On: transference, countertransference and projective identification

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In this essay, I define the psychoanalytic concept of transference and its development in the hundred plus years since Freud’s discovery. I illustrate it with a clinical example of a patient’s transference to me. I follow by using the same structure; define, historicise and illustrate, for the concepts of countertransference and projective identification. How countertransference is used differs by analytic school and I make a reference to the differences between Freudians, Kleinians and Independents. These foundational concepts do not belong to the consulting room only. I reference how they inform the psychosocial worlds, notably race, before concluding.

Transference is a process. Its key is ‘displacement’, displacing an unconscious idea, from the object to which it was once attached, and on to the analyst. For Freud, what was transferred was a window into unconscious assumptions, via feelings that properly belong elsewhere (Frosh, 2012). In his ‘Dora’ case study, Freud (1905) had defined transference as “new editions or facsimiles of the impulses and phantasies … aroused during the progress of the analysis”. Transference, then, is the “actualisation of unconscious wishes” (Laplanche and Pontalis, 1967) and a form of the mother-infant dyad (Winnicott, 1960), an illusion where someone, not consciously recognised, represents something, which forms the basis for a repetition of a relationship with an important historic figure (Sandler, Dare and Holder, 1973). The impulses (Freud, 1937) have their source in the earliest object relations and come forth as a consequence of the compulsion to repeat. The analyst works to strengthen the analysand’s ego, so that there is less displacement and the gap between fantasy and reality becomes better understood.

Its discovery and its evolution began with the attachment formed by a patient of Freud’s colleague, Breuer, later anonymised as ‘Anna O’. (Freud, 1893). Freud’s original frustration with transference, that it was a resistance to the analysis, shifted to recognition that it made the therapeutic alliance about emotion (Freud, 1910, 1912, 1914). Freudians consider that treatment is about recognising how the analysand’s transference is informed by an attempt to gratify drives, designed to reduce unpleasure (Lemma, 2016). Freud’s initial focus, was on erotic and romantic transference. Therapy was effected by love, and early appreciation of what is now described as positive transference. The negative transference, (Klein, 1952) when an analysand brings forth hostile feelings from developmental relationships, was not really considered until Klein’s work. Kleinians believe hostility is linked to the death instinct, and that hatred and envy are innate. Klein also hypothesised that what might be transferred on to the analyst might be parts of the analysand’s self, such as the superego, rather than historic relationships. (Klein, 1952, 1957). Transference today is more a projection (Kleinian) model than a displacement (Freudian) one. Post-Kleinians, including Winnicott and Bion, look at the transference developmentally. Just as the mother receives the projections of the infant and moderates and mitigates, so that the infant can receive them back, so the analyst behaves for the patient. The analyst needs to remain alert and thoughtful, in a state of ‘reverie’ (Bion, 1962). All of the communications from the patient “contain something relevant to the transference situation”. (Segal, 1981)

To illustrate the concept, I share an experience from my personal clinical work: I have been working with a patient, ‘A’, who was largely raised by a disciplinarian stepfather, who appears to have had little affection for his stepson. His biological father left when he was three. In the transference, I am sometimes the stepfather: ‘A’ splits an eagerness to please me, to get it ‘right’, but also an anxiety that he will draw my ire. ‘A’’s childhood in his stepfather’s home was, as he recalls it, dominated by the demands to be useful, by completing a number of chores. At the outset of the therapy, he talked about decorating the NHS consulting room, if he had the right tools. I understood A’s inner world to be shabby and neglected, and his need to show he could be useful, and compliant. This is evidence of displacement, as are other times, when I sense I become A’s father, albeit idealised, as someone who was understanding and interested. What emerges then, is A’s infantile desire to be interpreted and loved. In my countertransference, I feel something parental and am reminded of the unconscious desire many therapists have to repair, something Klein (1952) highlights.

Countertransference like mine, is unresolved, unconscious elements within the analyst (Freud, 1910), evoking intense feelings. (Carpy, 1989) The analyst has an unconscious reaction, identifies the analysand’s role in bringing it about, and then examines the effect on both parties (Money-Kyrle, 1956). Freud had regarded it as an impediment that should be resolved by the analyst developing more ego strength in their own analysis. No analyst is “wholly free of infantile dependence” (Racker, 1948) and feelings and impulses are determined by the past, meaning that aspects of the Oedipal situation are repeated in every countertransference. Forty years after Freud’s anxieties about countertransference, Heimann (1950) redefined it as “an instrument of research” into the patient’s unconscious, because the analyst’s unconscious understands that of his patient. The analyst, is both an interpreter and an object of the impulses felt by the patient. Klein (1952), although prioritising the child’s phantasy life and unconscious phantasies, held similar views to Freud, claiming that only by analysing “the transference situation to its depths” could the past in both real and phantasy be understood.  However, it is the ‘post-Kleinians’ (Bion, 1959, Segal 1975, Rosenfeld, 1987) that have been at the forefront of countertransference’s development. Currently, it is usually defined as being both the analyst’s own transference and the analyst’s response to the analysand’s transference.

Despite the significance of Ferenczi and Alice Balint’s views, that the analyst’s own feelings should be shared with the analysand (Heimann, 1950), little was written about countertransference until the end of the 1940’s (Racker, 1948). In developing Klein (1946), Winnicott (1947), had been amongst the first to grasp its significance for working with psychotic patient populations when describing hatred towards the patient. This is relevant for our contemporary understanding of issues like racism, founded upon the “irrationality of the unconscious” (Timimi, 1996). It was Heimann, though, that encouraged a more constructive view of something she felt was created by the patient; the aforementioned instrument of research. Klein (1952), who prioritised the child’s phantasy life and unconscious phantasies, rarely used the term countertransference until writing about the infantile roots for both parties in seeking ‘reassurance’ (1957). Ten years after Heimann, writing that the analyst needed to ‘sustain’ and not ‘discharge’ feelings, the word countertransference was “in danger of losing its identity” according to Winnicott (1960). He was inclined to Freud’s view and defined countertransference as “neurotic features” disturbing the analysis and spoiling the analyst’s “professional attitude.” Independents and post-Kleinians have been at the forefront of subsequent development, making it a “fertile, intersubjective field” (White, 2006). Winnicott (1963) and Bion (1965) looked at it developmentally, and Ogden (1994) has made it more about intersubjectivity, with his concept of the ‘analytic third’. More contemporary views are that the analyst should allow themselves to participate in the enactment required by the patient’s projections, in order to become conscious of the phantasy and emotion (Rosenfeld, 1971, Joseph, 1989, Bollas, 1987,1992).

In my work with a woman, ‘B’, I often find myself struggling to concentrate. I wonder if she is making me mad (Winnicott, 1960). I find myself wanting the sessions to come to an end and notice her need for attention, but how I seem to be resisting giving it. Her mother was diagnosed as schizophrenic, after ‘B’ reached adulthood. Her father left pre-adolescence and had a second family, so she has half-brothers. Everything about her world and world view appears to be influenced by splits. Her maternal care and her parents’ divorce concretised her views, I believe, and pulled her back from a developing depressive position to paranoid schizoid (Klein, 1946). I experience her as happiest when complaining about her family, friends, colleagues, and employment. I, guilty with inattention, sense a whining child, starved of gratification. Racker (1953) would suggest the patient is emotionally blocking and I am succumbing to “pampering”, initiated by my guilt at my wandering attention. By pampering, I re-focus intently and become a good Object for ‘B’, as the father was before he left. Sometimes my countertransference is paternally protective, (Money-Kyrle, 1956), but I think I often act out the neglectful mother, creating a guilt, which is a consequence of my inability to be a necessary container for her anxieties (Bion, 1959, 1962). This acting out has made me sympathetic to the Joseph, Rosenfeld and Bollas approaches.

Projective Identification, (PI), pre-dates Heimann’s constructive view of countertransference but had already transformed the transference/countertransference dynamic from a displacement to a projection focus (Klein, 1946). PI is an unconscious, omnipotent phantasy best captured by the lay phrase ‘giving someone a piece of my mind’. It is not everything that makes up the countertransference, (Heimann, 1950), but invariably seems to be the dominant feature in a therapeutic relationship; most commonly manifested as a part of the patient’s self, projected into the object (Segal, 1964) and where the projector is psychically aligned with the person into whom it has been projected. This is done, with the aim not simply of expulsion, but of using the projection to control the therapist, (Segal, 1981) inducing feelings or thoughts or by provoking forms of enactment. The object is transformed by the projection (Feldman, 2009). The projector fantasises taking over the therapist and influencing the recipient so that they think and respond in a way that is congruent with the projection (Ogden, 1982). The therapist processes what is projected, so that it can be palatably returned and the projector can introject what had needed expelling.

PI has been taken up by many theoreticians, notably Bion (1959, 1970), who adapted it by identifying what was projected as ‘beta elements’ that the therapist made sense of thanks to utilising ‘alpha function’, and then being able to reproject them. He considered that PI was understood as ‘a three-dimensional space’, into which patients projected the parts of their personality that they had split off. Klein thought that this was ‘observable’ in psychotic and borderline patients and Bion agreed with her that the ‘degree of fragmentation’ and the distance to which split-off fragments were projected was a measure of the distance a patient had from contact with reality. In his studies of the containment process (1959,1962), he observed how a mother takes in and allows herself to be affected by her infant’s projection of distress. The mother/analyst has not only contained an experience but transformed it. For some, enactment opens analytical work to “deep unconscious identifications and primitive levels of functioning” which are beyond the reach of the intellect, (Tuckett, 1997) albeit recognising one’s own feelings can be difficult (Brenman-Pick, 1985)

One of my experiences of PI came from a patient, ‘C’, presenting as depressed and unable to develop relationships. ‘C’ earned his PhD at Oxford, where his father was a fellow, while his grandfather was a celebrated and distinguished medic. He now edited a well-known scientific magazine, but felt his achievements were inferior to his family history, and he was ‘phoney’. (Winnicott, 1960). In our early work, he let me know that he thought that psychotherapy was “pointless”. Anyone working in the NHS, was probably unable to develop a private practise. He projected feelings of inferiority into me, in order to rid them from himself (Rosenfeld, 1987) and to enable him to adopt the superior status he associated with his father and grandfather. I found myself identifying with the intellectual inferiority, responding by making theoretical and technical interventions in the sessions. I became the boy he had been, desperately trying to show my academic and intellectual accomplishments to a demanding father. I was compliant and beginning a “defensive collusive arrangement” (Feldman, 2009).  I had acted out something congruent with what had been projected into me, seeking attention and admiration. Once I became aware of what was happening, we were able to think about the competitive need for superiority. Eventually, he was able to introject the split off part and to accommodate it, recognising that he was still seeking parental love.

The concepts of transference, splitting and PI are fundamental to our psychosocial world. Klein (1952) asserted that transference operated throughout our lives influencing all relationships. Transference includes other significant figures beyond the parental couple, taking in the realm of the collective social unconscious. The social world contains multiple projected and introjected transference contents. External events, such as those affecting race or gender often catalyse a regression in psychic functioning activating defences. (Hamer, 2006) ‘D’, a Pakistani male patient of mine, projected his feelings of being unwelcome, on to outbursts against the Polish builders working on his apartment block, because of their use of their native tongue. He wanted to rid himself of being identified as an immigrant Other, and identify with my white, native born status. Reciprocal projective identifications can establish a preferred element of the self in the white. (Timimi, 1996). He may also have harboured suspicions of my unconscious and unexpressed attitudes to race. Racism might be transference in a regressed state (Hamer, 2006) characterised by splitting of the self, obscuring the ‘true self’ (Winnicott, 1960) to protect it from annihilation. Splitting is the psychoanalytic basis for racism (Timimi, 1996)

I have defined and illustrated the concepts of transference, countertransference and projective identification. In my work, I find I incline more to the Freudian displacement of past relationships, than to Kleinian split off parts of the self, but appreciate the contemporary use of enactment, intellectually and affectively. I like Racker’s (1948) observation that psychoanalysts choose their work based on “the object relations of infancy” and because of its reparative nature (Money-Kyrle, 1956), which seems rather Kleinian. Her assertion that transference operates all through our lives, influencing every relationship, is why I believe we need to apply what we can learn in the clinic to the world beyond; what the IPA’s podcast characterises as psychoanalysis “off the couch”. It requires a longer essay to do justice to the great psychosocial themes of race, ethnicity, religious marginalisation, sexual identity and fluidity, as well as social constructs around ‘normality’, disability and social class, but I have demonstrated the power of the unconscious, and how something once perceived as an impediment, is now a critical therapeutic tool.

References:

Balint, A & Balint, M. (1939) On transference and countertransference. International Journal of Psychoanalysis 20.  pp.225-230

Bion, W.R. (1959) Attacks on Linking. International Journal of Psycho-Analysis, 40, pp. 308-15

Bion, W.R. (1962) Learning from Experience. London: Heinemann.

Bion, W.R. (1965) Transformations: Change from Learning to Growth. London: Heinemann.

Bion, W.R. (1970) Attention and Interpretation New York: Basic Books

Bollas, C. (1987) The Shadow of the Object: Psychoanalysis of the Unthought Known. London: FAB

Bollas, C. (1992) Being a Character: Psychoanalysis and Self-Experience London: Karnac

Brenman Pick, I. (1985). Working Through in the Countertransference. International Journal of Psycho-Analysis, 66, pp.157-166

Carpy, D.V., (1989). Tolerating the countertransference: A mutative process. International Journal of Psycho-Analysis70, pp. 227-241.

Feldman, M (1997) Projective identification: the analyst’s involvement International Journal of Psycho-Analysis78, pp.287-294.

Feldman, M. (2009). Doubt, Conviction and the Analytic Process: Selected Papers of Michael Feldman Hove, East Sussex. Routledge.

Freud, A (1937) The Ego and the Mechanisms of Defence. London: Hogarth Press Ltd.

Freud, S (1893) The Psychotherapy of Hysteria. In: SE2 Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud pp. 253-305

Freud, S (1905) Fragment of an Analysis of a Case of Hysteria. In: SE7 Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud

Freud, S (1910) The future prospects of psychoanalytic therapy. In: SE11 Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud

Freud, S (1912) The Dynamics of Transference. In: SE12 Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud pp. 97-108.

Freud, S (1914) Remembering, Repeating and Working Through. In: SE12 Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud pp. 145-156

Frosh, S. (2012). A Brief Introduction to Psychoanalytic Theory. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.

Hamer, F. (2006) Racism as a Transference State Psychoanalytic Quarterly 75(1) pp. 197-214

Heimann, P (1950) On Countertransference International Journal of Psychoanalysis 31.  pp. 81-84 

Hinshelwood, R. (1999) Countertransference. International Journal of Psychoanalysis 80.  pp. 797-818 

Joseph, B. (1985). Transference: The Total Situation. International Journal of Psychoanalysis 66.  pp.447-454

Joseph, B (1989) Psychic Equilibrium and Psychic Change: Selected Papers of Betty Joseph London: Routledge

Klein, M. (1946) Notes on Some Schizoid Mechanisms. International Journal of Psychoanalysis 27 (3).

Klein, M (1952). The Origins of Transference. In Envy and Gratitude and Other Works London: Hogarth Press Ltd.

Klein, M (1957). Envy and Gratitude. In: Envy and Gratitude and Other Works London: Hogarth Press Ltd.

Laplanche, J. and Pontalis, J-B. (1967) The Language of Psychoanalysis London: Hogarth Press Ltd.

Lemma, A. (2016) Introduction to the Practice of Psychoanalytic Psychotherapy Chichester: John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

Money-Kyrle, R.E. (1956) Normal Counter-Transference and Some of its Deviations. International Journal of Psychoanalysis 37 (3) pp. 360-66

Ogden, T (1982) Projective Identification and Psychotherapeutic Technique New York: Jason Aronson

Ogden, T (1994) The analytic third: working with intersubjective clinical facts. International Journal of Psychoanalysis 75.  pp. 3-19

Racker, H. (1948) The Countertransference Neurosis. In: Transference and Countertransference. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge.

Racker, H (1953) The Meanings and Uses of Countertransference. In: Transference and Countertransference. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge.

Rosenfeld, (1971) Contribution to the psychopathology of psychotic states. In: E. Spillius (ed.) (1988) Melanie Klein Today: vol 1, Mainly Theory. London: Routledge.

Rosenfeld, H. (1987) Listening and Interpretation. Therapeutic and Anti-therapeutic Factors in the Psychoanalytic Treatment of psychotic, borderline and neurotic patients London: Tavistock Publications.

Sandler, J., Dare, C., and Holder, A. (1973) The Patient and the Analyst London: Maresfield Library

Segal, H. (1964) Introduction to the Work of Melanie Klein New York: Basic Books.

Segal, H (1981) The Work of Hanna Segal New York: Jason Aronson

Timimi, S (1996) Race and Colour in Internal and External Reality. British Journal of Psychotherapy 13(2) pp. 183-192

Tuckett, D (1997) Mutual Enactment in the psychoanalytic situation. In: The Perverse Transference and Other Matters: Essays in Honor of R. Horacio Etchegoyen.

Winnicott, D.W (1947) Hate in the countertransference In: Through Paediatrics to Psycho-Analysis London: Hogarth Press Ltd

Winnicott, D. W. (1960) Countertransference. In: The Maturational Processes and the Facilitating Environment London: Hogarth Press Ltd.

Winnicott, D.W (1963) Psychotherapy of Character Disorders. In: The Maturational Processes and the Facilitating Environment London: Hogarth Press Ltd.

White, J. (2006) Motivational echoes: Transference and countertransference in contemporary theory. In: Generation – Preoccupations & Conflicts in Contemporary Psychoanalysis. Hove: Routledge

You talking to me? True and False Selves.

The skill of an actor in being able to persuade the audience that they are someone else is one of the things I most admire. And yet, we all act, some more than others. The trope of the comedian making people laugh through his depression, is another way we might think about presenting an altered self. We act to disguise, or often, to protect something of ourselves. I have often prepared myself for social or for professional occasions by assuming a mask. I look back nearly seven years after leaving my City career, and I wonder how much of what I displayed was the “real me”. In other words, how much was character and how much the actor?

When I was a little younger I often found myself commentating, in my head, on my life. I looked at myself from some other perspective and described myself, my actions and my thoughts like a novelist writing about somebody else. I was looking at myself as a character. Not all of this is healthy. I had split something off from myself and I was losing touch with my core.

Professional roles sometimes require an adoption of a false self. It can be unhealthy. The most extreme professional examples are well-known in the literature of organisational or business psychology. Most oft-quoted is that of the air crew staff on long-haul flights. The need to maintain a smiling, reassuring and welcoming face and attitude, in the face of often rude, demeaning, sexual comments and attitudes, from sometimes over-refreshed, occasionally inebriated customers, leads to something called cognitive dissonance, when all the exterior signals have to confound what is happening to someone’s inner thoughts and feelings. It is exhausting and is an accelerator to burnout and breakdown.

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Paediatrician turned psychoanalyst, Donald Winnicott wrote a very fine paper about the True Self. I have read it a number of times. At times it can be dense, but at others it seems very clear to me, and it also describes a phenomenon that I recognise in myself. Given that he notes that it is a defence – in more Freudian terms it is a means of protecting the ego – I wanted to understand it better. The False Self is often a high functioning identity and appears to be someone with few issues to observers, but the inability to be ‘whole’ generates huge psychic strain.

The great novelists and dramatists understood this. Seeking one’s identity is a familiar plotline. Oliver Twist is forced to adapt and adopt different personae, but the point of Dickens’s story is that his true self triumphs. Why? Because of love. More interesting are the dilemmas that trouble characters who become slaves to their false selves. I think that is why Mad Men’s ‘Don Draper’ aka Dick Whitman, was so compelling. The true self cannot be lost, however submerged it becomes. In a slightly different storyline, we watch Breaking Bad’s ‘Walter White’ become a slave to his ‘Heisenberg’ self, and it contrasts with Draper, who instantly reinvents himself, whereas White suffers as he shifts selves.

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In the brilliant film ‘American Fiction’, the protagonist, Monk, adopts a writing identity to appeal to the publishing industry. He intends it to parody what is being published and bought, but becomes dizzied by the success of what he produces and then the need to be faithful to his false identity. His false self literally overwhelms his true self. It tortures him. The author, Percival Everett, of the novel on which the film is based, ‘Erasure’, has just written a new novel, based on the world seen through the eyes of Huckleberry Finn’s companion, Jim. It too, is about protecting a True Self.

Jim becomes James, is well-read and familiar with philosophy, and is an extreme example of the phenomenon of ‘code switching’. In reality, code switching is unfunny. It is a conscious defence adopted to protect someone from being attacked for their true identity, invariably linked to ethnicity. It is quite usual for all of us in social or professional fields to want to present our best selves, or a version of our self that we think will be most attractive to the company we are keeping. I do not think of this as deceit, or malign, but a wish to be accommodating and engaging. That comes from a positive intent, whereas code switching is a linguistic attempt to fit in with a dominant culture and avoid negative attention and hostility. One might concede that this is negative selection.

It was listening to Everett on a recent “Private Passions’ interview with Michael Berkeley on Radio 3, and reading a review of his latest book in this month’s LRB, that made me revisit Winnicott, and also to think about how much, or little of my True Self, I reveal. Winnicott begins, by acknowledging that the concept of a true self appears “in certain religions and philosophical systems”. If a false self exists, he asks how it arises, what its function is, why does it often become exaggerated, do people exist without a false self, and if so why, and finally what could be named a True Self.

He compliments Freud’s early work dividing the self into that “powered by the instincts”, which I take to mean the id, and “a part that is turned outwards and is related to the world”, which I think means the ego. In his opening clinical example, he writes about a middle-aged woman who had a very successful False Self. It is not clear what he means here by “successful”, but it made me think about a number of former colleagues and clients during my City career.

This woman, despite and also because of her “successful False Self”, “had the feeling all her life that she had not started to exist”. When I read that I thought of my internal commentary on this character called Ian Burns. He writes that “she had always been looking for a means of getting to her True Self”. I admire the work of a former JP Morgan employee called Lucy, who left the industry to teach yoga, breath work and to expand her own self-development and now helps other young professionals to escape the cage they have built for themselves, sometimes unknowingly, and to seek their True Self. (At least that is how I interpret the brilliant work she does). Look her up.

Winnicott continues, by noting that he found himself analysing someone who he thought of as her “Caretaker Self”. This was the self that understood the loss of something true and core and had at least taken her to analysis, and slowly became able to hand over “its function to the analyst”. It was the evolution of the case that allowed Winnicott to understand that a False Self is defensive, designed “to hide and protect the True Self”.

Back to my experiences of life in the City, it is important to appreciate that a False Self can often be a high functioning individual. Outward appearances are of a ‘success’. Something however, let us call it a ‘Whole Self’, is lacking and professional and personal relationships begin to fail. Winnicott thinks these are extreme cases – the ‘True Self’ is hidden.

In less extreme examples, the False Self defends the True Self, but the True Self is “acknowledged as a potential and is allowed a secret life”. He describes it as a clinical illness “as an organisation with a positive aim”. Recovery, or perhaps development would be a better word, comes from the False Self finding the conditions to allow the True Self to come into its own. Failure can lead to suicide because it “is the destruction of the Total Self in avoidance of the annihilation of the True Self”.

Nonetheless, the False Self can sustain and not necessarily seek destruction and annihilation. What does it look like in this apparently healthy manifestation? It is “represented by the whole organisation of the polite and mannered social attitude”, which is what I believe I saw frequently amongst my erstwhile colleagues and clients. Winnicott also highlights how intellectual individuals have a tendency for the “mind to become the location of the False Self”, developing a “dissociation between intellectual activity and psychosomatic existence”. I believe this is relevant to my burnout experience in 2012.

When I look back to the self I was at the time, I now believe that my error that precipitated my career crisis was a form of self-sabotage initiated by my unconscious. I was enjoying a period of professional success and status, but in his paper Winnicott refers to “the very real distress of the individual concerned, who feels ‘phoney’ the more he or she is successful”. Such individuals “destroy themselves in one way or another, instead of fulfilling promise…”

So, where does the False Self come from? What is it defending? Right at the beginning of life, Winnicott refers to an “unintegrated” infant, yet to distinguish between itself and an Object, and so working with what he calls the “environment mother”. Anything, gestures that the infant makes ‘spontaneously’, are the True Self, but if the mother fails to meet the omnipotence of the infant repeatedly, the infant can only note the substitution of the mother’s gesture and comply with it. This is the foundation of a False Self.

Ask yourself if you have a tendency towards being compliant? “The True Self does not become a living reality except as a result of the mother’s repeated success in meeting the infant’s spontaneous gesture or sensory hallucination.” Instead, the infant builds a set of false relationships “so that the child may grow to be just like mother, nurse, aunt, brother, or whoever at the time dominates the scene”. The False Self’s compliance with environmental demands hides the True Self. Compliance often develops into skilled imitation.

A True Self allows for reality, but the “existence of a False Self results in feeling unreal or a sense of futility”. When does it appear? “The True Self appears as soon as there is any mental organisation of the individual at all, and it means little more than the summation of sensori-motor aliveness”. He cites an example of a woman who felt that the first fifty years of her life had been “wasted” and sought a sense of “aliveness”. She was not in touch with her core, her essence. When I used to commentate on myself, I did not know what I was doing, but now I think that I might have been observing something that was not truly alive.

Winnicott believed there were degrees of False Self application, from “the healthy, polite aspect of the self” to the more damaged and damaging, “truly split-off compliant False Self”. It is this that is mistaken for the “whole child”, or the ‘real’ adult. He thought that it led to “a poverty of cultural living”, which leads to a lack of appreciation of a cultural life and instead, “extreme restlessness, and inability to concentrate”.

In the final analysis, one asks of both oneself and of others “Who are you?” The greatest privilege is being seen, and accepted for who we are. It’s love – the sort that a parent has for a child – and what an adult seeks in a partner. Showing our true selves means being vulnerable like the neonate, it means accepting dependence, and it is of course, very uncomfortable, which is why there is a psychic need to defend it from any sort of attack or what Winnicott called “impingement”.

The fictional characters I have highlighted all find themselves becoming detached from the person they believe themselves to be. They also feel that revealing their True Self would have awful consequences. I understand the point about annihilation and suicide that Winnicott made. Not being a “phoney” is much more difficult than it can seem. For couples, when one partner has not been able to be honest and fears revealing a whole self, it leads to despair and a sad void where something is sensed but cannot be discussed or understood. My own analysis is, to reference another psychoanalyst, Wilfried Bion, introducing me to myself and recognising the years of defensive self-deception.

Pygmalion – Henry and Eliza, the analytic couple

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On September 6th, running through October, the Old Vic is hosting performances of Shaw’s brilliant play ‘Pygmalion’. A play studying language and class, written in 1912. It will star Patsy Ferrans and Bertie Carvel. Ferrans is already established as one of the brightest stars of her generation, with huge recognition for her 2022 Blanche du Bois in “Streetcar”. I saw her, also at The Old Vic, in 2021, when she played ‘Her’ in ‘Camp Siegfried’, and it was a remarkable performance. I am very excited about what she will bring to Miss Doolittle.

Carvel, may be best known for playing Tony Blair in The Crown, but has also shown his versatility in playing Rupert Murdoch in James Graham’s play ‘Ink’. For me, his outstanding stage performance to date was in “The 47th”, when he played a wickedly funny, deranged President Trump.  Trump and Blanche as Henry and Eliza is quite an invitation!

Pygmalion has always been one of my favourite plays. It may be because of the many hours I spent watching my nan working in her florist shop in Canning Town. I knew that my grandad often woke very early to get to Covent Garden to buy stock for the shop and somehow that gives me a sense of connection when the play opens. We see Eliza and Henry, in their different ways, sheltering from the elements in the portico of St.Paul’s, nearby what was the fruit and veg market in those days.

It is possible that this version of the play will work hard to illustrate and exemplify what has become known as the ‘Pygmalion Effect’, which is the way people tend to perform up to the level that others expect of them. It explains why our relationships can be self-fulfilling prophecies. Once you set expectations for somebody, that person will tend to live up to that expectation; for good or ill.

I hope it explores what I see as the psychoanalytic lens for the play. In my reading, and in the productions which I have seen, Shaw allows us to understand the protagonists as two people with unresolved Oedipus Complexes. We get insight to the narcissistic wound carried by Eliza, and the whole play is an example of transference, with Henry as analyst to Eliza’s analysand. I shall develop these ideas, and I also note that Shaw and Freud shared a view of the world based on that of the outsider.

One was an Irishman in English society and the other an often-excluded Jew, in Vienna. Both saw themselves as ‘men of science’ with Freud especially keen to establish psychoanalysis as a science. Freud was brilliant in considering the hostilities acted upon those who were ‘othered’, and in Eliza, Shaw creates a character ostracised merely for the circumstances of her birth. Shaw uses Pickering and Higgins to place people, in London to within two streets, and in India to regions, thanks to dialect, pronunciation and enunciation, and asks us to think about how this contributes to othering, to creating a ‘them and us’.

As Shaw completed Pygmalion, Freud was writing his Papers on Technique and about to complete Totem and Taboo. His body of work, likely very well known to Shaw, had already seen Studies on Hysteria, The Interpretation of Dreams, The psychopathology of everyday life, from which one might attach some of Shaw’s Pygmalion thinking, as well as Three Essays on Sexuality and Jokes and their relation to the Unconscious.

Shaw had infamously attacked Pavlov, but conceded that he was “well-meaning, intelligent and devoted to science” – something one might argue as applicable to Freud. I like the fact that Shaw and Freud were both born in 1856. I can find no record of their meeting, but it seems highly unlikely that such erudite, well-educated men, with a fascination for philosophy, politics and ideas, would not have been aware of one another. Indeed, the coincidences stretch to the fact that Pygmalion is first performed in Vienna (Hofburg Theatre) in October 1913. Otherwise, the play was first produced in 1914 (London and NY).

In the directions to Act 2, Shaw gives great specificity to Higgins’s appearance and demeanour. Freud, at this time was determined to, and perhaps struggling a little, to establish psychoanalysis as a science. It is a dozen years since the groundbreaking The Interpretation of Dreams. Shaw describes Higgins as “of the energetic scientific type, heartily, even violently interested in everything that can be studied as a scientific subject, and careless about himself and other people, including their feelings”. The final part of this is the antithesis of a psychoanalyst, but we know from the work on dreams that fantasies are often represented by direct opposites.

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To the play: What do I mean by the unresolved Oedipus Complexes? It is the attachment of the child to the parent of the opposite sex – in early infancy, a need ‘to possess’ the object, that remains unresolved. The infantile sexual impulses get repressed and often a fear of displeasing the object leads to aggressive or envious feelings. Hanna Segal described it as “the central conflict in the human psyche”, so it is hardly surprising that a dramatist as great as Shaw found it. Freud himself noted how whenever he discovered something, that the poets and philosophers had got there first.

Segal noted how Melanie Klein saw the father, both real, and phantasies about the father, as central to the child’s life from birth. This is why Shaw’s dramatization of the moment when Eliza has been bathed and cleaned by Henry’s housekeeper, and meets her father, who fails to recognise her, as critical to understanding her vulnerability and her wish to both please Henry, her substitute father, but also to hate him, in what psychoanalysts recognise as transference.

Her neglect, from her parents, is her narcissistic wound. I like the idea of Doolittle ‘blind’ to his own daughter because it plays with, and inverts, our understanding of the Oedipus story. Oedipus, we know, tragically comes to understand how he has usurped his father, in his mother’s bed, and puts his own eyes out.

Early in the scene, the issue of Eliza’s payment comes up. Freud (1912) had views on payment expressed in On Beginning the Treatment, which apart from “a medium for self-preservation and for obtaining power” had “powerful sexual factors in the value set upon it”. Eliza proffers a shilling, “take it or leave it” and Higgins, who Pickering expects to be insulted, rapidly appreciates that it is a generous offer. He defines it by its percentage of her income, “it works out as fully equivalent to sixty or seventy guineas from a millionaire…it’s the biggest offer I ever had”.

Money and sex is important in the play because of Shaw’s focus on morality and on hypocrisy. Eliza reminds us, almost ad nauseum, “I’m a good girl, I am”. What sex does to people, especially those damaged by infantile experiences, is emphasised by Eliza’s attempt to repress her sexual drive. Taken to the guest bathroom she finds a ‘looking glass’ for the first time and she feels a need to cover it up, so unused is she to seeing her own body naked. Later, Henry gives a nod to Freud’s understanding of the unconscious and to repression, “do any of us know what we are doing? If we did, would we ever do it?”

His own Oedipus resolution is far from achieved and visiting his mother, in Act three, to tell her he has “picked up a girl”, he tells us, “Oh I can’t be bothered with young women. My idea of a loveable woman is somebody as like you as possible”. As the scene progresses we get a nudge that Mrs. Higgins is more familiar with the psychoanalytic world than her apparently worldly son, when she responds to his comment that Eliza is to stick to two conversational subjects, health and the weather with “Safe! To talk about our health! About our insides! Perhaps about our outsides…”

And so, the possibility of inner worlds, her’s, Henry’s and Eliza’s is hinted at, as is the realisation of the sometimes conflicting demands of the conscious and the unconscious. She adds later to both Henry and Pickering, “don’t you realise that when Eliza walked into Wimpole Street, something walked in with her”.

After the successful outcome of Higgins’s bet/experiment, Eliza senses that he might now drop her and discard her, as her father had done many times, and it ignites the ‘murderous rage’ deep in her unconscious, which surges into the room as she throws his slippers; “I wanted to smash your face. I’d like to kill you, you murderous brute”, before wailing like any neglected infant, “what’s to become of me?”

The second psychoanalytic feature the play addresses is the narcissistic wound, specifically Eliza’s. A narcissistic wound is a form of abandonment – Freud maintained that “losses in love” and “losses associated with failure” often leave behind injury to an individual’s self-regard. We learn from her, “I ain’t got no mother. Her that turned me out was my sixth stepmother”, a perfect complement to the father who failed to recognise her. Eliza, confronted by an awareness of a lack of something, in this case maternal love, is like an analysand clinging on to their neuroses, “if only I’d known what a dreadful thing it is to be clean I’d never have come. I didn’t know when I was well off…”

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It comes together with ‘orality’ – the focusing of sexual energy and feeling on the mouth – so perfectly captured in the musical film adaptation of the play, ‘My Fair Lady’, when Higgins (Rex Harrison) is placing marbles into his powerless (Audrey Hepburn) student’s mouth. The play begins with something coming out of the mouth, and this is about what gets taken in. It is no great stretch to consider the pleasure for Eliza of what she expresses in giving out, and what she appreciates in her taking in.

Later, at the peak of her achievement, winning the bet and having satisfied Henry’s ego, she notes that “I sold flowers. I didn’t sell myself. Now you’ve made a lady of me, I am not fit to sell anything else”. As she has told us repeatedly, she’s a good girl. She is.

Lastly, the play is set up as an illustration of the psychoanalytic concept of transference. Freud understood that transference existed outside the clinic, but that it changed shape in the clinic and acquired an intensity uncommon in more social and conscious settings.

What is transference? – Jean Arundale, in Transference and Countertransference wrote it was “broadly conceptualised as manifestations of conscious and unconscious aspects of object relationships and psychic structures within the analytic process”.

Freud had observed it initially in the work between his colleague, Breuer, and the patient who came to be known as Anna O, who famously described her therapy as “the talking cure”. Her feelings for Breuer, which he found too disturbing to tolerate, were Freud’s first insight to the concept of transference. In his 1938 paper The Technique of Psychoanalysis, he was even clearer. Transference was a “factor of undreamt-of importance”.

Freud came to understand, after initially seeing it as an obstacle to be overcome, that transference, the emotional quality of a patient’s feelings towards an analyst transferred from more developmental relationships, could be used as a tool. Indeed, it provided him with the material for understanding the way patients invariably repeat past relationships, especially maladaptive relationships.

Shaw may not have been thinking directly about Freud, but in Eliza, we see the ambivalence of her feelings to her alcoholic and rejecting father emerge in her wish to both have Higgins, but also to be able to push him away. It was Klein, some thirty years later, (1946), who developed the idea of transference as a re-enactment, as an expression of unconscious phantasy, in need of interpretation.

Klein understood how the analyst can be both ‘good’ and ‘bad’ and that integrating the two feelings in one person, just as the baby does with the mother, was the most profound of feelings and that the ‘negative transference’ was especially valuable. Later still, Winnicott developed what was happening to the analyst, in my case the Higgins figure, as countertransference.

Higgins, is bemused by his feelings for Eliza – in the final act he stormily says that he “can do without anybody”, thanks to his “own spark of divine fire”, yet “I have grown accustomed to your voice and appearance. I like them, rather”. When she points out that he has her voice on his recording discs and that he has photographs of her, he laments that he cannot turn her soul on.

This is consistent with Sandler’s (1976) later work on countertransference and the ‘role responsiveness’ of the analyst, who has been pulled into a role, a way of being, that he does not recognize as being characteristic of himself. Freud wrote in Dynamics of Transference (S.E 12) “it is a perfectly normal and intelligible thing that the libidinal cathexis which is held ready in anticipation, should be directed as well to the figure of the doctor (analyst)”. The transference which exceeds anything “which could be justified on sensible or rational grounds” is a consequence of both conscious and unconscious material.

He states that whilst transference is most intense in an analytical couple, it exists outside of analysis and paradoxically is regarded as the “vehicle of cure and the condition of success”, ie when we transfer our earliest sexual attractions (parental) to a new love object outside the family.  The “characteristics of transference are therefore to be attributed not to psychoanalysis but to neurosis itself”. The ego has “remained in possession of infantile imagos”.

“Originally (the baby) we knew only sexual objects; and psychoanalysis shows us that people who in our real life are merely admired or respected may still be sexual objects for our unconscious” – this is what Pickering represents for Eliza.

Freud concludes his dynamics paper by referring to the struggle between doctor and patient, “between intellect and instinctual life, between understanding and seeking to act, is played out exclusively in the phenomena of transference. It is on that field that the victory must be won” and we sense that Eliza is seeking her mother about whom we know little, but also something of a repair to the lost love that an alcoholic father provided? She transfers her ambivalence of her father, wary affection matched with scorn and contempt, to Higgins.

The fact that transference is so tied to infantile sexuality is why Freud wrote of ‘transference love’ and today there is wide usage of the term ‘erotic transference’. Rosenberg (2011) might be describing Higgins’s drawing room in her paper Sexuality and the analytic couple, “The care invested in the setting, the quality of listening, the reliability of the analyst – all these elements enhance a process that simultaneously mobilizes and erodes repression in the analysand, and contribute to the emergence of sexual feelings”.

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She also mentions how the analyst, (or Higgins) fears marking the transference with their “own sexual feelings and fantasies”. She anticipates this – Pygmalion as erotic transference interpretation – when writing, “unrecognized sexuality gives way to enactments, as, for example, the emergence of an unconsciously collusive alliance in the repudiation of an analysand’s sexual partner, or vicarious and blinding gratification derived by the analyst from the achievements of a successful analysand.”

Shaw provides this with Henry’s contempt for Eliza’s beau: “Marry Freddy, what a preposterous idea” and with his rejoicing when she wins his bet, but especially when she deceives his former protégé, the outrageous fraud, Nepommuck.

In his paper, Transference Love, Freud asserts that the patient’s attraction to the doctor is “an inescapable fate” and switches between ‘Transference Love’ and the term erotic transference; “love consists of new editions of old traits…it repeats infantile reactions”. Shaw had an answer for that in a few pages that he wrote to summarise, after the end of the play, letting us know that Eliza does marry Freddy, and they have a florist shop that adds some greengrocery. She treats Higgins scornfully, like a wounded child. The reaction of the infant unable to integrate their Object.

We can only truly love something or someone we may also hate. As Shaw understood, “She knows that Higgins does not need her, just as her father did not need her”; she was “no more to him than them slippers”.

Freud’s (1910) view was that countertransference was inimical to the analytic treatment. It should be repressed. In Pygmalion, Higgins has repressed his sexual drive, but Eliza wakens it. Towards the end of the play he notes how she has become indispensable, and he is acting out his need. Shaw, in my interpretation, pre-empted plenty of psychoanalytic literature of the past hundred years through Henry and Eliza.

As David Mann (1999) writes in his introduction to Erotic Transference and Countertransference, “As psychoanalytic thinking has been able to contemplate the deep layers of relationship between analyst and analysand so the question of unconscious eroticism has needed to be addressed by more and more authors as the century progresses. This brings analytic thinking back full circle to its origins in contemplation of the erotic”, by which he means Freud’s understanding of what happened between his mentor Breuer and his patient, Anna O.

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Henry may wish to deny his sexual attraction to Eliza, but from the outset we are reminded of Eliza’s own repression of her sexuality. She sees it as something to resist, because of her sense of morals, later derided by her father as “middle class morality”, and confirmed when he tells Pickering that he was never married to Eliza’s mother. For Eliza, who may have unconsciously absorbed her mother’s shame, it is important to protest her own good behaviour and innocence, “I’m a good girl, I am”.

Nonetheless as Henry and Eliza discover and as Mann writes, “the erotic connects people at deeply unconscious levels, driving them into relationships at least at the level of fantasy”. He goes on to add, “the closer people become the greater the activation of erotic material in the unconscious”. Poor Henry, poor Eliza! Who knows what Ferran and Carvel will find in these timeless characters, but it should be memorable.

On Transference and Countertransference

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“It is only by analysing the transference situation to its depth that we are able to discover the past both in its realistic and phantastic aspects”. (Klein, 1952). In this essay, I shall attempt to define the psychoanalytic terms transference and countertransference. I shall begin with definitions and Freud’s discovery of transference, and go on to explain how the idea of transference and its utility in the analytic process has changed with time. Change came with later psychoanalysts, but the most profound impact may have been that of Melanie Klein, and so I consider her work, and the impact of theories based on projection and projective identification. I then attempt to review what transference is when it is in the clinic, referencing several post-Freudian analysts. Before discussing what countertransference is, I consider the term negative transference, in order to distinguish it from countertransference. I go on to think about transference in the analytic session, how it works, and also to reference the importance of erotic transference. I consider if transference is used outside the clinic given that psychoanalysis is not just a form of therapy. Lastly, I make a few short conclusions.

How does one define transference, which I regard as fundamental to the analytic process? Laplanche and Pontalis (1967) give one of the best definitions, in my opinion: “A process of actualisation of unconscious wishes. Transference uses specific objects and operates in the framework of a specific relationship established with these objects. Its context par excellence is the analytic situation. In the transference, infantile prototypes re-emerge and are experienced with a strong sensation of immediacy.” Transference, whilst unconscious can be brought into consciousness and enacted. Many analysts believe that how the analysand reacts to the frame i.e. the fixed timing and location of the session, is a form of transference. Lateness is interpreted as a punishing anger, and early arrival as something revealing anxiety. Transference might come into a session as (attempted) manipulation or as a provocation. Frosh (2012, p.192) cites Spillius et al (2011) in considering how transference became central to psychoanalysis from its early beginnings. It now seems to be much more about externalising unconscious fantasy, informed by the past and developed in the relationship in the analytic sessions, whereas Freud held that it was a displacement of an unconscious idea from a person in the analysand’s past, on to the analyst in the room. Having originally thought transference interfered with the work of analysis, he came to see value in the analysand’s feelings, believing that they had value as a means of understanding a neurosis. In his 1914 paper “Remembering, repeating and working-through” he explored how primitive emotions could have free expression and become useful for self-exploration.

The origin or discovery of transference is attributed to Freud. However, in 1917, in letters to first Sandor Ferenczi, and then to Karl Abraham, he draws their attentions to the work of Georg Groddeck, with whom he had just started corresponding and who may be regarded as the first ‘wild analyst’. Groddeck eventually stayed outside of the psychoanalytical organisations, but was famous for his work on somatic and psychosomatic illnesses. Groddeck had emphasised the importance of transference, particularly negative transference, which I explore later in this essay, which had impressed Freud. Freud originally thought of transference as an obstruction and that it inhibited a patient from free associating. Transference was discovered by Freud, when thinking of the difficulties that caused Breuer to stop seeing his patient, known as ‘Anna O’. Breuer was worried by the unconscious emotional charge in the room, as it was erotic. It complicated the work. It was a little later that Freud himself came to understand its efficacy, as a tool for ‘working through’. The analysand brings buried feelings and thoughts from past relationships and ‘transfers’ them to the analyst.

Freud identified its more positive influence (1905, p.116) as part of what became known as the ‘Dora case’. He wrote of “new editions of the impulses and phantasies” which was about how feelings were transferred into the room when they properly belonged elsewhere. Freud came to see himself as the recipient of ‘transferred feelings’; things that were unresolved from past relationships and a window into the unconscious of the analysand. Although ‘Dora’ ended her therapy with him, and he came to see it as a ‘failed case’, it is one of the landmark moments in the development of psychoanalysis. He thought if analysands could be helped to identify what was being transferred, especially how patterns of past maladaptive relationships tended to repeat, then they could be helped to moderate the impacts. Freud went on to note that it was the most difficult, as well as the most important, part of analytic technique. In 1914, he was writing that the analytic setting was a playground where the repetitions could take place and in his 1915 paper, “Observations on transference love” he noted “there can be no doubt that the outbreak of a passionate demand for love is largely the work of resistance”.

A little after Freud, Strachey (1934) wrote about transference interpretation. Its weight and significance is conveyed by “that which the analyst most feared and most wished to avoid”. One of the reasons for the fears, are what is happening to the analyst. Money-Kyrle (1956) noted that “the analyst’s experience of the patient’s projections may be linked with the analyst’s own internal reactions to the material.” I develop this below when discussing projective identification and countertransference, which Money-Kyrle (ibid. p.361) called a “delicate receiving apparatus”. It was Fairbairn (1958) who best summarised the centrality of working with transference as part of the treatment: “psychoanalytic treatment resolves itself into a struggle on the part of the patient to press-gang his relationship with the analyst into a closed system of the inner world through the agency of transference” (my italics). The transference is of little use without acknowledgement, and more significantly, interpretation. Strachey understood it as a lengthy process, “modification of the patient’s super-ego is brought about in a series of innumerable small steps by the agency of mutative interpretations, which are effected by the analyst in virtue of his position as object of the patient’s id-impulses and as auxiliary super-ego.”

Around the time that Strachey was writing, Melanie Klein was developing her ideas and in 1946 produced the seminal paper on projective identification. She wrote, “projective identification involves projection in that it is an identifying of the object with split-off parts of the self. Projective identification has given an added dimension to what we understand by transference, in that transference need not now be regarded simply as a repetition of the past.”. Transference, from a clinical point of view was evolving. Sandler (1987) felt it gave an ‘added dimension’ to transference “in that transference need not now be regarded as a repetition of the past”. Arundale and Bellman (2011) wrote that the projection of “early infantile states of mind” are akin, clinically, to transference and countertransference in having both ‘communicative’ and ‘evacuative’ functions. Feldman (2009) described Klein’s formulation of projective identification as “an unconscious phantasy in which the patient expelled what were usually disturbing contents into another object”. He goes on to describe how the object is then transformed in the patient’s mind because it now contains the expelled material. He added that it was not just a “method of evacuation” but provides other comforts for the patient such as believing that they can possess or control the object. “The patient’s phantasies, expressed by gross or subtle, verbal or non-verbal means, may come to influence the analyst’s state of mind”. 

The modern and Kleinian work of analysis is to contain the projections, work them through until they can be handed back, ‘introjected into’ the analysand, in a tolerable form. Klein saw transference as feelings being remembered and used. Steiner (1993) described it thus “We have come to use countertransference to refer to the totality of the analyst’s reactions in his relationship with the patient. The recognition of the importance of projective identification in creating these reactions led naturally to the idea that counter-transference is an important source of information about the state of the mind of the patient.” However, he warns “self-deception and unconscious collusion with the patient to evade reality makes counter-transference unreliable without additional corroboration”. Brenman-Pick (1985) reminds us that “constant projecting by the patient into the analyst is the essence of analysis”. Feldman (2009) describes projective identification as using an ‘omnipotent phantasy’ to defend primitive anxieties. He also highlights Bion’s work on containment to note “the mother’s responses to normal or pathological varieties of projective identification, emphasised the mother’s crucial function of taking in and allowing herself to be affected by the infant’s projection of severe anxiety or distress”.

The analyst also has his or her own transference. One thing the analyst has to be aware of, and be able to analyse, is the possibility of an analysand working through an enactment, sometimes called an ‘actualisation’. This is when something unconscious affects the participants and the responses cannot be contained and become part of the behavioural responses. Often these can lead to damaging and inappropriate responses known as ‘boundary transgressions’. The analyst needs to isolate the analysand’s responses and to understand when they might be acting out something informed by past relationships. If done well and appropriately, it becomes something to discuss, to ‘work through’ and can be explored as part of the therapy. Auchincloss and Samberg (2014) describe it thus: “Enactment is a co-constructed verbal and/or behavioural experience during a psychoanalytic treatment in which a patient’s expression of a transference fantasy evokes a countertransference “action” in the analyst. Enactments are “symbolic interactions” … in that they carry unconscious meanings for both patient and analyst, unconsciously initiated by the patient and evoking unconscious compliance in the analyst.” What is happening is exemplified by Brenman-Pick (1985), describing the clinical temptation to be a maternal figure, “we may act out by becoming excessively sympathetic to the patient”.

In the clinic, it is often this relationship, with the primary carer, that is transferred, and the analyst that needs to do the maternal containing, usually because it had been absent in the past, through reasons of a mother being overwhelmed and neglectful. Brenman-Pick (1985) described a state of mind which sought another state of mind “just as a mouth seeks a breast as an inborn potential.” The analysand may make assumptions about the analyst’s personal life and therefore thoughts, even though she has no information on which to base such assumptions. The analyst uses these fantasies rather than dismiss them. Winnicott (1947) goes so far as to describe ‘exploiting’ the transference. An analyst might note how the analysand is prone to assume something about them especially if it feels judgmental. This may be because of a past where judgment, particularly if it was from a parent, has been common. An analyst can illustrate that the analysand is responding as if she was attacked, and yet there was no attack from what is likely to have been an open ended, perhaps ambiguous comment. It might manifest as a need to impress, perhaps by listing achievements, which might reveal an insecurity about not being respected, by a teacher or an employer. It might be a hastiness to agree with an interpretation, which is little more than speculation, but is transferred from avoiding conflict in other relationships, often a spouse.

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Arundale (2011) reflects on Feldman’s work in this area and writes “As he understands it, the historical objects from the patient’s past are alive in the present moment as internal objects, so that they are available as transference objects”, she goes on to add that when the transference relationship is understood and properly experienced it allows the past to become clearer and for internal objects to be modified. She credits Strachey (1934) with creating a template for psychic change for future generations of analytic schools by identifying “mutative transference interpretation”. In the work, the relationship with the analyst is a foundation; a template for how future relationships might be formed to break the patterns of the past. Ultimately the aim is to reach a Bion moment of significance, when the analysand can be introduced to his or herself. Frosh (2012, p.190) puts it very concisely “…the reality of the analyst’s behaviour. Why should the analyst’s silence be interpreted as hostile judgment rather than supportive listening? The answer here is ‘because of the transference’”. Sandler (1976) considered the manipulative element of the dyadic relationship and wrote that “in the transference…the patient attempts to prod the analyst into behaving in a particular way and unconsciously scans and adapts to his perception of the analyst’s reaction”. He writes about the analysand resisting the impulse to be aware of any “infantile relationship” that he/she might be trying to impose. Separately Sandler (1990 p. 869) wrote about how an analysand might try “to impose on the situation a role relationship with the analyst”, which is the enactment described above.

What to do with all this transferential material, though? Roth (2001) observes that the transference has different levels of interpretation in the clinic. At one level, it links what is happening in the clinic with the analysand’s past, but moves to a level linking events in the analysand’s life outside the clinic and on to interpreting unconscious phantasies about the analyst and the analysis. The deepest level is to “enact phantasy configurations”. Roth opens her paper referencing another analyst’s material about a dream, but what is being considered is transference. She goes on to use other clinical examples of her own, to consider the multiple ways a transference can be interpreted and what the clinician needs to be aware of. How to separate layers of material and how to identify working with transference on the countertransference. I write about countertransference in more detail below. Roth notes how she is reviewing “complex transference manifestations” as she attempts to maintain the analysand’s trust and interest, but to get her to understand the links between what she is saying and what it means, and how it is being brought into the clinic. She guides us through her work deeper, by transference interpretation level, past an aggressive projective identification to a level four enactment which is a kind of seduction scene. Her conclusions summarise the importance of transference, which I regard as the foundation of the analytic work; “our sense of conviction about our patient’s internal world comes ultimately from our understanding of the here-and-now transference relationship between us”.

What happens when the analysand is transferring something from a difficult past relationship, or needs to project aggressive, hostile and unwanted, intolerable feelings into the analyst? This is the realm of negative transference; hostile feelings that the analyst’s presence elicits in the analysand. Analysts often have to start their work by demonstrating a caring side to become a ‘good object’, so that there is trust. This is the ‘therapeutic alliance’, but most often the effective work is done when the analyst becomes the ‘bad object’, and can show the analysand that the clinic is a non-judgmental space, and that difficult feelings can be contained and worked through. Understanding a phenomenon such as negative transference and more importantly, appreciating its utility, was largely the work of Melanie Klein, who had developed the ‘good breast/bad breast’ understanding of infantile love and hate, and she noted that the analyst was often split by the analysand into a good figure and a bad one, often in the same session. The demand of the analyst is to contain the anger, to ‘work through it’ and to behave as the nurturing mother of early infancy, and once again, to not judge the person from whom the hostility has come. The gentlest of questions, the most ambiguous of references, the calmest of silences can all be interpreted as hostile by an analysand with a negative transference. In Klein’s 1952 paper she wrote “we can fully appreciate the interconnection between positive and negative transferences only if we explore the early interplay between love and hate, and the vicious circle of aggression, anxieties, feelings of guilt and increased aggression, as well as the various aspects of objects towards whom these conflicting emotions and anxieties are directed.” And “I became convinced that the analysis of the negative transference, which had received relatively little attention in psycho-analytic technique, is a precondition for analysing the deeper layers of the mind.”

There is something in the word ‘counter’ that suggests resistance and even an aggressive return, as in ‘counterpunch’. Negative connotations perhaps, so is it related to negative transference? No. Countertransference has more than one definition, but is not negative transference. It might be a psychic response to it, though. Laplanche and Pontilis (1973, p.92) define “the whole of the analyst’s unconscious reactions to the individual analysand – especially to the analysand’s own transference”. Also, “some authors take the counter-transference to include everything in the analyst’s personality liable to affect the treatment, while others restrict it to those unconscious processes which are brought about in the analyst by the transference of the analysand.” This is difficult because if, as in some definitions, it is to be used as a tool in the analytic work, how can we deploy something that is unconscious? Nonetheless, prominent post-Freudians such as Winnicott (1947) thought it played a central role in the analytic work. He described it as “the analyst’s love and hate in reaction to the actual personality and behaviour of the patient”. For Freud, it was the analyst’s transference, how she had been affected by what the analysand had brought to the session. He regarded it as the neurotic response of the analyst, not a good thing, and something to be resolved by more analysis for the analyst. Sandler (1976) notes that Freud saw it as impeding understanding, because it clouded the mind, which was the tool needed to do the work; an interference with the work of interpretation.

More lately, with a Kleinian influence, it has come to mean the specific response of an analyst to the analysand’s transference. It is about taking in the analysand’s projections and being able to contain them. The analyst, in this way, comes to feel what the analysand is feeling and her ability to absorb and reflect helps the analysand when the projections are passed back and reintrojected. The analysand starts to feel things are more manageable and to be able to master integration, shifting from paranoid-schizoid positions to a depressive one. The working out of transference and countertransference go on together as a relational event – the feelings in the analysand become the data to analyse, upon which interpretations and reflections can be based. The analysand will be looking for signs that what she has projected into the analyst is being contained and perhaps cared for, or alternatively what is happening, if it is causing some panic or discomfort. In this understanding of countertransference there is a view that it signals to the analyst what is happening in the analysand’s unconscious life; rather different to the Freudian sense that it was exclusively an issue for the analyst. So, it is both the analyst’s own transference and her response to the analysand’s transference. Not only does an analyst feel her own countertransference but must then productively and subsequently analyse it.

Heiman (1950) was the first analyst to consider the positive influence of countertransference, “an instrument of research into the patient’s unconscious” – she describes it as the “patient’s creation” and that it is a part of the patient’s persona. Therefore, the analyst can use it as a guide to understanding the transference the analysand offers. She noted that the analyst has to sustain the feelings stirred within her, and not to let them go as the analysand does, but to “subordinate them to the analytic task” functioning as a “mirror reflection” to the analysand. Her definition was “all feelings which the analyst experiences towards his patient”. Her paper was the first to suggest that countertransference was ubiquitous. All feelings and everywhere makes it a complicated tool to use. To what extent is one dealing with the analysand’s material and to what extent might it be more about the analyst’s own past? Being able to engage, and yet analyse the situation with detachment, is a critical skill. Heimann wrote that the analyst “has to perceive the manifest and latent meaning of his patient’s words, the allusions and implications, the links to former sessions, the references to childhood situations behind the descriptions of current relationships”. She best summarised it as “in the comparison of feelings roused in himself with his patient’s associations and behaviour, the analyst possesses a most valuable means of checking whether he has understood or failed to understand his patient.” 

The post-Heimann approach continues to evolve and become more nuanced. Roth (2018) takes Heimann’s mid-twentieth century view as countertransference being something pathological, and something for the analyst to own for her own self-analysis, and shows how it moved into being accepted as a tool to help with an analysand’s development. How to utilise it has been subtly different in the techniques of many analysts and he cites Balint, Fairbairn, Tower and Winnicott. Nonetheless he emphasises Heimann’s view of it as a creation brought to her. What it meant was a shift from conventional analysis requiring the neutrality of the analyst, sometimes called ‘the blank screen’, to the analyst being actively involved in a process; a more dynamic therapeutic alliance, properly open to projection and introjection. To clarify this, he cites Money-Kyrle (1956) “as the patient speaks the analyst will, as it were, become introspectively identified with him and having understood him inside will re-project and interpret”. In Segal’s 1997 paper, “The use and abuse of countertransference”, however, there is a warning to emphasise the need of proper understanding. As Segal suggested, whilst it can be “the best of servants” it can also function as the worst of masters. One example might be ‘enactment’ – against which Freud had warned – as I highlighted above. Roys (2011, p.163) describes how the analyst shifts position back and forth between concordant (a sense of sharing the analysand’s experience) and complementary (when the transference has affected the analyst so that something is felt towards the analysand).

Freud’s early encounters with transference were noteworthy because of the erotic elements. Having explored the erotic transference as resistance, he wrote, “of the first kind (of resistance) are the patient’s endeavour to assure herself of her irresistibility, to destroy the doctor’s authority by bringing him down to the level of a lover”. What he understood was the need to work with it, having initially seen it as nuisance. “To urge the patient to suppress, renounce or sublimate her instincts the moment she has admitted her erotic transference would be, not an analytic way of dealing with them, but a senseless one”. He thought it would be bringing repressed material into the conscious realm, but then ensuring it was repressed once more by a fearful patient, who would “feel only the humiliation, and she will not fail to take her revenge for it”. For clarity’s sake, “analytic technique requires of the physician that he should deny to the patient who is craving for love the satisfaction she demands”. He added that the patient would have “what all patients strive for in analysis – she would have succeeded in acting out”, which is probably the first reference to what I refer to above as ‘enactment’. Freud’s patients were, of course, predominantly women and usually treated for hysteria, hence the slightly unbalanced gendered views; modern clinical work is consistent with transference from male, female and non-binary individuals. As he noted, though, ‘transference-love’ must be worked through in the therapy “and traced back to its unconscious origins”. An analyst must be able to demonstrate distance from the transference love as Mann (1999, p.7) observed, “the erotic connects people at deeply unconscious levels, driving them into relationships at least at the level of fantasy”. He thought that closeness activates erotic material in the unconscious, but also that the greater the activation of erotic material in the unconscious, the closer the bond two people develop.

Before concluding this essay, it is important to ask, ‘does transference exist outside the clinic?’ Klein (1952) was clear, “in some form or other transference operates throughout life and influences all human relations”. I think it is helpful to imagine walking into a room of strangers at a party or a conference. Does one want to be seen and not heard, or to be acknowledged, heard and visible? What is happening? We are seeing around us a number of people as hostile, or as potential allies. This is informed by our past relationships and some form of transference is underway. Sandler, Dare and Holder (1973) observed that it enters all relationships and these (e.g. choice of spouse/employer) are often determined by some characteristic of the other person who (consciously or unconsciously) represents some attribute of an important figure of the past. It seems highly probable that it goes on at all times in our lives. Psychoanalyst and historian Daniel Pick, suggests it is a form of transference that political leaders exploit to facilitate what the psychologists understand as ‘group processes’. Generations after generations this seems to be a constant, as we note today with the tragic manipulation of the Russian people.

This essay has discussed the psychoanalytic terms, transference and countertransference. It has described their origination and their development. It has asserted that they are fundamental to the work of psychoanalysis in the clinic, but also that they are ubiquitous and exist outside the clinic. It has considered how such an important concept continues to evolve as the theoretical baton gets handed on to each new post-Freudian generation, but has focused on what Melanie Klein and Object Relations Theory brought to developing Freud’s discovery, and how Paula Heimann was the critical developer of countertransference by seeing it as an important tool for the clinician. In conclusion, I suggest that psychoanalysis is only effective when the pillars of the clinical work, that are transference and countertransference, are properly understood and deployed.

References

Arundale, J. and Bellman, D.B. eds., 2018. Transference and countertransference: A unifying focus of psychoanalysis. Routledge.

Pick, I.B., 1985. Working through in the countertransference. International Journal of Psycho-Analysis66, pp.157-166.

Britton, R. and Steiner, J., 1994. Interpretation: Selected fact or overvalued idea? International Journal of Psycho-Analysis75, pp.1069-1078.

Carpy, D.V., 1989. Tolerating the countertransference: A mutative process. International Journal of Psycho-Analysis70, pp.287-294.

Etchegoyen, L., 2010. The analyst’s response to the effects of the transference: On Lacan and Bion. The International Journal of Psychoanalysis91(2), pp.399-401.

Fairbairn, W.R.D., 1958. On the nature and aims of psycho-analytical treatment. International Journal of Psycho-Analysis39, pp.374-385.

Feldman, M., 2009. Doubt, Conviction and the Analytic Process. Routledge

Freud, S. (1917) Letter from Sigmund Freud to Karl Abraham, November 11, 1917. The Complete Correspondence of Sigmund Freud and Karl Abraham 1907-1925 52:361-362 

Freud, S. (1917) Letter from Sigmund Freud to Sándor Ferenczi, June 3, 1917. The Correspondence of Sigmund Freud and Sándor Ferenczi, Volume 2, 1914-1919 26:211-212 

Freud, S., 1958. Remembering, repeating and working-through (Further recommendations on the technique of psycho-analysis II). In The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, Volume XII (1911-1913): The Case of Schreber, Papers on Technique and Other Works (pp. 145-156).

Freud, S., 1953. Fragment of an analysis of a case of hysteria (1905 [1901]). In The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, Volume VII (1901-1905): A Case of Hysteria, Three Essays on Sexuality and Other Works (pp. 1-122).

Freud, S., 1955. Notes upon a case of obsessional neurosis. In The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, Volume X (1909): Two Case Histories (‘Little Hans’ and the ‘Rat Man’) (pp. 151-318).

Freud, S., 1958. Observations on transference-love (Further recommendations on the technique of psycho-analysis III). In The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, Volume XII (1911-1913): The Case of Schreber, Papers on Technique and Other Works (pp. 157-171).

Frosh, S., 2012. A brief introduction to psychoanalytic theory. Red Globe Press

Heimann, P., 1950. On counter-transference. International journal of psycho-analysis31, pp.81-84.

Heimann, P., 1960. Counter-transference. Part II. British Journal of Medical Psychology.

Katz-Bearnot, S.P., 2014. Psychoanalytic Terms and Concepts, edited by Elizabeth L. Auchincloss, MD, and Eslee Samberg, MD, Yale University Press, New. Psychodynamic Psychiatry42(4), pp.700-702

Klein, M., 1952. The origins of transference. International Journal of Psycho-Analysis33, pp.433-438.

Laplanche, J. and Pontalis, J., 1967. The language of psychoanalysis. London: Karnac.

Money-Kyrle, R.E., 1956. Normal counter-transference and some of its deviations. International Journal of Psycho-Analysis37, pp.360-366.

Roth, P (2001) Mapping the landscape International Journal of psychoanalysis 82 p.533-43

Roys, P., 2018. Two impulses to end an analysis: exploring the transference and countertransference. In Transference and Countertransference (pp. 157-179). Routledge.

Sandler, J., 1976. Countertransference and role-responsiveness. International Review of psycho-analysis3, pp.43-47.

Sandler, J. (1987) The Concept of projective Identification London: Routledge

Sandler, J., Dare, C., Holder, A. and Dreher, A.U., 2018. The patient and the analyst: The basis of the psychoanalytic process. Routledge.

Segal, H., 1977. Countertransference. International Journal of Psychoanalytic Psychotherapy6, pp.31-37.

Spillius, E.B., Milton, J., Garvey, P., Couve, C. and Steiner, D., 2011. The new dictionary of Kleinian thought. Routledge.

Steiner, J., 1994. Patient‐centered and analyst‐centered interpretations: Some implications of containment and countertransference. Psychoanalytic inquiry14(3), pp.406-422.

Strachey, J., 1934. The nature of the therapeutic action of psychoanalysis. Classics in psychoanalytic technique, pp.361-378.

Winnicott, D.W., 1994. Hate in the counter-transference. The Journal of psychotherapy practice and research3(4), p.348.

On: Literature and Psychoanalysis – a symbiosis

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“The good writing of any age has always been the product of someone’s neurosis, and we’d have mighty dull literature if all the writers that came along were a happy bunch”, so said William Styron. What is the relationship between literature and psychoanalysis?

In this essay, I want to explain what psychoanalysis is when it is applied ‘outside the clinic’. I develop the thinking by focusing on the relationship between both disciplines. In an oft-cited paper Felman (1982) considered the relationship, but talked about psychoanalysis as dominant to literature, akin to the master-slave relationship. I consider that paper and why I find that problematic. Using examples from writers who pre-date the birth of psychoanalysis, when the first of Freud’s papers were published in 1895; first, I think about how literature gave psychoanalysis the descriptive skill that articulates the impact of the unconscious. Chaucer, Shakespeare, Flaubert and Dickens are all relevant. Second, I then consider Freud’s writing, specifically ‘Mourning and Melancholia’ (1917) and how it defines something presented to us by Shakespeare’s melancholic, Jaques, from ‘As You Like It’, and from Dickens’s Miss Havisham. Is this an example of psychoanalytic mastery and dominance? I suggest it is not, but that the relationship is one of symbiosis: mutualism not parasitism. Third, I continue by considering the psychoanalytic reader. What is the emotional impact of being a reader and how does reading words on a page engage our emotions? What is happening unconsciously and to our unconscious?

Finally, I consider modern literature and what psychoanalysis has brought to it – I wonder if it allowed us to tolerate damaged psychic states and so gave room for the publication of something like Toni Morrison’s “Beloved”. If literature has informed psychoanalysis, it must be in how it presents itself. Therefore, I consider psychoanalytic writing, as distinct from bringing psychoanalysis to reading. The brilliant analysis of Freud’s Dora case analysed by Marcus (1976), allows me to examine the writing of modern psychoanalysts such as Thomas Ogden and Adam Phillips before I draw my conclusions.

What is it for psychoanalysis to be outside the clinic? Psychoanalysis is far more than a therapeutic treatment. Whilst it is a method for treating neuroses, it is extended to a body of knowledge about the mind. It is also a research tool; a method or approach, in seeking knowledge. The tool is the therapeutic use of ‘free association’ rooted in the work done in the clinic. The critical claim is that there is an unconscious. What is psychoanalysis, when it is outside the clinic? Is there a difficulty that a text cannot respond, unlike the analysand in the clinic? The response to an interpretation is part of the clinical work, so how can psychoanalysis work, never mind thrive, outside the clinic? Can you draw on psychoanalysis without being an analyst? Can you have not undergone analysis, but still be able to lend insights back to psychoanalysis? I think so. French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan thought so, emphasising one must analyse the words, not the person, not unlike a literary critic. The difficulty is that the unconscious is dynamic. Text is static, but how we read it is dynamic – it can suggest different things to us. We are not stepping into the same river twice. We notice different things each time we read a text, watch a film, hear music or look at a sculpture. What is psychoanalytic, is the comfort with one’s ‘not knowing’. An analyst does not tell an analysand the meaning to her life, but lets it emerge, so that the analysand feels she has more awareness.

In considering the work of Hanna Segal, Bell (1999) argues for psychoanalysis outside the clinic. He asserts that his perspective views psychoanalysis as “a body of knowledge of the mind”, which is distinct from the application of that knowledge. This is important when considering the master-slave relationship in the Felman essay. Bell suggests that critics of psychoanalysis look for validation of its core claims when examining accounts of treatments, but he suggests a “realist ontology” for the objects which it investigates. He talks about transference and projection as being as real as tables and chairs. He cites Freud’s 1908 paper “Creative Writers and Day dreaming” and he notes that psychoanalysis meets literature “on a number of different terrains”. First, it might be that literature is something that can illustrate psychoanalytic theory, second, the reverse, the theory can illuminate the text, noting that Klein wrote three papers with literary themes. Segal too, used psychoanalytic theory to illuminate a number of literary texts. This illustrates the concept of the portability of the clinic. The theory can move beyond the physical analytic frame, which is the clinic. Outside the clinic it is the application of theory.

Similarly, Frosh (2020) notes that a psychoanalytic setting, the clinic, can move, and that what is retained “is little more than a theoretical orientation that accepts a notion of the ‘unconscious’ as crucial for understanding motivation and behaviour.” That is not to disparage its existence outside the clinic, but to recognise it. The key element is language, interpreted using psychoanalytic principles. The theoretical constructs are the dynamic unconscious, free association, transference and interpretation. This is not an exhaustive list. Psychoanalytic interpretation is not restricted to the intellect, but to the nature of relationships, and it is relationships that provide the opportunity for transference, countertransference and then interpretation. Frosh emphasises the role of the clinic: “The clinic out of which psychoanalysis has developed, the crucible for its concepts and practices, is thus a metaphorical space surrounding a live encounter”. Where, he later argues, it is not always welcome, is because applied psychoanalysis is often “an attempt at conquest rather than partnership” – in common with the start of the Felman essay I discuss below.

Psychoanalysis is a tool for understanding, not just individuals, and not just literature and the humanities, but also the social, legal and political worlds. So, if we accept it has migrated from the clinic, what impact does it have and is it beneficial? Frosh states that the two purposes of applied psychoanalysis are first to extend its reach, and second providing support for its claims. He reminds us of the formation of the magazine, Imago, by Otto Rank and Hans Sachs in 1912, which was “concerned with the application of psychoanalysis to non-medical fields of knowledge”.  Frosh cares for psychoanalysis enough to highlight its role in advertising how the unconscious speaks through a subject but is not controlled by it, what he calls the “central importance of otherness in personal and social life”. Preserving this function is critical to keep psychoanalysis relevant “and prevent it ossifying into a form of expert received knowledge”. Like the unconscious; it must be dynamic. “Psychoanalysis holds something significant for all the other disciplines – specifically, a capacity to theorise subjectivity in a way that is provocative and unique, through reference to the unconscious.” Bell believes that Klein used literature as a means of expressing her ideas by “having a conversation with the artist”. This is different from applying theory to characters, which Jones famously did with Hamlet. An example of the Kleinian conversation is Segal’s 1984 paper on Conrad. A different meeting of the disciplines comes in her paper on Golding’s “The Spire”, which Bell claims, is more of a meeting of psychoanalyst and author coming to similar discoveries but via differing perspectives. Segal interprets Golding’s story of the building of a cathedral as a destructive delusion. In her 1981 paper, “Delusion and Artistic Creativity” she asks if the work of an artist or author is itself a creation or a delusion. She introduces us to the psychotic in text. How will we elaborate the text in the same way that the analyst listens to the analysand and is able to elaborate what they say? In other words, this is a textual and theoretical encounter, and its purpose is to raise questions and open up meaning, not dogmatically impose answers. This, as identified by Spillers (1996) is psychoanalytic hermeneutics. Does having a literary understanding enhance the work of a psychoanalyst? Felman writes that “there are no natural boundaries between literature and psychoanalysis”.

In her essay, Felman presents a case that literature is somehow a slave to psychoanalysis’s master. Can it really be realistic to think of literature and literary texts as something that can be enslaved. Are texts malleable? If we think of the clinic, the analysand seeks interpretation from the analyst. It is true that psychoanalysis lends an analytic interpretation to literature, and I argue below, might enhance literature, perhaps even making it publishable in the case of Morrison’s “Beloved”, but I find the master-slave argument stretched. A text cannot be made to do the master’s bidding and even more so, it cannot resist. This lack of the corporeal undermines Felman, I feel. She opens with a comment about the mutual relationship of literature and psychoanalysis, but within a couple of paragraphs moves to suggesting it is one in which literature is subordinate to psychoanalysis. Psychoanalysis, as a “body of knowledge” is called upon to interpret literature, a “body of language”. She claims that literature plays a role in service of the desires of psychoanalytic theory. Actually, Felman herself rows back from this point of view, and repeated re-readings of the essay have made me feel that she provocatively engages defenders of literature with the master-slave analogy, before explaining her own much more nuanced views.

She makes psychoanalysis sound active, “exercising its authority and power”, to a passive literary field. This is important because it reminds the reader of Freud’s essays on sexuality and his suggestion about active masculinity and passive femininity, views which have much less currency today. She continues that psychoanalysis is seeking its own satisfaction. I think this is revealing. It may seek mastery of itself, but that is very different from being master to another. She notes that a literary critic would desire a true dialogue between both as fields of knowledge and of language, and that what is required is avoiding a “universal monologue of psychoanalysis about literature”. This feels like a more appropriate position to me. This allows her to remind her reader that psychoanalysis falls “within the realm of literature”, and moves on to discussing the disruption of the master-slave relationship, in either direction. It is the text, like an analysand, where knowledge and meaning are expected to reside. This allows one to consider the importance of ‘not knowing’ which is critical to the work of the analyst in the clinic. She concludes that we should not think about the application of psychoanalysis to literature, what might be thought of as psychoanalysis working outside the clinic, but that we should think in terms of ‘implication’, not bringing a scientific knowledge to bear upon a text but rather, “to explore, bring to light and articulate”. She concludes, “literature is therefore not simply outside psychoanalysis, since it motivates and inhabits the very names of its concepts, since it is the inherent reference by which psychoanalysis names its findings.”

The spirit of both fields of language exploring the other, bringing to light and articulating is best illustrated, I believe, when considering Freud’s paper ‘Mourning and Melancholia’, (1917) which may be one of the greatest literary psychoanalytic contributions. The syntax and the form demonstrate why he was awarded a Goethe prize. The melancholic, however, was something literature identified for psychoanalysts. Two examples: Dickens’s Miss Havisham and Shakespeare’s Jaques. Miss Havisham is one of Dickens’s greatest portraits, almost certainly informed by Robert Burton’s ‘Anatomy of Melancholia’ (1621). Abandoned, jilted and defrauded by her betrothed, she cannot recover from this trauma and lives on in her wedding attire, to maintain a link to her loss. She lives out of sunlight – a representation of her broken, dark, inner world. She has all the clocks stopped at the time when she received the letter from her fiancé, that revealed the deception. The issue of stopped time was of interest to Freud because the unconscious has no temporality. Freud observed, “in melancholia, what is lost is the ego”. Melancholia is linked to a narcissistic pathology and to mania. It is clinical depression and distinct from ‘ordinary depression’ with which we all come into contact and does not prevent us from functioning. Havisham adopts a young girl, Estella, seeking to protect her from the hurts she has herself suffered. Freud described melancholia as “a profoundly painful dejection, cessation of interest in the outside world, loss of the capacity to love, inhibition of all activity”. Keeping the world at bay by avoiding sunlight, she projects into Estella her hatred of men, but ultimately this too will leave her abandoned and unfulfilled. Avoiding the world is because, Freud notes, melancholia “culminates in a delusional expectation of punishment”.

What is different from mourning is that “when the work of mourning is completed the ego becomes free and uninhibited again”, whereas a melancholic displays “an extraordinary diminution in his self-regard, an impoverishment of his ego on a grand scale”. Miss Havisham’s self-regard is destroyed when she is jilted. She fails to mourn the loss of the romance and becomes melancholic. As Freud elegantly observed “in mourning it is the world which has become poor and empty; in melancholia it is the ego itself” – a melancholic attitude is one of intense self-denigration. Before Dickens, Shakespeare had provided us with Jaques. He blames the outside world for imposing its “infections” upon him, leaving him to wrestle with his inner world: “Cleanse the foul body of th’infected world”. He is described as being able to “suck melancholy out of a song as a weasel sucks eggs,” and is sufficiently self-aware to describe “a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness”. In his most famous speech “All the world’s a stage”, Jaques lambasts everyone else. They are all merely performers, and are hiding from their true selves. 

I choose these two examples to make a couple of simple points. First, literature pre-dates Freudian understanding. Second, Freud was able to find the language for the psychic condition he noted, and how it differed from the condition of mourning, because of the literature with which he was familiar. I think Freud’s brilliant understanding enhances literature, but is not imposing any sort of mastery. Jaques tells us he is a melancholic, but Miss Havisham, sometimes dismissed as a sort of cruel and damaged crone, becomes an object of pity when we understand her melancholic affect.

I believe that psychoanalysis has enhanced literature and not subordinated it. I want to continue examining reading psychoanalytically, before moving on to what psychoanalysis has offered writers. Flaubert, like Dickens pre-dates Freud. In Flaubert’s “Madame Bovary” we see the impact of a delusional fantasist on those around her, as well as her own death drive path to destruction. Sodre (1999) showed how psychoanalysis and literature come together in the typical analyst/analysand relationship in a paper titled “Death by Daydreaming”. She considered Bovary in the context of Kleinian Object Relations, of her projections, and the overwhelming destructive death drive. Bovary is in thrall to a life in which her wish-fulfilling dreams dominate her mental life. She loses touch with reality. Her dreams have such force (id overwhelming ego) that she is forced to act them out and make them real. Enactment is frequently something that happens in the clinic and is in need of interpretation. Sodre notes, that the text shows us Emma’s repetitive romances are played out in her mind, as a defence against the impoverishment of her actual life, and that impoverishment drives the enactment of her dream life. She adds that as the novel progresses Emma becomes more contemptuous of people around her, whose weakness is that they do not live up to the standards of her dream companions. Sodre thinks that this allows Flaubert to introduce us to what we learn from Klein is an attack on her ‘good objects’, somewhat pre-dating Object Relations Theory. We also see how Emma, who is unable to love her daughter, Berthe, is also a ‘Bad object’. Emma’s fantastical thinking is a means for the reader to understand that the more attached she is to unconscious dreams, the more her sense of self deteriorates, as she is threatened by her internal reality. Sodre notes that she projects her awareness of her deteriorating inner world by covering up – both expensive material adornments and “elaborate, detailed and richer mis-en-scenes” because external reality is too ugly.

Freud himself remarked about how the philosophers and poets had been first to discover the unconscious – his discovery was a scientific method for understanding it. Given psychoanalysis is a relatively young science it is only reasonable to think of the way literature’s giants had already given a language to how what happens in our psychic lives takes place. We have only to refer to Oedipus and to Narcissus. I think that there is something psychoanalytic as far back as Chaucer. The Canterbury Tales frequently use tales of sex to illustrate drives and wishes. The device of the storytellers being on a pilgrimage gives the reader a sense of a frame. In the same way, a clinician listens to multiple tales as his work as the analyst. Although it is physically moving, the frame’s elements are fixed. In this sense Chaucer may be described as being the first writer to be working psychoanalytically, both in and outside a clinic.

Roth (2020) explores three main psychoanalytic interpretations of the reader experience. First, the transference relations toward the literary characters. Second, the impact of the text as a means of transcending the reader’s self-identity and third, how that allows the reader to achieve a new integration and “psychic equilibrium”. She notes the contemporaneous emergence of a publishing boom, improving literacy and the widespread development of public libraries, around the turn of the twentieth century, with the emergence of psychoanalysis. This led to academic enquiry, which she feels shifted the focus from “’scientific facts’ to ‘the subject’. She notes that Proust’s 1905 essay “On Reading”, allowed the emergence of contemporary literary theory. Proust writes about a trio comprised of author, book and reader. This is almost a hundred years ahead of Ogden’s (1994, 2004) ‘analytic third’. Proust explores the reader’s experience of being detached from reality and of the loss or freezing of time, as well as the identification that characters arouse in the reader. He suggests that readers can explore their psyche, “those dwelling places”, that would otherwise be impenetrable. We could say, the dwelling places are the unconscious. Some of this was taken up more specifically by Barthes (1967) is his essay “Death of the Author”, when the meaning of the text ceased to be dependent on author and content, but reconstructed by the reader; much as the analyst helps the analysand reconstruct what has constructed their own meaning. This confers dynamism on the text. It is not static, and dynamism takes us back to the unconscious. A modern example of this is Morrison’s “Beloved”; a harrowing tale, but also one of what trauma does to the psyche. We see it in the psychic fragmentation evident in both the protagonist, Sethe, and also in her sometime lover Paul D, who demonstrates splitting as a defence. The death drive consumes Sethe. Putting aside black authorship, characters and a white-dominant publishing industry, I think that the publication of the novel owes something to psychoanalysis, insofar as it enabled readers to comprehend and tolerate trauma.

Roth describes how the reader projects into the text a search for meaning, a fear of ‘other’ and existential fears such as life’s finitude. She argues that meaning and identity lead to processes of transformation, in both psychoanalysis and literature, but we remain unsure of exactly how. “The patient in analysis, like the reader of literature, is invited to drop everything else and raise, without any form of censorship, every topic that appears ‘in the pages’ of his awareness”. Optimum conditions are established for the transference relations towards either analyst or characters. A reader is alone in a book’s presence in a way that shares space with Winnicott’s (1958) view of the merits of talking “alone in the presence of someone”. In this way, we return to the merits of psychoanalysis outside the clinic. The reader has utilised the portability of the clinic.

What has psychoanalysis done, outside the clinic, for writing? Frosh notes that, especially in the form of case histories, that psychoanalysis is expressed in its own narrative form and that “it also treats its patients as literary beings, characters in search of stories that make sense”. Psychoanalysis is a literary endeavour in itself – exemplified by the case history, which Steven Marcus (1975) described as starting with Freud’s ‘Dora case’ and being a new literary form, distinct and structurally significant. Psychoanalytic journals are filled with vignettes and verbatim. These take the form of dialogue and are often presented as a playwright shapes a play. In his chapter “On psychoanalytic writing”, in “This Art of Psychoanalysis”, Ogden suggests, by using an example of his own clinical writing and an example of Winnicott’s theoretical writing, that “the way the language works” is essential to “the literary genre of analytic writing”. I like to think of this as evidence of one of literature’s gifts to psychoanalysis and a refutation of Felman’s proposition that it is slave to psychoanalysis. Ogden describes analytic writing as “a conjunction of interpretation and a work of art”. He quotes Bion: “I have had an emotional experience; I feel confident in my ability to recreate that emotional experience, but not to represent it” when explaining that what the reader reads is not the experience itself, but a new literary representation of it by the writer, about time spent with the analysand. He continues, “the analytic writer finds himself conscripted into the ranks of imaginative writers”. In recreating an analytic session, he notes that he is creating “characters’, something informed by the experience of enjoying literature. Both conscious and unconscious processes go into the writing. “Psychoanalysis is an experience in which the analyst takes the patient seriously, in part by treating everything that he says and does as potentially meaningful”. He makes it clear that he appreciates the symbiosis of literature and psychoanalysis, “What, for me, is certain is the idea that experimenting with the literary form used in analytic writing is part and parcel of the effort to develop fresh ways of thinking analytically”

Phillips (2016) talks about the psychoanalytic method as a way of telling a life story – free associating, “telling a life story by not telling a life story, but by saying whatever comes into your head”, adding “the analyst is giving the fragmentary discontinuous speech of the analysand a new narrative coherence”. He explores the extent to which Samuel Johnson pre-empted much of Freud, citing the work of Walter Jackson Bate, especially regarding the theory of repression. He adds that both Johnson and Freud believed in a Reality Principle, although Freud alone, called it that. Bate wrote in, “The Achievement of Samuel Johnson” that Johnson had anticipated psychoanalysis, and when he wrote of an inner resistance, he was identifying what psychoanalysis thinks more contemporarily as ‘defence mechanisms’.

On his work as both psychoanalyst and writer in several conversations that were published as a Paris Review interview and included in his book, Phillips noted that “psychoanalysis does not need any more abstruse or sentimental abstractions….it just needs more good sentences”. How literary a request can one get? He talks of the poor quality of reading contemporary psychoanalysis, excepting only Bion, Winnicott and Milner and adds “They were writers. Freud, to me, originally was a writer”. Freud, to him, he said, made sense “not in terms of the history of science or the history of neurology, but in terms of the history of literature”.

Phillips likens the form of psychoanalytic writing, specifically the sessions, as unlike novels, epic poems, lyric poems or plays, (although they are like play dialogues), but that they have the structure of an essay. “There is the same opportunity to digress, to change the subject, to be incoherent, to come to conclusions…” Literature has brought its own influence to bear on psychoanalysis, not least in treating Freud as a writer rather than a scientist. It offers something back to psychoanalysis, what Frosh noted is an understanding of “its own textual unconscious”.

In this essay, I have attempted to demonstrate that there is a symbiotic relationship between psychoanalysis and literature and not, as is sometimes asserted, one where psychoanalysis adopts a position of superiority and of a more profound insight. Psychoanalysis has much to thank literature for, and in turn, has provided insights into texts, characters and the psychosocial that have made literature richer. My conclusion is that the relationship is symbiotic; I reject Lacan’s ‘master discourse’ and Felman’s ‘master-slave’ ideas and believe there exists a mutuality, rather than something parasitic. There is definitely a place for psychoanalysis outside the clinic and it is the place of broadening understanding. Not just in literature but in other fields such as law, the social sciences and film and the arts, I think that is additive, rather than imposing and superior. Literature’s place in our minds before psychoanalysis makes me clear that it has offered as much, if not more to psychoanalysis, as psychoanalysis has contributed as an interpreter of literature. Indeed, it was Felman who wrote that, “in the same way that psychoanalysis points to the unconscious of literature, literature, in its turn, is the unconscious of psychoanalysis”. Perhaps, an emphasis on the ‘is’.

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References

Barthes, R. (1967) The death of the author, Aspen 5–6.

Bell, D. (1999) Psychoanalysis and culture: A Kleinian perspective. Psychology Press.

Brink, A. (1979) Depression and Loss: A Theme in Robert Burton’s “Anatomy of Melancholy” (1621). The Canadian Journal of Psychiatry24(8), pp.767-772.

Felman, S. (1977) To open the question. Yale French Studies (55/56), pp.5-10.

Freud, S. (1917) Mourning and melancholia. Standard edition14 (239), pp. 1957-61.

Freud, S. (1925) Creative writers and Daydreaming Standard Edition 9: 143-153. (1921). Group psychology and the analysis of the ego. Standard Edition18, pp. 65-143.

Frosh, S. (2010) Psychoanalysis outside the clinic: Interventions in psychosocial studies. Macmillan International Higher Education.

Jones, E. (1949) Hamlet and Oedipus. New York.

Marcus, L. (2014) Introduction: Psychoanalysis at the Margins. A Concise Companion to Psychoanalysis, Literature, and Culture, pp. 1-11.

Marcus, S. (1976) Freud and Dora: story, history, case history. Psychoanalysis and contemporary science5, pp. 389-442.

Ogden, T. (1994) The concept of interpretive action. The Psychoanalytic Quarterly63(2), pp. 219-245.

Ogden, T. (2004) The analytic third: Implications for psychoanalytic theory and technique. The Psychoanalytic Quarterly73(1), pp. 167-195.

Ogden, T. (1996) Reconsidering three aspects of psychoanalytic technique International Journal of Psychoanalysis 77 (5) pp. 883-99.

Phillips. A. (2017) In Writing. Penguin UK.

Proust, M. (1905) On Reading. New York: Three Syrens Press

Roth, M. (2019) A psychoanalytic perspective on reading literature: Reading the reader. Routledge.

Segal, H. (1974) Delusion and artistic creativity: some reflexions on reading ‘The Spire’ by William Golding. International Review of Psycho-Analysis1, pp. 135-141.

Segal, H. (1984) Joseph Conrad and the mid-life crisis. International review of psycho-analysis11, pp. 3-9.

Sodré, I. (2018) Death by daydreaming: Madame Bovary. In Psychoanalysis and Culture (pp. 48-63). Routledge.

Spillers, H. (1996) “All the Things You Could Be by Now If Sigmund Freud’s Wife Was Your Mother”: Psychoanalysis and Race. Critical Inquiry22 (4), pp. 710-734.

West, J. (1985) Conversations with William Styron. United Kingdom: University Press of Mississippi.

Winnicott, D. (1958) The capacity to be alone. International Journal of Psycho-Analysis39, pp. 416-420.

On: Death, Drives and Sir Antony Sher

Year of the King: Amazon.co.uk: Antony Sher: 9781854597533: Books
Genius – on and off the stage

Antony Sher is dead. RIP. He was one of the greatest actors I got to see live. He was also a novelist, playwright, diarist and artist. A renaissance man. Fortunately, as well as seeing his “bottled spider” of a Richard III, and other great performances, I saw his last London stage appearance in Kunene and the King. I am going to think about some of those performances and the pleasure that I got from them and what great artists, musicians and sportspeople can do to us, but death is very much on my mind, and not just because of a couple of weeks of studying Melanie Klein and Sigmund Freud and the Death Drive.

About a fortnight ago I heard that a friend of mine had killed herself. She messaged me at the start of that week, to decline an invitation to a group lunch of our student group, and said she was having some problems with her mental health. It was the first I had heard of it, and when we had built our friendship pre-pandemic, at the university, I marvelled at her love for her family – a husband and two adult sons – and her capacity for work. It was no surprise that she graduated with a first class honours degree. And yet, her internal world must have been crumbling. I don’t think I am in denial, but I am so shocked and numbed by the news that I am not sure I feel anything yet.

Just today, one of my children’s godmothers has let me know that her mother died yesterday. I spent some time working with the Cruse, the grief counselling charity, and even with that experience I don’t know what to do as an immediate response. I know that listening is critical, and encouraging those grieving, to talk about the person they have lost, but somehow it all feels inadequate right now.

My brother recently gave the eulogy at a celebration of the life of one of his great cricketing friends. A man who had the joys of representing his country, but who had to take on cancer after the discovery of an inoperable brain tumour twenty or so years ago. We know life is finite, but we also think that it will be lengthy. We may not believe in our immortality, but we tend to expect to be mortal for some time to come. I wonder how one lives with something like the news of an inoperable tumour. I never met him, but my brother has long celebrated him, like a brother. A man with a largeness of heart that few could rival, and with a compassion for others, rather than dwell on the compassion he himself warranted.

Melanie Klein was responsible for Freud giving greater consideration to the Death Drive, and the experience of World War I veterans made him revise his earliest ideas about the primacy of the sexual drives. But death is an inevitability and life, therefore, should be about preparing for as good or satisfactory a death as possible. To be clear, the death drive is not about a unhealthy wish to die, but an angry, destructive drive, with annihilation at its heart. People who die in acts of uncommon bravery, especially in war, are not consumed by the death drive, but those pursuing a war for whatever political or territorial aim, definitely are. For Klein it was present from the outset for the newborn. She maintained that the baby attributed any of its pains and discomforts to hostile and persecutory forces, including the mother that nurtures it, but occasionally did not provide the nourishment it needed, as soon as it was needed. Hence the ‘good breast/bad breast’.

I have not seen the Ricky Gervais drama ‘After Life’ but there is little doubt that humour, however wry, or discomforting, can allow discourse to happen, where it usually prefers to hide. It seems that it is the most perfect vehicle for understanding our drives and our grief. Freud thought we pursue pleasure, or more accurately avoid unpleasure, and that was the life drive – Eros. The death drive (Thanatos) is constantly trying to overwhelm it, and provide unpleasure. Gervais manages to get audiences to laugh at a scenario where a man loses his wife to breast cancer and contemplates suicide. He wants to project his anger and guilt upon just about anyone, but is frustrated by the way people respond to his anger and guilt and grief, and show him the best of humanity.

I think this is the concept I am wrestling with. Just as my brother grieves, and my daughter’s godmother does, and as I think how fortunate I am that my parents have made it into their eighties, and are still relatively free from health difficulties, I know I will have to think about a time when I no longer have them in my world. However, this exercise was not meant to be maudlin. It was to think about the ends of lives as a point at which one celebrates the life lived, and highs for me often come from watching great actors, sportspeople and musicians. Sher, was one who made me marvel at the exceptional skill, the interpretive genius, and as I learned more about the actor behind the mask, was someone who I admired as someone who could shape his circumstances, not be defined by them. For me that is something of a leitmotif.

My introduction to him was through television. The History Man (1981) – playing Howard Kirk. In the mid-80s I was working, and earning enough to enjoy the best seats at the theatre, and that was how I spent my time when I wasn’t playing non-league football or Essex league cricket. In 1984 in Stratford, and in ’85 at the Barbican, Sher, despite the competition from ‘new Olivier’, Ken Branagh, redefined Shakespearian acting with a performance of such physicality and vocal menace, that I cannot see another actor as Richard III. (And yes, I did think Cumberbatch was pretty impressive). Whilst playing the ‘bottled spider’ and writing ‘The Year of the King’, Sher was ‘dragging up’ for an extraordinary performance in Harvey Fierstein’s “Torch Song Trilogy’. It is some play, but I think I saw it because he was in it, rather than for the play.

If it was possible, the best may still have been to come. In 1987 I saw him redefine Shylock. The pain that he revealed, of a man, who is outsmarted in court, and who seemed to come out from behind his character’s mask, as he gave the heart-wrenching ‘Hath not a Jew eyes?’ speech, is still familiar to me. “If you prick us do we not bleed?” What would he have made of the disgraceful attack on the young Jewish bus passengers this week?

Critics loved his King Lear, but for me it was the one true disappointment. It came three years after his groundbreaking Falstaff. Once again his facility with the Shakespearian lines meant I can still hear him saying them – in this case the brilliant ‘Honour’ speech. “What is in that word “honour”? The Falstaffian contempt for it, “therefore I’ll none of it, honour is a mere scutcheon”, seems to me to be closely associated with our government of today. The Lear, was the only time I could not see his character clearly, and I felt that there was still some Falstaff coming through.

At different times he hid his homosexuality, before finding love with director, Gregory Doran; his faith (his parents had gone to South Africa to escape pogroms in Lithuania) and his white South African heritage, ashamed by apartheid. Yet he became an eloquent speaker about each of these issues that shaped who he was, and why he liked playing someone else on stage. So, I admired him for his multiple artistic talents and for his ability to speak out when necessary.

And so, 2019 came around. I did not know that it was to be the last time to see him on the London stage, but I was very excited by Kunene and the King. A two hander with John Kani, it pushed a black man and an irrascible, dying white man, together, as the black man reluctantly nurses the bigoted patient. Sher played Jack Morris, a fading Shakespearian actor. He has been offered King Lear, but knows he may not be well and strong enough to take it. Through reading parts together, the two men find ways of thinking about the changes in S Africa in the 25 years post apartheid. Morris is astounded that his carer knows Julius Caesar well – from a Xhosa version.

Sher gave a performance of extraordinary nuance and depth. How could he patronise a man, initially dismissed as an identity-less member of “you people”, if like Morris, he appreciated and understood Shakespeare? Sometimes you go for the play, sometimes the playwright, often the actor. It was magnificent. I would have gone to see Sher in anything, like McKellen, or Branagh, or Rylance. He played Sigmund Freud, at Hampstead, in the play ‘Hysteria’, which I wish I had seen. As well as Freud, the other thing I would like to see, if we could travel through time, would be his BAFTA winning turn as Primo Levi (he not only won this acting award, he wrote the play!). It started at the National, but there are film versions. One can only hope it makes it back on to the screen as part of the tributes to him.

He had been ill. We all die. But some deaths make you think deeply about mortality, and about family. They also make you think about the need to live your life well, whilst you have the health and the mental fortitude to do so. A gay, Jewish, South African was probably not the role model I sought when I started work, and as I left school, and yet, I think he has played a big role in my life, as someone to admire and to appreciate just how complex we all are, and we all can be. And he put it on stage and screen, and I was lucky to see him showing me what it is to be multi-faceted, complicated, but above all ‘good’. Professionally, personally and probably morally. RIP.

On: Freud’s repression

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In this essay, I shall describe repression and repression theory as an example of a fundamental concept in Freud’s work. For Freud, little was of greater import, it is the “cornerstone of our understanding of the neuroses”. In his Autobiographical Study, he called it “a novelty” and was clear that with his discovery, “nothing like it had ever before been recognized in mental life”. Once I have described and defined it, I aim to evaluate it, although historic evaluation including Freud’s own, about it being “a cornerstone”, not just of the understanding of neuroses, but of the psychoanalytic field, sets the bar high.  From the outset, this concept is problematical, insofar as it is loosely defined, not least by Freud himself. In generic form, it is a psychic defence. This raises questions about what is being defended, how the defence works and what happens to repressed material. These are addressed below. Furthermore, Freud came to see repression as being two distinct things. Unhelpfully, what he called ‘repression proper’ turns out to be a derivative, whereas repression in what might be called its pure form, is described as ‘primal repression’.  This essay restricts itself to Freud and his concept, but it is helpful to think of the term signifier, when thinking of the primal repressed, which was a word attached to it by French psychoanalyst, Jacques Lacan, later in the twentieth century. Billig (1999) described repression as a “willed forgetting” and explained that we have a need to forget our secrets, but also the fact of having forgotten them. The forgetting of the forgotten is successful repression.

I shall start with an attempt to define repression; what it is we must forget we have forgotten.  It is when we cannot recall a memory from the past.  We say it is repressed. But what does that mean? In the original, the German word verdrangung, described what was happening.  The best translations of this seem to be ‘to push away’; ‘to thrust aside’. What is being thrust aside? Beliefs that cannot become conscious, because the content is so shocking, or painful, (such as a murderous rage towards one’s father) that something obstructs them ie thrusts aside and makes repressed. Freud’s terminology translated as an instinctual impulse, as that which is thrust aside. It is the impulse which passes into a state of repression. Freud explains that such a horror would inspire a fight or flight response, but given that “the ego cannot escape from itself”, it cannot fly.

In his short paper on Repression, first published in Zeitschrift, Freud grapples with why should something need repressing. If what is being repressed is the satisfaction of a need, a drive, that is inconsistent with the view that satisfying a need generates pleasure. Therefore, for this psychic mechanism to happen, it must be responding to the risk of unpleasure, in the case of a murderous rage, perhaps the subsequent guilt attached to parricide. Having the impulse met, the need satisfied is pleasurable, but it is the coexistence of unpleasures such as shame and the condemnation of society that causes the repression. None of this ever reaches the conscious level of the mind, but is fought out by the impulse and the defence. Freud explains that the force of the feelings of unpleasure overwhelm the pleasure of satisfying the unconscious impulse. It is at this point that he addresses the question of what happens to the repressed impulse. Freud understood that it is kept “at a distance” from conscious activity, but that it continues to exist.

This brings him to the theorising of two types, or components of repression. Primal repression is the first phase, much as described above – the impulse is denied entry to the conscious. He notes that what happens next, repression proper, is when psychic derivatives of the initial impulse attach themselves and make a renewed attempt to become conscious. These derivatives are also repressed, which is why Freud describes recession proper as an “after pressure”. Unlike primal repression the material that needs to be defended in repression proper, has once been available to the conscious but has been defended against. An early trauma is an example – too difficult and painful to tolerate, but available nonetheless. To remind his readers that repressed impulses continue to exist, he writes that repression only exists to act as a bar to one psychical system, namely the conscious. He suggests, moreover, that the repressed impulse “proliferates in the dark”. The “censorship of the conscious” is weakened by how far the derivative is from the initial primal repression, and sufficient distance can allow it access to the conscious, at which point they manifest as neurotic symptoms. Lastly, repression is not uniform. He highlights this to emphasise that a repression is not a permanent event, and for repression to succeed it needs a pressure, because it has to be able to resist the upward pressure of the unconscious, to which the impulse has returned, but not disappeared. He writes of these forces as “repressive cathexes”, which relax during periods of sleep and contribute to the formation of dreams as a renewed attempt of the unconscious impulse to break through.

Freud was not the discoverer of the unconscious; he himself notes the many artists and philosophers who had an understanding that it might exist, but the theory of repression is his unique work. In his paper, “The Ego and the Id”, Freud noted that we obtain our concept of the unconscious, “from the theory of repression”. Whilst an awareness of the probability of the unconscious had been acknowledged, he thinks the theory of repression allows it to be conceptualised. Herein lies its significance. He thinks the ego itself is the mechanism of repression and in his later years he asserted that the work of the analytical treatment was to strengthen the ego in its battle with id. This is a curio, because one might interpret it as an invitation for more repression. Was he advocating that, consciously or unconsciously?

If it can be satisfactorily defined, we might get around to asking, is it a necessary process? Does it have any sort of protective function? Also, does it always work? The strength of one’s defences is not consistent. At times of weakness it allows unconscious material to intrude, hence parapraxes. More familiarly, our defence is weak when we sleep. Dreams, the things that when interpreted are the “royal road to the unconscious”, are the best example, alongside symptoms. For Freud, this is the return of the repressed and is linked to the repetition compulsion. Freud notes that repression is a mechanism originating in the ego, and also that it is unconscious. He had come to understand that ego is not exclusively conscious. Achieving that understanding was a consequence of the work on repression, giving weight to its significance to the development of psychoanalysis. We accept that the return of the repressed is an inevitability, because we have not overcome it.

What might we think about the nature of repression at a societal level? This is important because we come to ask if repression is important. It seems to be something that protects us from feelings of guilt and shame, which might be too debilitating to carry on living. In this way, it might be thought of as a kind of uber-defence. Either way, the significance of his theory is its impact on futures, individually and collectively. In “Beyond the Pleasure Principle” he explores what the analyst can achieve working with something the analysand cannot remember: “The patient cannot remember the whole of what is repressed in him, and what he cannot remember may be the essential part of it”. It is in this essay that Freud writes about a repetition compulsion. “He is obliged to repeat the repressed material as a contemporary experience…” For me, it is this quality of the theory of repression, that it begot more ideas, that highlights its enormous worth. That something so radical could be taken up by future generations of analysts gives weight in any evaluation of repression.

In applying his discovery to treatments, specifically for neuroses, Freud started by believing that repressing material generated anxieties. An anxiety was the consequence of a repression because the energy associated with the unconscious drive had not been released – no pleasure. Patients were aware that something needed to be resolved, but not really what that was. Hence an anxiety. However, many years later he revised his thinking. In his revised view, anxiety begets repression, not being a consequence of it. An idea in the unconscious that is threatening to the integrity of the ego becomes the thing that the ego acts to repress. The anxiety came first; the defence, repression, was the response.

By evaluating repression, one is attempting to determine its significance, and to consider its strengths and also its limitations. How does one evaluate a “cornerstone”? Cohen and Kinston (1984) took the view that when Freud said that repression takes place only after a “sharp cleavage” between conscious and unconscious activity, and that in some papers he seemed to exclude some ages such as the pre-pubertal; that he might have wished to exclude some conditions, and they speculate those to be psychoses. It allows them to develop what they claim are long-standing theoretical inconsistencies, mostly linked with Freud’s views that primal repression was linked to trauma. They review the literature on borderline, psychotic and narcissistic patients in examining whether the theory of repression is inapplicable. Even if there is some merit to their argument, I am not convinced it truly damages the “cornerstone” or threatens to bring the structure down. In another criticism, they explore the use of cathexes and suggest that this is a convenient “economic metaphor” Freud used when he wanted or needed to avoid detailed definitions. They summarise that Freud allowed for ambiguity or for further research by using both a ‘cathexis hypothesis’ which mapped to his topographical model of the mind and concurrently working with a form hypothesis, which blends elements of both the topographical and the structural models of the mind. When one is dealing with something as dynamic as the unconscious, I take the view that it is wise to not be absolutist, and to leave room for fresh thinking. One final criticism the authors level is to take issue with the lack of “clearly stated hypotheses” regarding the formation and the “mechanism of primal repression”. This seems more justifiable, but Freud himself understood it, and it was his willingness to consider the impact of “environment” that allowed him to wrestle free from an impulse being realised as a potential source of unpleasure, not pleasure, and hence the cathexis for repression overwhelmed the cathexis to break into consciousness.

Blum (2003) has more to say on the significance of repression, especially in the dyadic analytical relationship because for him repression is indissolubly linked with transference. “Transference is a return of the repressed, with repressed memories embedded within a fundamental unconscious fantasy constellation.” It seems to me that this is critical in evaluating repression. Not only has it given psychoanalysis the theoretical foundation it required, and allowed us to explore unconscious, but it has been a productive tool in treatment. Blum’s essay is a response to an article penned by Peter Fonagy, who had disregarded the link between transference and repression. The enduring debates about Freud’s work are testament to its significance. Amongst Freud’s best-known and regarded psychoanalytic successors is Bion, who in his “Attention and Interpretation” also considered the analytical situation and the “experience of remembering a dream”. He thought memory should only be associated with a “conscious attempt to recall” and echoed Freud on the significance of repression proper making its renewed assaults on consciousness, often in dreams, when reminding us that “dream-like memory is the memory of psychic reality and is the stuff of analysis” (my emphasis).

This essay has described repression, one of Freud’s fundamental concepts, generally as a psychic defence, and more specifically, in explaining the way that primal repression forms and is repressed, and repression proper, which is sometimes repressed, and is an “after-pressure”. In the second half of this essay I have considered the significance of Freud’s great discovery, and his own view that it was first, a “cornerstone”, in the understanding of neuroses, and more boldly a “cornerstone” for psychoanalysis itself. In evaluating the discovery, I have reviewed papers that regard the definition and mechanism of primal repression as ambiguous and I have considered the significance of how the theory of repression has enhanced treatment, especially with regard to working with transference. I conclude that repression is fundamental to modern clinical technique and to the history, concepts and theoretical bases for psychoanalysis. Truly a cornerstone.

References

Billig, M. (2000) Freud’s Different Versions of forgetting “Signorelli”.  Int. J. Psychoanal., (81)(3):483-498

Billig, M. (1999). Freudian repression: Conversation creating the unconscious. Cambridge University Press.

Bion, W. R. (Ed.). (2013). Attention and interpretation: A scientific approach to insight in psycho-analysis and groups (Vol. 4). Routledge.

Blum, H. (2003) Repression, transference and reconstruction International Journal of Psychoanalysis (84) (3) pp. 497-503

Cohen, J.  & Kingston, W. (1984) Repression Theory: A New Look at the Cornerstone International Journal of Psychoanalysis (65) pp. 411-22

Freud, S. (1995). The Freud Reader. (Ed. P. Gay) United Kingdom: Vintage.

Frosh, S. (2012). A Brief Introduction to Psychoanalytic Theory. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.

Does your work have meaning? Is it meaningful?

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Does your work have meaning? Is it meaningful? And do you think those two things are the same, or different? Who remembers Lloyd Blankfein, Goldman Sachs CEO, claiming his firm did “God’s work”? Does your work embrace something spiritual? I ask, because I am starting the literature review for my university dissertation and I am looking at doing some research that fits into the fields of Employee Engagement and/or the Meaningfulness of Work. This is likely to be the first in a series of pleas to help me get that work done, by filling in a survey that once it has Ethics Approval, will appear on my LinkedIn account. 

It is a subject that is important to me because I am not sure that work ever had much meaning for me. It had a purpose, definitely, and I was very motivated to be as good at it as I could be, and to be rewarded for doing it. I am not convinced that is the same as either meaning, or meaningfulness. In the last ten years of my career in the City, I had a number of managerial roles. I wonder what answers I would have got in those insufferable semi-annual reviews, if I had explored meaning with my teams, instead of pointless KPIs, and unsubtle applications of verbal carrots and sticks. 

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I am a fan of Alain de Botton’s ‘School of Life’. In a recent promotional email, they suggested that the two ingredients that make up a fulfilled life are love and work. Freud is said to have remarked that “love and work are the cornerstones of humanness”. Unless, the School suggests, we have a found a vocation – a form of work that is both enjoyable and meaningful – our existence will be directionless and hollow. But does attention to one of these ingredients diminish the other? I remember looking at my sales teams and wondering about their sense of meaning. 

Individually, most of them shared my view of us as hamsters on an ever-spinning wheel, going nowhere, but unwilling to get off because meaningless work still met the needs we had, which was usually a mortgage and school fees. So that, as I understood it, gave people purpose (be diligent, don’t get sacked), but was a long way from meaning. This year has seen many of us standing in our doorways clapping NHS workers. We have talked about ‘’heroes’ amongst essential, but often low-paid workers. Perhaps we are all being asked to recalibrate meaning of work. 

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The academic literature on Employee Engagement and on Motivation is lengthy and deep. Meaning at Work and meaningfulness is a younger field, perhaps a quarter of a century, and offers more scope for new and innovative research. One researcher wrote that “the meaning of work literature is still experiencing its adolescence” (Rosso et al, 2010). Is it important? In a paper published in the Journal of Career Assessment in 2012, Steger et al asserted that “meaningful work is a good predictor of desirable work attitudes like job satisfaction and a better predictor of absenteeism from work than job satisfaction.” It seems that if you want people to be happy at their job and show up, it’s more important that they find meaning in it, than that they enjoy it.

I am interested in seeing if there are gender differences to meaning at work; if the age cohort is important, and what the correlation is, if any, between earnings and meaningfulness. Perhaps meaning will have been impacted or enhanced by the pandemic-induced WFH culture? I recently spent time with a former boss of mine and we found ourselves talking about how little meaning our roles had had, albeit using slightly different language. What was interesting to me, with a research hat on, was that we had had big roles, some status, insofar as status is conferred by a title, and we were very highly paid. 

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What is meaning, then? And meaningfulness? All research refers back to Viktor Frankl, a holocaust survivor who wrote “Man’s Search for Meaning” in 1946. He went on to found logotherapy – a meaning-centred school of psychotherapy. He wrote that “I wish to stress that the true meaning of life is to be discovered in the world rather than within man or his own psyche.” That said, I have found no evidence of anyone paraphrasing Descartes’s “cogito ergo sum” or “I think, therefore I am”, with “I work, therefore I am”. 

Consider, are work hours growing? Is work a greater share of our lives? Has the pandemic further eroded work boundaries? Does that mean it is more or less meaningful? What happens to colleagues with different views on the meaning of work? Do we need to organise so that more like-minded people work together, or seek diversity? 

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In 2010 Rosso et al published ‘On the Meaning of Work’. The importance of the subject and the paper was “it moves beyond hedonic perspectives of work behaviour to deeper considerations of purpose and significance….and eudemonic aspects of wellbeing”. (Eudemonia is an Aristotelian philosophy that a ‘full’ life is governed by reason). They found the distinction between meaning and meaningfulness: Meaning describes a type of meaning which is attributable to work, whereas meaningfulness was characterised by the amount of significance attached to it. This built upon the work of Pratt and Ashforth (2003), who had suggested meaning may not confer meaningfulness, and that ‘significance’ was the determinant of meaningfulness.

Other research has built on Rosso et al’s work that Meaning has four sources: the self, others, the work context and spirituality. Given that “a person’s self-concept is malleable”, literature exploring the self as a source of meaning is further sub-divided into values, motivations and beliefs about work. I think the example of the Timpson business would be valuable for research given its strong commitment to employing people who have criminal records and are rebuilding their lives. 

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This is important. Values may be the most irreconcilable issue with work. Perhaps a deeply politically sensitive teacher would feel they simply could not teach in a private school. Motivations are likely to be divided between extrinsic (pay, titles, status) and intrinsic (self-esteem, doing something worthwhile) and beliefs about work are likely to be more organisational, and relates to how ‘central’ the role is to the worker’s life. In the world of deeper interest in Corporate Social Responsibility and ESG investing, as well as Organisational Citizenship Behaviour (OCB), this is becoming increasingly significant for recruitment. 

Meaningfulness is something that has been studied across what are collectively known as the ‘caring professions’ and also the priesthood. What caring does in terms of psychic attrition (especially things like end of life care) as well as giving a positive boost from caring and helping, are still not well understood, but it may be that low pay in many of these roles is a function of the worker’s desire for meaningfulness in that role, making them vulnerable to exploitation. I am tempted to try and research that. My son’s girlfriend works in mental health nursing, with an autism specialisation. It’s skilled, it’s socially valuable, it clearly is meaningful to her and her colleagues, but is it rewarded appropriately and does the meaningfulness make the workers less demanding in pay negotiation? 

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Theorists propose that people see work as either i) a job (a focus on material outcomes) ii) a career (a focus on organisational structure and progress/status) or iii) a calling (a focus on work fulfilment – the work is an end in itself). Meaning that does not come from the self comes from either i) coworkers ii) leaders iii) groups and communities or iv) family. Combinations probably lead to enhanced meaningfulness, but whether they are additive or multiplicative needs further study. 

In a 2016 MIT Sloan Management Review paper, Bailey and Madden concluded that meaningfulness is personal not institutional, which begs questions of why should firms be bothered by the research. It remains to be tested whether meaningfulness is a constant or fluctuates, but their research noted that meaningfulness is rarely experienced in the moment, but often retrospectively. My work had a significant mentoring element. Although I question how much meaning my work had, I definitely have a sense of meaningfulness when I see ex-colleagues doing well in their careers, or if they call me now to ask for some advice and counsel. 

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However, in 2018 the same authors wrote about the ‘Five Paradoxes’ associated with meaningfulness, the most pertinent one for me given my Burnout experience was “deeply meaningful work can lead to poor outcomes for employee wellbeing” ie it unhealthily intrudes on personal lives. I am sure most of the people I know, and who will read this have a view on meaning at work and on meaningfulness. Many of those views will be cynical, sceptical or simply think it irrelevant – work is simply a contract between employer and employee which exchanges labour for reward. 

I understand that, but in an era where we will live longer, and almost certainly have to work longer, even if we don’t particularly want to, I think this is an important field. I would love to hear some views and I end with a repeat of my earlier plea: When I design my research experiment and get the Ethics approvals, please support me by filling in the survey. Thank you. Burnsie.

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Has lockdown made you angry? Or angrier?

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Back in the early days of lockdown, as March became April, the first articles appeared about how it might change our world. Initial thoughts were inspiring, considered and considerate. We were going to be more aware of the environment. We were going to value the utility of workers. We were going to pay some in the ‘front-line’; not merely clap for them. We were going to appreciate those doing the dirtiest labour, and be especially grateful if they had come to these shores, to escape from a war-torn home or an economic collapse. We were going to slow down, both activities and thoughts. We were going to smell the coffee and a lot else besides. 

As the six-month mark approaches of a world adjusted to the impact of coronavirus, it seems to me to be a good time to take an emotional temperature check. For many, this has been a difficult time. Personal liberties have been affected. Some have been forced into unwelcome shared living arrangements. Others have been forced to deal with an imposed solitude. Still more of us, tragically, are grieving. Grief comes to us all and there is no universal approach to dealing with its impact, but forced into funeral non-attendance, and in many cases, unable to say final goodbyes, means the collective weight of this nation’s grieving seems heavier than usual, notwithstanding the sinister terminology of ‘excess deaths’. 

Based on my far from large sampling, which is definitely not widely representative and appropriate for extrapolations, I sense that all that communal goodwill which seemed to be a feature of early lockdown, has become a bubbling fresh anger. An international, widespread anger. Potentially, a very disturbing anger. It may be that being at home, often alone, for longer means more time spent in social media echo-chambers, which skews moods and temperament. Nonetheless, I have been reminded that Gogol claimed that without anger ‘not much can be said,’ because ‘only in anger is the truth uttered.’ 

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In a slightly different context, Malcolm Bull once wrote these words in a LRB article, “Over the past decade it has become commonplace to claim that the world is divided between the passionless few in whose interests it is run and an angry multitude whose interests are ignored.” The description “angry multitude” is what has been on my mind.

I recently read about how Sweden is becoming prey to angry right wing political movements. Sweden is generally perceived as liberal and consensus supporting. It has adopted a policy to the virus that is libertarian and akin to ‘herd immunity’ that most nations have eschewed. Generally personal liberties are respected. So why all the anger? A couple of Fridays ago, a large riot broke out in Malmo after apparent far-right sympathisers burned a Koran in an immigrant suburb. Violence, race inspired or otherwise, has already been called Sweden’s “second pandemic”. 

Sweden has witnessed over 200 shootings and 24 deaths as the collateral damage of this collective angry psyche. In what may be the very appropriately named Gothenburg suburb, Angered, which has a large immigrant population, criminal gangs now control people movement thanks to their own roadblocks. Interior Minister, Mikael Damberg commented “it’s not really economics or taxes that are the main sources of conflict in Swedish politics – values, identity, crime that is where the debate is”. 

In the US of course, it is government strategy to fuel identity differences. We need reminding that all humans share 99% of genes and that only 1% of our genes impact our individual differences. The US President blithely talked about “great patriots” when people attacked the BLM protest rallies held after the luckless black man, Jacob Blake, was shot seven times as he attempted to get into his own car. 

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I am not going to identify with Trumpian patriots or BLM activists but to try to understand the intensity of the anger. Sure, group processes, as any psychologist will tell you, cause more extremes of behaviour and sentiment than any individual would feel, as individuals ‘group identify’, but where does this deep-seated and now, murderous antipathy come from? Yes, there is manipulation by political leaders for their own ends but the underlying anger and hatred is appalling, or intriguing, depending on your view. Anger is contagious. One wonders at how the participants in the rallies will react when their activity, much captured by cameras, is played back to them.

The supporters of ‘law and order’ might argue that protests inflame and incite. Alas, few people who have read any history cannot have failed to note that protesters of whichever hue, generally have history shine a favourable light upon them. And importantly, to protest requires huge courage, often putting bodies at risk of physical harm. It is not just lockdown UK that I sense has become angrier. Far more profound anger and resentment is behind most of the collective mood in Belarus and in Hong Kong.

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In the UK, I watch Anti-vaccers and Anti-maskers etc. making their own protests. The “if you are not with us, you are against us” attitude that affects Extinction Rebellion intrigues me. The Times has (unhelpfully?) published a Brazilian study that suggests that people inclined to be anti-mask and anti-vaccine are sociopaths, and have the dark trinity of personality traits including narcissism, psychopathy and Machiavellianism. Whatever position one takes on these issues, we should still be happy to think Voltaire-like, and disagree, but defend the right to express contra-opinion. 

As I thought about whether collective anger is rising, which often leads to poor outcomes, I started to think more about what anger is and whether it was a bad thing. I am getting more interested in it. I have changed my view about the need for it to be expressed. Venting anger often allows it to subside. In many cases, it disappears. The short period of inflammation is doused by exposure, rather than given fresh oxygen. Is it a clinical syndrome, rather than an emotion linked to mental disorders? My dictionary says it is “hot displeasure, often involving a desire for retaliation”. Angrier is to be “excited with anger, to be inflamed”.  

Aristotle defined it as “a desire, accompanied by pain, for apparent revenge in response to an apparent insult to oneself or one’s own from persons who ought not to insult one.” Do revenge and retaliation have a legitimate role in society or one’s personal life? Socrates insists that we should never return wrong for wrong, injury for injury. Socrates was not commanding his followers to turn the other cheek, but a thinker reminding his friend Crito of the conclusion of many arguments they had shared: the urge to hit back is demeaning and harmful to anyone who succumbs to it. 

Seneca took the view (‘De Ira’ or ‘On Anger’) that anger is the only emotion that can, occasionally, impact a whole nation.  ‘No entire people has ever burned with love for a woman, no whole state has set its hope on money or gain; ambition seizes individuals one by one; only fury plagues whole communities at once.’ He had in mind vengeance against an enemy. I wonder if the virus has become our unseen enemy and anger, which we recognise is a feeling that rises within us, is bubbling up. Our collective psyche is affected; we sense a change in us, a shortness of temper, an irritability. 

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I read about a young waitress who had returned to work and was working intensively thanks to the Chancellor’s ‘Eat Out to Help Out’ scheme. She reflected, not on being able to earn some money, or on the pleasure of working with customers again, but on how a customer had been rude to her and complained about the speed of service. What possesses a man, alas it was a man, to be rude to a staff member rather than be grateful that the establishment was open, and happy that it was full enough for him to have to wait a little to be served?

As part of my psychotherapy work, I shall be involved in an Infant Observation seminar group. I will think about anger as expression in a neonate and infant. I think of it as innate rather than learned, so it has a purpose. We need something like anger as part of our ‘fight or flight’ stimuli. When I was growing up, children were expected to be much more ‘seen and not heard’. Tantrums were unwelcome. Anger and frustration, however clumsily and inarticulately expressed was a ‘bad thing’ and ‘bad behaviour’ and usually invited a punishment. In other words, a sanction on top of a punishment, as the original cause of the anger was still not resolved.

When I was a parent I expected my children to be ‘well behaved’ and in a post-smacking world, used whatever means I could to coerce them into behaving. I now realise that much of what drove my approach was about the desire to have other adults compliment my wife and I on our good parenting, rather than paying attention to my children’s own needs. Anger is a protest and, especially for the young, is about not being listened to. Not being heard is a key anger-catalyst, as I imagine most racial minorities, physically or mentally disabled people and non-heterosexual beings might agree. I did not read many parenting books, perhaps I should have done, but I wonder how many lead with the need to listen to your child. 

If a child is not heard, they learn to internalise anger – the “what’s the point?” attitude to life, which affects all their adult relationships. It is likely to lead to passive-aggressive behaviour to “get back” at people, without telling them why, or being hostile and critical openly. Even when anger seems like an instantaneous, knee-jerk reaction to provocation, there’s always some other feeling that gave rise to it. And this particular feeling is precisely what the anger has contrived to camouflage. In other words, it is reactive, and often it is reacting to fear. 

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I learned a little about the physiological effect of anger. One of the hormones the brain secretes during anger arousal is norepinephrine, experienced by the organism as an analgesic. So, we numb ourselves when confronted by the threat of physical or psychological pain. This may partly explain why our decision making is often so poor when we are angered. It seems that when we cannot comfort ourselves through self-validation, we solve by attempting to invalidate others.

Anger often makes us feel powerful, thanks to the production of epinephrine, also known as adrenaline. It raises our cardiac output and raises blood glucose levels. This helps us to address our deepest doubts about ourselves. It is little wonder that it can end up controlling us. The psychoanalytic and Freudian point of view saw that anger was frequently turned inward. Freud thought that was what depression really was, but he was less forthcoming about the sources of anger. However, he thought that aggression was an inbuilt drive. He referred to it as Thanatos, sometimes called the ‘death instinct’. It can be turned inwards, and leads in extremis to suicide, or outward to repel something that is perceived as a threat to our self. 

In Jung’s “The Phenomenology of the Self” he highlighted “the shadow”, which is the unknown and dark side of one’s personality. This part of ourselves is instinctive, irrational and primitive. Its impulses are lust, power, greed, envy, rage and of course, anger. He believed that psychological health was what was achieved when one could recognize and integrate the shadow aspect of our self. In other words, living with anger, understanding it has a value, but not being subject to it, is one outcome of individuation, on the road to self-actualisation, which is the process of being our best self. Anger is often the catalyst for great deeds. As any sportsman or woman would highlight, the “I’ll show you” response to a non-selection, or a journalist’s criticism, can often be very powerfully used as a positive motivator.

So, I started this sensing that we are in an angrier place, with collective anger levels turning up. If that is true, it can lead to poor outcomes and that was my initial concern. Now, I am thinking more about the importance of anger, and also that anger expressed is often preferable to anger repressed. I think about protests in the streets, and I think about people I know, some of whom are perceived as ‘angry’ and others whose almost unnatural calm, means I am starting to see them through fresh, slightly concerned, eyes. I think about my upbringing and about how I raised my children. Anger is both an intrinsic part of human nature and an asset to society when there is fighting to be done.

The questions are:

Are you angry? Angrier? And do you acknowledge it may come from a position of fear? Are we all angrier now? And is that a bad thing?

Dating and Desires now

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Seduction and disguise. Dating and desire.

Sexuality defines us in healthy and essential ways. It is said that ‘there can be no sexuality without anxiety’. Repressing desire is unhealthy. Last weekend the FT carried an article by Madison Darbyshire in which she described how her love life was ‘flourishing’ under lockdown. At the same time, a psychotherapist friend of mine was discussing what happens to desire in these circumstances. The world is fairly familiar with Freud’s core ideas, especially that sexual repression and denial can be damaging mentally. Sexual theory was what he regarded as his most important work. We thought that post lockdown, more candour and less inhibited behaviour might be noticeable. 

For Freudians, human behaviour is driven by the ‘pleasure principle’. How much pleasure is there for a society in lockdown? He claimed that sexual desires were controlled by the ‘reality principle’ ie conforming to socially acceptable behaviour. Put another way, unbridled pleasure is repressed by the reality principle. It is the clash between Eros (sexual desire, intimacy and love) and Thanatos (death and the fear and attraction of death). It gets buried in the unconscious, where we defend ourselves from revealing our true selves. My friend and I think that is being exacerbated by current conditions. 

Darbyshire claims a surge in ‘dating’ in the remote, lockdown world. She describes shared drinks, shared movies and shared card games. She notes that it has upended the expression ‘to date’. She quotes some Tinder statistics. ‘Conversations’ on the site are up 20% since mid-February, and on 29 March, it set a new record for ‘one day swipes’. 

Dates, it seems, are now ‘planned with Zoom’. They are time limited, to satisfy the sharing of one drink. If it goes well, the Zoom time-clock is re-set and a second drink is poured and consumed. I liked her observation that “online dating has become anything but impersonal. A conversation with someone sitting in their kitchen, living room or bedroom is intimate in a way that a first drink in a bar can never be.”

Can video chatting stay exciting? It seems, so far, the answer is a resounding ‘yes’. There is some discovery of the multi-layers of two personalities. Alain de Botton’s School of Life has addressed dating at a distance in its promotional materials. Much of the School’s work is about conversations, about communications and about connection. It goes way beyond the intimate and personal spheres; more a manifesto for a better world. But in addressing dating, the point is made, “if a date is at heart an audition for emotional capacities required for the success of a long-term relationship, the real purpose of conversation must be to try to understand the deep self of the other person”. 

Now, before we address the psychoanalytic challenge of whether any of us are comfortable knowing our own ‘deep self’, this seems to me to perfectly segue from Darbyshire’s article. The School of Life even sells ‘dating cards’ with examples of questions to ask. I quite like this premise. A couple of examples: “who would you like to go back and apologise to – and what for?” And, “what are the main points you would like to be covered in a speech at your funeral?”

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Aphrodisiac

This is something of a refresher for me. In my online dating experiences, shortly after I divorced, I became used to an almost formulaic timetable. Everything was lust/desire led. Sexual compatibility was the starting point for a possible emotional connection. A reversal from my pre-marital dating experiences.  The ‘are we, or are we not’ establishment of sex potential was concluded by date 2, and some time later the momentum shifted from the physical to more emotional connection. I thought I may have met some unusually direct potential partners, but a number of my friends had similar experiences. 

I very much enjoyed the whole experience, but wearied of it when I realised that even those suggesting they “only wanted some fun and some company” really were looking for much more emotional depth and engagement.  I was too soon out of the most significant relationship I ever expect to have. Emotional engagement was beyond my capacity to share then. But I like what Alain de Botton is driving at with his cards for dating, and Ms Darbyshire’s points. Perhaps old-fashioned words and phrases like “Stepping out” and “courting” will enjoy a revival? 

Darbyshire thinks that the ‘first date is a video date’ model, may survive the end of quarantining. It is cheaper, more time efficient, intimate, but easy to leave. I think she may be right. That is not to suggest that physical contact will be unfashionable. Which brings me to ‘desire’. My psychotherapist friend and I both think that there is likely to be a shift in behaviours, if quarantining gets relaxed. I don’t really like the war analogies for coronavirus, but the longer it goes on, the more one might expect the decadence of the Roaring Twenties, and the pick up in affairs and the collective sexual appetites of the late Forties. 

My friend said that she herself was finding that her mind was much more filled with erotic thoughts, and that she felt the lockdown was stirring her unconscious. She thought that that might be true more widely. The collective unconscious is being stirred. She was sure that her id was wresting control from her ego. She was more in touch with her primary drives. For Freud, of course, sexual drive is at the core of his approach to uncovering the archaeology of the mind. He worked through stages of psychosexual development and asserted that even neonates were sexual creatures. 

From the outset, the baby sucking at the teat is establishing a bond. This is the oral stage. The infant feeds and pleasures by engaging with the mother’s nipple. The mother becomes the first love object replacing the breast as the first object of desire. Films of infants’ faces after they have suckled and sated their needs, show remarkable similarity of expression to an adult male’s face, when he is sexually sated, and has ejaculated.

The oral phase is replaced by the anal phase. The child has its first sense of mastery ie of the anal orifice. Admired for the timing of his or her defecation, it has an effect on adult attitudes to tidiness and to messiness. The use of the disparaging, he or she “is so anal” is quite common when describing adult contemporaries. The phallic phase follows. Despite its name it applies to boys and to girls. It is a period of fascination with one’s own genitalia and introduces Freud’s ideas on the Oedipus Complex and the Electra Complex. This is the realm of castration anxiety and penis envy. 

Much of his work here has been discredited, but the ideas have remarkable durability. It is a time of separation anxiety and for most children coincides with leaving their mother at the school gate and how they manage that challenge. The ego becomes trained to follow the ‘reality principle’ and to control the ‘pleasure principle’. Conformity applies, social conventions are followed.

Latency follows. This is when there is acceptance of the mother’s place in the father’s affections. The Oedipal drives become contained. A period of relative indifference to one’s sexuality, until a blossoming into the genital phase, a resolution of transitioning from latency to mature sexuality, when a love object to replace the primary caregiver (mother/father) is found. Some people get stuck in the latent phase. This manifests itself in adult ‘immaturity’ and an inability to form fulfilling, lasting relationships. 

I can observe the impact of desire and frustrated desire on my own family. One daughter is fortunate enough to be quarantined with her boyfriend. The other has had to endure my flatmate skills, whilst not being able to be with her man, who was very ill with the virus. My son is isolated and has the frustration that his girlfriend lives nearby, but as a NHS worker, sharing a home with a front-line nurse, is very high risk. He is having to manage without seeing her. I wonder what it is doing in other homes? Is it even worse for adults together, but sharing small living spaces with their young adult children?

I see changing habits on Instagram and other social media. Some of the content today is much more about exercising the ‘look at me’ gene, typically associated with actors and performers. I think that this has shifted in just four weeks. An academic at my university used to post pictures of sunsets and sunrises from her South London vantage point, and I ‘followed’ her. Now she has taken to displaying her ballet dancing skills. She videos herself doing very demanding stretch exercises and steps, attired in ever-briefer, tighter, dance and gym garments. I suspect this may be related to frustration. 

A former colleague posted a video of her skill in removing a pair of pyjama bottoms, by dragging one foot against her leg, whilst maintaining a handstand. Once free of the pyjamas, she is clad in quite a skimpy crop top and pants, and reveals a finely-toned body. Would these videos have been shared pre-COVID? My suspicion is that they would not.

My psychotherapist friend wanted to explore what desire and frustration was doing to us and to people we knew. She was interested to hear about how my playwriting partner and I share scripts, which we edit together, thanks to the wonder of googledocs. Her response was to suggest that we attempted to co-write an ‘erotic journal’. Would this relieve our desires and frustrations, or merely exacerbate them? It turns out, that there is a reason why writers think that writing about sex is the most difficult thing to do. There is an equally good reason why the ‘Bad Sex’ writing awards generate so much mirth. I have never worked with a couples’ therapist, or been a client of one, but I imagine this is an exercise they recommend.

Writing can allow fantasies to be expressed that may be too uncomfortable when said face to face, even to a loving partner; perhaps, especially to a loving partner. But for a loving couple the poor writing, or the tawdriness of it, can be an excuse for laughter, which is often a catalyst for intimacy. Sexual fantasies alarm us; they often include ‘perversions’. Having fantasies does not mean we need to act them out, but they can be a form of relief. I learned that any sort of erotic writing is painfully difficult and repeatedly asks questions of oneself. I am not good at it! 

I mentioned it to a couple of friends. One lives on an island off the British mainland and his lover is in London. He almost has a double frustration. Urban dwellers can fantasise about lovers breaking lockdown, and stealing some passion, however inappropriate that might be, but he can hardly dream about his lover breaking quarantine and dashing to the coast and swimming into his arms! His remoteness made his need for intimacy all the greater. I doubt he will write though.

It is not as if it is a new thing. There is precedent for writing to work as relief. In the 1830’s, well-to-do translator, Sarah Austin, fell in love with the author of the book she was translating, a German Prince, Hermann von Puckler-Muskau. They did not meet for years and by then the ardour had drained, but for years, he was the release for her own sexual frustration. She told him, after a mutual acquaintance had been less than flattering about her beauty, that “all that is beneath the petticoat is worth one thousand times more than the rest”; her prospective lover would be pleased by what he found “in the dark”. It is assumed that she was not referring to the lighting in the room!

When describing her womanly qualities, “I like riding full gallop”, had nothing to do with equestrianism, and for emphasis and understanding, “what rapture it would be to minister in any way to the pleasures of a man who loved me”. She exuded sexual adventurism through her pen, “in your bed, I should be more glorious if I could invent a new pleasure for you”, and “Cleopatra herself could not exceed me as a bedfellow”. 

Recensione: "Eyes Wide Shut" | IL BUIO IN SALA
Eyes Wide Shut

In Kubrick’s 1999 film, Eyes Wide Shut, Tom Cruise is improbably in a loveless, sexless union with Nicole Kidman. It is based on Schnitzler’s “Traumnovelle” or “Dream Story”. I enjoyed it when it was released, but I wonder if it is going to be better when I watch it next. It feels like a film for these times. The themes are desire, inequality, class distinction, and plague. The plutocrats who run and attend the orgy, cover themselves in gowns and masks to obscure their identity. Women wear masks but not much else. The costumes have been likened to those worn by C14 doctors treating the bubonic plague. The strange bird beak masks were used so that thyme and spices could be stuffed into the beaks to obstruct the airborne transmission of disease. The orgy is about being able to satisfy desire without emotional connection. Cruise’s doctor protagonist is literally unmasked, because he cares – in his case, for the prostitute, Domino. It was set to reflect its era, and the plague of the time, AIDS, but I think we might find fresh relevance in it. Again, it asks about what happens to desire, when it is frustrated.

In an article for London Review of Books, Adam Shatz (Dec, 2010), wrote that “the philosophy of desire” was born in 1969. Gilles Deleuze, a philosopher, and Felix Guattari, a psychoanalyst and political activist, co-wrote and thought that Freud was wrong in seeing desire rooted in absence, the fantasisation and the fetishisation of a missing object, namely the mother’s breast. They published ‘Anti-Oedipus’ to refute Freud, and posited that desire had no limits; it passes through everyone without belonging to anyone. But surely, in a quarantine era, that means that passing through everyone can only mean repression, when quarantined. Back to Freud, and the consequences of that repression. 

Roger Scruton, the English philosopher wrote a book called “Sexual Desire”, much of which under-appreciated or under-recognised homosexual desire, and took the opportunity to critique Foucault, who wrote the “History of Sexuality”. Reviewing Scruton, the essayist John Royle (1986) wrote “the Utopian vision of sexual liberation has degenerated in practice into a set of hedonistic precepts that hardly constitute a moral system at all. This is the ‘terrain vague’ of our sexual life, the habitat of Eros”. Of course, a writer is a dreamer, finding outlets for his or her unconscious desires. I wonder if that is what has written these words for me.

Anyway, how is everyone getting on?