to dispose the social waste—the surplus object which stains the symbolic system.

The filial piety stories suggest two ways of solving this problem. First, the Ershisi xiao stories (such as stories 18 and 19), which are apparently inconsistent with Confucius’s teaching recorded in the Lun yu, function actually as a discursive strategy to re-inscribe the surplus element into the symbolic system: by introducing a higher authority—such as Heaven and Earth, the filial piety stories attempt to create, outside the orthodox system, a symbolic space for the errant element which lacks a place in reality. Second, stories 21 and 23, where the stain is more directly related to the Father’s waste, can be viewed as concrete examples of how the Father’s waste is to be disposed: by establishing an equation between the Father’s waste and something akin to the agalma—an imaginary register of the objet petit a, the former is transformed into the true object of filial love. Hence, my suggestion is that the Confucian model of filial piety was engineered to deal with the Father’s waste; the task of the filial subject was to love and to conceal the waste, whereby the self-subversive force inherent in the surplus object can be contained or rather consumed. 204 Chapter 4

204

1 For Žižek’s discussion of the objet petit a as an empty frame, see chapter 3 above.

2 This story is found in the chapter “Wai chu shuo zuo shang” 外儲說左上. See Han Fei, Han fei zi, juan 11, 4A-4B.

3 It should be pointed out that there is one special signifier which functions not as the apparatus of an entropy (the

loss of jouissance) but as the apparatus of jouissance; this special signifier is, as we have already seen, the sinthome.

4 See Lacan’s four discourses which are to be discussed in chapter 6 below.

5 This schema is found in Žižek’s “In His Bold Gaze” 239. Lacan has transformed Saussure’s diagram of a sign. For

Saussure, the signified is placed above the bar and the signifier beneath it (signified/signifier), while Lacan reverses

this order, placing the signifier above the signified. See Lacan’s “The Instance of the Letter in the Unconscious or

Reason since Freud” in Écrits 412-41. For an introduction of the Lacanian sign, see Homer 36-43; Fink, Lacan to the

Letter 79-83.

6 Žižek’s examples here are Munch’s two paintings—Girls on the Bridge (1899) and The Dance of Life (1900). He

remarks: “the background earth and trees in the first case, the contours of the dancing bodies in the second, transmute

into extended sperm-like stains which encumber reality with the substance of enjoyment” (Enjoy Your Symptom

137- 38).

7 Besides the family name and the given name, a person in traditional China usually acquired another name (zi, 字),

when he/she reached his/her adulthood. This additional name is known in English as the “style name” or “courtesy

name.”

8 The “winter month” refers to the eleventh month of the lunar calendar

9 “子不語怪力亂神。” The Chinese text is found in Chapter 7 (Shuer 述而) of the Lun yu. See Lun yu ji zhu, juan 4,

6B. Knapp has adopted another translation: Confucius “did not speak of marvels, feats of strength, acts of disorder,

or spirits” (82).

10 See Zhu Xi, yuding xiao xue jizhu, juan 6, 8B-9A.

11 For the other three categories, see Knapp 95-102.

12 For the notion of gongyang, see chapter 3 above.

13 The relation between pain and jouissance has been discussed earlier in chapter 2.

14 For the meaning of the number two, see chapter 3. Strange Objects in the Ershisi xiao 205

205

15 We should not forget the fact that story 19 is recorded in Zhu Xi’s Xiao xue which constituted the essential part of elementary education in late imperial China.

16 The practice of “gegu liaoqin” will be briefly discussed in chapter 5. For a short study of “gegu liaoqin”, see T'ien

149-61.

17 See Zhu Xi, Yuding xiao xue jizhu, juan 6, 10B

18 Lacan identifies five forms of the objet petit a on five levels. See note 26 in chapter 3.

19 This conversation between Zhuang Zi and Dongguo Zi is found in chapter 22 Zhibei you 知北遊, in the Zhuang zi waipian 莊子.外篇 (Outer Chapters of the Zhuang Zi). Although attributed to Zhuang Zi, the authorship of the Outer

Chapters is uncertain. The figure of “Zhuang Zi” mentioned in this conversion should be understood as a character, rather than a historical figure. For the Chinese text, see Zhuang Zi, Zhuang zi, juan 7, 40A. For an English translation of the conversation, see Zhuang Zi, Wandering on the Way 217.

20 In Soler’s words, the term negativity “is a way of designating what the structure of language renders impossible”

(Lacan 18).

21 Because the agalma is an imaginary object of our fantasy, psychoanalysis aims exactly at relinquishing this imaginary core of our identity: “the very aim of the psychoanalytic process is, of course, to induce the subject to renounce the ‘secret treasure’ which forms the kernel of his phantasmic identity; this renunciation of agalma, the

‘going-through the fantasy [traversée du fantasme]’, is strictly equivalent to the act of ‘subjective destitution’”

(Žižek, Indivisible Remainder 166). I will discuss the traversing of the fantasy in the epilogue.

22 In this context, “symptom” can be understood in line with Lacan’s early definition of this term: according to

Žižek , in Lacan’s early teaching, “symptom was conceived as a symbolic, signifying formation, as a kind of cypher, a coded message addressed to the big Other which later was supposed to confer on it its true meaning” (Sublime

Object 73).

23 The Rulin waishi written by Wu Jingzi’s 吴敬梓 (1701-1754), also known as the Scholars, is one of the most well- known literati novels from late imperial times.

24 This episode in the Yulin waishi is found in chapter 16. See Wu Jingzi 198-99.

25 For a book-length study of the way of raising children in imperial China, see Hsiung. 206

Perversion and the Father’s Will to Jouissance 207

207

Chapter 5

Perversion and the Father’s Will to Jouissance

In the previous chapter, we have touched upon the fantasy of being the instrument of the

Other’s jouissance. This fantasy is more vividly staged in the following story which will be the focus of my discussion in this chapter.

Story 22— “Rugu budai 乳姑不怠” (Breastfeeding Her Mother-in-Law without Negligence)

Cui Shannan 崔山南 was from the Tang 唐 dynasty [618-907], [whose] great-

grandmother [was known] as Madame Zhangsun 長孫夫人. She was of great age and

thus no longer had any teeth. Each day, [Cui Shannan’s] grandmother, Madame Tang

唐夫人, after combing [her hair] and washing [herself], came to the main hall to

breastfeed her mother-in-law.1 While the mother-in-law had not eaten one piece of

rice for years, [she] stayed healthy. One day, she became seriously ill. When the old

and the young [of the family] gathered together [in front of her], [she] announced that

“[I] have nothing to repay [my] daughter-in-law for her kindness. I wish you— the

wives of my grandsons—can be as filial and respectful as [my] daughter-in-law.”

The filial daughter-in-law of the family Cui,

Breastfed her mother-in-law, each morning [after having herself] washed up.

Having no way to repay her kindness,

[The mother-in-law] wished [she] will have sons and grandsons [as filial] as [herself]

A conventional reading of this story would construe it as a literal illustration of the filial principle of “feeding in return” (fanbu 反哺): children should feed their elderly parents in the 208 Chapter 5

208

same way that the parents fed them, when they were young. One of the earliest well-known

examples of this principle is the story of Xing Qu 邢渠. Resembling the mother-in-law in story

22, Xing Qu’s father lost his teeth; the son masticated the food for him, just as the parent did

when the son was an infant. As a result, the father became healthy.2 It seems that the daughter-in-

law in story 22 simply follows Xing Qu’s example: because the mother breastfed her children,

the children should repay her in kind; the daughter-in-law fulfils this duty on behalf of her

husband. However, despite the unquestionable meaning conveyed by the narrative, we still need

to ask: Why must the “feeding in return” be performed in such a literal way? If feeding the parent

is the only issue, this goal can be achieved by many other means. Xing Qu’s story is one example.

Even if the human milk is necessary, it is still possible to collect the milk in a utensil, and then

provide it for the old woman. Why is the act of breastfeeding highlighted here? Undeniably, there

is something excessive in this practice, which cannot be explained solely by the moral principle

of “feeding in return.” Let us not overlook the obvious: breastfeeding involves not only “feeding”

but also “breast.”

Tian Lu puts forward another reading, arguing that “her [the daughter-in-law’s] filiality ...

consists solely of replacing one family member with a parent. In her case, she does for her

mother-in-law what it is assumed mothers do for their children, so that the parent sucking at the

daughter-in-law’s breast quite literally supplants the grandchild” (164); she then concludes:

“Filial piety is at its height—and yet unsustainable, as Guo Ju’s case shows3—when parents fully

usurp the grandchildren causing the family literally to erase itself, as the old woman drinks the

milk meant for her descendants” (165). There are two problems in this seemingly correct reading.

First, if it is true that filial piety of this sort is unsustainable because the family will erase itself,

the question will be: Why is it that this story was promoted by the official discourse such as Zhu Perversion and the Father’s Will to Jouissance 209

209

Xi’s Xiao xue and had enjoyed its long-lasting popularity in late-imperial China? That is, Tian

Lu’s conclusion should be supplemented by an explanation of its ideological function and its appealing effect on the social subjects.

Second, by saying that the grandmother usurps the grandchildren, Tian Lu seems to imply that the former actually takes the latter’s position. If so, the grandmother’s status in the family is actually degraded, which would run counter to the filial morality, because, according to the moral ideal, the grandchildren should always be placed at the lowest level of the family hierarchy.

Hence, although the mother-in-law and her grandchild apparently pursue the same thing— sucking the breast, they may not be related to the breast in the same way; accordingly, they may actually occupy different positions with regard to the object. In other words, given the multiple economies—such as need, demand, desire, etc., the breast may have been different objects for the different consumers, depending on which economy the consumer is situated in. What is overlooked in Tian Lu’s reading is the possible difference within the object itself. (It seems to me that Tian Lu has focused on the economy of need: by consuming the milk meant for her grandchild, the grandmother will cause the child to starve to death, hence eliminating the family line.) In what follows, I will provide an alternative reading, arguing that the relationship between the two female protagonists resembles the structure of perversion, which will explain the ideological function fulfilled by this story.

At the outset, I would like to provide a brief account of the Lacanian view on perversion.

According to Fink, the early Freudian definition of perversion is that “any sexual activity engaged in for a purpose other than that of reproduction is perverse” (Perversion 39). However, many psychoanalysts (including Freud himself) have shown that, far from being an abnormal phenomenon, pleasure seeking beyond the need to reproduce is a common practice. For instance,

Fink argues that “[p]erversion lies at the very core of human sexuality, as we all begin life 210 Chapter 5

210

‘polymorphously perverse’ … and continue throughout our lives to seek pleasure for its own sake

in forms other than those required for the reproduction of the species” (Perversion 39); hence,

“Lacanian psychoanalysts view the perverse nature of sexuality as a given, as something to be

taken for granted—in other words, as ‘normal’” (Fink, Perversion 39). Hence, if perversion has

any meaning, it cannot be defined or judged solely on the basis of sexual behaviour patterns. In

Lacanian psychoanalysis, perversion is used as a structural category. Clinically, it designates a

psychical structure which can be clearly distinguished from neurosis and psychosis: to put it

briefly, perversion is defined by the mechanism of disavowal, while neurosis and psychosis are

characterized by repression and foreclosure respectively.4

On the social level, perversion is construed by the Lacanians as a social structure which

defines the subject’s relation with the Other. As Žižek points out, “for Lacan, there is no direct

correlation between forms of sexual practice (gay, lesbian, straight) and the ‘pathological’

subjective symbolic economy (perverse, hysterical, psychotic)” (Ticklish Subject 249). That is,

the same practice—such as homosexuality—can be sustained by different economies. Žižek

argues:

There definitely is a perverse homosexuality (the masochist or sadist pretending to

possess knowledge about what provides jouissance to the Other); but there is also a

hysterical homosexuality (opting for it in order to confront the enigma of ‘What am I

for the Other? What does the Other want (from me)?’, and so on. (Ticklish Subject

249)

Hence, it is not the gender of one’s sexual partner that determines if one is perverse or hysterical.

Rather, what is at issue here is the subject’s relation with the Other’s jouissance. In a similar

fashion, Copjec argues: “The difference between neurosis and perversion does not only concern

one’s object-choice, or relation to a particular other, but also one’s relation to the big Other or the Perversion and the Father’s Will to Jouissance 211

211 various laws and institutions governing social existence” (Imagine 206-07). In my discussion, I will focus on the social level, considering perversion as a structural relation between the subject and the Other.

This Lacanian approach to perversion has at least one great advantage for our purpose. By regarding perversion as a structure, we will be able to apply this western term to the Chinese situation and, at the same time, to avoid some sort of Orientalist trap, because a structure describes the relationship between elements without considering their pre-given meanings or any

“inherent” properties. That is to say, if the filial devotion as portrayed in the Ershisi xiao can be viewed as perverse, it is not due to its strangeness in comparison with the western and modern

“norm.” Rather, the filial activities are to be assessed on the basis of its structural features which may (or may not) correspond to the structure of perversion. For the same reason, we should also bear in mind the possibility that, even though the way of serving one’s parents was regarded as normal and even desirable in imperial China, it does not mean that this pattern of behaviour was not structured like perversion. For perversion is a structural category, rather than a judgment on what is “abnormal” or bad. In what follows, I will start my reading with a narrative analysis, which is then to be followed by a discussion of the perverse structure and its possible manifestation in the Ershisi xiao story. Following Žižek’s discussion of perversion and its resemblance to the analyst’s discourse (or social link), I will, at the end of the chapter, examine the ideological function served by perversion, or more precisely, by the perverse fantasy in late imperial China. 212 Chapter 5

212

I

A Female Body as a Fantasy Screen

One unique feature of this story is that it is the only story centring on a female exemplar in

the Ershisi xiao. Although stories narrating filial women were never lacking, their stories were

usually collected in a category separated from their male counterparts, and most often found in

books under the title of “virtuous women.”5 An earlier version of this story is recorded in the Xin

tang shu 新唐書 (New History of the Tang Dynasty) compiled by Ouyang Xiu 歐陽修 (1007-

1072) and Song Qi 宋祁 (998-1061). In this text, this story is not specialized as a female example

of filial piety. Similarly, when quoted in Zhu Xi’s Xiao xue, it is listed together with stories of

filial sons.6 It seems that, in these textual contexts, this particular story was not regarded as a

female example. Does this mixture of female and male stories in one collection suggest the old

convention that daughters (in-law) were generally regarded as surrogate sons?7 If so, in what

sense can this story be read as a narrative of sonly devotion to the parents? And, since we cannot

deny the protagonist’s female gender, another question is: how can the sons (the male readers)

engage in, rather than being alienated by, this story?

To answer these questions, we need to draw our attention to another unusual feature of the

narrative text: unlike the other Ershisi xiao stories which begin with an introduction of the

protagonist’s identity, story 22 starts with an introduction of a man—Cui Shannan—who is not

directly related to the event narrated in the story. What is the function of this irrelevant character?

My suggestion here is that this man serves in the narrative as a coordinate in the familial system:

it is in accordance with his position in the family that Madame Zhangsun (the mother-in-law) is

introduced as the great-grandmother, and Madame Tang (the daughter-in-law) as the

grandmother. In other words, this story is framed by Cui Shannan’s point of view. However, due Perversion and the Father’s Will to Jouissance 213

213 to the relationships between these three characters, it seems very unlikely that Cui Shannan (who may not have been born at the time) had actually witnessed the breastfeeding scene. The questions are then: why is the story narrated from the perspective of someone who cannot actually see the event? Would it not be more persuasive, if this story is told from the viewpoint of a real witness?

My answer to this question is: the breastfeeding scene is staged here not as a real thing, but as a male fantasy which concerns not a woman’s body but his relation with the mother. Based on a research of the Ming (1368-1644) sources, Katherine Carlitz seems to draw a similar conclusion:

“Women’s ordeals of loyalty and fidelity thus do not set them apart from men (quite the reverse is true), but the characteristics of the female body gave it unique possibilities as a theatre for the drama of virtue” (110). When she metaphorically describes women’s body as a theatre, Carlitz is on the edge of declaring the phantasmatic nature of the female body. However, she stops too quickly at the metaphor. For Carlitz, the connection between the virtue men and their female counterparts lies mainly in the fact that they carried out the similar tasks. What is overlooked is the male participation in the female narrative itself. That is, she fails to take into consideration the possibility that men may have actually engaged in the theatre, not only as an audience, but also as an actor.

My suggestion is supported by the narrative structure which resembles a fantasy at its purest. Let us not forget the basic feature of a phantasmatic scene in the psychoanalytic sense: in a fantasy, the subject him/herself is usually situated as an onlooker who does not participate in the scene, but witnesses it from outside. However, this does not mean that the subject is not involved; rather, his/her participation is realized through identification. We can illustrate this point with recourse to the famous fantasy—“A Child is Being Beaten.” In his analysis of this fantasy provided by his female patients, Freud identifies three phases. It is only in the 214 Chapter 5

214

unconscious and thus psychoanalytically reconstructed phase—“I am being beaten by my father”

(Freud, A Child Is Being Beaten 185)—that the patient is shown as located within the

phantasmatic scene. In the two conscious phases—“My father is beating the child whom I hate”

(Freud, A Child Is Being Beaten 185) and “Some boys are being beaten. [I am probably looking

on.],” 8 the patient herself is not on the beating scene at all. However, as the unconscious phase

shows, it is neither the child, nor the boys, but the patient herself who is fantasized as being

beaten by her father, from which she derives her pleasure.9 What is involved in the two conscious

phases is the female patient’s identification with the child/boys, through whom she enjoys. Freud

states: “All of the many unspecified children, who are being beaten by the teacher [a substitute

for the father] are, after all, nothing more than substitutes for the child itself” (A Child Is Being

Beaten 191).

Another feature worthy of notice is that the transition from the unconscious to the

conscious phases is accompanied by the change of gender: the boys in the conscious phase are

the camouflage for the female subject. According to Freud, this camouflage is necessitated by the

repression of the subject’s incestuous love which is expressed only in the unconscious fantasy of

being beaten/loved by the father.10 Hence, the repressed, unconscious phase has never really

existed as such: “It is never remembered, it has never succeeded in becoming conscious. It is a

construction of analysis, but it is no less a necessity on that account” (Freud, A Child Is Being

Beaten 185). Without this construction, the conscious phases of the fantasy cannot be explained.

In a way, Cui Shannan’s position in the narrative can be compared to the position taken by

the female patient who, as in the conscious phase, watches a phantasmatic event as an onlooker.

By introducing the story through the perspective of a (great-)grandson who himself is not directly

participating in the event, the narrative determines that this breastfeeding scene is meant to be

viewed by an external gaze. The lack of an entire generation (the generation of Cui Shannan’s Perversion and the Father’s Will to Jouissance 215

215 parents) in the story not only pushes the event into the remote past, but also inserts a distance between the point of view from which the event is narrated and the place where the event took place. Hence, the breastfeeding scene can be read as constitutive of the conscious phase of a male fantasy, where an external male gaze witnesses “a mother-in-law sucking her daughter-in-law,” or a “daughter-in-law being sucked.” The problem here is: How should we construct the unconscious phase of the fantasy? To answer this question, we need to know with whom the external gaze identifies.

Certainly, the daughter-in-law is not the only character which can be identified with. It is also possible for the external gaze to take the mother-in-law’s place. However, the second possibility is certainly not the effect which the narrative was meant to achieve. At the end of the story, the mother-in-law asks her offspring to follow the example set by her daughter-in-law, which can be read as an instruction on identification: the future generations of the Cui family are encouraged or even demanded to identify with the filial woman, insofar as the child-parent(s) relation is concerned. Although, in the Ershisi xiao, those who are expected to follow the daughter-in-law’s example are identified as “sun fu” 孫婦 (the wives of one’s grandsons), this female identity is blurred in the verse, in which the term “sun fu” is replaced with the term “zi sun”

子孫 (son and grandson). When the term “zi sun” is used in an extended sense, it can cover both genders, referring simply to the offspring. However, its implied emphasis is undoubtedly on the male. In an earlier version of the story, it is more clearly indicated that those who should identify with the daughter-in-law are mainly male.11 Hence, Cui Shannan (the external gaze) is definitely included in the addressees, to whom the mother-in-law announces her last wish. That is to say, the external gaze is required to place himself in the place of his grandmother (the daughter-in- 216 Chapter 5

216

law). For this reason, we may construct the unconscious phase of the fantasy as: “I am sucked by

my mother (in-law).”

What could be the effect that this story may have had on its readers? It is my contention

that the intended readers were probably expected to undergo two levels of identification. First, by

framing the story through Cui Shannan’s perspective, the narrative determines that the readers

should view the event through an external male gaze. Narratologically speaking, Cui Shannan is

situated here as a kind of focalizor, through whose perspective the readers perceive the narrated

events.12 In other words, the ideal readers would accept Cui Shannan’s vision and position

themselves as the male gaze, witnessing a phantasmatic scene on which “a daughter-in-law is

sucked by her mother-in-law” or “a mother-in-law sucks her daughter-in-law.” Second, through

Cui Shannan’s (required) identification with the daughter-in-law, the readers were also expected

to participate in the unconscious phase of the fantasy, that is, to place themselves in the position

of the daughter-in-law who is “being sucked.” In this way, the male audience engaged in the

theatre of the female body.

In short, the woman’s body is employed in the narrative as a fantasy screen which stages

and, at the same time, conceals the male fundamental (i.e., repressed and unconscious) fantasy of

“being sucked by the mother.” On one occasion, Lacan talks about similar fantasies, and states:

One speaks of phantasies of devouring, of being gobbled up. Indeed, everyone knows

that this, verging on all the resonances of masochism, is the altrified term of the oral

drive. … Since we refer to the infant and the breast, and since suckling is sucking, let

us say that the oral drive is getting sucked, it is the vampire. (Seminar XI 195,

original italics)

Following Lacan, we may view the “sucking fantasy” as closely related to the oral drive. As

mentioned briefly in chapter 3, on the oral level, the objet petit a (as the object of the drive) takes Perversion and the Father’s Will to Jouissance 217

217 the form of the lost breast. Does the daughter-in-law’s breast in the filial piety story have anything to do with the object petit a? What is the position which the mother-in-law takes in relation to the breast? If this story was intended to promote the virtue of filial piety, how was this virtue mingled with the sucking fantasy and with the breast? Lacan mentions perversion

(masochism) in the above quoted passage, which provides us with an important clue. In what follows, I will attempt to answer these questions with recourse to Lacan’s schema of the perverse fantasy, because this schema formulates the relation between the subject, the objet petit a and the

Other.

II

The Structure of Perversion: a<>$

In “Kant with Sade,” Lacan provides the following schema (figure 5.1) which describes the

Sadean fantasy. A similar schema is used in his tenth seminar to map the sadist’s desire (Lacan,

Seminar X 104). Although this schema is developed on the basis of a sadistic case, it can nevertheless be applied to masochism, because, as argued by Lacan in the above quoted statement, suckling and sucking are one and the same thing.

V S

d  a <> $

Figure 5.113

The following is Lacan’s explanation of this schema: 218 Chapter 5

218

The lower line accounts for the order of fantasy insofar as it propos up the utopia of

desire.

The curvy line depicts the chain that allows for a calculus of the subject. It is

oriented, and its orientation constitutes here an order in which the appearance of

object a in the place of the cause is explained by the universality of its relationship to

the category of causality….

Next there is the V which, occupying the place of honor here, seems to impose

the will [volonté] that dominates the whole business, but its shape also evokes the

union [réunion] of what it divides by holding it together with a vel—namely, by

offering up to choice what will create the $ of practical reason from S, the brute

subject of pleasure (the “pathological” subject). (Écrits 653-54)

This schema should be read from the bottom line (da<>$), because the a marks the

starting point of the curved arrow, and, according to Lacan, is “in the place of the cause.” It

should be clear by now that the objet petit a refers here to the cause of desire. Desire—marked in

the schema by the letter “d”—is propped up, that is, sustained by the “order of fantasy.” Hence,

the bottom line in the schema articulates the relation between the objet petit a, fantasy and desire.

It seems that Lacan regards the “a<>$” as “the order of fantasy” which is, however, different

from the structure of a normal fantasy. Unlike the latter which, as we have already seen, is

written as “$<>a,” the former features the exchanged positions of the $ (the barred subject) and

the a (the object-cause of desire). What does it mean? This inverted structure of fantasy

demonstrates the fundamental characteristic of perversion. In Seminar XI, Lacan states: “what I

have called the structure of perversion … is an inverted effect of the fantasy. It is the subject who

determines himself as object, in his encounter with the division of subjectivity” (185). In other

words, in perversion, the subject identifies him/herself with an object; yet, it is not any ordinary Perversion and the Father’s Will to Jouissance 219

219 objects, but the object occupying the place of the objet petit a. Hence, the a in the schema marks the location where the pervert subject locates him/herself; accordingly, the $ refers not to the pervert directly, but to “the division of subjectivity” which can be located in another subject. The structure of perversion can thus be interpreted as: the pervert occupies the place of the objet petit a in his/her encounter with a divided subject.

In terms of the function of a fantasy which answers the question “Che vuoi,” situating the subject with respect to the Other’s desire, perversion as an inverted effect of fantasy can be viewed as another way of dealing with the same question: as Žižek states, “perversion itself

(assuming the position of the object-instrument of the Other’s jouissance) can also be conceived of as the escape into self-objectivization which enables me to avoid the deadlock of the radical uncertainty of what I am as an object—the pervert, by definition, knows what, as an object, he is for the Other” (Ticklish Subject 291, original italics ). In the schema, this Other is located at the place marked by the letter “V” on the upper level which refers to the Other’s will. The V, as

Lacan says in the above quoted passage, dominates “the whole business” and unifies the elements which it divides. It does so with a vel. Let us recall our earlier discussion about the vel in chapter

2. Lacan uses the vel to designate the “forced choice” imposed on an individual who must choose meaning at the expense of his/her “natural” being. By relating the V with the vel, Lacan makes it clear that the V functions as a symbolic agency and is thus located in the domain of the big Other.

As a result of the vel or the “forced choice” between meaning and being, the barred subject

($) is created from the “brute subject of pleasure” (S). We may understand the S as denoting the subject’s lost “natural” being. As explained by Jacques-Alain Miller, “S, the subject characterized as the ‘brute subject of pleasure,’ … connotes the organism in the imaginary, from which the barred subject of the chain must be born” (Commentary on the Graphs 862). Hence, this “brute subject of pleasure” (S) should be understood as an imaginary subject who is unbarred or un- 220 Chapter 5

220

castrated. Or, we may even view the S as the subject of jouissance whose wholeness is not yet

depleted by the signifiers. My following analysis of story 22 will be based on this schema, by

which I attempt to show how “the inverted effect of fantasy” is manifested in this story. My

purpose is not merely to reveal the perverse structure underlying the filial piety narrative. More

importantly, in so doing, I intend to reach a deeper understanding of the Confucian discourse on

filial piety and its relation with jouissance.

The daughter-in-law & a self-objectified subject

As suggested above, story 22 stages the fantasy of sucking and being sucked, which is

closely related to the oral drive. In chapter 3, we have seen that, in contrast to desire which is

characterized by a metonymic movement, the drive always moves around one particular object,

whose aim is simply to return into the circuit. This circular movement is represented in the

current story as sucking and being sucked, with the daughter-in-law’s breast functioning as the

object around which the drive closes its circle. (The drive’s circular movement is split in the

narrative, and enacted by two different characters: the mother-in-law sucks, while the daughter-

in-law’s breast is being sucked. Since Lacan argues that “suckling is sucking” [Seminar XI 195],

we should understand each movement as already alluding to its reversal.) However, the daughter-

in-law’s breast is not the object of the oral drive, because, in the economy of the drive, the object

is the objet petit a—the lost breast which, let us recall, “is in fact simply the presence of a hollow,

a void, which can be occupied … by any object” (Lacan, Seminar XI 180). Hence, the daughter-

in-law’s breast is just an ordinary object which finds itself occupying the void. This presence of a

breast at the place of the lost objet gives body to the void and transforms a body part into a

surplus object—an object which should not be there. The question is then: What is the relation

between the subject (the daughter-in-law) and the surplus object (her breast)? Perversion and the Father’s Will to Jouissance 221

221

In Seminar XI, Lacan, in reference to masochism and sadism, puts forward the following statement: there are “several possibilities here for the function of the objet a…. It is either pre- subjective, or the foundation of an identification of the subject, or the foundation of an identification disavowed by the subject” (Seminar XI 185-86). In this statement, Lacan theorizes two possibilities for the function of the objet petit a, which, as I understand it, bear directly on the two sides of the objet petit a as either the lack or the surplus. For a neurotic (that is, a “normal” subject), the objet petit a is pre-subjective, since the formation of a subject depends on the sacrifice of this object. Hence, this object can only be perceived as something missing from the subject’s reality, or, as something existing only in his/her “pre-subjective” history. For the pervert, the objet petit a is the foundation of identification. As pointed out above, perversion features a reversed structure of fantasy, where the subject places him/herself on the side of the objet petit a.

Take masochism and sadism for example. According to Lacan, the difference between these two forms of perversion lies in the fact that the masochist identifies with the objet petit a, while the sadist disavows this identification (Lacan, Seminar XI 185).14 Hence, one could argue that, by identifying with the lost object, the pervert transforms him/herself into a surplus object, functioning to occupy and thus to fill in the lack.

I suggest that this identification with the objet petit a underlies the relation between the daughter-in-law and her breast qua a surplus object. First, the identity between the subject and the object is unmistakably indicated by the former’s possession of the latter, which suggests the oneness between the two. Second, more importantly, this identity is further intensified in the text through a reduction of the woman to her breast. As the focus of the narrative, the daughter-in- law’s breast becomes an enlarged body part which resembles the close-up shots in porno films.

As Žižek argues, “[t]he effect of close-up shots and of the strangely twisted and contorted bodies of the actors is to deprive these bodies of their unity, somewhat like the body of a circus clown, 222 Chapter 5

222

which the clown himself perceives as a composite of partial organs that he fails to coordinate

completely, so that some parts of his body seem to lead their own particular lives” (Ambiguity

115). The result of close-up shots is thus the “change of the body into a desubjectivicized

multitude of partial objects” (Žižek, Ambiguity 115). When the rest of her body fades into the

background, the daughter-in-law’s breast becomes such a disconnected and “desubjectivicized”

partial object which may not lead its own life, but certainly dominates the daughter-in-law’s life

in the diegetic space. One could even say that she leads the life of the organ: she is the breast

feeding her mother-in-law. In other words, the desubjectivicized object simultaneously objectifies

the subject.

Moreover, this body part also illustrates what the Lacanians have called an “organ without

a body”—another Lacanian metaphor for the objet petit a. Again, according to Žižek, this organ

“stand[s], like Lacan’s lamella, for that which the subject had to lose in order to subjectivize

itself in the symbolic space of the sexual difference” (Ambiguity 113). For the neurotic, this

“organ without a body” remains forever an unattainable object, while “[t]he ultimate perverse

vision would have been that the entire human body, including the head, is nothing but a

combination of such partial organs, where the head itself is reduced to just another partial organ

of jouissance” (Žižek, Ambiguity 115). If the narrative depiction of the daughter-in-law reduces

her to the breast, this reduction simultaneously transforms the subject into a “partial organ of

jouissance.”

Hence, this partial organ portrayed in the filial piety story has two functions: first, it

embodies the objet petit a as surplus enjoyment; second, it forms the foundation of identification,

to which the filial protagonist is reduced. Hence, in accordance with Lacan’s schema of the

perverse fantasy, we can locate the daughter-in-law at the place of “a” in the bottom-left corner.

If, for Lacan, the pervert is the one who “determines himself as object” (Seminar XI 185), it Perversion and the Father’s Will to Jouissance 223

223 should be pointed out here that, in the filial piety story, it is not the protagonist who directly determines herself as an object; rather, she is primarily determined/portrayed as an object by the ideological discourse. The protagonist is employed here as the point of identification, through which the reader is incited to locate him/herself in a fantasy. As already discussed, this story was intended to encourage its audience—the children of each family and, by extension, the subjects of the society—to follow the daughter-in-law’s example, that is, to identify with her. If the didactic function of the narrative was effective, the ideal readers would place themselves in the place of the object, by identifying with the daughter-in-law (or, rather, with her breast). Consequently, the process of reading would become a process of self-objectification: the readers determined themselves as an object—an organ of jouissance. The question is then: Whose jouissance is concerned here?

The mother-in-law: the short-circuit between the divided subject and the Other

For the pervert to be able to identify with an object, he/she needs first to displace his/her divided subjectivity. Žižek points out that “the sadist executioner himself is conceived of as an object-instrument (of the Other’s jouissance): he acquires this status of objet a by way of transposing his subjective splitting onto his victim, $” (Tarrying 60). In the Chinese story, the best candidate for the daughter-in-law’s other (the victim in the case of sadism) is the mother-in- law, since they are the only characters having direct contact with one another. For one thing, the mother-in-law shows more traces of subjectivity than the daughter-in-law does. This aspect is made clear by the fact that the mother-in-law is the only character portrayed in the story as a speaking being. The last sentences in the text are designed as the mother-in-law’s direct speech.

That is, the reader hears her voice/words. By the very token of being able to speak, she cannot but be a divided subject—a subject divided between the subject of the enunciated (such as the “I” as 224 Chapter 5

224

the grammatical subject in her speech) and the subject of the enunciation (the subject who

speaks). For this reason, we can probably locate the mother-in-law on the side of $ in the

matheme of “a<>$.” The daughter-in-law’s relation with her can thus be formulated as an

encounter between an objectified subject (a) and a divided subject ($).

However, as I have repeatedly mentioned, the parents (-in-law) in a traditional Chinese

family cannot be viewed simply as the other; due to the ideological instruction, they always stand

in for the big Other in relation to their children. Actually, this point is confirmed at the end of the

story: the mother-in-law declares her last wish which is addressed particularly to her offspring.

Given the didactic nature of the story, we can probably consider the mother-in-law’s speech

belonging to the genre of “jia xun” 家訓 (family instruction). “Jia xun” is a type of literature

which was usually written by a patriarch and passed down for generations. As indicated by the

word “xun” (instruction), the “jia xun” consists of a set of moral laws and family rules which

were expected to be observed by the writer’s descendants.15 If the mother-in-law’s last wish can

be regarded as akin to the “jia xun”—a law to be followed by the family’s future generations, we

should accordingly recognize that the mother-in-law actually occupies the position of a symbolic

agent: she plays the role of a law-giver, reinforcing the filial morality and thus standing in for the

missing Father.

The mother-in-law’s position as the big Other is also expressed through her structural

position in the breastfeeding scene. The text in the Xin tang shu and the Xiao xue states that “each

day, after combing her hair and fixing it with a hair pine, [the daughter-in-law] saluted at the end

of the stair, and then came up to the hall to breastfeed her mother-in-law.”16 The daughter-in-

law’s gesture of paying a salutation to her mother-in-law is undoubtedly performed to show her

respect for the latter’s superior position, by which the hierarchical relation between these two Perversion and the Father’s Will to Jouissance 225

225 characters is confirmed. That is, for the daughter-in-law, the mother-in-law is not treated as an other—an imaginary double with whom the subject identifies or competes, but as the Other.

Hence, what we have here is the double position occupied by the mother-in-law who is both the divided subject and the stand-in for the big Other; this double position allows us to see the mother-in-law as representing the divided Other (Ⱥ).

Moreover, the big Other as a law-giver does not account for the full profile of the mother- in-law. If the daughter-in-law’s breast can be viewed as what Žižek calls the “partial organ of jouissance” (Ambiguity 115), what is represented by the mother-in-law’s sucking the breast is thus the big Other feeding itself directly on the jouissance produced by the filial protagonist. We witness here again the cannibalistic relation discussed in chapter 4: “the big Other itself, far from being an anonymous machine, needs the constant influx of jouissance” generated by human subjects (Žižek, Enjoy Your Symptom 262); this Lacanian thesis is unambiguously illustrated through the mother-in-law’s relation with the breast.

Let us now return to Lacan’s schema of the perverse fantasy. As pointed out above, the letter V denotes the Other’s will which dominates the whole business in the fantasy. Later on,

Lacan specifies the will as “will to jouissance,” maintaining that “V, the will to jouissance, leaves no further doubt as to its nature, because it appears in the moral force implacably exercised by the

President of Montreuil [Sade’s mother-in-law] on the subject” (Écrits 657). Hence, the perverse fantasy is dominated by the “Other’s will to jouissance” which is somehow charged with moral force. Is it not striking to note that the jouissance hinted at in the Chinese story is also expressed in the name of a “moral law”—the law of filial piety? In this way, jouissance and morality become mingled with one another. In story 22, the V can thus be located on the side of the mother-in-law—the stand-in for the missing Father who, resembling the “President of Montreuil,” implacably exercises the moral force. The mother-in-law differs from her French counterpart 226 Chapter 5

226

only in one respect: the former embodies both the Other (V) and the other ($) (victims in sadism,

or executioners in masochism). What is unique to the Chinese story (and the filial morality in

general) is the short circuit between the (m)other and the Other. Hence, through satisfying the

(m)other, the filial offspring fulfils his/her role as the instrument of the Other’s jouissance.

The Brute Father of Jouissance

The only element in the schema which is not yet discussed is the letter S in the upper-right

corner which, as mentioned above, refers to “the brute subject of pleasure,” an imaginary subject

who is un-castrated. The “N” shaped arrow linking the four elements indicates that the S marks

the final stage of the fantasy. In this sense, one could argue that the perverse fantasy stages the

process of undoing the effect of symbolic castration, which aims at transforming the $ into the S.

Although Lacan himself does not spell out this point, it can nevertheless be deduced from the

direction of the arrow which demonstrates unmistakably an inverted effect of the vel (the forced

choice). Rather than creating the $ out of the S, the sequence of the two elements on the arrow

seems to indicate a reversed movement; it, in my view, can be read as: the S is created out of the

$. (At this point, one is tempted to regard this inverted effect of the vel as another way of defining

perversion.)

Accordingly, we may read story 22 as articulating the wish to transform the mother-in-law

into the “brute subject of pleasure”(S). As argued above, the mother-in-law represents a divided

subject ($); however, she is not only divided but also marked by a lack which is especially

highlighted by her toothless mouth. To repair the mother’s lack (of teeth) is precisely the task that

the daughter-in-law performs: she fills up the hole in the mother-in-law with a surplus object—

her breast. Consequently, the mother-in-law is no longer the subject constituted by a lack, but the

“brute subject of pleasure” who lacks nothing. Is not the mother-in-law’s long and healthy life Perversion and the Father’s Will to Jouissance 227

227 indicative of her lack of deficiency? Moreover, due to her double identity—as a divided subject and the stand-in for the missing Father, the toothless mother signifies at the same time a barred / castrated Other (Ⱥ). Hence, by transforming the mother-in-law into a “brute subject of the pleasure,” the filial daughter-in-law simultaneously de-castrates the Other. It is probably not farfetched to argue that the end result of the sucking fantasy is the creation of “the brute Father of jouissance,”—a Father resembling the uncastrated, primordial father in Freud’s Totem and

Taboo.17 However, unlike the patricidal sons of the primal horde, the filial offspring in the traditional Chinese universe was the one who strived to resurrect the dead/castrated Father, at least in his fantasy.

On the level of social reality, the structure of perversion may explain the curious practice of

“gegu liaoqin” 割股疗親 which was often rewarded by the state as an extraordinary act of filial devotion.18 This practice involved a son or a daughter (-in-law) offering his/her ill parent (-in- law) a piece of flesh sliced from his/her thigh (or other parts of the body), in the hope that the parent (-in-law) would recover from the illness after consuming this piece of flesh. The similarity between this real practice and the filial piety story is evident; the former can be seen as an enactment of the fantasy in reality: like the daughter-in-law’s breast in story 22 (and all other magical foods in the filial piety stories), the piece of flesh cut off from one’s thigh was just another incarnation of the “organ without a body” (that is, the objet petit a as the surplus object), whose function was not only to cure the parents but also to complete them, to overcome their inherent deficiency. The expected product of this practice was the de-castrated parent/Other who would recover from the fatal illness and thus overcome his/her own lack/impotence.

This practice demonstrates not only the fact that fantasy underlies reality, but also the discordance between social practice and the orthodox teaching. If we follow the Confucian 228 Chapter 5

228

doctrine strictly, the practice of “gegu liaoqin” cannot but be regarded as a violation of filial piety,

since, at the beginning of the Xiao jing, the Master states that filial piety starts with not bringing

any damages to one’s own body. What is then the relation between the orthodox discourse and

the perverse fantasy which was probably at the root of the unorthodox practice? In what follows,

I intend to answer this question with recourse to Lacan’s mathemes of the master’s and the

analyst’s discourses (or social links) which will allow us to formulate respectively the orthodox

discourse on filial piety and the “perverse discourse/social link.”

III

Perversion as a Discursive-Social Link

To see the similarity between perversion and the analyst’s discourse, we only need to make

a 180⁰ turn of Lacan’s schema (figure 5.1) along the horizontal axis, which will be shown as:

a <> $

V S

Figure 5.2

The renewed schema keeps all the features that the original one has, but, immediately

demonstrates its affinity with the “analyst’s discourse”—one of the four discourses (or social

links) formulated by Lacan—which is written as:

a $

S2 S1 Perversion and the Father’s Will to Jouissance 229

229

It is more than obvious that the upper levels of the two structures resemble each other. This similarity between the analyst’s discourse and perversion has been noted by theorists such as

Žižek whose discussion on this issue will be the main reference point of my following analysis.

To begin with, each discourse is constituted by four elements:

S1 = master-signifier

S2 = knowledge

$ = subject

a = surplus-pleasure19

The four corners in the matheme refer to four fixed places:

agent other

truth product

Thus, the four elements (a, $, S1 and S2) assume their functions in accordance with the places where they are located. In total, Lacan formulates four discourses/social links—namely, the master’s discourse, the university discourse, the hysteric’s discourse and the analyst’s discourse.

According to Ian Parker, “[t]he four discourses … consist of a relationship between the speaker as ‘agent’ and the kind of ‘other’ that is addressed by them. The agent is underpinned by a form of ‘truth’, and in each discourse there is a certain kind of ‘product’ of the relationship between agent and other” (44). To answer the question posed above as to the relation between the official orthodox discourse and the perverse fantasy, I will focus on the master’s discourse and the analyst’s discourse.

The master’s discourse is written as:

S1 S2

$ a

230 Chapter 5

230

The following is Žižek’s reading of this matheme:

[T]he discourse of the Master provides the basic matrix: a subject is represented by

the signifier for another signifier (for the chain or the field of “ordinary” signifiers);

the remainder… that resists this symbolic representation, emerges (is “reproduced”)

as objet petit a, and the subject endeavors to “normalize” his relationship toward this

excess via fantsmatic formations (which is why the lower level of the formula of the

Master’s discourse renders the matheme of fantasy $<>a). (Four Discourses 75-76)

On the most basic level, the master’s discourse can be read in line with Lacan’s definition of the

20 signifier: “a signifier is what represents the subject to another signifier” (Lacan, Écrits 694); S1

(the Master-Signer) functions here to represent a subject ($) for the chain of other signifiers (S2).

For example, the signifier “I” (S1) represents me in a statement (S2); consequently, I— as a

speaking subject of flesh and blood—am divided ($) and repressed under the bar, non-existing on

the symbolic surface. Because this signifying chain does not and cannot represent everything,

something always escapes from the symbolic grasp, which generates a remainder. This

unsymbolizable element is marked in the matheme by the letter a—the objet petit a as the surplus

enjoyment. Hence, the upper level of the matheme can be read as a formulation of the symbolized

reality, while the lower level as depicting the repressed, unconscious domain; the symbolic

surface consisting of the conscious statements and representations (S1S2) is always sustained

by the unconscious fantasy ($<>a).

Žižek also stresses the function of the Master-Signifier as the “quilting point”: in a chaotic

situation, “the Master is the one who invents a new signifier, the famous ‘quilting point,’ which

again stabilizes the situation and makes it readable….The Master adds no new positive content—

he merely adds a signifier, which all of a sudden turns disorder into order…” (Four Discourses

77-78, original italics).21 In other words, the Master-Signifier can be understood as a pure Perversion and the Father’s Will to Jouissance 231

231 symbolic position: although having no definite meanings, this signifier nevertheless organizes the symbolic system by rendering the signifying chain meaningful; hence, it is only when situated in a relation to S1 that S2 can be stabilized and requires its meaning. In the context the Confucian discourse, we can locate the notion of “xiao” at the place of the S1. As argued in chapter 1, the empty notion of “xiao” (filial piety) functioned as the Master-Signifier: although itself possessing no positive or fixed meanings, the signifier “xiao” nevertheless served as the cardinal principle sustaining the entire moral system; that is to say, the empty signifier “xiao” functioned as the agent, by which the other discursive-social elements (S2) were addressed, organized, distinguished and valued. What was represented and repressed by the “xiao” is the divided/castrated Father—usually personified by the parents. As discussed in chapter 3, because the Father is also marked by a lack, he cannot but be a desiring Father who does not know what he wants. The signifier “xiao” represents the desiring Father, answering the question of “Che vuoi?”: the Father desires the child’s filial piety. However, by answering the Father’s desire, the signifier also repressed it. Hence, in the official discourses (such as the Confucian classics), this divided, desiring Father is invisible, hidden beneath the bar; what we can observe on the symbolic surface is merely his representative— the signifier “xiao.”

As I have tried to demonstrate so far, this symbolic system anchoring upon the signifier

“xiao” necessarily generates its own excrement (a) —the surplus which the Master-Signifier has failed to address or to contain. This excremental object constitutes the Father’s fantasy ($<>a) which was denied and repressed by the Master’s speech. As mentioned earlier, the Master

(personified by the figure of Confucius) never talked about the abnormal things.22 This indicates that something which cannot be properly integrated into the normal state of things must be un- said and repressed under the bar of the symbolic. The master’s discourse can thus be understood as an accurate structural description of the Master’s (“Confucius’s”) speech which generates its 232 Chapter 5

232

own unspeakable, unsymbolizable remainder. However, what is repressed returns; in the Chinese

case, it returned in the Ershisi xiao stories as the inverted effect of (the Mater’s) fantasy. In a way,

the analyst’s discourse formulates the effect of this inversion: the leftover of symbolization (a)

becomes the agent in the analyst’s discourse, addressing the divided subject (and the divided

Other), by which the repressed fantasy ($<>a) returns to the surface in an inverted form (a<>$).

(However, as we will see, the analyst’s discourse, by staging the fantasy, traverses it, which is the

opposite of perversion.)

In the analyst’s discourse, the agent—the analyst (a)— is underpinned by knowledge (S2)

which is taken as a form of truth; the place of the other is occupied by the divided/castrated

subject ($). The product of the discourse is the Master-Signifier (S1). In “Objet a in Social Links,”

Žižek gives this structure a “perverse” interpretation, stating that

the fact that the upper level of Lacan’s formula of the analyst’s discourse is the same

as his formula of perversion (a—$) opens up a possibility of reading the entire

formula of the analyst’s discourse also as a formula of the perverse social link: its

agent, the masochist pervert (the pervert par excellence), occupies the position of the

object instrument of the other’s desire, and, in this way, through serving his (feminine)

victim, he posits her as the hystericized/divided subject who “doesn’t know what she

wants.” Rather, the pervert knows it for her, that is, he pretends to speak from the

position of knowledge (about the other’s desire) that enables him to serve the other;

and, finally, the product of this social link is the master signifier, that is, the hysterical

subject elevated into the role of the master (dominatrix) whom the pervert masochist

serves. (115)

Here, Žižek provides us with a useful framework, in accordance with which the Ershisi xiao

stories can be further analysed. The daughter-in-law in story 22 represents the pervert who Perversion and the Father’s Will to Jouissance 233

233

“occupies the position of the object instrument (a) of the other’s desire.” The other in the story is the mother-in-law, who is, as mentioned above, a speaking being, and thus a divided subject ($).

Her toothless mouth suggests castration, and thus indicates a lack/desire.

In the Ershisi xiao stories, the sons and the daughters-in-law are usually positioned as the agents of knowledge (S2) who know what the other/Other (the parent) really wants, answering for the other/Other the question “Che vuoi?” Let us recall story 11 in which a son strives to provide his mother with carps. As already argued, the son has no doubt about the answer to the question as to “what the mother/Other really wants.” Similarly, in story 12 (“Carving the Wood, Serving

His Parents”), the filial son Ding Lan can interpret the “mind” of two wooden sculptures carved in the images of his deceased parents.23 Is it not a miracle that the son can perform this task? The only rational explanation is that “he knows it for” them; “he pretends to speak from the point of knowledge (about the other’s desire) that enables him to serve the other.” In an implicit fashion, the daughter-in-law in story 22 is also portrayed as the one who knows. She knows that the mother-in-law wants not only her milk as food, but also her breast. If the filial subjects as the agency of “knowledge” still remain implicit in these stories, it becomes strikingly evident in a supposedly real event.

Carlitz records one famous case from the Ming sources: a daughter-in-law, surnamed Liu, cut off her finger in order to save her dying mother-in-law. It is said that

[i]n her final illness, the mother-in-law nibbled Liu’s little finger as a signal that she

wanted to make her eternal farewell—but Liu, misunderstanding, made a porridge the

next morning of her own blood and the little finger. The mother-in-law ate the

porridge, revived, and lived on for more than a month. (111)

Apparently, woman Liu cut off her little finger because she has misread the mother-in-law’s gesture. It seems that the woman is a neurotic subject, who does not know either what the other 234 Chapter 5

234

really wants. However, what does the last piece of information mean, in which we are told that

the mother-in-law’s life is actually prolonged, due to woman Liu’s misunderstanding? With little

doubt, we can notice that this misunderstanding is not treated as a mistake at all. The underlying

message of the story is: woman Liu knows exactly what her mother-in-law wants; she not only

knows it for her but also knows it even better than the mother-in-law herself. More than story 22,

the case of woman Liu stresses the divided subjectivity of the mother-in-law who does not know

what she really wants. It requires her daughter-in-law to provide her with an answer—a piece of

flesh.

The product of this familial-social link is the elevation of the other (the parent[s]) “into the

role of the master (dominatrix) whom the pervert masochist serves.” In the filial piety stories, this

overlap between the other and the master (the Other) is directly evident, due to the Confucian

equation between the parents and the Other. As indicated in all stories that we have discussed, the

parents occupy the position of authority, to whom the filial sons and daughters-in-law offer their

homage and services. What needs to be stressed here is the obvious fact that the parents’

dominant position—a product of the perverse discourse/social-familial link—is already

predetermined by the patriarchal symbolic system centring on the notion of “xiao.” In other

words, the Master-Signifier produced by the perverse discourse is the same as the Master-

Signifier in the master’s discourse; this coincidence allows us to read these two discourses as

intricately related: the perverse discourse not only realizes the Master’s fantasy in an inverted

form, but also functions as a kind of mechanism which reproduces the Master-Signifier—the

“xiao” as the cardinal principle of the Confucian orthodoxy.

We are now in a better position to understand the longevity enjoyed by the Confucian

patriarchal system. Rather than being simply illustrations of the Confucian classics, the filial

piety stories helped to construct a perverse social link and thereby to regenerate the Master- Perversion and the Father’s Will to Jouissance 235

235

Signifier. Hence, despite their apparent discordance with the orthodox discourse, these stories should nevertheless be treated as essential to the Confucian symbolic order; they were the phantasmatic core of the Confucian ideology—the thing in Confucianism more than itself, so to speak. My point here is that the Confucian ideological fantasy not only underlay the social reality but also sustained and reproduced the Master’s discourse itself. It is through the fantasy that the patriarchal system and its moral rules entered the endless circle of “birth and rebirth.”

Conclusion

We can conclude our discussion in this chapter by looking at the difference between the analyst’s discourse/social link and that of the pervert’s. Despite the fact that perversion and the analyst’s discourse share a similar structure, there is, according to Žižek, “a certain invisible limit” that separates the analyst from the pervert (Tarrying 72). He continues: “the pervert confirms the subject’s fantasy, whereas the analyst induces him or her to ‘traverse’ it, to gain a minimal distance toward it, by way of rendering visible the void (the lack in the Other) covered up by the fantasy-scenario” (Tarrying 72). This difference hinges on the “radical ambiguity of objet petit a” which, in the Lacanian sense, “stands simultaneously for the imaginary fantasmatic lure/screen and for that which this lure is obfuscating, for the Void behind the lure. Consequently, when we pass from perversion to the analytic social link, the agent (analyst) reduces himself to the Void which provokes the subject into confronting the truth of his desire” (Žižek, Parallax View 304).

In this sense, we can understand the analyst and the pervert as situating themselves respectively on the two sides of the objet petit a: while the analyst identifies him/herself with the objet petit a as the lack, functioning as the agent who keeps the void/desire of the subject and the Other wide open, and thereby confronts the subject with the nothingness behind the (ideological) fantasy, the 236 Chapter 5

236

pervert assumes the role of the objet petit a as a surplus object—an imaginary object striving to

fill up the hole in the Other, determining him/herself as the object-instrument of the Other’s

jouissance.

The difference between these two discourses/ social links lies also in their products: while

the pervert (re)produces the social-symbolic Master, the analyst’s discourse creates a new

signifier which cannot be re-absorbed into the symbolic order. As Žižek points out, “what the

discourse of the analyst ‘produces’ is the Master-Signifier … The Master-Signifier is the

unconscious sinthome, the cipher of enjoyment, to which the subject was unknowingly subjected”

(Žižek, Parallax View 304). And, according to Luke Thurston, “the sinthome … designates a

signifying formulation beyond analysis, a kernel of enjoyment immune to the efficacy of the

symbolic” (191); it is created to replace the Name-of-the-Father, to “invent a new way of using

language to organize enjoyment” (192). Hence, the minimal difference between the analyst’s

discourse and perversion has significant implications for the social order: while the former

creates something new, something as “the invasion of the symbolic order by the subject’s private

jouissance” (Thurston 192), the latter can be employed as a means of maintaining the existing

social order. As Žižek argues, despite its transgressive appearance, “perversion is always a

socially constructive attitude” (Ticklish Subject 247). This insight is unambiguously illustrated

by the filial piety stories which, as I have tried to demonstrate, constituted the obverse of

Confucian orthodoxy and functioned to (re)produce the existing Master-Signifier—“xiao.” In this

way, the patriarchal system was brought into an unending circle of “birth and rebirth.”

1 The Ershisi xiao text states only that Madame Tang fed her mother-in-law her own milk (ru qi gu 乳其姑); it

remains unclear how the milk was provided. Did she collect the milk in a utensil and then give it to her mother-in- Perversion and the Father’s Will to Jouissance 237

237

law? Or, did she perform breastfeeding? Judging from the illustrating pictures of this story, the scene of feeding the mother-in-law is universally pictured as breastfeeding, in which the daughter-in-law’s naked breast is on display.

Since these pictures demonstrate how this story was or should be understood in their times, I will follow the pictorial interpretation and read the daughter-in-law’s act as direct breastfeeding. Most scholars also tend to read this story as the daughter-in-law’s breastfeeding her mother-in-law. See, for example, Carlitz 11; T. Lu 164-65.

2 For the notion of “feeding in return,” and a reading of the story of Xing Qu, see Knapp 128-32.

3 The story of Gu Ju is also collected in the Ershisi xiao, see story 13. Because his family was poor, the filial son

(Guo Ju) planned to bury his own son, in order to stop him from sharing his grandmother’s food. His intention to kill his own son was legitimized by his expectation to have more sons.

4 Due to the limited space, I am not able to explore the distinction between disavowal, repression and foreclosure.

For Fink’s discussion on this issue, see Fink, A Clinical Introduction 76-77.

5 For example, another version of the same story is found in the 16-chapter edition of Lie nü zhuan 列女傳 (The

Biographies of Virtuous Women) published by Zhi bu zu zhai 知足齋 and illustrated by the famous Ming painter

Qiu Ying 仇英 (1494-1552). See Lie nü zhuan, juan 8, 16A-B. For studies on women’s filial devotion in pre-modern

China, see Tan, “Filial Daughters-In-Law”; Knapp 165-86.

6 See Ouyang Xiu and Song Qi, Tang shu, juan 163, 26B; and Zhu Xi, Xiao xue, juan 6, 10A.

7 This point is made by Knapp in the Selfless Offspring, see note 7 in chapter 3 above

8 I borrow the formulation of the last phrase from Silverman. See Silverman, Male Subjectivity 201. Freud himself does not provide a complete formulation of the third phase, but states: “Most frequently it is boys who are being beaten (in girl’s phantasies), but none of them is personally known to the subject” (A Child Is Being Beaten 186);

“[h]ere the child who produces the phantasy appears almost as a spectator, while the father persists in the shape of a teacher or some other person in authority (A Child Is Being Beaten 190).

9 Commenting on the last phase of the beating-phantasy, Freud states: “The phantasy, which now resembles that of the first phase, seems to have become sadistic once more….But only the form of this phantasy is sadistic; the satisfaction which is derived from it is masochistic” (A Child Is Being Beaten 190-91, original italics).

10 See Freud, “A Child Is Being Beaten” 189-90. Freud also points out that, besides the incestuous love, a sense of guilt is also expressed in the unconscious phase: “the phantasy of the second phase, that of being beaten by her father, 238 Chapter 5

238

is a direct expression of the girl’s sense of guilt, to which her love for her father has now succumbed” (A Child Is

Being Beaten 189).

11 According to the Xin tangshu and the Xiao xue, the mother-in-law announces in front of other family members the

following words: “Having nothing to repay my new daughter-in-law, [I]only hope for her to have sons and grandsons

who all can be as filial as herself. (無以報新婦恩。願新婦有子有孫，皆得如新婦孝敬)” (Zhu Xi, Xiao xue, juan

6, 10A); or “Having nothing to repay my daughter-in-law, [I] hope that the sons and grandsons can be as filial as her.

(無以報吾婦。冀子孫皆得如婦孝)” (Ouyang Xiu and Song Qi, Tang shu, juan 163, 26B).

12 The focalizor will be discussed briefly in chapter 6.

13 This schema is found in Lacan’s Écrits 653.

14 “[T]he subject assuming this role of the object is precisely what sustains the reality of the situation of what is

called the sado-masochistic drive, and which is only a single point, in the masochistic situation itself…. [T]he sadist

himself occupies the place of the object, but without knowing it, to the benefit of another, for whose jouissance he

exercises his action as sadistic pervert” (Lacan, Seminar XI 185).

15 For a study of “jia xun”, see Furth.

16 The Chinese texts read: “每旦，櫛縱笄，拜階下。升堂乳姑” (Ouyang Xiu and Song Qi, Tang shu, juan 163,

26B); “每旦，櫛縱笄，拜於階下。即升堂乳其姑” (Zhu Xi, Xiao xue, juan 6, 10A).

17 I will discuss the primordial father in the following chapter.

18 Occasionally, the practice of gegu liaoqin was banned for short periods. For a short study of “gegu liaoqin”, see

T'ien 149-61.

19 See Žižek, “Four Discourses” 75; Clemens and Grigg 3. For a brief introduction to Lacan’s four discourses, see

Clemens and Grigg.

20 For a comprehensive and insightful reading of this thesis, see Žižek, For They Know 21-27.

21 See also Žižek, Parallax View 37.

22 See note 9 in chapter 4.

23 This episode is not explicitly narrated in the Ershisi xiao, but can be found in nearly all other versions of the story.

For a survey of the historical variants of story 12, see Knapp 191-94. At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers 239

239

Chapter 6

At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers

I would like to end our discussion of the Confucian fantasy with a reading of the first story in the Ershisi xiao.

Story 1—“Xiaogan dongtian 孝感動天” (“The Feeling of Filial Piety Moved Heaven”)

Shun 舜 of the Yu 虞 dynasty was surnamed Yao 姚 and named Chonghua 重華. [He

was] a son of Gu Sou 瞽瞍, and had a disposition to be extremely filial. His father

was ignorant, his mother was stupid, and his younger brother Xiang 象 was arrogant.

Shun farmed the land on the Mountain Li (li shan 厯山). Elephants helped him to

plough; birds helped him to weed. His feeling of filial piety was great to such a

degree [that it moved the animals]. He made pottery on a river bank; these wares

were not of poor quality; he fished in the Lake of Lei (lei ze 雷澤) and would not be

lost in the fierce winds and thunderstorms. Although he devoted his entire energy and

became totally exhausted, Shun felt no resentment. Having heard about Shun’s deeds,

Yao 堯1 appointed him the leader of officials, sent nine of his sons to serve him and

married two of his daughters off to him. After Shun had assisted Yao for twenty-eight

years, the emperor abdicated the throne in favour of Shun.

Herds of ploughing elephants;

Flocks of weeding birds;

The heir of Yao succeeded to the throne;

The feeling of filial piety moves the heart of Heaven. 240 Chapter 6

240

Judging solely from the text, we can hardly see how this story is related to filial piety, since

there is no any description of the interaction between the son and his parents. In order to

understand this story, we must turn to its inter-textual background. According to the biography of

Shun written by Sima Qian 司馬遷 (ca. 145-ca. 86 BCE) in the Shi ji 史記 (The Grand Scribe’s

Records),2 Shun’s father Gu Sou was blind; his mother was dead. Gu Sou married another

woman who gave birth to a son called Xiang. The basic story line is: Shun was not only ill-

treated by his parents, but also threatened by death. With the help of his later wife and Xiang, Gu

Sou plotted to kill Shun. Despite their hostility towards him, Shun obediently served his father,

his stepmother and his younger brother, working hard to support them. Later, Shun’s filial

devotion was rewarded by the sage king Yao who married his two daughters off to Shun and

finally made him the heir to his throne. What is crucial but untold in the Ershisi xiao text is Gu

Sou’s intention to kill his own son.3 It is in relation to this murderous father that Shun’s “extra-

ordinary” characteristics can be understood. Because this crucial event is omitted from the

Ershisi xiao, I will base my following discussion on the Shi ji text.

One of the salient features of this story is the “abnormal” father-son relationship. In the

Ershisi xiao, the father is usually either missing or weak, who is thus unable to impose a threat on

the son’s life.4 When an unloving father—such as the father in story 19—is involved, the father-

son tension is usually undeveloped in the narrative. Another murderous father in the Ershisi xiao

is Guo Ju (in story 13) who, in order to support his mother, attempts to kill his own son. However,

in this case, Guo Ju himself is defined not as a father, but as a filial son. Hence, Gu Sou—an

absolute murderous father—is unique to the story of Shun. Besides, unlike other narratives in

which the son is situated in a relation with one father, story 1 features a triangular relationship:

Shun has actually two fathers— his birth father (Gu Sou) and his father-in-law (Yao). Lacan At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers 241

241 throughout his career speaks about different fathers with respect to the three registers of the Real, the imaginary and the symbolic. To what extent can we compare these different fathers articulated in Lacanian theory with the two fatherly figures in the story of Shun? If, according to

Lacan, there have always been three domains, we would expect to identify three fathers. It raises the question as to which father is “missing” in the story. How should we account for this absence of the third father? In what follows, I attempt to provide some answers to these questions.

I

The Repressed Gu Sou

To say that there are two fathers in the Shun story is not entirely correct, because, if we look into the early texts, we will find that the figure of Gu Sou is split into two opposing images.

An earlier version of the murderous Gu Sou is found in the Confucian classic—the Meng zi,5 where the tension between the father and the son is already evident. However, there is another totally different portrait of Gu Sou-Shun relationship. According to Mark E. Lewis, the first reference to Gu Sou is probably found in the historical book Zuo zhuan 左傳 (The Chronicle of

Zuo),6 in which one passage states: “From Mu up to Gu Sou there was none who went against the command [of Heaven]. Shun doubled this with his brilliant virtue/power.”7 The word “double” in the text makes it clear that the relationship between Gu Sou and Shun was characterized not by a father-son struggle, but by a continuity, since Shun simply doubled what his ancestors were or did.8

The figure Mu 幕 mentioned in the Zuo zhuan was allegedly an ancestor of Gu Sou and

Shun, who, in the Guo yu 國語 (Discourses of the States),9 is identified as a courtly musician. In early China, a courtly musician served an important function, and was more often than not 242 Chapter 6

242

associated with a sage. Following this early tradition, the Guo yu ranks Mu alongside another

sage king Yu 禹. This family connection with a courtly function is also connoted by Gu Sou’s

name. Both characters in his name have a double meaning: the character gu 瞽 means “blind” and

“a courtly musician”; the second character sou 瞍 means “blind” and “an official providing the

court with poems.”10 Hence, his name per se indicates that, during early times, Gu Sou may have

“originally” been viewed as a blind but culturally accomplished musician serving a sagely

function at the king’s court. This understanding is supported by Jao Tsung-i’s study of early

Chinese culture. He points out that “the Chou dynasty11 commissioned official musicians, who

were usually blind, to survey weather condition on the basis of their knowledge of musical

notation” (xv); “the ability to listen to the wind and so understand musical pitch was considered

to be sagely in ancient times” (xvi).12 Actually, a text in the Lüshi chunqiu 吕氏春秋 (Lü's Spring

and Autumn Annals)13 clearly states that Gu Sou was hired by Yao, working to improve the music

instruments, and inventing a new-styled zither. (And, Shun was employed thereafter.)14

This positive, even sagely, image of Gu Sou disappears in the Meng zi and other texts

composed under its influence.15 In line with this tradition, the biography of Shun in the Shi ji

highlights the father-son tension and translates it into an opposition. It starts with the following

sentences: “The one called Shun of Yu was named Chong Hua. His father was called Gu Sou”;

“Shun’s father Gu Sou was blind.”16 It seems that this text works to privilege one connotation of

Gu Sou’s name over another: he is defined simply as a blind man, whose function as a courtly

musician is left unmentioned. Shun’s other name Chong Hua 重華 has a particular significance,

which literally means “double pupils,” alluding to the “doubled visual acuity.” As pointed out by

Roel Sterckx, “Shun, son of the morally inept Gu Sou, was said to have two pupils in his eyes

granting him doubled visual acuity and hence increased moral authority over the blind father that At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers 243

243 tried to murder him” (196). Understood in this way, the father-son relationship is defined as the opposition between blindness and “visual acuity,” and that between “moral authority” and “moral ineptitude.”

This reading actually follows the Confucian hermeneutic tradition. According to Kong

Anguo’s 孔安國 commentary on a passage in the Shang shu 尚書 (Classics of Documents)— another Confucian canon,17 “having no eyes means gu. Shun’s father had eyes, but cannot distinguish between good and evil. Hence, his contemporaries called him gu, and added the character sou. Sou is the word for ‘without eyes’.”18 This Confucian redefinition of “gu” and “sou” has several significances. First, these two characters are conceived of strictly as depicting a physical character, and stripped off their spiritual and cultural dimensions. Second, this physical character is directly related to a cognitive failure: being blind—having no “eyes”—means not being able to know the difference between good and evil. Finally, this commentary echoes another description of Gu Sou in the Shi ji and the Ershisi xiao as well—“Shun’s father, Gu Sou, is wan.”19 (The same description is also found in the Shang shu text which Kong Anguo comments on). What does “wan” (頑) mean? According to the Zuo zhuan, “wan” means “not following the classics of virtuousness and righteousness,”20 that is, being ignorant of the moral laws. In this way, “gu” and “sou” become synonymous with “wan”; the sagely musician became a “wan” person, who did not know and hence failed to follow the law.

The negative perception of Gu Sou is accompanied with a shift in Shun’s family genealogy.

In the Shi ji, we find two contradictory narrations of Shun’s family background. As mentioned above, in the Zuo zhuan, Gu Sou and Shun are said to be descended from the sagely musician Mu.

This identification reappears in the Shi ji which cites: “The Chen 陳 [is] the clan of Zhuan Xu 顓

頊. … From Mu up to Gu Sou there was none who went against the command [of Heaven]. Shun 244 Chapter 6

244

doubled this with his brilliant virtue/power.”21 It seems that the Chen family line continued from

Zhuan Xu through Mu and Gu Sou, until it arrived at Shun. However, the sagely musician Mu

disappears from the biograph of Shun, where Sima Qian records in the same book another

genealogy of the family.

Chong Hua’s [Shun] father was called Gu Sou, Gu Sou’s father was called Qiao Niu

橋牛, Qiao Niu’s father was called Gou Wang 句望, Gou Wang’s father was called

Jing Kang 敬康, Jing Kang’s father was called Qiong Chan 窮蟬, Qiong Chan’s

father was called Emperor Zhuan Xu 帝顓頊, Zhuan Xu’s father was called Chang Yi

昌意. Until Shun, there were seven generations. From Qiong Chan up to Emperor

Shun 帝舜, they were all commoners.22

With the elimination of Mu from the family genealogy, the entire family background is changed;

Gu Sou is no longer regarded as a courtly musician but diminished to the status of a commoner. It

seems that, in the Shi ji, Shun has two different fathers who come from two different families.

This juxtaposition of two different accounts of Shun’s family history in the same book allows us

to read one version against the background of another, which renders the process of negation

visible: the change of Gu Sou from a virtuous musician to a deficient commoner involves the

negation of the ancestor Mu, whose symbolic death leads to (or, at least, coincides with) the shift

of the symbolic systems represented here by the two family genealogies. What does this negation

mean?

At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers 245

245

II

The Imaginary Father: the Primordial Father and His Death

To analyse the different fathers, I will start with the Freudian myth of the “primordial father”: the sons of a primal horde murdered their father, because he possessed all enjoyments

(all women of the horde) which were therefore inaccessible for the sons. After the murder, the sons, due to their guilt or anxiety, re-established the dead father as the master of the symbolic universe, the universe organized by totem and taboo. In Lacanian terminology, the re-established father becomes the Name-of-the-Father—the Father who rules as the dead signifier, while the primordial father who never died completely returns in the form of the Father-of-Enjoyment.

The murder of the father is integrated into the symbolic universe insofar as the dead

father begins to reign as the symbolic agency of the Name-of-the-Father. This

transformation, this integration, however, is never brought about without remainder;

there is always a certain leftover that returns in the form of the obscene and

revengeful figure of the Father-of-Enjoyment … (Žižek, Looking Awry 23)

It should be noted that, in the Lacanian development of the Freudian myth, there are not two, but three fathers—the primordial father, the Name-of-the-Father and the Father-of-Enjoyment. In this section, I will focus on the primordial father; the other two fathers will be discussed in the following sections.

This crime of patricide is undoubtedly a myth which functions to articulate the impossible origin of a given symbolic order. Accordingly, the primordial father is positioned as an imaginary, pre-symbolic father. There are several reasons for us to view Gu Sou—the musician—as occupying the same pre-symbolic, mythical position as the primordial father does. First, in the

Guo yu, it is said that 246 Chapter 6

246

[t]he mouth takes in flavors and the ears absorb sounds, sounds and flavors generate

qi.23 When qi is located in the mouth it forms words; when located in the eyes, it

forms clarity of perception. Words serve to examine names (commands); clarity of

perception serves to adjust oneself to the seasonal movements.24

The hearing ears and the eating mouth are considered in this text as the primary organs,

connecting the person’s body with the external world, and absorbing directly the sounds and

flavours as a source of energy (or the qi in the Chinese terminology) which is then to form the

words and the perceptions/representations of the world. (The primary role played by the ear and

the mouth may explain why the Chinese written character for “sage” 聖 is composed of the

radicals of “ear” 耳 and “mouth” 口.)

Hence, in the Guo yu, the stage of hearing is conceived of as prior to the symbolic order,

since the words are formed only after the qi has been generated by the sounds (and flavours). The

ear can therefore be viewed as a pre-symbolic organ which is not yet colonized by the signifiers;

and, accordingly, the sound resembles the formless, unnamed life-substance which, for the

Lacanians, is synonymous with jouissance.25 The eye, on the contrary, functions on the same

level as the words, serving to make a judgement on the “natural” world and on oneself. That is,

the unmediated relation between the ear and the world is unavailable for the eye. Hence, the

division between the ear and the eye can be interpreted as the opposition between the pre-

symbolic and the symbolic. As argued repeatedly, for the social subjects who are barred/castrated

by the words, this pre-symbolic stage represents nothing but the imaginary state of jouissance.26

Gu Sou—the courtly musician who listened to the wind—can thus be conceived of as a pre-

symbolic and thus uncastrated father whose ear provided him with a privileged access to

jouissance. At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers 247

247

To a certain degree, the difference between the ear and the eye marks the gap between the

Confucian system and the mythical universe. In the former, the eye as an organ of knowledge triumphs over the ear as an organ of jouissance. It is probably not a coincidence that the first exemplar in the long list of filial sons is none other than Shun himself, whose story as established in the Confucian classics marks simultaneously the beginning of the moral universe exemplified by the son’s “visual acuity,” and the end of the sagely tradition centring on the father’s ear. The demarcation between these two worlds is represented in the Shi ji as the discordance between the two family genealogies. In the system where Gu Sou is ranked among other courtly musicians,

Shun is simply a follower of his ancestors; when this system is negated, Shun raises as the future sage king at the expense of his forefathers: Mu is foreclosed from the family genealogy; Gu Sou is not only diminished as a commoner but also devalued as an morally deficient person.27

As demonstrated in the Freudian myth, and as Lacan has taught us, the establishment of a

(new) symbolic system takes the form of the “symbolic castration.” At this point, we come to the second similarity between the primordial father and Gu Sou qua the musician: they both undergo the fate of death or castration. The two opposing images of Gu Sou suggest that there is a gap, a cut, between two family systems, which is literally manifested by the negation of Mu. This negation severs Gu Sou’s connection with the sagely tradition, thereby transforming him into a castrated, deficient father in the filial piety story. Is not his devalued blind eye a sign of castration, attesting to the father’s lack which is translated in the Confucian tradition as moral ignorance?

However, as we will see, this castration is not complete; it generates its own remainder.

In short, when viewed from the symbolic space of the filial piety story, Gu Sou as a sagely musician is the lost, non-existing father; his appearance in the diegetic reality takes the form of an

“anamorphotic grimace”28 which transforms the lost father into a disturbing stain—the murderous 248 Chapter 6

248

father as the obstacle threatening to disintegrate the moral universe exemplified by his son.

According to Žižek,

[t]he boundary that separates beauty from disgust is … far more unstable than it may

seem, since it is always contingent on a specific cultural space: the “anamorphotic”

torture of the body which can exert such a fascination within some cultural spaces …

can evoke nothing but disgust in a foreign gaze. (Enjoy Your Symptom 161)

The “anamorphotic” effect which is caused by the change of cultural space implies that what is

negated in the Shun story is not only the positive image of Gu Sou but also the cultural system

represented by him, which, viewed from the Confucian perspective, counts as nothing but moral

deficiency.

Based on the above analysis, Gu Sou—the musician—resembles the primordial father in at

least two aspects: (1) they both occupy the place of the imaginary, pre-symbolic father who

enjoys; (2) their death/negation preconditions the establishment of a given symbolic order: the

death of the primordial father inaugurated the regime of the brothers; for Shun to become a sage

king—the ruler of the symbolic universe, Gu Sou—the pre-symbolic father—must be castrated

and repressed. However, we will see below that this negated father returns in the form of the

obscene father, from whom the son has no escape.

III

The Real Father: Gu Sou as the Father-of-Enjoyment

The filial piety story of Shun climaxes with two attempted murders. The Shi ji text reads:

Gu Sou still wanted to kill Shun. He asked Shun to climb up a granary to

plaster it. Gu Sou [then] set the granary on fire from below in order to burn it At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers 249

249

down. Shun, with two rain-hats, protected himself [against the fire], and

jumped down. [He] run away and was able to survive. Thereafter, Gu Sou

again asked Shun to dig a well. While digging the well, Shun made a secrete

tunnel [which led to] another exit. When Shun went deep down into the well,

Gu Sou and Xiang together threw earth into the well [in order to] fill it up.

Shun escaped from the secret tunnel.29

A puzzling question lingering around this story is: Why does Gu Sou repeatedly try to kill his own son? Viewing it as an expression of the father-son opposition, Lewis argues: “Gu Sou’s rejection of Shun can be interpreted as a consequence of fearing a son who becomes a duplicate of the father in order to replace him and assume his position in the world” (102). This reading may be valid in a broader context, but it is unsatisfactory when the particular text in the Shi ji is concerned. For one thing, Lewis’s explanation is articulated from the father’s perspective which is certainly not the point of view adopted by the narrator in the Shi ji. Although it is an overt third person narrative, the text demonstrates that, at the key moment, Shun becomes an implied focalizor.

According to Bal, “[f]ocalization is the relationship between the ‘vision,’ the agent that sees, and that which is seen. This relationship is a component of the story part, of the content of the narrative text: A says that B sees what C is doing” (149). Among the three elements, the B element is the subject of focalization—the focalizor which “is the point from which the elements are viewed” (Bal 149). In a way, we can also understand the focalizor’s vision as his/her knowledge; he/she sees and knows something which is communicated to the reader. In the Shun story, the narrator is the external focalizor,30 narrating and watching the characters from an external view point. However, at the moment when Shun descends into the well, the narrator’s vision overlaps with the vision of Shun’s, since, logically speaking, Shun alone is able to 250 Chapter 6

250

see/know what happens in the well. Besides, the act of digging a secret tunnel also betrays the

fact that Shun not only knows what he is doing, but also “sees” the father’s intention to kill him,

otherwise he would not prepare for a secret escape. On the contrary, the father’s

vision/knowledge is more blanketed in the narrative; we know very little about what Gu Sou

“sees” in and knows about Shun. Hence, the key event in the story is narrated in accordance with

the son’s vision/knowledge: the narrator tells and sees what Shun sees and knows. For this reason,

Lewis’s explanation is not sufficient in helping us to understand Gu Sou’s action, because this

story is not told as the father’s story but as the son’s. Hence, insofar as this particular text is

concerned, Gu Sou’s real motivation for killing Shun is simply unknowable, which, one could

argue, constitutes the navel of the text, the locus of the unconscious truth.

The Shi ji text suggests another answer. It reads: “Gu Sou loved his later wife and (her) son,

always having the intention to kill Shun.”31 It implies that the “evil” stepmother is responsible for

the father’s corruption; she is at the root of social-familial disintegration. However, what if the

femme fatale is already the Father’s fantasy? In Žižek’s words, “the femme fatale qua

embodiment of the universe’s corruption is clearly a male fantasy, she materializes its inner

antagonisms, which is why she cannot be made into the cause of the ‘loss of reality,’ of the

paranoiac mutation of the Other” (Enjoy Your Symptom 178). Hence, we can understand the

father’s “corruption” as primary, which necessitates the creation of the evil, corrupting

stepmother.

To deal with the enigma as to why Gu Sou wants to kill Shun, we need probably to perform

the Hegelian “negation of the negation.” According to Žižek, “this double, self-referential

negation does not entail any kind of return to positive identity…” (Sublime Object 176). For

example, At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers 251

251

[i]f … antagonism is always a kind of opening, a hole in the field of the symbolic

Other, a void of an unanswered, unresolved question, the “negation of the negation”

does not bring us the final answer filling out the void of all questions: it is to be

conceived more like a paradoxical twist whereby the question itself begins to function

as its own answer: what we mistook for a question was already an answer. (Sublime

Object 177, original italics)

That is, if antagonism is the first negation which brings into question the “original” state of things, the “negation of the negation” does not negate the antagonism by restoring the “original” state; rather, the result is a kind of “speculative identity”:32 the question (antagonism) itself is the answer. What is changed (or negated) in this dialectical process is the subject’s perspective: the solution to the Other’s lack is to acknowledge that this lack is not an obstacle but the very essence of the Other; social antagonism, which negates the harmonious state of being, can be negated only when we realize that antagonism is the very definition of society as such.

Hence, in response to the question as to why Gu Sou wants to kill Shun, I suggest that the motivation or cause behind the father’s attempted murders is not a question at all, because this murderous father is structurally determined, rather than motived by a pathological reason. A more productive question is probably: How is this murderous father created in the first place? The

Lacanian answer would be: the murderous father is the inevitable remainder of the symbolic castration. The transformation of the primordial father into the Name-of-the-Father generates its own remainder; “there is always a certain leftover that returns in the form of the obscene and revengeful figure of the Father-of-Enjoyment…” (Žižek, Looking Awry 23). The death/castration of the pre-symbolic father creates simultaneously two fathers—“the symbolic agency of the

Name-of-the-Father” and “the obscene and revengeful figure of the Father-of-Enjoyment.” The latter is the internal antagonism which exceeds the patriarchal-symbolic order. Hence, in contrast 252 Chapter 6

252

to the symbolic father /the Name-of-the-Father, the Father-of-Enjoyment can be viewed as the

Real father, in the sense that he embodies that which escapes from symbolization. (Here, the

“Real father” refers to the father of the Real, rather than the real, empirical father whom we know

in our everyday reality.) In what follows, I will argue that the structural relation between Yao and

Gu Sou in the filial piety story can be formulated in accordance with the opposition between the

Name-of-the-Father and the Father-of-Enjoyment.

Gu Sou as the Real father is actually suggested by the text: as argued above, he as the

unknowable father forms the enigma of the text and is thus located at the place of the navel which

indexes the unconscious side of the text. Besides, other characteristics of Gu Sou also allow us to

establish this equation. What is the actual function of the father’s blind eye? In seminar X, Lacan

states: “What gazes at us? The white glaze of the blind man’s eyes, for example” (254). For

Lacan, the blind eye is an example of the gaze—the objet petit a on the scopic level, which

demonstrates “the split between the eye and the gaze.”33 Does Gu Sou’s blind eye suggest the

gaze? To answer this question and to understand the difference between the eye and the gaze, we

need to take a detour to explain Lacan’s theory on the gaze.

Lacan’s gaze

Usually, we do not see the eye and the gaze as one and the same thing. For example, we

may view the eye as an organ, and the gaze as one of the functions of this organ: the eye gazes at

something. However, this is not the difference which Lacan has in mind. Simply put, “[w]hereas

the eye represents the cogito—the conscious, self-reflexive subject and the subject of

knowledge—the gaze represents the desidero: the subject of the unconscious and of desire”

(Berressem 175).34 The split between the eye and the gaze is thus correlative to the division of the At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers 253

253 subject into the conscious and the unconscious; the former sees and knows, while the latter is the blind eye which does not see.35

To illustrate the status of the gaze, Lacan compares it with the “photo-graph,” stating that the gaze is “the instrument through which light is embodied and through which … I am photo- graphed” (Seminar XI 106, original italics). The metaphor of photo-graph indicates that Lacan not only separates the gaze from the eye/subject, but also views the gaze as a formative agency which preconditions our being in the visual world. As Grosz explains, for the subject “[t]o occupy a place in the scopic field is to be able to see, but more significantly, to be seen. The gaze is what ensures that when I see, at the same time, ‘I am photo-graphed’” (Jacques Lacan 79, original italics). Hence, even for a blind person, his/her existence in reality can still be registered on the visual level, because to be a part of the visual world is not only to see but also, more profoundly, to be seen, to be visible. To be photo-graphed is thus to be inserted into a picture, that is, into the scopic field.

I agree with Grosz’s reading that the gaze functions to “photo-graph” us and to ensure our being in the scopic field. However, she then departs from Lacan and mislocates the gaze, arguing that “[t]he gaze must be located outside the subject’s conscious control. If it is outside, for Lacan, unlike Sartre, this means that the gaze comes always from the field of the Other,” and that “the

Other is the locus of signification” (Jacques Lacan 80). That is, Grosz locates the gaze at the

“locus of signification”— the place where meanings are generated;36 in this way, the gaze is viewed as functioning within the domain of the symbolic order. However, let us not forget the fact that, for Lacan, the subject’s first outside is not the big Other, but the maternal Thing.37 As argued in chapter 2, the conscious subject is created through the process of alienation, by which the Other forces an individual to choose meaning at the expense of his/her being. Hence, the conscious subject him/herself is already located in “the field of the Other” where, according to 254 Chapter 6

254

Grosz, comes the gaze. In this way, Grosz places the gaze and the conscious subject in the same

domain of the symbolic.

Grosz’s interpretation echoes Silverman’s influential definition of the gaze as “the

manifestation of the symbolic within the field of vision” (Threshold 168). Through a comparison

between Sartre’s Being and Nothingness and Lacan’s Four Fundamental Concepts of

Psychoanalysis (Seminar XI), Silverman reaches the conclusion that “Lacan not only refines

Sartre’s distinction between the gaze and the look, he deanthropomorphizes the gaze.… He

thereby encourages us to think of the gaze more as the symbolic third term, or Other, than as an

imaginary rival” (Threshold 175). Explained in this way, the gaze refers mainly to the big

Other—the symbolic order—which predetermines the visual world accessible to the eye/ the

conscious subject. This interpretation does help us to analyse the power structure inherent in the

field of vision, and explains on its own terms why the gaze preconditions the eye/subject.

However, in my view, this interpretation is inconsistent with Lacan’s main thesis: “The objet a in

the field of the visible is the gaze” (Seminar XI 105, original italics). That is, for Lacan, the gaze

is not the big Other, but a form of the lost object—the object which the Other does not have. 38

As Copjec points out, the theoretical misunderstanding of the Lacanian gaze is “produced

by a precipitous, ‘snapshot’ reading of Lacan, one that fails to notice the hyphen that splits the

term photo-graph—into photo, ‘light,’ and graph, among other things, a fragment of the

Lacanian ‘graph of desire’—as it splits the subject that it describes” (Read My Desire 32). That is

to say, the “photo” refers to the light which Lacan usually associates with the gaze (the

instrument embodying light); and, the “graph” can be understood as the structure of subjectivity

(as formulated through the ‘graph of desire,’ for example). Being “photo-graphed” is thus to be

split between “photo” and “graph,” between the light and the figures of representation, and

between the gaze and the barred, desiring subject in reality. The metaphor of the “photo-graph” At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers 255

255 can thus be read as follows: having being “photo-graphed,” I am inserted into the space of visual reality (graph) and transformed into a barred subject who is barred from the gaze/light (photo).

Moreover, what is barred from the gaze is not only the subject but also the field of the visible itself. As the instrument which takes pictures but itself cannot be located therein, the gaze is that which must be excluded from the visual field. (As shown in Lacan’s final graph of the scopic field, between the gaze and the “subject of representation,” there is an image-screen which blocks and conceals the gaze from the field of representation.)39 In other words, because the gaze is the objet petit a on the scopic level, the inclusion of the gaze into the visual reality will lead to the disintegration of reality itself.

We may at this point recall the incompatibility between the objet petit a and reality:

Lacan pointed out that the consistency of our “experience of reality” depends on the

exclusion of the objet petit a from it: in order for us to have a normal “access to

reality,” something must be excluded, “primordially repressed.” In psychosis, this

exclusion is undone: the object (in this case, the gaze or voice) is included in reality,

the outcome of which is the disintegration of our “sense of reality,” the loss of reality.

(Žižek, Less Than Nothing 667)

In the story of Shun, the gaze returns in the form of the father’s blind eye. Unlike the parents in story 7 whose blind eyes signify simply a lack/desire, Gu Sou bears another significance: as a man without eyes, he is not only unable to see but also ignorant of the social-symbolic norms; he is thus not portrayed as a conscious subject of knowledge. In this way, we can understand Gu

Sou’s blind eye as an embodiment of the gaze (the desidero) in opposition to the “eye” (the cogito). On the one hand, Gu Sou occupies the place of the original light who fathers (photo- graphs) the son’s being in the (visual) world. However, on the other hand, he is not the light from which the son is barred, but the light intruding into the son’s reality: endowed with a murderous 256 Chapter 6

256

intention, his blind eye (his ignorance) becomes the impenetrable stain traumatizing the social

intersubjective reality. If Gu Sou is a wan, ignorant person, it is probably because he has never

been properly situated on the level of knowledge; that is, he somehow exceeds the domain of the

symbolic order.

The father’s blind eye

If we can read Gu Sou’s blind eye as an embodiment of the gaze, this reading should be

developed on two levels in accordance with the paradoxical nature of the objet petit a. First, as a

signifier of desire/lack, the impenetrable gaze (that is, the father’s blind eye) can be read as

indicative of the Other’s desire:40 is not the enigma of the father’s intention to kill the son an

expression of the fundamental question of “Che vuoi”? “What do you want from me?” “Why do

you want to kill me?” Second, this opacity of the Other’s desire is capsulated directly by Gu

Sou’s blind eye—“the white glaze of the blind man’s eyes” which gazes at the son but does not

see him. That is, this eye which doesn’t see eschews the intersubjective relation; it does not

bespeak a person’s subjectivity, but attests to the materiality of an object—the gaze qua the

surplus object. As argued in chapter 4, this surplus object—such as the birds in Hitchcock’s

Birds—gives body to the return of the repressed; more specifically, they embody the impossible

jouissance. In the essay “Alfred Hitchcock, or, the Form and its Historical Mediation,” Žižek

argues that “the birds are Phi [Φ], the impassive, imaginary objectification of the Real—an image

which gives body to the impossible jouissance” (8).41 In a way, the father’s irrational insistence

on killing the son resembles the birds, generating the traumatic effect; his devalued blind eye is

just another image of the return of the repressed, attesting to the “crime” of castration

(represented here as the Confucian negation of the sagely connotation of the blind eye), and, at

the same time, embodying the Real jouissance denied by the Confucian teachings. The At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers 257

257 murderous Gu Sou can thus be understood as the Father-of-Enjoyment—a spectre of the Other’s lack/desire turned as the surplus enjoyment.

The son’s encounter with the gaze (the objet petit a) gives rise to his anxiety.42 It is probably not from the impending death that Shun must escape; he escapes from the anxiety aroused by his confrontation with the Other’s desire which is now materialized and present in the father’s impenetrable gaze. However, because Shun is a “Confucian” sage, he not only escapes from but also subjects himself to the gaze. The text in the Shi ji states: “[when Gu Sou] wanted to kill [Shun], [Shun] was not available; [when he] needed [Shun], [Shun] was always there.”43 The

Ershisi xiao text focuses entirely on the son’s effort to satisfy the father’s needs; he works hard to support the family. However, Shun’s unconditional obedience is demonstrated not only in his effort to satisfy the father’s need, but also in his cooperation in the father’s plot to kill himself. As shown in the two attempted murders, Shun knew the plot in advance; otherwise he would not dig a secret tunnel. That is, he does not escape from the father’s plot, but submits to it. It seems that, for a filial son, there is no way of escaping from the cruel father: he must take whatever risk, in order to satisfy his father; if he is lucky, he could probably avoid death.

This cruel, revengeful father repeatedly emerges in Confucian narratives. In the Kongzi jiayu 孔子家語 (Family Sayings of Confucius),44 we find a story which narrates a conflict between Zeng Can 曾參 and his father Zeng Zhe 曾晢. It tells: Zeng Can made a mistake, which enraged his father. The father was so angry that he beat the son with a walking stick. This attack caused the son’s temporary loss of consciousness. However, without any complaints, the son, after regaining his consciousness, apologized to the father for making him so angry, and offered his thanks for the father’s discipline. This story resembles the Shun story in two aspects. The son 258 Chapter 6

258

obeys the father unconditionally; and the father’s punishment on the son is unnecessarily cruel.

However, Zeng Can, rather than being praised, was allegedly criticized by Confucius himself.

According to the Kongzi jiayu, Confucius used Shun as an example to ridicule Zeng Can’s

behaviour, stating that

Have you ever heard that? In ancient times, Gu Sou had a son called Shun. Shun’s

way of serving his father was that if [the father] needed him, he was always there. If

[the father] wanted to kill him, he was never available. He accepted [the punishment

inflicted by] a little hammer, but escaped from [the punishment brought out by] a big

stick. Therefore, Gu Sou never committed an unfatherly crime; and Shun did not lose

his great filial piety. Today, [you, Zeng] Can, serves [your] father by surrendering

your body to [his] rage, [and] not escaping from [the possibility of being] killed. [It]

will not only lead to your own death but also bring [the name of] unrighteousness to

[your] father. There is no other thing which is more unfilial than your deed.45

According to “Confucius,” the difference between Shun and Zeng Can lies in their ways of

responding to the father’s punishment. Unlike Shun who managed to escape from the punitive

father, Zeng Can sacrificed himself to satisfy the father’s rage. However, “Confucius” was wrong

on this issue. First, Shun did not escape from the father’s irrational killing, but obeyed his father’s

demand. What he achieved is to diminish the consequence of the father’s action. Second, it is

simply impossible for Zeng Can to avoid the father’s attack. The text in the Kongzi jiayu tells that

the father attacked Zeng Can on his back. That is to say, this attack comes from behind, from a

place which Zeng Can cannot see. How can the son avoid it, if he did not see/know the father is

about to attack him? Hence, Zeng Can’s father highlights the unconscious nature of the Father-of-

Enjoyment; the Real father strikes the subject from a place beyond his conscious knowledge. At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers 259

259

Lacan’s term for this Real Father who is imaginarily equipped with the objet petit a (the gaze in Gu Sou’s case) is “superego”: “In calling to mind its obvious connection with this form of the object a that the voice is, I indicated that there cannot be any valid analytic conception of the superego that loses sight of the fact that, in its deepest phase, it is one of the forms of the object a”

(Seminar X 295). Due to the limited space here, I am not able to clarify the connection between the superego and the voice qua the objet petit a on the invocatory level. It is probably sufficient to stress the point that, for Lacan, the superego is not the Law, but occupies the place of the objet petit a, functioning to supply the Law with that which the big Other lacks.46 Hence, the superego is “the awesome figure of ‘the Other of the Other,’ the Other without a lack, the horrendous

Other—not merely the Other of law, but at the same time the Other of its transgression” (Dolar,

Voice 100).

IV

The Symbolic Father: Yao as the “Name-of-the-Father”

Zeng Can’s story is not ended yet. Immediately after recovering from the father’s attack,

Zeng Can retreated to his room, and played his zither. Why? The text in the Kongzi jiayu explains it as Zeng Can’s intention to comfort his father, saying that “[Zeng Can] wanted Zeng Zhe [his father] to hear him playing music, so that he would know his son’s health was unharmed.”47 The question is: since there could be many other ways of informing his father of his health, why did

Zeng Can choose such an indirect method? It is probably not a coincidence that the same music instrument also appears in the story of Shun: in the Shi ji, we are told that Yao gives Shun a zither as a gift. Hence, it seems to me that the zither has a specific function in the filial piety narratives. 260 Chapter 6

260

Among all music instruments, the zither (qin 琴) was probably the most honourable one in

ancient China. The name “qin” is believed to be derived from the character “jin” 禁 meaning “to

prohibit,” or “to imprison,” because the sounds of the zither “restrain and check all evil passions”

(Williams 259). This function served by the zither is consistent with the Confucian ideal of

harmony. As one scholar points out that, for the Confucians, “a crucial characteristic of harmony

is heterogeneity rather than singularity. Harmony implies the fusion of various elements into a

coherent order” (Li 42). Implicitly, harmony requires the regulation (or rather restraint) of

heterogeneous elements, whose purpose is to establish a coherent (social) order. By integrating

different sounds of instruments and different tones of voices into a coherent whole, music seems

to exemplify this ideal. For this reason, together with the rites, music had been regarded as an

important measure of disciplining and educating social subjects. (This relation between music

[yue 樂] and rites [li 禮] is also attested to by the fact that these two terms are usually used as a

compound—“li yue” 禮樂.) Hence, I suggest that the zither does not figure in the filial piety

narratives randomly, but carries out a symbolic function as a token of social order. In this sense,

Zeng Can’s plying the zither can be understood as an attempt to restore the order—the

homeostatic state of harmony which has been disturbed by his father’s irrational violence.

In the story of Shun, the zither—a gift given by Yao—brings into Shun’s life another father

who counterbalances the excessive force embodied by Gu Sou. As suggested above, Yao can be

viewed as the symbolic father— “the symbolic agency of the Name-of-the-Father” (Žižek,

Looking Awry 23) who guarantees the social order. The Name-of-the-Father—acting merely as

an abstract signifier—is an accurate description of Yao’s existence in the Shun story. In the Shi ji

and the Ershisi xiao texts, this symbolic father only makes his appearance through his name (or

an object such as the zither). He is a character, but not an actor, who is absent from the events At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers 261

261 involved in the son’s family life. Yao is the father-in-law—the Father existing only in the Law, that is, in the symbolic order.

The division between Yao and Gu Sou seems to illustrate Lacan’s early thesis on family which is summarized by Žižek as follows:

In the modern bourgeois nuclear family, the two functions of the father which were

previously separated, that is, embodied in different people (the pacifying Ego Ideal,

the point of ideal identification, and the ferocious superego, the agent of cruel

prohibition; the symbolic function of totem and the horror of taboo), are united in one

and the same person. (Ticklish Subject 313, original italics)

As Žižek points out in this passage, in the pre-modern family, there was a physical separation between the two paternal functions: “the symbolic function of totem” versus “the horror of taboo” which were related respectively to “the pacifying Ego Ideal” and “the ferocious superego.” One of Žižek’s examples of the symbolic father is “a stone or an animal or a spirit” which some aborigines believe to be their “true father” in contrast to the “real father” in their daily life

(Ticklish Subject 313). (Here the “real father” should be distinguished from the Real father.) Is not the zither in the story of Zeng Can another example of the “symbolic function of totem,” serving as a stand-in for the “true father”—the “pacifying Ego Ideal”? When Zeng Can plays the zither, he probably finds the pacifying father in the music instrument which helps to maintain the

Confucian ideal of harmony. In the Shun story, the equation between the zither and the ego ideal is probably more evident. For one thing, Yao—the original owner of the zither—demonstrates all characteristics which can be attributed to the ego ideal. First, in contrast to Gu Sou, he was the pacifying father. Rather than ignoring Shun’s virtue, he not only rewards him with material things, but also marries off his two daughters to him. Second, as the ego ideal,48 Yao functions as 262 Chapter 6

262

the point of view, in accordance with which Shun examines and models himself. Hence, the son

follows in Yao’s footstep and becomes a sage king by himself.

If Yao and the zither function as the ego ideal, we may accordingly view Gu Sou and Zeng

Zhen as the superego embodying the “horror of taboo”—a taboo which, as we will see, functions

primarily to prevent patricide. At this stage, we can already discern the coexistence and even

complicity between the two fathers. Why has Gu Sou’s position in the family never been

challenged by the sage king Yao (and, for that matter, by the symbolic order), despite his moral

deficiency? Why is it that Shun must first submit himself to Gu Sou’s demand, before being

rewarded by Yao and becoming a sage king? The Lacanian explanation is that “symbolic

authority is by definition the authority of the dead father, the Name-of-the-Father; but if this very

authority is to become effective, it has to rely on a (phantasmic) remainder of the living father, on

a piece of the father which survived the primordial murder” (Žižek, Indivisible Remainder 154,

original italics). When Žižek talks about the living, he refers not only to a living person but also

to the life-substance—jouissance—as opposed to the symbolized body. Hence, the “living father”

designates the superego dimension of the Father—the dimension which actually exceeds and

transgresses the Law represented by the Name-of-the-Father.

This relation between the two fathers explains the seemingly strange phenomenon in late

imperial China: according to the imperial legal system, the parent who killed his/her child was to

receive only a minor or no punishment.49 If we follow “Confucius’s” logic as formulated in the

story of Zeng Can, this phenomenon can be explained as follows: if the child is dead due to the

parent’s punishment, it is not the parents’ fault but the fault of the child’s. It is the child’s

responsibility to avoid such a punishment; if he/she fails to do so, he/she is unfilial. No matter

how ridiculous this logic may sound, it actually attests to the fact that, in the case of parent-child

relation, the parent is not the subject of the law, but its executioner. Why did the state tolerate At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers 263

263 those murderous parents who actually violated the law against murders, if not because the law actually needed the transgressors—the superego figures—to impose the patriarchal-phallic power?

In this sense, the Yao-Gu Sou relation can be formulated as follows: Yao provides the Confucian morality with a benevolent and pacifying façade, while Gu Sou forms its coercive and violent foundation. More dramatically, one is tempted to argue that, if Yao stands for the Law—the big

Other which lacks the organ of jouissance and is thus impotent, Gu Sou embodies the castrated organ, functioning as the phallus for Yao. In short, these two paternal functions are not antagonistic towards each other, but functionally complementary: first, the Name-of-the-Father depends on the superego to have a real impact on the subject; second, I suggest, the symbolic father (Yao) can be viewed as pacifying only in comparison with the anxiety-raising Father-of-

Enjoyment (Gu Sou): the more horrifying the latter is, the more appealing the former becomes.

V

Back to the Imaginary Father

If Shun was viewed as a (or the) exemplar of filial piety, his family relationship should also be considered exemplary of the ideal Confucian family structure in general. The characteristics revealed by this story should therefore inform us about not only the Confucian way of being a son, but also the way of structuring a family relationship. One of the most salient features of the family, in which a sage king is to emerge, is the rigid separation between the two fatherly functions represented respectively by Yao/the ego ideal and Gu Sou/the superego. As I will argue, this division helps to maintain the rule of the Name-of-the-Father. 264 Chapter 6

264

As Žižek points out above, in a modern nuclear family, these two functions “are united in

one and the same person” (Ticklish Subject 313, original italics), which, he continues,

contributes to the undermining of the symbolic authority.

The ambiguous rivalry with the father figure, which emerged with the unification of

the two functions in the bourgeois nuclear family, created the psychic conditions for

modern Western dynamic creative individualism; at the same time, however, it sowed

the seeds of the subsequent “crisis of Oedipus” (or, more generally, with regard to

figures of authority as such, of the “crisis of investiture” that erupted in the late

nineteenth century): symbolic authority was more and more smeared by the mark of

obscenity and thus, as it were, undermined from within. (Ticklish Subject 313)

The existence of only one father in a family necessitates the redoubling of the symbolic father:

the ego ideal is inevitably undermined by the obscene superego, due to their unification in one

and the same person. Following Žižek’s logic and rephrasing his argument in a reversed fashion,

one could suggest that the patriarchal authority would not be undermined, if and only if the two

paternal functions can remain separated. In other words, the Name-of-the-Father can keep its

power untouched only under the condition that the unification of the two paternal functions is

dissolved. In this sense, the division between Yao and Gu Sou in the Shun story is probably

staged for a particular reason: it serves to prevent the internal deficiency of the patriarchal rule.

In addition to the separation between the two fathers, there is still, in my view, another

requirement for the absolute patriarchal rule. When Žižek identifies the two paternal functions, he

seems to overlook the function of the empirical father—the father who supposedly carries out

these functions. That is, there are actually three fathers: besides the symbolic father (Name-of-

the-Father) and the Real father (Father-of-Enjoyment), there is the empirical father with flesh and

blood who, as a social subject, is not much different from the son. To a great degree, this At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers 265

265 empirical father—a subject of desire— always undermines the paternal functions. As Zupančič argues, there are always “the gaps between the empirical father and the name-of the-Father”;

“Oedipus’ dramatic trajectory crosses a space where his symbolic parents and his real (in the empirical sense) parents fail to coincide” (Ethics 191). To support her point, Zupančič quotes from Lacan:

At least in a social structure truly like ours, the father is always, in some way, a father

discordant with his function, a deficient father, a humiliated father …. There is

always an extremely sharp discordance between that which is perceived by the

subject on the level of the real, and the symbolic function. It is this gap that gives the

Oedipus complex its value. (qtd. in Zupančič, Ethics 191, original italics)50

The Oedipus tragedy results from Laius’s failure to fulfil his symbolic function. He is killed unknowingly by his son, simply because he is perceived by the son not as the father representing the Name-of-the-Father, but as “a rude and aggressive traveller” (Zupančič, Ethics 192). In other words, Laius—the empirical father—has failed to establish the Name-of-the-Father, which leads not only to his own death but also to the failure of the symbolic system itself; this failure is represented by the son’s violation of the fundamental Law—that is, the incest taboo: Oedipus unknowingly marries his mother.

Because the Confucian social-familial structure is not truly like ours, Laius’s failure was somehow avoided in the Confucian system. However, it is not because the gap between the symbolic father and the empirical father did not exist in pre-modern China, but because the

Confucian system was, to a great degree, sustained by such a gap. In other words, there was not only a division between the Name-of-the-Father and the Father-of-Enjoyment, but also a separation between the symbolic father and the empirical father. The second separation was best demonstrated in the practice of ancestor worship, by which the symbolic father was embodied 266 Chapter 6

266

literally by the dead father’s Name—such as the name written on the ancestral tablet which was

to be worshiped by the son as well as by the son’s empirical father. In this way, this name had

more authority than the living father himself did. Resembling the zither in the two filial piety

stories, the ancestral tablet can be viewed as a family totem, serving to register a symbolic

position separated from the empirical living father. Consequently, the function of the symbolic

father was unlikely to be compromised by the failure of the empirical father, since the latter was

not the primary agency to carry out this function; no matter how weak or deficient the empirical

father was, the symbolic father couldn’t be diminished, because he was already the dead father—

the ancestor embodied only by a dead signifier. In this way, we can better understand why the

ancestor worship was so important for the Confucian society: it served to overcome the inevitable

discordance between the empirical father and his symbolic function, and thereby to ensure the

longevity of the patriarchal rule in China.

Still, a third separation is needed, if the absolute patriarchal system can be achieved.

Actually, Laius’s tragic end is caused not only by his failure to fulfil his symbolic function as the

Name-of-the-Father, but also by his failure to act as the Father-of-Enjoyment/superego. He

“stupidly” engaged in a dispute with Oedipus, and tried to compete with him. It is not what the

superego father will do, who, like Gu Sou and Zeng Zhe, will never let himself be involved in a

competition with the son, since he is simply beyond the son’s reach. As portrayed in the filial

piety stories, the father and the son are not situated on the same level: the Father-of-Enjoyment

gives body to the unconscious domain of the Real, while the son belongs to the symbolic-

imaginary reality. Hence, in the case of Laius, there is another discordance—the discordance

between the Real father and the empirical father, which, in my view, makes Laius ultimately a

humiliated father killed by his own son: in the last analysis, Laius’s mistake is that he allows the

son to treat him as the son’s other—an ordinary individual with whom the son can identify or At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers 267

267 compete; that is, Laius’s failure resides in the fact that he is somehow placed within the imaginary order—the order of our daily life.

To a certain degree, the coincidence between a Real father and an empirical imaginary father seems unavoidable. In “Beyond the Oedipus Complex,” Russell Grigg argues:

Lacan refers to this real father as the master-agent and guardian of enjoyment.

Although impossible to analyze, he says in Television, it is quite possible to imagine

the real father. What the subject has access to in analysis is figures of the imaginary

father in his multiple representations: castrating father, tyrannical, weak, absent,

lacking, too powerful, and so on. (60-61)

That is, because the order of the Real is inaccessible for the subject, the Real father can only be approached through the imaginary order. Hence, it is difficult, if not impossible, to disentangle the Real father from an imaginary formation created through the subject’s imagination and perception. Here, the imaginary father refers not only to the mythical father such as the primordial father or the sagely Gu Sou, but also to the empirical father whom we experience in reality.

The consequence is that, insofar as the Real father is embodied by an imaginary-empirical father, he is subjected to the son’s rivalry. As Žižek argues,

[t]he Oedipus myth is based on the premise that it is the father, as the agent of

prohibition, who denies us access to enjoyment (i.e., incest, the sexual relationship

with the mother). The underlying implication is that parricide would remove this

obstacle and thus allow us fully to enjoy the forbidden object. (Looking Awry 24)

This passage points out one of the essential weaknesses of the imaginary father: once trapped within a rivalry dual relation with the son, the father (such as Laius) is perceived as a removable obstacle. Hence, the imaginary father—be it the “too powerful father” like the “primordial father,” 268 Chapter 6

268

or the humiliated father as Laius—is always vulnerable to the possibility of being “killed” or

“negated” by the son, since “a ‘humiliated father’ [is] caught in imaginary rivalry with his son”

(Žižek, Ticklish Subject 313). As pointed out above, Žižek argues that, in our modern times, the

symbolic authority is weakened by the unification of the ego ideal and the obscene superego. To

add to this insight, I would like to argue that, prior to the weakened “symbolic authority,” the

power of the ferocious superego has already been undermined by the “humiliated father”; that is,

insofar as the Real father is positivized by a person in reality, he cannot but be perceived as a

finite and thus avoidable individual (which is clearly demonstrated by the tragic fate undergone

by Laius and the “primordial father”).

This weakened Real father has also a role to play in undermining the patriarchal authority,

because, as argued earlier, the Name-of-the-Father depends on the Father-of-Enjoyment to

execute its rule effectively. My hypothesis here is that the modern “crisis of Oedipus” becomes

possible, not only due to the unification of the two paternal functions, but also because of the

intervention of the imaginary-empirical father. Or, we may even argue that the patriarchal system

has never been solid, and is always vulnerable from within, since the influence of the empirical

father is an unavoidable fact. However, this generalized argument is not without exceptions. At

this point, we need to return to the filial piety stories. Gu Sou is not Laius, because he is not a

humiliated father. One of the important reasons for it is that, strictly speaking, Gu Sou is not even

portrayed as a normal person. His unfathomable insistence on killing his son functions to locate

the father at a place beyond the ordinary run of things. In this way, Gu Sou is not treated as a

Laius-like subject—an empirical father—with whom the son identifies or rivals, but constructed

as an anxiety-raising object—the gaze embodying both the Other’s desire and its jouissance.

Hence, the key difference between the filial piety stories and the Oedipus myth is that there is a

lack of the empirical father in the former. This lack makes the formation of a father-son rivalry At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers 269

269 relationship impossible: even if the father is viewed as an obstacle, he is not imagined /perceived as something removable, because he is simply beyond the subject’s reach and strikes the son from the unconscious. In this way, the punitive superego father makes patricide unthinkable and impossible.

The point is not that the imaginary father did not exist in the Confucian family. As a matter of fact, insofar as we perceive things with our earthly eyes, we necessarily create an imaginary reality. My argument is rather that, according to the Confucian ideal, the empirical father was not supposed to be treated as an imaginary father. That is, although the individual father can be perceived as revengeful or weak, the Confucian model of filial piety, as reflected in the filial piety stories, dictates that these perceptions should not have any real implications for the son’s behaviour in his interaction with his father. It seems that, insofar as the father-son relationship is concerned, the father’s (imagined) personality did not really count; the filial son should react to his father in a uniform way, unconditionally obeying his wish, regardless of the son’s perception of the father. In other words, there was a depersonalization of the empirical father at work, which, in my view, served to objectify the father, and to transform him into a fetish—a stand-in for the impossible objet petit a.51

This fetish-like parent is vividly demonstrated in story 12 (“Kemu shiqin 刻木事親”) which tells the story of a son’s serving two wooden sculptures carved in the likeness of his deceased parents. Knapp reads this story as a literal enactment of the mourning principle that “[one should] serve the dead as if [one] serves the living” (shi si ru shi sheng 事死如事生) (152).52 In my view, this story can also be interpreted as the reverse of the principle: the living should be served as if they are dead, insofar as the dead can be understood as referring to an inanimate object. In other words, this story seems to articulate the idea that the parents should be treated not as people but 270 Chapter 6

270

as fetishes. As we have observed so far, all parents in the Ershisi xiao—such as the mother in

story 11 (discussed in chapter 3) who is deprived of any activities in the narrative— resemble

more or less a passive object receiving their children’s service in a way that a fetish does. Yet,

this fetish-like parent is different from the ancestral tablet—a symbolic stand-in for the missing

Father. For one thing, as demonstrated in story 12, the wooden sculptures are not quite dead, but

possess real life; they shed blood and tears. 53

If the wooden sculpture can be interpreted as a literal rendering of the status of an empirical

parent, we can probably argue that, when the parents are reduced or elevated to the status of a

fetish-like object, they become something akin to the ghost mother caught between the two

deaths: they are dead in the sense that they are treated as a motionless object; at the same time,

they are alive, embodying the life substance—blood and tears.54 As argued in chapter 2, this

liminal position between the two deaths marks the impossible place of the Thing. In this sense,

the affinity between the wooden sculptures and the murderous Gu Sou becomes evident: in

different ways, they represent the Real dimension of the Other. In short, in the ideal Confucian

family, there are two and only two fathers—the Name-of-the-Father (ego ideal) and the Father-

of-Enjoyment (superego). If the former was represented by a symbolic object—such as the name

written on an ancestral tablet or a zither, the latter was embodied by the depersonalized empirical

parent, by which the parent in reality was simultaneously negated and elevated to the level of the

Thing—that is, becoming the Real Father. Stated in this way, the Confucian filial morality

uncannily resembles the Lacanian sublimation which is defined as the elevation of an object to

the level of the Thing (Seminar VII 112). However, as I will argue, there is a crucial topological

difference between them.

In the Freudian tradition, sublimation is generally regarded as a process of substitution

which replaces a sexual object with a socially accepted (or even valued) object.55 Lacan redefines At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers 271

271 sublimation, stating that: “[T]he most general formula that I can give you of sublimation is the following: it raises an object…to the dignity of the Thing” (Seminar VII 112). What does Lacan mean by “raising an object”? One of his examples is Jacques Prévert’s collection of matchboxes, whose massive presence generates a satisfying effect.56 In his discussion of the matchbox collection, Lacan maintains that his purpose of providing this example is to show “what it means to invent an object for a special purpose that society may esteem, valorize, and approve”

(Seminar VII 113, my italics). The point here is that Lacan relates sublimation with “invention”; the object in question is not (or not primarily) a found object (a matchbox) but an object which is invented; that is to say, for him, sublimation is not simply the substitution of one thing for the

Thing, but involves the creation of something new. The matchbox fable is thus followed directly by a new chapter titled “On creation ex nihilo” (Lacan, Seminar VII 115), where Lacan maintains:

“I posit the following: an object, insofar as it is a created object, may fill the function that enables it not to avoid the Thing as signifier, but to represent it” (Seminar VII 119). Creation is specified here as creating a particular signifier which is able to represent the Thing.

Lacan’s example of this signifier is the vase:

If it really is a signifier, and the first of such signifiers fashioned by human hand, it is

in its signifying essence a signifier of nothing other than of signifying as such or, in

other words, of no particular signified. …

This nothing in particular that characterizes it in its signifying function is that

which in its incarnated form characterizes the vase as such. (Seminar VII 120)

This passage makes it clear that, if the vase signifies the Thing, what is represented here is not the

Thing as such, which is simply impossible, but the nothingness of the Thing within the symbolic reality. In other words, by containing a void, the vase functions as a pure signifier—a signifier without the signified, whose fundamental purpose is to create an empty space in reality. Through 272 Chapter 6

272

the vase, Lacan demonstrates that sublimation is a process of creating not only an object but also

a void. It is probably not the object but the void which represents the Thing.

Now if you consider the vase from the point of view I first proposed, as an object

made to represent the existence of the emptiness at the center of the real that is called

the Thing, this emptiness as represented in the representation presents itself as nihil,

as nothing. (Lacan, Seminar VII 121)

Hence, as Stavrakakis summarizes, “sublimation is closely related to an attempt to encircle the

real, to create a space for the unrepresentable within representation” (132).

In short, in the Lacanian sense, sublimation is a creation ex nihilo, which raises an ordinary

object (the vase for example) to the level of the Thing in order to create, through the object, the

empty space for the Thing. Hence, one could argue that the difference between sublimation and

the filial morality is actually a matter of topology: if sublimation aims at rendering visible the gap

in the symbolic order—that is, the Thing in its radical negativity, filial morality served to create a

fetish—an imaginary embodiment of the Real Father whose function is to positivize the

impossible Thing. The former shows the Other’s desire/lack, the latter fills it up with the Other’s

demand. In other words, the Father-of-Enjoyment is simply the surplus object which is installed

as a means of plugging the hole in the Name-of-the-Father; the symbolic edifice of a Confucian

society is thus always sustained by the Father’s jouissance.

Conclusion

In this chapter, I have tried to demonstrate the division between two Fathers. Although

usually viewed as a negative figure, Gu Sou—the Real Father— is indispensable to the regime of

the symbolic Father (represented here by the sage king Yao). These two Fathers carry out two At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers 273

273 paternal functions: the symbolic Father is the pacifying ego-ideal, in accordance with which the subject forms his/her symbolic identify, while the Real Father—represented by a superego figure such as Gu Sou and Zeng Zhe—constitutes the coercive and punitive force, functioning as the executioner the Father’s Law. Despite the huge contrast between these two Fathers, they are not contradictory but complementary: the superego supports the symbolic Father by being his phallus, embodying the return of the castrated organ. Hence, Lacanian psychoanalysis allows us to see the fact that the patriarchal system is never ruled by the Name-of-the-Father alone. This implies that the negation of the symbolic Father is not enough to challenge the Father’s rule, because it will leave the Real Father intact; the negated Father will return and rule as the murderous obscene superego. “Superego emerges,” says Žižek, “when the Law—the public Law, the Law articulated in the public discourse—fails; at this point of failure, the public Law is compelled to search for support in an illegal enjoyment” ( Metastases 54).

Hence, the Lacanian ethical imperative is: “never give up on your desire!” The only way to resist the Other is not to kill the Father, but to desire: because the subject’s desire is always already the desire of the Other, it is only through our desire that the Other’s desire/lack can be rendered visible. “Without this lack in the Other,” Žižek warns us, “the Other would be a closed structure and the only possibility open to the subject would be his radical alienation in the Other”

(Sublime Object 122). Hence, desire is an ethical stance; to desire is to insist on our own lack, whereby we keep the hole of the Other widely open. It is only then that we can distance ourselves from the Other’s dominance. There is probably no better way to end our discussion than to cite a passage from Žižek’s Tarrying with the Negative.

[T]he duty of the critical intellectual—if, in today’s “postmodern” universe, this

syntagm has any meaning left—is precisely to occupy all the time, even when the new

order (the “new harmony”) stabilizes itself and again renders invisible the hole as such, 274 Chapter 6

274

the place of this hole, i.e., to maintain a distance toward every reigning Master-

Signifier. In this precise sense, Lacan points out that, in the passage from one

discourse (social link) to another, the “discourse of the analyst” always emerges for a

brief moment: the aim of this discourse is precisely to “produce” the Master-Signifier,

that is to say, to render visible its “produced,” artificial, contingent character. (2,

original italics)

When somebody is calling for the resurrection of the Confucian Father, we only need to show

how the Master-Signifier “xiao” was produced and reproduced.

1 Yao is one of the legendary sage kings who ruled China in the pre-historical times; he was followed by Shun and

then by Yu 禹.

2 Sima Qian 司馬遷 was a Grand Scribe at the Han imperial court. The Shi ji records the history from the pre-

historical time of the legendary kings to the author’s own time, and has been ranked among the twenty-four official

histories. For more bibliographical information, see Hulsewé.

3 Although untold in the Ershisi xiao, this episode was not unknown to its audience, which had been transmitted

through various means such as the Confucian classics and the Buddhist texts called “bian wen” 變文 (transformation

text). For the Buddhist version of the Shun story, see Zheng 363-406.

4 There are two exceptions: in story 4, the father is portrayed generally as an impartial father; and, in story 10, there

is a faceless father.

5 Ranked among the Four Books, the book Meng zi 孟子 is organized as a collection of Mencius’s (ca. 372-289 BCE)

conversations with his contemporaries. For bibliographical information on the Mencius, see Lau. In the Meng zi, Gu

Sou is mentioned on several occasions, mostly in the Chapter “Wan zhang shang 萬章上.” For a narration of Gu

Sou’s attempted murders in the Meng zi, see Meng zi ji zhu, juan 5, 3A. In terms of the written form of Gu Sou’s

name, there is a difference between the Meng zi and the Shi ji: while, in the Meng zi, the second character of the

name is written as 瞍, it is changed into 叟 in the Shi ji. These two characters seem to be exchangeable. At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers 275

275

6 The Zuo zhuan—also known as the Chunqiu zuo zhuan 春秋左傳— was traditionally attributed to Zuo Qiuming 左

丘明 who was probably a contemporary of Confucius. Conventionally, the Zuo zhuan is believed to be a commentary on the Chun qiu 春秋 (Spring and Autumn Annals) allegedly compiled by Confucius himself. For bibliographical information on the Chunqiu and the Zuo zhuan, see Cheng.

7 “自幕至于瞽瞍，無違命。舜重之以明德.” Lewis’s translation. See Lewis 100. For the Chinese text, see

Chunqiu zuo zhuan zhushu, juan 44, 38A-B.

8 After quoting this passage from the Zuo zhuan, Lewis puts forward a similar argument, stating that “this passage simply reveals an early tradition of a virtuous Gu Sou who established a foundation for the subsequent achievements of Shun” (Lewis 100).

9 The authorship of this book is unclear, which is traditionally attributed to Zuo Qiuming 左丘明, the same author of the Zuo zhuan. Supplementing the Zuo zhuan, the Guo yu is a collection of speeches of rulers and prominent persons from different states in the Spring and Autumn period. For more information, see Chang et al. In the Guo yu, we find the following statement: “Mu 幕 of Yu was able to discern the harmonious wind and thereby complete music, so that things would be born. Yu 禹 of Xia was able to completely level out water and earth, and thereby properly place everything according to their categories (虞幕能聽協風，以成樂物生者也。夏禹能單平水土，以品處庶類者

也).” Lewis’s translation, see Lewis 101. For the Chinese text, see Guo yu, juan 16, 4A.

10 For a survey of the meanings of “gu” and “sou,” see Sterckx 197-98.

11 The Chou (or Zhou) 周 dynasty is dated roughly from 1046 BCE to 256 BCE.

12 For other scholarly literature on this topic, see, for example, Sterckx 167-202; Lewis 100-02.

13 It is generally believed that the Lüshi chunqiu was created under the patronage of Lü Buwei 吕不韋—a chancellor of the state of Qin 秦 and died in 235 BCE. This book contains texts covering various subjects, ranging from music to agriculture. For bibliographical information, see Carson and Loewe.

14 For an English translation of the text in question, see Lewis 101.

15 For a discussion of the social-discursive factors in transforming the myths in early China, see Allan.

16 “虞舜者，名曰重華。重華父曰瞽叟”; “舜父瞽叟盲，而舜母死.” For the Chinese text, see Shi ji jijie, juan 1,

11A. 276 Chapter 6

276

17 The Shang shu, also known as the Shu jing 書經, contains some of the earliest writings in Chinese history. But

parts of the book were added in a much later time. The passage in question is from the chapter “yao dian”堯典 which

is now generally believed to be one of the later texts, roughly dating from the last century of the Zhou dynasty. For

more information of the Shang shu, see Shaughnessy. Kong Anguo 孔安國—a scholar from the Western Han

dynasty—is believed to be a descendent of Confucius’s.

18 “無目曰瞽。舜父有目，不能分别好恶。故時人謂之瞽，配字曰瞍。瞍無目之稱。” See Shang shu zhushu,

juan 1, 30B.

19 “舜父瞽叟頑.” See Shi ji jijie, juan 1, 11A.

20 “心不則德義之經為頑” See Chunqiu zuozhuan zhushu, juan 14, 30B.

21 This passage is basically identical to the text in the Zuo zhuan. Hence, I continue to use Lewis’s translation of the

Zuo zhuan text. In the Shi ji, this passage appears in the chapter “Chen Qi shijia 陳杞世家,” see Shi ji jijie, juan 36,

6A.

22 “重華父曰瞽叟，瞽叟父曰橋牛，橋牛父曰句望，句望父曰敬康，敬康父曰窮蟬，窮蟬父曰帝顓頊，顓頊

父曰昌意：以至舜七世矣。自從窮蟬以至帝舜，皆微為庶人。” See Shi ji jijie, juan 1, 11A.

23 Qi 氣 is generally translated in English as the “life energy” or “life force.”

24 “口內味而耳內聲，聲味生氣。氣在口為言，在目為明。言以信名，明以時動。” Sterckx’s translation, see

Sterckx 176. For the Chinese text, see Guo yu, juan 3, 20B.

25 In The Indivisible Remainder, Žižek translates the murder of the primordial father as “the king of the pre-symbolic

substance of enjoyment” (150).

26 For a discussion of this point, see chapter 2 above.

27 Lewis’s study may lend some support to my argument. According to him, Shun as the heir to Yao’s throne

reversed the familial hierarchy, and placed himself above his father; it seems that there were some negative views of

Shun as unfilial. Hence, “the emphatic insistence on Shun’s filial piety in the Mencius [Meng zi]and texts derived

from its account almost certainly reflect the need to defend the sage from these widespread accusations of betraying

his father” (Lewis 85). Lewis’s argument implies that Mencius’s conception of filial piety emerged as a response to

the son’s “betrayal,” or “negation,” of his father. At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers 277

277

28 The phrase “anamorphotic grimace” is borrowed from Žižek. See Enjoy Your Symptom! 161.

29 “瞽叟尚复欲杀之，使舜上涂廪，瞽叟从下纵火焚廪。舜乃以两笠自捍而下，去，得不死。后瞽叟又使舜

穿井，舜穿井为匿空旁出。舜既入深，瞽叟与象共下土实井，舜从匿空出，去。” See Shi ji jijie, juan 1, 12A.

30 We have an external focalizor, when “an anonymous agent, situated outside the fibula, is functioning as focalizor”

(Bal 152).

31 “瞽叟愛後妻子，常欲殺舜。” See Shi ji jijie, juan 1, 11A.

32 The most famous example of the “speculative identity” is Hegel’s thesis that “spirit is a bone.” In psychoanalysis, it would be the formula of fantasy: $<>a. See, Žižek’s Indivisible Remainder 101-02.

33 “The Split between the Eye and the Gaze” is a chapter title in Lacan’s eleventh seminar, see Seminar XI 67.

34 In terms of the drive, the distinction between the eye and the gaze can also be seen as the difference between the erogenous zone and the object of the scopic drive.

35 In Seminar XI, Lacan states that “our position in the dream [that is, in the unconscious] is profoundly that of someone who does not see” (75).

36 The notion of “signification” had been developed throughout Lacan’s career. It basically denotes “the process by which the effect of meaning is produced” (Evans 188).

37 See chapter 2 above.

38 As Lacan points out, “[t]he gaze is presented to us only in the form of a strange contingency, symbolic of what we find on the horizon, as the trust of our experience, namely, the lack that constitutes castration anxiety” (Seminar XI

73). Although Lacan uses the word “symbolic” in this passage, he does not mean that the gaze belongs to the symbolic order. Rather, as the phallus, it is a symbol or a signifier of the lack.

39 For Silverman’s explanation of the function of the screen, see Silverman, Threshold 150.

40 For the objet petit a as the signifier of the Other’s desire, see chapter 3 above.

41 Generally speaking, Φ (Phi) is “[t]he phallus as signifier of desire or jouissance” (Fink, Lacanian Subject 173). For

Φ as the signifier of desire, see chapter 3 above.

42 For anxiety as an response to the Other’s desire, see chapter 3

43 “欲殺，不可得；即求，嘗在側。” See Shi ji jijie, juan 1, 11B. 278 Chapter 6

278

44 The Kongzi jiayu (or simply Jia yu 家語) is “basically a collection of ancient lore centring around the figure of

Confucius, his teachings and his principles, and the events in his life” (Kramers 258). For bibliographical

information, see Kramers.

45 “子曰：「汝不聞乎？昔瞽瞍有子曰舜，舜之事瞽瞍，欲使之，未嘗不在於側；索而殺之，未嘗可得。小

棰則待過，大杖則逃走，故瞽瞍不犯不父之罪，而舜不失烝烝之孝。今參事父，委身以待暴怒，殪而不避，

既身死而陷父於不義，其不孝孰大焉！” See Jia yu, juan 4, 5A-B.

46Lacan’s theory of the superego departs from the Freudian tradition. For Freud, “the super-ego’s role in relation to

the ego may be compared to that of a judge or a censor. Freud sees conscience, self-observation and the formation of

ideals as functions of the super-ego” (Laplanche and Pontalis 435). As we will see these three functions of the

superego are, for Lacan, the functions served by the ego-ideal which is a symbolic agency.

47 “欲令曾晳而聞之，知其體康也.” See Jia yu, juan 4, 5A.

48 “[T]he ego-ideal is essentially a point outside of the ego from which one observes and evaluates one’s own ego as

a whole or totality, just as one’s parent observes and evaluates it” (Fink, Lacan to the Letter 117).

49 See Ch’ü 24-30.

50 The text is originally cited from Lacan’s ‘Le mythe individuel du névrosé,’ in Ornicar? 17/18, Paris 1979, 305.

51 One way of defining the Lacanian fetish is to view it as “the object whose fascinating presence covers up the lack

of castration (the small a over the minus phi of castration in Lacan’s mathemes)” (Žižek, Plague 117). (As discussed

in chapter 3, the minus phi [-φ] is a symbol of castration—the loss of the objet petit a.) Hence, a fetish is a substitute;

but, what it substitutes for is not simply another object, but the castrated organ; if a shoe becomes a fetish, it is

because this shoe has been taken as the mother’s phallus.

52 This phrase is found in the early ru (Confucian) texts such as the chapter “Zhong yong” 中庸 in the Li ji 禮記, and

the “Li lun” 禮論 in the Xun zi 荀子. See, Li ji zhushu, juan 52, 24B, and Xun Zi, juan 13, 22B.

53 The sculpture’s shedding tears is not mentioned in the Ershisi xiao text, but narrated in many earlier versions of

this story. For a survey of different versions of this story, see Knapp 191-94.

54 For the story of the ghost mother and the notion of the two deaths, see chapter 2 above.

55 According to Laplanche and Pontalis, sublimation is a “[p]rocess postulated by Freud to account for human

activities which have no apparent connection with sexuality but which are assumed to be motivated by the force of At the End…: There Are Only Two Fathers 279

279

the sexual instinct…The instinct is said to be sublimated in so far as it is diverted towards a new, non-sexual aim and in so far as its objects are socially valued ones” (431).

56 For Lacan’s discussion of Jacques Prévert’s collection, see Seminar VII 113-14. 280

Let’s Desire! 281

281

Epilogue: Let’s Desire!

My study is an incomplete inquiry. Many stories in the Ershisi xiao are not read yet; a vast amount of cultural-social products in pre-modern China are still waiting for an interpretation; the depth of Lacanian theory is far from being exhausted. My limited effort to examine the filial piety stories through a Lacanian perspective is intended to demonstrate that Lacanian psychoanalysis can contribute in a significant way to the development of Chinese studies. So far, our approaches to Chinese social-cultural-historical artefacts have been largely based on a two-dimensional idea of reality which consists of what Lacan calls the symbolic and imaginary orders, while Lacan directs our attention to the third dimension—the order of the Real—which, although incompatible with reality, exerts influence upon it. This insight has profound implications for Chinese studies

(as well as for other fields of the humanities) in at least three aspects.

First, on the textual level, we have tended to focus on the meanings of the texts, trying to understand what the writer may have meant by his/her words or what the texts would mean for their readers. However, Lacan has taught us that the text contains something exceeding meanings; this something, which has been variously called the navel, the hole, the curvature or the sinthome, registers in the text the Real of desire and jouissance. Desire and jouissance are the two important

Lacanian concepts which enrich or complicate our understanding of human subjectivity and the function of texts as well. The Lacanian approach to texts proves that not only does every text convey meanings, it also cries: “Read my desire!”1 and probably also “Read my jouissance!”

Second, on the social-institutional level, one of important Lacanian insights is that, besides the Law, there is the Real Father—the superego figure as the obscene obverse of the symbolic

Father. Hence, examinations and/or criticisms of the social-symbolic order—the written public 282 Epilogue

282

laws, institutional systems, social organizations, etc.—will not be sufficient for understanding

people’s way of life in a given society, because the regime of the superego which is not written

on the symbolic-social surface remains untouched. In a recently published book on the post-

Maoist Chinese intellectuality, Guanjun Wu puts forward the idea that Chinese intellectuals need

to traverse what he calls the “great dragon fantasy”—that is, the fantasy of restoring China’s

fullness, because “China” does not exist, but functions either as a fantasy object or as an empty

Master-Signifier (332-33). What is not considered by Wu is the Real dimension of China. Hence,

his way of traversing the fantasy is insufficient. As he claims, “the traversing of the phantasy,

then, is exactly to take over and hold on this void place (the place of cause, the place of the

fundamental lack), by emptying all the fantasmatic stuff filling it, and by recognizing the

ontological non-existence of the Other” (346-47). The problem here is that, after emptying the

phantasmatic stuff and recognizing the non-existence of the Other, we do not reach the void,

because, besides the imaginary and symbolic Fathers, there is the Real Father (the superego). We

should bear in mind Žižek’s warning that the superego emerges exactly at the moment when the

public Law—the symbolic Father—fails.2 Hence, a Lacanian response to Wu’s version of

“traversing the fantasy” would be the following questions: What will you do with the superego?

What will you become after the fantasy being traversed?

The only way of resisting the superego is desire. One aspect of the superego which has not

yet been discussed in my dissertation is his injunction. The superego’s command is ‘Enjoy!’

which “draws the energy of the pressure it exerts upon the subject from the fact that the subject

was not faithful to his desire, that he gave it up” (Žižek, Metastases 68). That is, when we give up

on our desire, we fall prey to the superego’s injunction. Why? As argued in chapter 2, we are

desiring subjects and desire for the irreversibly lost maternal Thing. This loss determines that

jouissance as such is impossible, because it is only attainable through an impossible reunion with Let’s Desire! 283

283 the Thing. The enjoyment available to the social subject is the surplus jouissance; that is, we can only enjoy a surplus thing which occupies the empty place left by the Thing.3 Hence, let us recall:

“‘do not compromise your desire’ can only mean ‘do not put up with any of the substitutes for the

Thing, keep the gap of desire open’” (Žižek, Indivisible Remainder 95). In this sense, the superego’s injunction can be translated as: “Stop desiring! Let’s Enjoy!” If we obey this injunction, we know that we have betrayed the maternal Thing, and become seized by the Father.

Hence, in the third aspect, Lacanian psychoanalysis provides scholars not only with a theory but also with an ethical imperative: “Never give up on your desire!” One of its implications is that we need to traverse the (ideological) fantasy by occupying the analyst’s position. Although Žižek states once that the traversing of the fantasy ends with the drive,4 he nevertheless points out on another occasion that

there is a desire that remains even after we have traversed our fundamental fantasy, a

desire not sustained by a fantasy, and this desire, of course, is the desire of the analyst—

not the desire to become an analyst, but the desire which fits the subjective position of the

analyst, the desire of someone who has undergone ‘subjective destitution’ and accepted

the role of the excremental abject, desire delivered of the phantasmic notion that ‘there is

something in me more than myself’, a secret treasure which makes me worthy of the

Other’s desire. (Ticklish Subject 296, original italics)

To accept the role of the excremental abject is to place oneself in the position of a partial object—the objet petit a. As discussed in chapter 5, there are two ways of identifying with the objet petit a—the analyst’s way and the pervert’s way. The former situates him/herself as the lack—that is, the object-cause of desire, while the latter assumes the role of a surplus object which fills in the Other’s lack/desire. As I understand it, Žižek articulates here the idea that, by occupying the place of the objet petit a—the remainder of the Real, the subject situates 284 Epilogue

284

him/herself in the lack of the Other not as an object but as the lack itself. Traversing the fantasy is

thus to become the cause (rather than the object) of the Other’s desire, and thereby to keep the

Other desiring. If the superego’s injunction is “Enjoy!”, the psychoanalytic imperative is “Desire!”

1 I borrow this phrase from the title of Copjec’s book Read My Desire.

2 For this argument, see chapter 6.

3 The third form of jouissance is the Other (feminine) jouissance which has nothing to do with castration or the loss

of the Thing. However, this Other jouissance is totally mythical, in the sense that it is not related to a subject; even

the unconscious does not know anything about it. In “What Does the Unconscious Know about Women,” Colette

Sole states: “what Lacan in Seminar XX calls other jouissance [is] foreclosed from the symbolic, a jouissance that

can be qualified as ‘outside the unconscious.’ The unconscious knows nothing of this jouissance. … Unlike phallic

jouissance, it is not caused by an object correlated with castration and in this sense cannot be measured. This is why

Lacan says … that it is ‘beyond’ the subject. In contrast, phallic jouissance is not beyond the subject. I will not claim

that phallic jouissance is homeostatic … but it remains proportionate to the subject, just like object a, which certainly

divides the subject but is adjusted to his gap” (107).

4 “Once we move beyond desire—that is to say, beyond the fantasy which sustains desire—we enter the strange

domain of drive” (Žižek, Plague 30, original italics). Translation of the Ershisi xiao Stories 285

285

Appendix 1: Translation of the Ershisi xiao Stories

The following translations are mine. Chinese texts are cited from the Ershisi xiao tu 二十四孝圖, published by Zhongguo shudian.

Story 1—“Xiaogan dongtian 孝感動天” (“The Feeling of Filial Piety Moved Heaven”)

Shun 舜 of the Yu 虞 dynasty was surnamed Yao 姚 and named Chonghua 重華. [He

was] a son of Gu Sou’s 瞽瞍, and had a disposition to be extremely filial. His father

was ignorant, his mother was stupid,1 and his younger brother Xiang 象 was arrogant.

Shun farmed the land on the Mountain Li (li shan 厯山). Elephants helped him to

plough; birds helped him to weed. His feeling of filial piety was great to such a

degree [that it moved the animals]. He made pottery on a river bank; these wares

were not of poor quality; he fished in the Lake of Lei (lei ze 雷澤) and would not be

lost in the fierce winds and thunderstorms. Although he devoted his entire energy and

became totally exhausted, Shun felt no resentment. Having heard about Shun’s deeds,

Yao 堯2 appointed him the leader of officials, sent nine of his sons to serve him and

married two of his daughters off to him. After Shun had assisted Yao for twenty-eight

years, the emperor abdicated the throne in favour of Shun.

虞舜姓姚，名重華。瞽瞍之子，性至孝。父頑，母嚚，弟象傲。舜耕扵歷山，

象爲之耕，鳥爲之耘。其孝感如此。陶於河濱，噐不苦窳。漁扵雷澤，烈風雷

雨弗迷。雖竭力盡瘁，而無怨懟之心。堯聞之，使總百揆，事以九男，妻以二

女。相堯二十有八載。帝遂讓以位焉。 286 Appendix 1

286

Herds of ploughing elephants;

Flocks of weeding birds;

The heir of Yao succeeded to the throne;

The feeling of filial piety moves the heat of Heaven.

隊隊耕田象，紛紛耘草禽。嗣堯登寳位，孝感動天心。

Story 2— “Qinchang tangyao 親嘗湯藥” (Tasting the Medical Soup Personally)

Emperor Wen 文帝 of the Early Han 前漢 dynasty [206 BC-9AD] was named Heng 恒,

[who] was the third son of Emperor Gaozu 高祖. He was initially given the title of

King Dai 代王. His biological mother was Empress Dowager Bo 薄太后. Emperor

[Wen] served and supported [his mother] without negligence. [His mother] had been

ill for three years. To serve her, Emperor [Wen] never took a rest. 3 [His mother’s]

medical soup had to be tasted by himself before being served [to her]. [Emperor

Wen’s] benevolence and filial piety had been known throughout the land under

Heaven.

前漢文帝名恒, 高祖第三子。初封代王。生母薄太后，帝奉養無怠。母病三年，

帝爲之目不交睫，衣布解帶。湯藥非口親嘗弗進。仁孝聞於天下。

[His] benevolence and filial piety was present throughout the land under Heaven,

[He] towered above hundreds of kings.

The emperor of the Han dynasty served his virtuous mother, Translation of the Ershisi xiao Stories 287

287

[Her] medical soup had to be tasted by him personally.

仁孝臨天下，巍巍冠百王。漢庭事賢母，湯藥必親嘗。

Story 3—“Yaozhi tongxin 嚙指痛心” (Biting Her Finger, Paining His Heart)

4 Zeng Can 曾参 of the [Eastern] Zhou 周 dynasty [771-256 BC], whose style name

was Zi Yu 子舆, was a disciple of Confucius. [He] served his mother with extreme

filial piety. Can often collected firewood in the mountains. [One day,] a guest arrived,

[but Can was not home]. His mother was at a loss. Expecting that Can would not

return soon, she then bit her finger. Having felt a sudden pain in his heart, Can carried

the firewood and returned home. [When he arrived home,] he kneeled down, asking

[his mother] what the matter was in hand. His mother said: “an urgent visitor has

arrived. I bit my finger to inform you.”

周，曾參，字子舆，孔子弟子。事母至孝。参嘗採薪山中。家有客至。母無措。

望參不還，乃嚙其指。參忽心痛，負薪以歸，跪問其故。母曰：“有急客至。吾

嚙指以悟汝爾。

The mother’s finger was just bit,

The son’s heart was pained unbearably.

Carrying firewood, he returned in time.

The extreme feeling between bones and flesh was so deep.

母指纔方嚙，兒心痛不禁。負薪歸未晚，骨肉至情深。

288 Appendix 1

288

Story 4—“danyi shunmu 单衣顺母” (Wearing Thin Clothes, Obeying His Mother)

Min Sun 閔損 of the [Eastern] Zhou 周 dynasty, whose style name was Zi Qian 子騫,

was a disciple of Confucius’s. [He] lost his mother in his early years. His father

married again. His stepmother gave birth to two sons and dressed them in clothes

filled with cotton. [She] was jealous about Sun, and dressed him in clothes filled with

(dry) reed catkins. His father ordered Sun to harness the cart. Because his body was

cold, he dropped the reins. His father became aware of [the situation], and hence

intended to divorce the stepmother. Sun said: “If mother stays, only one son suffers

from the cold. If mother leaves, three sons are to be dressed in thin clothes.” When

the stepmother heard [Sun’s statements], she repented.

周閔損字子騫，孔子弟子。早喪母，父娶後母。生二子，衣以棉絮。妒損，衣

以蘆花。父令損御車。體寒失靷。父察知，故欲出後母。損曰：“母在一子寒，

母去三子单。母聞改悔。

The family Min had a virtuous son,

Has he ever resented his stepmother?

In front of his father, he urged this mother to stay,

So that three sons can avoid the wind and frost.

閔氏有賢郎，何曾怨晚孃。父前留母在，三子免風霜。

Story 5—“Weiqin fumi 爲親負米” (Shouldering Rice for His Parents)

Zhong You 仲由 of the [Eastern] Zhou 周 dynasty, whose style name was Zi Lu 子路,

was a disciple of Confucius. His family was poor; they ate coarse food made from Translation of the Ershisi xiao Stories 289

289

weed and beans. For [his] parents, [he] carried rice [from a place which was] one

hundred li away.5 After his parents died, he travelled south to the region of Chun 楚,

[where he became an official]. He was followed by one hundred chariots and had ten

thousand zhong 钟 of millet in storage.6 He sat upon layers of cloth and ate in front of

rows of tripods. However, he sighed, “although [I] long to eat the food made from

weed and beans, it is no longer possible to carry rice for my parents.”

周仲由，字子路，孔子弟子。家貧，食藜藿之食。爲親負米百里外。親没。南

游於楚。從車百乘，積粟萬鍾。累裀而坐，列鼎而食。乃歎曰：“雖欲食藜藿之

食，爲親負米不可得也。”

He carried rice to provide nice food [for his parents],

Neglecting the distance of one hundred li.

When he became prosperous, his parents were already dead.

He still thought about the past hardship [undergone by his parents].

負米供甘旨，甯忘百里遥。身榮親已没，猶念舊劬勞。

Story 6—“Xicai yuqin 戲綵娛親” (Playing and Dressing in Colourful Clothes, He Entertains

His Parents)

Lao Lai Zi 老莱子 of the [Eastern] Zhou 周 dynasty was a native of the state of Chu 楚.

He was extremely filial, providing his parents with the most sweet and crispy food. At

the age of seventy, he had never regarded himself as old. Dressing himself in colourful

clothes, he played and danced like an infant beside his parents. Or, when he carried 290 Appendix 1

290

water to the hall, he would pretend to fall and lie on the floor to play like a little child.

[In so doing,] he intended to entertain his parents.

周老菜子，楚人，至孝。奉二親，極其甘脆，年七十，言不稱老。著五綵斑斕之

衣，為嬰兒戲舞於親側。又取水上堂，詐跌，臥地，作小兒戲，以娛親喜。

Playing and dancing, he pretended to be childish and ignorant.

The spring wind moved his colourful clothes.

Both parents laughed with their mouths open,

The household is full of the atmosphere of happiness.

戲舞學嬌癡，春風動綵衣。雙親開口笑，喜氣满庭闈。

Story 7— “Luru fengqin 鹿乳奉親” (Serving the Parents with Deer Milk)

Tan Zi 郯子 of the [Eastern] Zhou 周 dynasty had the disposition to be extremely

filial. [His] father and mother were old; they both suffered from an eye disease,

longing to “eat”7 deer milk. Tan Zi complied with his parents’ will. [He] then dressed

in a deerskin, and went into the deep mountains, where [he sneaked] into a herd of

deer to obtain the milk, in order to please his parents. Hunters saw him [disguised in

the deerskin], and were about to shoot him. Tan Zi told them the whole situation, and

avoided [being shot].

周郯子，性至孝。父母年老，俱患雙眼，思食鹿乳。郯子顺承親意，乃衣鹿皮，

去深山，入鹿羣中，取鹿乳，以娱親。獵者見而欲射之。剡子具以情告，乃免。

Translation of the Ershisi xiao Stories 291

291

The aged parents longed for deer milk,

[The son] dressed in the clothes made of the fur of a deer.

If [he] did not speak loudly,

[He] would return from the mountains carrying arrows.

老親思鹿乳，身掛鹿毛衣。若不髙聲語，山中帶箭歸。

Story 8—“Maishen zangfu 賣身葬父” (Hiring Himself Out, Burying His Father)

Dong Yong 董永 of the Han 漢 dynasty [202BC-220] was from a poor family. When

his father died, he hired himself out in order to borrow some money to bury his father.

He then went to work to redeem his debt. On his way, he met a woman who asked to

become Yong’s wife. They both arrived at the creditor’s house. The creditor ordered

them to weave three hundred bolts of silk, before they could leave. [Yong’s wife]

finished this work within one month. On their way home, they came to the place Huai

Yin 槐陰 where they had met; [Yong’s] wife said good-bye [to Yong] and left.

漢董永家貧。父死，賣身貸錢而葬。及去償工。路遇一婦，求爲永妻。俱至主

家。令織縑三百匹，乃回。一月完成。歸至槐陰會所，遂辭而去。

In order to bury his father, he hired himself out;

A fairy Lady met him on the road.

[She] wove silks to repay the creditor;

The feeling of filial piety moved Heaven.

葬父將身賣，仙姬陌上迎。織縑償债主，孝感動天庭

292 Appendix 1

292

Story 9—“Xingyong gongmu 行傭供母” (Hiring Himself Out, Supporting His Mother)

Jiang Ge 江革 of the Later Han 後漢 dynasty [25-220], whose style name was Ci

Weng 次翁, lost his father in his early years. [He] lived with his mother. Suffering

from social chaos, he carried his mother on his shoulder and fled from disasters. For

several times, they encountered bandits who wanted to kidnap [Jiang Ge]. Ge often

cried and told [the bandits] that he had an aged mother with him. [The bandits] thus

cannot bear the idea of killing him. [Jiang Ge and his mother] settled down at Xia Pei

下阫. He was so poor that he had no clothes and [walked with] naked feet. He hired

himself out in order to support his mother. Everything that his mother needed was

provided.

後漢江革，字次翁。少失父，獨與母居。遭亂，負母逃難。數遇賊，欲劫去。

革轍泣告，有老母在。賊不忍殺。轉客下阫。貧窮裸跣，行傭以供母。母便身

之物，莫不畢給。

Carrying his mother on his shoulder, they fled from disasters.

In difficult circumstances, [they] frequently had trouble with bandits.

He pleaded and was spared [by the bandits];

He hired himself out to support his parent.

負母逃危難，窮途犯賊頻。哀求俱獲免，傭力以供親。

Translation of the Ershisi xiao Stories 293

293

Story 10—“Shanzhen wenqin 扇枕温衾” (Fanning the Pillow, Warming the Quilt)

Huang Xiang 黄香 of the Later Han 後漢 Dynasty, whose style name was Wen Jiang

文疆, was at the age of nine. He had lost his mother, and missed her terribly. People

living in his county all praised his filial piety. Carrying out diligent and hard work on

himself, he served his father with extreme filial piety. In the hot summer, he fanned

[his father’s] pillow and bamboo mat to cool them down. In the cold winter, he used

his body to warm [his father’s] quilt and cushion. The Prefect Liu Hu 劉護

commended him.

後漢黄香，字文疆，年九歲。失母，思慕惟切。鄉人皆稱其孝。躬執勤苦，事

父盡孝。夏天暑熱，扇涼其枕簟；冬天寒冷，以身温其被席。太守劉護表而異

之。

In the winter month, [he] warmed [his father’s] quilt,

In the hot days, [he] fanned [his father’s] pillow to cool it down.

The child knew the sonly duty;

There is only one Huang Xiang in a thousand years.

冬月温衾煖，炎天扇枕涼。兒童知子職，千古一黄香。

Story 11—Yongquan yueli 湧泉躍鯉 (Carps Leaping out of a Surging Spring)

Jiang Shi 姜詩 of the [later] Han 汉 dynasty [25—220] served his mother with

extreme filial piety. His wife, surnamed Pang 龐氏, attended her mother-in-law even

more cautiously. The mother was disposed to drink water from a certain river; the 294 Appendix 1

294

wife thus often went out to fetch the water and offered it to her mother-in-law. The

mother also liked [to eat] sliced fish; the couple thus often prepared the fish and

brought it to the mother. They even invited the neighbour’s mother to share it.

Suddenly, a spring emerged beside their house; the water tasted like that from the

river. Every day, out of the spring leapt two carps which Shi would catch and provide

to his mother.

漢姜詩，事母至孝；妻龐氏，奉姑尤謹。母性好飲江水，妻汲而奉之。母更嗜

魚膾，夫婦作而進之。召鄰母與食。舍側忽有涌泉，味如江水，日躍雙鯉，詩

取以供母。

Besides the house emerged a sweat spring;

Every day appeared two carps.

The son was conscious of serving his mother;

The daughter-in-law was more filial towards her mother-in-law.

舍側甘泉出，一朝雙鯉魚。子能知事母，婦更孝於姑。

Story –12: “Kemu shiqin 刻木事親” (Carving Wooden Sculptures, Serving His Parents)

Ding Lan 丁蘭 of the Han 漢 dynasty, who lost his father and mother in his youth,

was unable to serve and support them. Having grew up, [Ding Lan] thought about

their kindness in bringing him up with painstaking efforts. He [thus] carved wooden

sculptures in the likeness [of his parents],8 and served them as if they were alive.

Over time, Ding Lan’s wife became less respectful [towards the sculptures]. [She]

playfully pierced with a needle the finger[s] of the sculpture[s], [from which] blood Translation of the Ershisi xiao Stories 295

295

flowed. [When] the wooden sculpture[s] “saw” Ding Lan, tears were in its/their

eyes.9 Therefore, [he] inquired about the situation, and abandoned his wife.

漢丁蘭，幼喪父母，未得奉養。長而念劬勞之恩。刻木爲像，事之如生。其妻

久而不敬，以鍼戲刺其指。血出。木像見蘭，眼中垂淚。因詢得其情，即将妻

棄之。

[He] carved wooden parents,

Depicting their appearances as they were in life.

[It] sends a message to every son and nephew:

Serve one’s parents before it is too late.

刻木爲父母，形容在日身。寄言諸子姪，及早孝其親。

Story 13—“Weimu maier 爲母埋 /賣兒” (Serving His Mother, Selling/Burying His Son)10

Guo Ju 郭巨 of the Han 漢 dynasty, whose style name was Wen Ju 文舉, was from a

poor family. He had a three-year-old son. His mother reduced the amount of her food,

in order to give it to her grandson. Ju told his wife, saying that “[we] are so poor that

[we] cannot support Mother. Our son is sharing Mother’s food. Why not sell/bury this

son? While we can have another son, we cannot have another mother.” His wife did

not dare to disobey [her husband]. One day, when Ju dug a pit more than three chi

尺11 deep, [he] suddenly saw gold [buried under the ground]. There were characters

written on the jar [containing the gold], which says: “Heaven gives the gold to the

filial son Guo Ju. The officials must not seize it; the commoners must not take it.” 296 Appendix 1

296

漢郭巨，字文舉，家貧。有子三歲，母減食與之。巨謂妻曰：“貧乏不能供母，

子又分母之食，盍賣/埋此子？子可再有，母不可復得。” 妻不敢違。一日，巨

掘坑三尺餘，忽見黄金。釜上有字，云：“天賜黄金，郭巨孝子，官不得奪，

民不得取。”

Guo Ju thought about supporting [his mother];

[Planning to] sell/bury his son, he wished his mother could stay alive.

The gold was given by Heaven,

Whose brilliance glorified the poor family.

郭巨思供养, 賣兒願母存。黄金天所賜， 光彩耀寒門。

Story 14—E’hu jiufu 搤虎救父 (Strangling a Tiger, Saving His Father)

Yang Xiang 楊香 of the Jin 晉 dynasty [265－420] was fourteen years old. He

accompanied his father Feng 豐 to the field to harvest millet. When his father was

dragged away by a tiger, Xiang did not have one inch of iron in his hands.12 Knowing

only the existence of his father, without knowing the existence of himself, [Yang

Xiang] jumped toward the tiger and gripped its neck. The tiger ground its teeth and

withdrew. The father was thus able to avoid being harmed.

晉楊香，年十四歲，隨父豐往田獲傑粟。父為虎拽去，時香手無寸鐵。惟知有

父，而不知有身，踴躍向前，搤持虎頸。虎磨牙而逝。父因得免於害。

Encountering a tiger in the deep mountains, Translation of the Ershisi xiao Stories 297

297

[Yang Xiang] strived to struggle with the wind filled with the smell of blood.

The father and the son are both safe,

Escaping from the greedy mouth.

深山逢白額，努力搏腥風。父子俱無恙，脱離饞口中。

Story 15—“Shishen yiqi 拾椹供親” (Gathering Mulberries, Distinguishing between Utensils)

Cai Shun 蔡順 of the Han 漢 dynasty, whose style name was Jun Zhong 君仲, was

fatherless since his youth. He served his mother with extreme filial piety. [They]

endured the social chaos caused by Wang Mang 王莽. In the year when the land was

in ruin, there was not enough food supply. [Shun] gathered mulberries and collected

them in different utensils. The bandits of Chi Mei 赤眉 saw him [gathering

mulberries] and asked: “what is the difference [between the fruits in the two

utensils]?” Shun answered: “The black fruits are to be served to my mother. The red

ones are for myself.” The bandits took pity on Shun’s filial piety, and gave him three

sheng 升13 of white rice, and one ox leg.

漢蔡順，字君仲。少孤，事母至孝。遭王莽亂，歲荒不給。拾桑椹以異噐盛之。

赤眉賊見而聞曰：“何異乎？”順曰：“黑者奉母，赤者自食。賊憫其孝，以白米

三升，牛蹏一隻贈之。

Black mulberries were to be provided to [his] mother;

Crying because of hunger, he shed tears all over his clothes.

The Chi Mei was aware of his filial piety, 298 Appendix 1

298

Letting him bring home ox [leg] and rice.

黑椹奉萱幃，啼饑淚满衣。赤眉知孝順，牛米贈君歸。

Story 16—“Huaiju weiqin 懷橘遺親” (Hiding Oranges, Providing Them to His Parent)

Lu Ji 陸績 of the Later Han 後漢 dynasty, whose style name was Gong Ji 公紀, was

at the age of six. [He] visited Yuan Shu 袁術 in Jiu Jiang 九江. When Shu presented

oranges to entertain Ji, [Ji] hid two of them [under his clothes]. When he was about to

return home, Ji bowed and bid farewell to [Yuan Shu]. The two organs fell out on the

ground. Shu said: “Yong man Lu, are you coming here as a guest to hide oranges?” Ji

kneeled down, answering: “[Oranges] are my mother’s favourite [food]. I want to

bring them home to give [them] to my mother.” Shu was greatly amazed [by Jin’s

filial piety].

後漢陸績，字公紀，年六歲。於九江見袁術。術出橘是待績。懷橘二枚。及歸

拜辭，橘墜地。術曰: “陸郎作賓客而懷橘乎？”績跪答曰：“吾母性之所愛。欲

歸以遺母。”術大奇之。

Filial piety and fraternal love are all the inborn natures;

Among human beings, [there was] a six-year-old child.

In his sleeve hid [He] the green oranges,

[In order to] give [them to] his mother, which is really amazing.

孝弟皆天性,14 人間六歲兒。袖中懷綠橘，遺母事堪奇。

Translation of the Ershisi xiao Stories 299

299

Story 17—“Wenlei qimu 闻雷泣墓” (Hearing Thunder and Crying at the Tomb)

Wang Pou 王裒 of the state of Wei 魏 [266-316], whose style name was Wei Yuan

偉元, served his parents with extreme filial piety. When his mother was still alive,

[she] was, by nature, afraid of thunder. After [she] died, [she] was buried in a

mountain wood. Whenever [he] encountered wind and rain and heard thunder, [Wang

Pou] would run to the place of [his mother’s] tomb. He [then] bowed [to the tomb]

and cried, telling that “Pou is here. Mother, do not be afraid.” He led a life in solitude

and seclusion, and taught [others how to] read the Shi [jing].15 When [he] came across

[the verse—] “Alas my father and mother; [they] gave me life with painstaking

efforts,” [he] would repeat it three times, with tears and snivel streaming down.

Thereafter, his pupils arrived, and the “Lu e” 蓼莪 was abolished.16

魏王裒，字偉元，事親至孝。母存日，性畏雷。既卒，葬於山林。每遇風雨，

聞雷即奔墓所。拜泣告曰：“裒在此。母勿懼。”隱居，教授讀詩。至“哀哀父母，

生我劬勞，”遂三復流涕。後門人至，廢蓼莪之篇。

[His] kind mother was afraid of hearing thunder,

A frozen soul sleeps beneath the tomb.

When thunder is roaring,

He comes to the tomb, walking around it a thousand times.

慈母怕聞雷，冰魂宿夜臺。阿香時一震，到墓遶千回。

300 Appendix 1

300

Story 18—“Kuzhu shangsun 哭竹生筍” (Crying to a Bamboo, Bringing out Bamboo Shoots)

Meng Zong 孟宗 of the State of Wu 吴 [229-280], whose style name is Gong Wu 恭

武, lost his father in his youth. His aged mother was very sick. In the “winter month

冬月,” she longed to eat the thick soup made with bamboo shoots. Zong had no idea

of how to obtain [the ingredient]; he then went to a bamboo wood, where he held a

bamboo stalk and cried. His sense of filial piety moved Heaven and Earth. Instantly,

the earth cracked open, from which emerged a few shoots. He brought them home

and prepared the soup for his mother. Having finished the soup, the mother’s illness

was cured.

吴孟宗，字恭武。少喪父。母老，病篤。冬月思筍煮羹食。宗無計可得，乃往

竹林，抱竹而哭。孝感天地。須臾，地裂，出筍數莖。持歸作羹奉母。食畢，

疾癒。

Shedding tears in the northern cold wind,

Miserable are the few stalks of bamboo.

Instantly emerged the winter shoot,

[It is] Heaven’s intention to forecast [the mother will be] safe and sound.

淚滴朔风寒，蕭蕭竹數竿。須臾冬筍出，天意報平安。

Story 19—“Wobing qiuli 卧冰求鯉” (Lying on the Ice in Search for Carps)

Wang Xiang 王祥 of the Jin 晉 dynasty [265-420], with the style name of Xiu Zheng

休徵, lost his mother at an early age. His stepmother, surnamed Zhu 朱氏, had no Translation of the Ershisi xiao Stories 301

301

affection towards him. She often brought to his father false accusations against him.

As a result, [Wang Xiang] lost his father’s love. The [step]mother had a desire to eat

raw fish. It was at the time when the ice was freezing. Xiang undressed himself and

lay down on the ice in search of fish. The ice suddenly cracked automatically, from

which two carps leaped out. [Wang Xiang] brought the fish home to provide [them]

to the mother.

晉王祥，字休徵。早喪母。繼母朱氏不慈。扵父前數譖之，由是失愛于父。母

欲食生魚，時值寒冰凍，祥解衣臥冰求之。冰忽自裂，雙鯉躍出。持歸供母。

There are stepmothers in the human world,

There is no another Wang Xiang under Heaven.

Until today, on the surface of the river,

An impression [can be found of Wang Xiang’s] lying on the ice.

繼母人间有，王祥天下無。至今河水上，一片卧病模。

Story 20—“Ziwen baoxue 恣蚊飽血” (Letting the Mosquitos Feed on His Blood)

Wu Meng 吴猛 of the Jin 晉 dynasty, at the age of eight, had a disposition of being

extremely filial. His family was poor; their beds were not furnished with draperies.

Every night in summer, [Wu Meng] let the mosquitos gather on his skin, and feed on

his flesh and blood. Although [mosquitos gathering on his skin] were many, [Wu

Meng] did not drive them away. [He] was afraid that, were they driven away [from

his own body], they would bite his parents. His feeling of filial affection had already

reached the greatest level. 302 Appendix 1

302

晉吳猛，年八歲，性至孝。家貧，榻無幃帳。每夏夜，任蚊攒膚，恣渠膏血之

飽。雖多，不驅。恐去己而噬親也。愛親之心至矣。

On summer nights, [they] had no draperies;

Mosquitos were many; [but he] didn’t dare to wave them off.

[He] let them feed on [his] flesh and blood,

Lest they enter [his] parents’ draperies.

夏夜無幃帳，蚊多不敢揮。恣渠膏血飽，免使入親幃。

Story 21—“Changfen youxin 嘗糞憂心” (Tasting the Feces and Having Worries in His

Heart)

Yu Qianlou 庾黔娄 of the Southern Qi 南齊 dynasty [479-502] was the magistrate of

the county Chanling 孱陵. [Yu’s] stay on his post lasted less than ten days, before he

suddenly trembled with fear and perspired. [He] immediately quit his job and returned

[home]. [When he arrived home,] his father had just fallen ill for two days. The doctor

said: “if [you] want to know whether his illness is to be cured or become serious, you

only need to taste his excrement. The bitter taste is good.” Yu Qianlou tasted [his

father’s] excrement; it tasted sweet. [Hence,] his heart was full of extreme worries. In

the evening, he bowed deeply to the North Star, asking to replace his father’s death

with his own. Translation of the Ershisi xiao Stories 303

303

南齊庾黔婁，爲孱陵令。到任未旬日，忽心驚汗流，即棄官歸。時父病始二日。

醫云：“欲知瘥劇，但嘗糞。苦則佳。黔婁嘗之，甜，心憂甚至。夕稽顙北辰，

求身代父死。

[He] stayed in the county less than ten days,

When his father met with a serious illness.

Hoping to replace his father’s death with his own,

He looked at the North [Star] with worries aroused in his heart.

到縣未旬日，椿庭遘疾深。願将身代死，北望起憂心。

Story 22— “Rugu budai 乳姑不怠” (Breastfeeding Her Mother-in-Law without Negligence)

Cui Shannan 崔山南 was from the Tang 唐 dynasty [618-907], [whose] great-

grandmother [was known] as Madame Zhangsun 長孫夫人. She was of great age and

thus no longer had any teeth. Each day, [Cui Shannan’s] grandmother, Madame Tang

唐夫人, after combing [her hair] and washing [herself], came to the main hall to

breastfeed her mother-in-law. While the mother-in-law had not eaten one piece of rice

for years, [she] stayed healthy. One day, she became seriously ill. When the old and

the young [of the family] gathered together [in front of her], [she] announced that “[I]

have nothing to repay [my] daughter-in-law for her kindness. I wish you— the wives

of my grandsons—can be as filial and respectful as [my] daughter-in-law.” 304 Appendix 1

304

唐崔山南，曾祖母長孫夫人，年髙無齒。祖母唐夫人，每日櫛洗升堂，乳其姑。

姑不粒食數年而康。一日，病篤，少長集。曰：無以報新婦恩，願汝孫婦亦如

新婦之孝敬。

The filial daughter-in-law of the family Cui,

Breastfed her mother-in-law, each morning [after having herself] washed up.

Having no way to repay her kindness,

[The mother-in-law] wished [she] will have sons and grandsons [as filial] as [herself].

孝敬崔家婦，乳姑晨盥梳。此恩無以報，願得子孫如。

Story 23—“Diqin niqi 滌親溺器” (Washing up His Parent’s Chamber Pot)

Huang Tingjian 黄庭坚 of the Song 宋 dynasty, whose style name was Lu Zhi 鲁直,

was [also known by his] art name Shan Gu 山谷. In the middle of the Yuan You 元祐

period [1086-1094], he took the office of Grand Scribe [tai shi 太史]. He had the

nature of being extremely filial. Although he himself was of a noble and prominent

status, [he] served his mother with extreme sincerity. Every evening, [he] washed his

parent’s chamber pot. Not for one minute did he not fulfill his sonly duty.

宋黄庭坚，字鲁直，號山谷。元祐中爲太史。性至孝。身雖貴顯，奉母盡誠。

每夕，爲親滌溺器。無一刻不供子職。

[His] nobility and prominence was known by all under heaven;

He served his parent filially in his life. Translation of the Ershisi xiao Stories 305

305

[He] washed [his mother’s] chamber pot personally;

With maids and concubines, how can he have no other people to do it?

貴顯聞天下，平生孝事親。親身滌溺器，婢妾豈無人。

Story 24 — “Qiguan xunmu 棄官尋母” (Abandoning His Official Post, Searching for His

Mother)

When Zhu Shouchang 朱壽昌 of the Song 宋 dynasty was seven years old, his

biological mother [sheng mu 生母] surnamed Liu 劉 was envied by his official

mother [di mu 嫡母];17 she was driven out of the family and married [another man].

The [biological] mother and the son had not seen each other for fifty years. During

the reign of Shen Zong 神宗 [1067-1085], [Zhu Shouchang] gave up his official

position and went to the region of Qin 秦. He bid farewell to his family, vowing that

he would not return until he found his mother. When he arrived in Tong Zhou 同洲,

he found her who, at that time, was in her seventies.

宋朱壽昌，年七歲，生母劉氏，為嫡母所妒，出嫁。母子不相見者五十年。神

宗朝，棄官入秦，與家人決，誓不見母不復還。行次於同州，得之。時母年七

十餘。

Separated from his mother at the age of seven,

[He] had been apart [from her] for fifty years.

Once they met each other,

The aura of happiness moved Heaven.

七歲生離母，參商五十年。一朝相見面，喜氣動皇天。 306 Appendix 1

306

1 In the Ershisi xiao, the identity of the mother is unclear. According to other sources of this story, she is Shun’s

stepmother.

2 Yao is one of the legendary sage kings ruled China in the pre-historical times, who was followed by Shun and then

by Yu 禹.

3 The Chinese words used here are “mubu jiaojie 目不交睫” and “yibu jiedai 衣不解帶, which literally mean

“Eyelids do not touch each other” and “the belt of one’s clothes is not loosened.”

4 Besides the family name and the given name, a person in traditional China was also given another name (zi, 字),

when he/she reached his/her adulthood. This additional name is known in English as the “style name” or “courtesy

name”.

5 One li is about 0.5 kilometer.

6 “zhong” was used in early China as the largest unit for measuring the volume of grains.

7 The character used here is “shi” 食 which literally means “to eat.” It is a Chinese tradition that “eating” covers a

wider range of activities than it does in the West, referring to both “eating” and “drinking.”

8 It is actually unclear how many sculptures are made. Judging from the illustrating pictures, there are two sculptures

representing respectively the father and the mother. However, in earlier versions of the story, there is usually one

sculpture made to represent either the father or the mother.

9 It is not clear if the nouns (“finger” and “sculpture”) should be translated in the plural, since the Chinese language

makes no distinction between the singular and plural nouns. The text itself is inexplicit about whether both sculptures

are involved here.

10 There seem to be two versions of the story. In the most common version, Guo Ju’s son is to be buried. In the late

Qing version which my translation is based on, the son is to be sold. It is my opinion that the second version was an

alteration of the original story, since there is no clear connection between Gu Ju’s intention to sell his son and his

subsequent action of digging a hole on the ground. When the story is narrated vocally, this difference can be

minimal, since the Chinese character for “burry” (mai 埋) and that for “sell” (mai 賣) have very similar

pronunciations. Translation of the Ershisi xiao Stories 307

307

11 One chi is about 0.37 meters.

12 The Chinese phrase of “not having one inch of iron in one’s hands” (shou wu cun tie 手無寸鐵) means that the person in question is not equipped with any weapons.

13 One sheng is about one liter.

14 The character di 弟 seems to be a mistake, which should be ti 悌。

15 The Shi jing 詩經(Book of Songs) is an anthology of ancient songs (or poems), which had constituted an essential part of the Confucian teachings.

16 “Lu e” 蓼莪 is the song containing the verse. The word “lu e” describes an aquatic plant which is growing big.

17 The “official mother” refers to the father’s wife. Implicitly, Zhou Shouchang was born by his father’s concubine. 308

Translation of Chinese Book Titles 309

309

Appendix 2: Translation of Chinese Book Titles

This list includes only the Chinese books appearing in the main text.

Ershisi xiao 二十四孝 (Twenty-Four Exemplars of Filial Piety)

Guo yu 國語 (Discourses of the States)

Hou han shu 後漢書(History of the Later Han Dynasty)

Kang Xi zidian 康熙字典 (Dictionary of Kang Xi)

Kongzi jiayu 孔子家語 (Family Sayings of Confucius)

Li ji 禮記 (Book of Rites)

Lun yu 論語 (Analects)

Lüshi chunqiu 吕氏春秋 (Lü's Spring and Autumn Annals)

Rulin waishi 儒林外史 (Unofficial History of the Confucians)

Shang shu 尚書 (Classics of Documents)

Shi ji 史記 (The Grand Scribe’s Records)

Song shi 宋史(History of the Song Dynasty)

Xiao jing 孝經 (Classic of Filial Piety)

Xiao xue 小學 (Elementary Learning) 310 Appendix 2

310

Xin tang shu 新唐書 (New History of the Tang Dynasty)

Zuo zhuan 左傳 (The Chronicle of Zuo)

Bibliography 311

311

Bibliography

Allan, Sarah. The Heir and the Sage: Dynastic Legend in Early China. San Francisco: Chinese

Materials Center, 1981.

Althusser, Louis. "Ideology and Ideology State Apparatuses." Althusser, Louis. Lenin and

Philosophy and Other Essays. Trans. Ben Brewster. New York: Monthly Review Press,

1971. 127-86.

Badiou, Alain. Ethics: An Essay on the Understanding of Evil. Vert. Peter Hallward. London:

Verso, 2001.

Bal, Mieke. Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative. 3rd. Toronto: University of

Toronto Press, 2009.

Barnard, Suzanne and Bruce Fink, ed. Reading Seminar XX: Lacan's Major Work on Love,

Knowledge, and Feminine Sexuality. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2002.

Berressem, Hanjo. "The ‘Evil Eye’ of Painting: Jacques Lacan and Witold Gombrowicz on the

Gaze." Reading Seminar XI: Lacan's Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis. Ed.

Richard Feldstein, Bruce Fink and Maire Jaanus. Albany: State University of New York

Press, 1995. 175-82.

Billioud, Sèbastien and Joël Thoraval. The Sage and the People: The Confucian Revival in China.

New York: Oxford University Press, 2015. 312 Bibliography

312

Bodde, Derk and Clarence Morris. Law in Imperial China: Exemplified by 190 Ch'ing Dynasty

Cases. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1967.

Boltz, William G. “Hsiao ching 孝經.” Early Chinese Texts: A Bibliographical Guide. Ed.

Michael Loewe. Berkeley: The Society for the Study of Early China, University of

California, 1993. 141-53.

Bray, Francesca. Technology and Gender: Fabrics of Power in Late Imperial China. Berkeley:

University of California Press, 1997.

Brooks, Peter. Reading for the Plot: Design and Intention in Narrative. Oxford: Clarendon, 1984.

Brousse, Marie-Hélène. "The Drive (II)." Reading Seminar XI: Lacan's Four Fundamental

Concepts of Psychoanalysis: the Paris Seminars in English. Ed. Richard Feldstein, Bruce

Fink and Maire Jaanus. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995. 109-17.

Carlitz, Katherine . "Desire, Danger, and the Body: Stories of Women's Virtue in Late Ming

China." Engendering China: Women, Culture, and the State. Ed. Christina K. Gilmartin,

et al. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1994. 101-24.

Carson, Michael and Michael Loewe. “Lü shih ch'un ch'iu 吕氏春秋.” Early Chinese Texts: A

Bibliographical Guide. Ed. Michael Loewe. Berkeley: The Society for the Study of Early

China, University of California, 1993. 324-30.

Chan, Alan K. L. and Sor-hoon Tan. "Introduction." Filial Piety in Chinese Thought and History.

Ed. Alan K. L. Chan and Sor-hoon Tan. London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2004. 1-11. Bibliography 313

313

Chang, I-jen, William G. Boltz and Michael Loewe. “Kuo Yü 國語.” Early Chinese Texts: A

Bibliographical Guide. Ed. Michael Loewe. Berkeley: The Society for the Study of Early

China, University of California, 1993. 263-68.

Cheng, Anne. "Ch'un ch'iu 春秋, Kung yang 公羊, Ku liang 毂梁 and Tso chuan 左傳." Early

Chinese Texts: A Bibliographical Guide. Ed. Michael Loewe. Berkeley: Society for the

Study of Early China, 1993. 67-76.

Chow, Rey. Ethics After Idealism: Theory, Culture, Ethnicity, Reading. Bloomington: Indiana

University Press, 1998.

Ch'ü, T'ung-tsu. Law and Society in Traditional China. Paris: Mouton, 1965.

Chunqiu zuo zhuan zhushu 春秋左傳注疏. In Qin ding si ku quan shu 欽定四庫全書 (Wenyuan

ge 文淵閣 edition).

Cixous, Hélène and Catherine Clément. The Newly Born Woman. Trans. Betsy Wing.

Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986.

Clemens, Justin and Russell Grigg. “Introduction.” Jacques Lacan and the Other Side of

Psychoanalysis: Reflection on Seminar XVII. Ed. Justin Clemens and Russell Grigg.

Durham: Duke University Press, 2006. 1-8.

Cole, Alan. Mothers and Sons in Chinese Buddhism. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998.

Copjec, Joan. Imagine There's No Woman: Ethics and Sublimation. Cambridge, MA: The MIT

Press, 2002.

—. Read My Desire: Lacan against the Historicists. Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1994. 314 Bibliography

314

Dirlik, Arif. "Chinese History and the Question of Orientalism." History and Theory 35.4 (1996):

96-118.

Dolar, Mladen. A Voice and Nothing More. Cambridge: The MIT Press, 2006.

—. "Hegel as the Other Side of Psychoanalysis." Jacques Lacan and the Other Side of

Psychoanalysis. Ed. Justin Clemens and Russell Grigg. Durham: Duke University Press,

2006. 129-54.

“du 妒.” Gudai hanyu cidian 古代汉语词典. Beijing: Shangwu yinshu guan, 2006.

Elman, Benjamin A. A Cultural History of Civil Examinations in Late Imperial China. Berkeley:

University of California Press, 2000.

Ershisi xiao tu 二十四孝图. Beijing: Zhongguo shudian, 1993.

Evans, Dylan. An Introductory Dictionary of Lacanian Psychoanalysis. London: Routledge, 1996.

Fan, Ruiping. "Introduction: The Rise of Authentic Confucianism." The Renaissance of

Confucianism in Contemporary China. Ed. Ruiping Fan. Dordrecht: Springer, 2011. 1-13.

Fan Yu (Fan Ye), 范煜 (范曄) et al. Eds. Hou han shu 後漢書. In Qingding siku quan shu 欽定

四庫全書 (Wenyuan ge 文淵閣 edition).

Fang Xuanling 房玄齡 et al. Eds. Jin shu 晉書. In Qin ding si ku quan shu 欽定四庫全書

(Wenyuan ge 文淵閣 edition).

Felman, Shoshana. Jacques Lacan and the Adventure of Insight: Psychoanalysis in

Contemporary Culture. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1987. Bibliography 315

315

—. "Postal Survival, or the Question of the Navel." Yale French Studies 69 (1985): 49-72.

—. Ed. Literature and Psychoanalysis: The Question of Reading: Otherwise

Fink, Bruce. A Clinical Introduction to Lacanian Psychoanalysis: Theory and Technique.

Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1997.

—. Lacan to the Letter: Reading Écrits Closely. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press,

2004.

—. "Perversion." Perversion and the Social Relation. Ed. Molly Anne Rothenberg, Dennis Foster

and Slavoj Žižek. Durham: Duke University Press, 2003. 38-67.

—. The Lacanian Subject: Between Language and Jouissance. Princeton: Princeton University

Press, 1995.

Freud, Sigmund. “'A Child Is Being Beaten': A Contribution to the Study of the Origin of Sexual

Perversions.” Freud, Sigmund. The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological

Works of Sigmund Freud: An Infantile Neurosis and Other Works. Ed. James Strachey.

Trans. James Strachey. Vol. XVII. London: Vintage Books, 2001. XXIV vols. 179-204.

—. “Preface to the Hebrew Translation.” Freud, Sigmund. The Standard Edition of the Complete

Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud: Totem and Taboo and Other Works. Ed. James

Strachey. Trans. James Strachey. Vol. XIII. London: Vintage, 2001. XXIV vols. xv.

—. “Project for a Scientific Psychology.” Freud, Sigmund. The Standard Edition of the

Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud: Pre-Psychoanalytic Publications and

Unfinished Drafts. Ed. James Strachey. Trans. James Strachey. Vol. I. London: Vintage

Books, 2001. XXIV vols. 295-397. 316 Bibliography

316

—. The Interpretation of Dreams (I). Freud, Sigmund. The Standard Edition of the Complete

Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud: The Interpretation of Dreams and On Dreams.

Ed. James Strachey. Trans. James Strachey. Vol. IV. London: Vintage Books, 2001.

XXIV vols.

—. The Interpretation of Dreams (II). Freud, Sigmund. The Standard Edition of the Complete

Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud: The Interpretation of Dreams and On Dreams.

Ed. James Strachey. Trans. James Strachey. Vol. V. London: Vintage Books, 2001. XXIV

vols.

—. "The 'Uncanny'." The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund

Freud: An Infantile Neurosis and Other Works. Ed. James Strachey. Trans. James

Strachey. Vol. XVII. London: Vintage Books, 2001. XXIV vols. 217-56.

—. "Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality." Freud, Sigmund. The Standard Edition of the

Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud: A Case of Hysteria, Three Essays on

Sexuality and Other Works. Ed. James Strachey. Trans. James Strachey. Vol. VII. London:

Vintage Books, 2001. XXIV vols. 135-245.

Furth, Charlotte. "The Patriarch's Legacy: Household Instructions and the Transmission of

Orthodox Values." Orthodoxy in Late Imperial China. Ed. Kwang-Ching Liu. Berkeley:

University of California Press, 1990. 125-46.

Gallop, Jane. Feminism and Psychoanalysis: The Daughter's Seduction. London: Macmillan,

1982.

Gao, Wang Z. Confucian Filiality. New York: CN Times Books, 2013. Bibliography 317

317

Girardot, N. J. Myth and Meaning in Early Taoism: The Theme of Chaos (hun-tun). Berkeley:

University of California Press, 1983.

Grigg, Russel. "Beyond the Oedipus Complex." Jacques Lacan and the Other Side of

Psychoanalysis. Ed. Justin Clemens and Russell Grigg. Durham: Duke University Press,

2006. 50-68.

Grosz, Elizabeth. Jacques Lacan: a Feminist Introduction. London: Routledge, 1990.

—. "Phallus: Feminist Implications." Feminism and Psychoanalysis: A Critical Dictionary. Ed.

Elizabeth Wright. Oxford: Blackwell, 1992. 320-23.

Gu, Ming Dong. Sinologism: An Alternative to Orientalism and Postcolonialism. London:

Routledge, 2013.

—. “The Filial Piety Complex: the Oedipus Complex in Chinese Cultural Context.” The

Reception and Rendition of Freud in China: China's Freudian Slip. Ed. Tao Jiang and

Philip J. Ivanhoe. London: Routledge, 2013. 60-85.

Guo yu 國語. In Qin ding si ku quan shu 欽定四庫全書(Wenyuan ge 文淵閣 edition)

Han Fei, 韓非. Han fei zi 韓非子. In Qin ding si ku quan shu 欽定四庫全書 (Wenyuan ge 文淵

閣 edition).

Hay, John. "Boundaries and Surfaces of Self and Desire in Yuan Painting." Boundaries in China.

Ed. John Hay. London: Reaktion, 1994. 124-70.

Holzman, Donald. "The Place of Filial Piety in Ancient China." Journal of the American Oriental

Society 118.2 (1998): 185-99. 318 Bibliography

318

Homer, Sean. Jacques Lacan. London: Routledge, 2005.

Hsiung, Ping-chen. A Tender Voyage: Children and Childhood in Late Imperial China. Stanford:

Stanford University Press, 2005.

Hulsewé, A.F.P. "Shih Chi 史記." Early Chinese Texts: A Bibliographical Guide. Ed. Michael

Loewe. Berkeley: The Society for the Study of Early China, 1993. 405-14.

Jao, Tsung-i. "Speaking of 'Sages': The Bronze Figures of San-hsing-tui." Sages and Filial Sons:

Mythology and Archaeology in Ancient China. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press,

1991. xiii-xx.

Jia yu 家語. In Qin ding si ku quan shu 欽定四庫全書 (Wenyuan ge 文淵閣 edition).

Jiang, Tao and Philip J. Ivanhoe, The Reception and Rendition of Freud in China: China's

Freudian Slip. London: Routledge, 2013.

Jiang, Yuxiang 江玉祥. "Yuankan "ershisi xiao" zhi duce 元刊 <二十四孝>之蠹测." Zhonghua

xiaodao wenhua 中华孝道文化. Ed. Bengen 万本根 Wan and Deshu 陈德述 Chen.

Chengdu 成都: Bashu shushe 巴蜀书社, 2001. 230-43.

Kelleher, M. Theresa. “Back to Basics: Chu Hsi's Elementary Learning (Hsiao-hsüeh).” Neo-

Confucian Education: The Formative Stage. Ed. Wm. Theodore de Bary and John W.

Chaffee. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989. 219-51.

Kieschnick, John. "Blood Writing in Chinese Buddhism." Journal of the International

Association of Buddhist Studies 23.2 (2000): 177-94. Bibliography 319

319

Knapp, Keith N. Selfless Offspring: Filial Children and Social Orderin Medieval China.

Honolulu: University of Hawai'i Press, 2005.

Ko, Dorothy. "Bondage in Time: Footbinding and Fashion Theory." Fashion Theory 1.1 (1997):

3-28.

—. Cinderella's Sisters: A Revisionist History of Footbinding. Berkeley: University of California

Press, 2005.

—. "The Body as Attire: The Shifting Meanings of Footbinding in Seventeenth-Century China."

Journal of Women's History 8.4 (1997): 8-27.

Kohn, Livia. “Immortal Parents and Universal Kin: Family Values in Medieval Daoism.” Filial

Piety in Chinese Thought and History. Ed. K. L. Chan and Sor-Hoon Tan. London:

Routledge, 2004. 91-109.

Kramers, R. P. "K'ung tzu chia yü 孔子家語." Early Chinese Texts: A Bibliographical Guide. Ed.

Michael Loewe. Berkeley: The Society for the Study of Early China, University of

California, 1993. 258-62.

Kunio, Mugitani. "Filial Piety and "Authentic Parents" in Religious Daoism." Filial Piety in

Chinese Thought and History. Ed. Alan K. L. Chan and Sor-hoon Tan. London:

RoutledgeCurzon, 2004. 110-21.

Kutcher , Norman. Mourning in Late Imperial China: Filial Piety and the State. Cambridge:

Cambridge University Press, 1999.

Lacan, Jacques. "Desire and the Interpretation of Desire in Hamlet." Trans. James Hulbert. Yale

French Studies 55/56 (1977): 11-52. 320 Bibliography

320

—. Écrits: the First Complete Edition in English. Trans. Bruce Fink. New York: Norton, 2006.

—. The Seminar of Jacques Lacan Book VII: The Ethics of Psychoanalysis 1959-1960. Ed.

Jacques-Alain Miller. Trans. Dennis Porter. New York: Norton, 1992.

—. The Seminar of Jacques Lacan Book X: Anxiety. Ed. Jacques-Alain Miller. Trans. A. R. Price.

Cambridge: Polity Press, 2014.

—. The Seminar of Jacques Lacan Book XI: The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis.

Ed. Jacques-Alain Miller. Trans. Alan Sheridan. New York: Norton, 1998.

Laplanche, Jean and Jean-Bertrand Pontalis. The Language of psychoanalysis. Trans. Donald

Nicholson-Smith. London: Karnac Books, 1988.

Larson, Wendy. From Ah Q to Lei Feng: Freud and Revolutionary Spirit in 20th Century China.

Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2009.

Lau, D. C. "Meng tzu 孟子 (Mencius)." Early Chinese Texts: A Bibliographical Guide. Ed.

Michael Loewe. Berkeley: The Society for the Study of Early China, University of

California, 1993. 331-35.

Laurent, Éric. "The Oedipus Complex." Reading Seminars I and II: Lacan's Return to Freud. Ed.

Richard Feldstein, Bruce Fink and Maire Jannus. Albany: State University of New York

Press, 1996. 67-75.

Legge, James, trans. The Sacred Books of China: the Texts of Confucianism, Part III. Vol. I.

Oxford: The Clarendox Press, 1885. II vols. Bibliography 321

321

Lewis, Mark Edward. The Flood Myths of Early China. Albany: State University of New York

Press, 2006.

Li ji zhushu 禮記注疏. In Qin ding si ku quan shu 欽定四庫全書 (Wenyuan ge 文淵閣 edition).

Li, Chenyang. The Confucian philosophy of Harmony. London: Routledge, 2014.

Liao, Yu 廖宇. "Luelun daojiao xiaodao sixiang de yanbian 略论道教孝道思想的演变." huaxia

wenhua 华夏文化 3 (2010): 12-15.

Lie nü zhuan 列女傳. Zhu bu zu zhai 知不足齋.

Lin, Lidan. "The Legacy and the Future of Orientalism." Paradoxical Citizenship: Edward Said.

Ed. Silvia Nagy-Zekmi. Lanham: Lexington Books, 2006. 129-44.

Liu, Kwang-Ching. "Introduction: Orthodoxy in Chinese Society." Orthodoxy in Late Imperial

China. Ed. Kwang-Ching Liu. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990. 1-24.

Lo, Yuet Keung. “Filial Devotion for Women: A Buddhist Testimony from Third-Century China.”

Filial Piety in Chinese Thought and History. Ed. Alan K. L. Chan and Sor-hoon Tan.

London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2004. 71-90

Lu, Tina. Accidental Incest, Filial Cannibalism, & Other Peculiar Encounters in Late Imperial

Chinese Literature. Cambridge: Harvard University Asia Center, 2008.

Lu, Xun 鲁迅. “Ershisi xio tu 二十四孝图.” Lu, Xun 鲁迅. Zhao hua xi shi 朝花夕拾. Beijing:

Renmin wenxue chubanshe 人民文学出版社, 1991. 20-29. 322 Bibliography

322

Lun yu jizhu, 論語集注. In Qin ding si ku quan shu hui yao . Qianlong yulan ben 欽定四庫全書

薈要. 乾隆御览本.

Mannoni, Octave. "‘I Know Well, but All the Same ...’." Perversion and the Social Relation. Ed.

Molly Anne Rothenberg, Dennis A. Foster and Slavoj Žižek. Trans. G. M. Goshgarian.

Durham: Duke University Press, 2003. 68-92.

Maratos, Jason. "The Laius Complex: The Effect of Intergenerational Conflict on the

Development of the Self." Group Analysis 35.2 (2002): 301-21.

Meng zi jizhu 孟子集注. In Qin ding si ku quan shu huiyao . Qianlong yulan ben 欽定四庫全書

薈要. 乾隆御览本.

Miller, Jacques-Alain. "Commentary on Lacan's Text." Reading Seminars I and II: Lacan's

Return to Freud. Ed. Richard Feldstein, Bruce Fink and Maire Jaanus. Albany: State

University of New York, 1996. 422-27.

—."Commentary on the Graphs." Lacan, Jacques. Écrits: The First Complete Edition in English.

Trans. Bruce Fink. New York: Norton, 2006. 858-63.

Oliver, Kelly. Reading Kristeva: Unraveling the Double-bind. Bloomington: Indiana University

Press, 1993.

Osawa, Akihiro 大澤顯浩. "Mingdai chuban wenhua zhong de "ershisi xiao": lun xiaozi

xingxiang de jianli yu fazhan 明代出版文化中的“二十四孝“：論孝子形象的建立舆發

展." Mingdai yanjiu tongxun 明代研究通訊 5 (2002): 11-33. Bibliography 323

323

Ouyang Xiu 歐陽修 Song Qi 宋祁, Eds. Tang shu 唐書. In Qin ding si ku quan shu 欽定四庫全

書(Wenyuan ge 文淵閣 edition).

Ouyang, Xun 歐陽詢, et al. Eds. Yiwen leiju 藝文類聚. In Qin ding siku quan shu 欽定四庫全書

(Wenyuan ge 文淵閣 edition)

Parker, Ian. "Lacanian Discourse Analysis: Seven Elements." Lacan, Discourse, Event: New

Psychoanalytic Approaches to Textual Indeterminacy. Ed. Ian Parker and David Pavón-

Cuéllar. London: Routledge, 2014. 38-51.

Plaks, Andrew H. "Xin 心 as the Seat of the Emotions in Confucian Self-Cultivation." Love,

Hatred, and Other Passions: Questions and Themes on Emotions in Chinese Civilization.

Ed. Paolo Santangelo and Donatella Guida. Leiden: Brill, 2006. 113-25.

Rabaté, Jean-Michel. Jacques Lacan: Psychoanalysis and the Subject of Literature. Basingstoke:

Palgrave, 2001.

Riegel, Jeffrey. "Li chi 禮記." Early Chinese Texts: A Bibliographical Guide. Ed. Michael

Loewe. Berkeley: The Society for the Study of Early China, University of California,

1993. 293-97.

Saari, Jon L. Legacies of Childhood: Growing up Chinese in a Time of Crisis, 1890-1920.

Cambridge: Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University, 1990.

Said, Edward W. Orientalism. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1978.

Shang shu zhushu 尚書注疏. In Chizao tang si ku quan shu hui yao 摛藻堂四庫全書薈要. 324 Bibliography

324

Shaughnessy, Edward L. "Shang shu 尚書 (Shu ching 書經)." Early Chinese Texts: A

Bibliographical Guide. Ed. Michael Loewe. Berkeley: The Society for the Study of Early

China, University of California, 1993. 376-89.

Shi ji jijie 史記集解. In Qin ding si ku quan shu 欽定四庫全書 (Wenyuan ge 文淵閣 edition).

Shih, Shu-mei. Visuality and Identity: Sinophone Articulations Across the Pacific. Berkeley:

University of California Press, 2007.

Silverman, Kaja. Male Subjectivity at the Margins. New York: Routledge, 1992.

—. The Threshold of the Visible World. New York: Routledge, 1995.

—. World Spectators. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000.

Simon, Bennett and Rachel B. Blass. "The Development and Vicissitudes of Freud's Ideas on the

Oedipus Complex." The Cambridge Companion to Freud. Ed. Jerome Neu. Cambridge:

Cambridge University Press, 1991. 161-74.

Soler, Colette. Lacan: The Unconscious Reinvented. Trans. Esther Faye and Susan Schwartz.

London: Kamac Books, 2014.

—. "What Does the Unconscious Know about Women?" Reading Seminar XX: Lacan's Major

Work on Love, Knowledge, and Feminine Sexuality. Ed. Suzanne Barnard and Bruce Fink.

Trans. François Raffoul and David Pettigrew. Albany: State University of New York

Press, 2002. 99-108.

Stavrakakis, Yannis. Lacan and the Political. London: Routledge, 1999. Bibliography 325

325

Sterckx, Roel. Food, Sacrifice, and Sagehood in Early China. Cambridge: Cambridge University

Press, 2011.

Tambling, Jeremy. Madmen and Other Survivors: Reading Lu Xun’s Fiction. Hong Kong: Hong

Kong University Press, 2007.

Tan, Sor-hoon. "Filial Daughters-in-Law: Questioning Confucian Filiality." Filial Piety in

Chinese Thought and History. Ed. Alan K. L. Chan and Sor-hoon Tan. London:

RoutledgeCurzon, 2004. 226-40.

Teiser, Stephen F. The Ghost Festival in Medieval China. Princeton: Princeton University Press,

1988. ter Haar, Barend J. The White Lotus Teachings in Chinese Religious History. Honolulu:

University of Hawaii Press, 1999.

—. “From Field to Text in the Study of Chinese Religion.” Religion and Orientalism in Asian

Studies. Ed. Kiri Paramore. London: Bloomsbury, 2016. 85-105.

Thoraval, Joël. "Confucian Experience and Philosophical Discourse: Reflections on Some

Aporiae in Contemporary Neo-Confucianism." Culture and Social Transformations in

Reform Era China. Ed. Tianyu Cao, Xueping Zhong and Kebin Liao. Leiden: Brill, 2010.

119-50.

Thurston, Luke. "Sinthome." Evans, Dylan. An Introductory Dictionary of Lacanian

Psychoanalysis. London: Routledge, 1996. 191-92.

T'ien, Ju-K'ang. Male Anxiety and Female Chastity: A Comparative Study of Chinese Ethical

Values in Ming-Ch'ing Times. Leiden: Brill, 1988. 326 Bibliography

326

Tuo Ke Tuo 托克托 et al. Eds. Song shi 宋史. In Qin ding si ku quan shu 欽定四庫全書

(Wenyuan ge 文淵閣 edition).

Wang, Bingzhao 王炳照. "Shuoshuo "Ershisi xiao" 说说“二十四孝”." Wenshi zhishi 文史知识

6 (1988): 125-28.

Wang, Ping. Aching for Beauty: Footbinding in China. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota

Press, 2000.

Watson, James L. “The Structure of Chinese Funerary Rites: Elementary Forms, Ritual Sequence,

and the Primacy of Performance.” Death Ritual in Late Imperial and Modern China. Ed.

James L. Watson and Evelyn S. Rawski. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988.

Williams, C. A.S. Outlines of Chinese Symbolism and Art Motives: An Alphabetical Compendium

of Antique Legends and Beliefs, as Reflected in the Manners and Customs of the Chinese.

3rd. New York: Dover Publications, 1976.

Wu Jingzi, 吴敬梓. Rulin waishi 儒林外史. Beijing 北京: Renmin wenxue chubanshe 人民文学

出版社, 1977.

Wu, Guanjun. The Great Dragon Fantasy: A Lacanian Analysis of Contemporary Chinese

Thought. Singapore: World Scientific Publishing, 2014.

Wu, Xiaodong. “Pangu and the Origin of the Universe.” China's Creation and Origin Myths:

Cross-Cultural Explorations in Oral and Written Traditions. Ed. Mineke Schipper,

Shuxian Ye and Hubin Yin. Leiden: Brill, 2011. 163-76. Bibliography 327

327

Xiao jing zhushu 孝經注疏. In Qin ding si ku quan shu 欽定四庫全書 (Wenyuan ge 文淵閣

edition).

Xun Zi 荀子. In Qinding siku quan shu 欽定四庫全書 (Wenyuan ge 文淵閣 edition) .

Yiwen leiju 藝文類聚. In Qin ding si ku quan shu 欽定四庫全書 (Wenyuan ge 文淵閣 edition).

Yuding Kang Xi zidian 御定康熙字典. In Qin ding si ku quan shu 钦定四庫全書 (Wenyuan ge

文淵閣 edition).

Yu, Jimmy. Sanctity and Self-Inflicted Violence in Chinese Religions, 1500-1700. New York:

Oxford University Press, 2012.

Zeitlin, Judith T. The Phantom Heroine: Ghosts and Gender in Seventeenth-Century Chinese

Literature. Honolulu: University of Hawai'i Press, 2007.

Zhang, Jingyuan. Psychoanalysis in China: Literary Transformations, 1919-1949. Ithaca: East

Asia Program, Cornell University, 1992.

Zheng, Ah Cai 郑阿财. Dunhuang xiaodao wenxue yanjiu 敦煌孝道文学研究. Taipei 台北:

Shimen tushu gongsi, 1982.

Zhu, Xi 朱熹. Yuding xiao xue jizhu 御定小學集注. In Qin ding si ku quan shu 欽定四庫全書

(Wenyuan ge 文淵閣 edition).

Zhuang Zi. Wandering on the Way: Early Taoist Tales and Parables of Chuang Tzu. Trans.

Victor H. Mair. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1998. 328 Bibliography

328

Zhuang Zi 莊子. Zhuang zi 莊子. In Qin ding si ku quan shu hui yao. Qianlong yulan ben 欽定

四庫全書薈要. 乾隆御览本.

Žižek, Slavoj. "Alfred Hitchcock, or, the Form and its Historical Mediation." Everything You

Always Wanted to Know about Lacan (but Were Afraid to Ask Hitchcock). London: Verso,

1992. 1-12.

—. "Class Struggle or Postmodernism? Yes, Please!" Contingency, Hegemony, Universality:

Contemporary Dialogues on the Left. Ed. Judith Butler, Ernesto Laclau and Slavoj Žižek.

London: Verso, 2000. 90-135.

—. Did Somebody Say Totalitarianism?: Five Interventions in the (Mis)use of a Notion. London:

Verso, 2002.

—. Enjoy Your Symptom! Jacques Lacan in Hollywood and Out. 2nd. New York: Rouledge,

2008.

—. For They Know not What They Do: Enjoyment as a Political Factor. 2nd ed. London: Verso,

2008.

—. "Four Discourses, Four Subjects." Cogito and the Unconscious. Ed. Slavoj Žižek. Durham:

Duke University Press, 1998. 74-113.

—. "I Do Not Order My Dream." Opera's Second Death. New York: Routledge, 2002. 103-225.

—. "In His Bold Gaze My Ruin Is Writ Large." Everything You Always Wanted to Know about

Lacan (but Were Afraid to Ask Hitchcock). Ed. Slavoj Žižek. London: Verso, 1992. 211-

72. Bibliography 329

329

—. Less Than Nothing: Hegel and the Shadow of Dialectical Materialism. London: Verso, 2012.

—. Looking Awry: An Introduction to Jacques Lacan through Popular Culture. Cambridge : MIT

Press , 1991.

—. Tarrying with the Negative: Kant, Hegel, and the Critique of Ideology. Durham: Duke

University Press, 1993.

—. "The Ambiguity of the Masochist Social Link." Perversion and the Social Relation. Ed.

Molly Anne Rothenberg, Dennis Foster and Slavoj Žižek. Durham: Duke University Press,

2003. 112-25.

—. The Indivisible Remainder: On Schelling and Related Matters. London: Verso, 2007.

—. The Metastases of Enjoyment: on Women and Causality. London: Verso, 2005.

—. The Parallax View. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006.

—. The Plague of Fantasies. London: Verso, 1997.

—. The Sublime Object of Ideology. London: Verson, 1989.

—. The Ticklish Subject: the Absent Centre of Political Ontology. London: Verso, 2000.

Zupančič, Alenka. Ethics of the Real: Kant, Lacan. London: Verso, 2000.

—. "When Surplus Enjoyment Meets Surplus value." Jacques Lacan and the Other Side of

Psychoanalysis. Ed. Justin Clemens and Russell Grigg. Durham: Duke University Press,

2006. 155-78. 330 Bibliography

330

Zürcher, E. The Buddhist Conquest of China: The Spread and Adaptation of Buddhism in Early

Medieval China. Leiden: Brill, 2007. Summary 331

331

SUMMARY

Children in the Netherlands play a game. One child says: “I see, I see, what you don’t see…”

(“ik zie, ik zie, wat jij niet ziet …”), while the other children must guess what the child has seen.

It is not always easy to know what the other sees. The thing which one child sees can be the blind spot for the others. Everyone who has read the Confucian classics sees directly the words

“righteousness and benevolence” written boldly on the textual surface. However, Lu Xun—a prominent writer in modern Chinese literature—saw something different; he read the Confucian tradition through a madman’s lens and found two words written between the lines: “Eat People!”

(The madman’s story is found in Lu Xun’s short fiction “A Madman’s Diary” written nearly a century ago.) Today, when various voices are calling for the Confucian renaissance, the madman’s vision is evaporating from the intellectual horizon, fading rapidly into the dim and distant past. However, what if the madman was right all along? What if the Confucian renaissance will bring with it a “man-eating” monster? Was Lu Xun really mad? Or, are we just being blind to what he had seen a century ago?

The present study is an attempt to look awry at the Confucian tradition, by examining the popular stories—such as the filial piety stories collected in the Ershisi xiao (Twenty-Four

Exemplars of Filial Piety)—which were promoted by the Confucian orthodox discourse and have been regarded for centuries as extraordinary examples of moral perfection. The lens used in my reading is not the madman’s but Lacan’s. My analysis of the ancient Chinese narratives through a

Lacanian lens suggests that the madman was probably right, when he saw the cannibalistic fantasy underlying the Confucian tradition. Translating the madman’s vision into the Lacanian terminology, I contend that the Confucian discourse of “righteousness and benevolence” was 332 Summary

332

sustained by the perverse fantasy, where the sons and daughters (-in-law) make themselves

transformed into an instrumental object, producing the (surplus) jouissance for the Father’s

consumption; the obscene superego Father (such as the father featured in the story of the sage

king Shun) is the Real face of the symbolic Father who has been called the Master or “Confucius”

for centuries. (Here, the relation between the two Fathers must be understood with reference to

Lacan’s three orders—the symbolic, the imaginary and the Real; the Real is incompatible with

reality.) The perverse fantasy which is repressed in the master’s discourse (i.e. the Confucian

classics), but returns in the filial piety stories, may have functioned to reproduce the master-

signifier—the signifier of “xiao” (filial piety)—in the master’s discourse, and thereby guaranteed

its long-lasting domination in (imperial) China. In other words, without this perverse fantasy, the

longevity of the Confucian patriarchal system would simply not be possible. Samenvatting 333

333

SAMENVATTING

Een incompleet onderzoek: het lezen van de verhalen van de kinderlijke piëteit via

Lacan of andersom ...

In Nederland spelen kinderen een spelletje. Een kind zegt: “Ik zie, ik zie, wat jij niet ziet ...”, terwijl de andere kinderen moeten raden wat het kind heeft gezien. Het is niet altijd makkelijk om de visie van een ander mens te herkennen. Het object dat een kind ziet kan een blinde vlek betekenen voor de anderen. Als de klassieken van het confucianisme, zoals de Vier Boeken en de

Vijf Klassieken, worden gelezen, ziet men vaak de woorden “rechtvaardigheid en welwillendheid” die stoutmoedig op het oppervlak van de teksten werden geschreven. Maar Lu Xun—een prominente schrijver in de moderne Chinese literatuur—zag iets anders; hij keek naar de confucianistische traditie door de lens van een “gek” en vond tussen de regels twee andere woorden, namelijk: “Eet Mensen!” (Het verhaal van de “gek” is te vinden in het korte verhaal

“Het Dagboek van een Gek” dat bijna een eeuw geleden werd geschreven door Lu Xun.)

Tegenwoordig, wanneer verschillende stemmen tot de renaissance van het confucianisme oproepen, verdampt de visie van de “gek” van de intellectuele horizon, zij verdwijnt in het schemerige en verre verleden. Maar wat als de gek al die tijd gelijk had? Wat als de renaissance van het confucianisme een mensetend monster zal meebrengen? Was Lu Xun echt gek? Of, zijn wij blind voor wat hij een eeuw geleden al had gezien?

Deze studie is een poging om scheef te kijken naar de traditie van het confucianisme, door een analyse van de verhalen van kinderlijke piëteit verzameld in het boek Ershisi xiao

(Vierentwintig Voorbeelden van de Kinderlijke Piëteit), die door het orthodoxe discours van het 334 Samenvatting

334

confucianisme werden bevorderd en eeuwenlang als buitengewone voorbeelden van morele

volmaaktheid zijn beschouwd. De lens gebruikt in mijn leeswijze is niet van de “gek”, maar van

Lacan. Mijn analyse van de oude Chinese verhalen via de lacaniaanse lens suggereert dat de

"gek" waarschijnlijk gelijk had, toen hij de onderliggende kannibalistische fantasie van de

confucianistische traditie herkende. Door de visie van de "gek" in lacaniaanse terminologie te

vertalen, beweer ik dat het discours van “rechtvaardigheid en welwillendheid" werd ondersteund

door een perverse fantasie: het subject —de zonen en de (schoon)dochters—verandert zich in een

instrument dat het surplus-genot (surplus-jouissance) produceert om de Vader te voeden. De

obscene superego Vader (zoals de vader in het verhaal van de heilige koning Shun) is het Reële

gezicht van de symbolische Vader die eeuwenlang de meester of "Confucius" is genoemd. Hier

moet de relatie tussen de twee Vaders worden begrepen onder verwijzing naar Lacans drie

orden—namelijk het symbolische, het imaginaire en het Reële. Het Reële is onverenigbaar met

de werkelijkheid. Deze perverse fantasie wordt onderdrukt in het meesterdiscours (d.w.z. de

klassieke leer van het confucianisme), maar keert terug in de verhalen van de kinderlijke piëteit.

Zij functioneerde mogelijk om de meesterbetekenaar—de betekenaar van "xiao" (kinderlijke

piëteit)—van het meesterdiscours te reproduceren. Op die manier garandeerde de fantasie de

langdurige dominantie van het Confucianistische systeem in (het keizerlijke) China. Met andere

woorden, zonder deze perverse fantasie zou het onmogelijk zijn geweest voor de patriarchale

ideologie van het confucianisme om zo lang te gedijen en nu weer tot op zekere hoogte te

herleven. Acknowledgments 335

335

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First of all, I must thank Prof. Barend J. ter Haar for his intellectual support which not only significantly depended my understanding of traditional Chinese cultures but also allowed me to carry out a theoretical and methodological experiment in this old field. I also want to thank Dr.

Isabel Hoving and Dr. Yasco Horsman for their theoretical inputs and particularly for their insightful criticisms which urged me to think harder. I would like to take this opportunity to thank

Johan Schokker for his comments on an early draft of chapter 3 and for his seminar on Lacan.

Last, but certainly not least, I am grateful to all my family members for their unconditional supports. 336

Curriculum Vitae 337

337

CURRICULUM VITAE

Born in 1976, in Beijing, Chenyu Cheng received her BA degree in Chinese Language and

Literature from Xiamen University (China) in 1999. Thereafter, she worked as a librarian at

China Art Academy Institute for Chinese Theatre (China) and as a freelance Chinese teacher at various private and public institutes. In 2008, she enrolled at Leiden University and obtained her

(research) MA degree in Chinese Studies (cum laude) in 2010. Since 2011, she is a PhD candidate at Leiden University Institute for Area Studies.