Abstract

There is the famous anecdote about Freud: upon being reminded by a disciple that to smoke cigars is clearly a phallic activity, Freud, cigar in hand, is said to have responded, “Sometimes a good cigar is just a good cigar.” The anecdote demonstrates, it seems to me, a problematic central to psychoanalysis: the discipline which insists on transference and, perhaps even more significantly, on displacement as fundamental principles, ultimately must insist in turn on seeing everything as being “really” something else. Such an ideology of metamorphosis is so much taken for granted that unlike the rest of the world, which generally has difficulty in being convinced that a pipe, for example, is not necessarily a pipe at all, psychoanalysis needs at times to remind itself, in a type of return to an adaequatio, that it is possible for a cigar really to be a cigar. Psychoanalysis, in other words, has not only an economy which is hydraulic , but has as well an economy of seepage: each apparent object, whether in dream, literature, or psychic narrative, splashes over onto at least one “something else.” Not only is there always a remainder, but the remainder generally proliferates, multiplies, from more than one quotient, such that the original “thing” in question becomes merely the agent for production. Its status as thing-in-the-world is easily lost.Such seepage has, of course, appeared almost everywhere. Psychoanalysis has infiltrated such diverse areas as literature , linguistics, philosophy, anthropology, history, feminism, psychology, archeology, neurology, to name some. And it is in the notion of “some,” perhaps, that lies the crux of the problem. For there is in psychoanalysis an overt conviction that it exists as the ultimate totality, of which everything else is a part. Not content to see itself as one in a number of enterprises, the psychoanalytic project has at its foundation a vision of itself as the meaning which will always lie in wait; the truth which lies covered by “the rest.” Jacques Derrida has, of course, pointed to this tendency. Psychoanalysis, he noted, wishes a peculiar logic for itself, one in which “the species would include the genus.”1 Moreover, says Derrida in the same essay, once psychoanalysis has discovered itself, what it then again proceeds to discover around it is always itself.2 What happens, then, is that psychoanalysis becomes a ubiquitous subject, assimilating every object into itself. But it is also a Subject which sees itself as omnipresent, omniscient, and without a center—precisely the terms in which God has been described. It is not then by chance that the unconscious is likened to a divinity: always present but revealing itself only obliquely and at privileged moments, the unconscious takes the place of the Judeo-Christian God. It is within every being, but inaccessible unless it “chooses” to manifest itself. And in a peculiar reversal of the notion of the partitive, psychoanalysis would have the unconscious reveal itself in fleeting moments and fragments, thereby suggesting its fullness and totality; and it would have “other” intellectual enterprises be only apparent totalities which are revealed through psychoanalysis alone to be “really” incomplete because they exist without recognizing the unconscious and its mother, psychoanalysis itself. 1. Jacques Derrida, “Graphesis,” “The Purveyor of Truth,” trans. Willis Dominggo et al., Yale French Studies 52 : 32.2. See the syllogism with which Derrida opens his “Purveyor of Truth,” p. 31. Part of what I am calling the “syllogism” appears at the beginning of Stephen Melville’s article in the present issue