Žižek

post oedipal traverse the fantasy

Žižek, Slavoj. “Cyberspace, or, How to Traverse the Fantasy in the Age of the Retreat of the Big Other” Public Culture 10:3. (1998) 483-513.

This constellation also provides the key for the problem of the historicity of psychoanalysis. From the early days of his Complexes familiaux ([1938] 1984), Lacan was fully aware of the historicity of the Oedipal complex itself, as well as of its discovery by Freud.

In the modern bourgeois nuclear family, the two functions of the father that were previously separated, or embodied in different persons

(the pacifying Ego-Ideal, the point of ideal identification, and

the ferocious superego, the agent of cruel prohibition; the symbolic function of totem and the horror of taboo), are united in one and the same person.

The previous separate personification of the two functions accounts for the apparent “stupidity” of some aborigines, who thought that the true father of a child was a stone or an animal or a spirit. The aborigines were well aware that the mother was inseminated by the “real” father; they merely separated the real father from its symbolic function.

The unification of the two functions in the bourgeois nuclear family, by giving birth to the ambiguous rivalry with the father figure, created the psychic conditions for the modern, Western, dynamic, creative individualism and, at the same time, sowed the seeds of the forthcoming “crisis of Oedipus” (or, more generally, with regard to figures of authority as such, of the “crisis of investiture” that erupted in the late nineteenth century [Santner 1996). Symbolic authority was more and more smeared over by the mark of obscenity and thus, as it were, undermined from within.

In his early theory of the historicity of the Oedipus complex, Lacan thus already establishes the connection between the psychoanalytic problematic of the Oedipus as the elementary form of “socialization,” of the subject’s integration into the symbolic order, and the standard sociopsychological topoi on how modernity is characterized by individualist competitivity -on how, in modern societies, subjects are no longer fully immersed into and identified with the particular social place into which they were born, but can, in principle at least, freely move between different “roles.” The emergence of the modern “abstract” individual who relates to his or her particular “way of life” as to something with which he or she is not directly identified, but rather which depends on a set of contingent circumstances (the feeling that the particularities of one’s birth, social status, sex, and religion do not determine one fully, do not concern one’s innermost identity) relies on the mutation in the functioning of the Oedipus complex, on the above-described unification of the two aspects of symbolic authority (Ego Ideal and the prohibitive superego) in one and the same person of the “real father.”490

The key question here is: What is going on today when this very modern form of Oedipus is disintegrating– when so-called pathological Narcissism is asserting itself more and more as the predominant form of subjectivity? On the one hand, symbolic prohibitive norms are increasingly replaced with imaginary ideals (of social success, of bodily fitness); on the other hand, this lack of symbolic prohibition is supplemented with the reemergence of the ferocious superego figures. So we have a subject who is extremely narcissistic, who perceives everything as a potential threat to his or her precarious imaginary balance. (See the universalization of the logic of victim: Every contact with another human being is experienced as a potential threat. If the other smokes, if he or she casts a covetous glance at me, he or she already hurts me.) However, far from allowing the subject to float freely in undisturbed balance, this narcissistic self-enclosure leaves him or her to the (not so) tender mercies of the superego injunction to enjoy. One is thus tempted to propose a hypothesis according to which “postmodern” subjectivity involves a kind of direct “superegoization ” of the imaginary Ideal, caused by the lack of the proper symbolic Prohibition: It is the Ideal itself that gives rise to guilty feelings when we fail to reach it, since the (imaginary) Ego-Ideal is no longer supported by the symbolic Ideal-Ego, but directly by the superego.

So, to recapitulate. There is only one consistent answer to the question “Why does the superfluous prohibition emerge, which merely prohibits the impossible?” That is: It obfuscates this inherent impossibility in order to sustain the illusion that, were it not for the externally imposed prohibition, the full (“incestuous”) gratification would be possible. Far from acting as a “repressive” agency that prevents us access to the ultimate object of desire, the paternal figure functions instead to relieve us from the debilitating deadlock of desire, to “maintain hope.” What is missing in “Oedipus on-line” is precisely this “pacifying” function of the paternal figure that enables us to obfuscate the debilitating deadlock of desire. Hence, the strange mixture of “everything is possible” (since there is no positive prohibiting figure) and an all-pervasive frustration and deadlock that characterizes the subject’s experience of cyberspace.

The ontological paradox, scandal even, of fantasy resides in the fact that it subverts the standard opposition of “subjective” and “objective.” Of course, fantasy is by definition not “objective” (in the naive sense of existing independently of the subject’s perceptions); however, it is also not “subjective” (in the sense of being reducible to the subject’s consciously experienced intuitions). Rather, fantasy belongs to the “bizarre category of the objectively subjective-the way things actually, objectively, seem to you even if they don’t seem that way to you” (Dennett 1991, 132).8 When, for example, the subject actually experiences a series of fantasmatic formations which interrelate as so many permutations of each other, this series is never complete-it is always as if the actually experienced series presents so many variations of some underlying “fundamental” fantasy that is never actually experienced by the subject. 507

This brings us back to the mystery of “commodity fetishism.” When a critical Marxist encounters a bourgeois subject immersed in commodity fetishism, the Marxist’s reproach to him or her is not, “Commodity may seem to you a magical object endowed with special powers, but it really is just a reified expression of relations between people”; rather, the actual Marxist’s reproach is, “You may think that the commodity appears to you as a simple embodiment of social relations (that, for example, money is just a kind of voucher entitling you to a part of the social product), but this is not how things really seem to you. In your social reality, by means of your participation in social exchange, you bear witness to the uncanny fact that a commodity really appears to you as a magical object endowed with special powers.”

This is also one of the ways in which to specify the meaning of Lacan’s assertion of the subject’s constitutive “decenterment.” Its point is not that my subjective experience is regulated by objective, unconscious, mechanisms that are “decentered” with regard to my self-experience and, as such, beyond my control (a point asserted by every materialist), but rather something much more unsettling — I am deprived of even my most intimate “subjective” experience, the way things “really seem to me,” the fundamental fantasy that constitutes and guarantees the kernel of my being, since I can never consciously experience it and assume it.

According to the standard view, the dimension that is constitutive of subjectivity is that of the phenomenal (self-)experience. I am a subject the moment I can say to myself “No matter what unknown mechanism governs my acts, perceptions, and thoughts, nobody can take from me what I see and feel now.”

Lacan turns this standard view around: The “subject of the signifier” emerges only when a key aspect of the subject’s phenomenal (self-)experience (the “fundamental fantasy”) becomes inaccessible to him or her, is “primordially repressed.” At its most radical, the Unconscious is the inaccessible phenomenon, not the objective mechanism that regulates my phenomenal experience. So, in contrast to the commonplace according to which we are dealing with a subject the moment an entity displays signs of “inner life”— of a fantasmatic self-experience which cannot be reduced to external behavior — one should claim that what characterizes human subjectivity proper is rather the gap that separates the two — the fact that fantasy, at its most elementary, becomes inaccessible to the subject. This inaccessibility makes the subject “empty.” We thus obtain a relationship that totally subverts the standard notion of the subject who directly experiences herself, her “inner states”— an “impossible” relationship between the empty, nonphenomenal subject and the phenomena that remain inaccessible to the subject. 509

Geneticists predict that in about ten to fifteen years they will be able to identify and manipulate each individual’s exact genome (approximately six billion genetic markers comprising the complete inherited “knowledge”). Potentially, at least, individuals will thus have at their disposal the complete formula of what they “objectively” are. How will this “knowledge in the real,” the fact that I will be able to locate and identify myself completely as an object in reality, affect the status of subjectivity? Will it lead to the end of human subjectivity? Lacan’s answer is negative:

What will continue to elude the geneticist is not my phenomenal self-experience (say, the experience of a love passion that no knowledge of the genetic and other material mechanisms which determine it can take from me), but the “objectively subjective” fundamental fantasy, the fantasmatic kernel inaccessible to my conscious experience.

Even if science formulates the genetic formula of what I objectively am, it will still be unable to formulate my “objectively subjective’’ fantasmatic identity, this objectal counterpoint to my subjectivity, which is neither subjective (experienced) nor objective.

Traversing the Fantasy

A recent English publicity spot for a brand of beer enables us to further clarify this crucial point. Its first part stages a well-known fairytale anecdote: A girl walks along a stream, sees a frog, takes it gently onto her lap, and kisses it; of course, the ugly frog miraculously turns into a beautiful young man. However, the story isn’t over yet: The young man casts a covetous glance at the girl, draws her toward him, kisses her-and she turns into a bottle of beer, which the man holds triumphantly in his hand. For the woman, the point is that her love and affection (signaled by the kiss) turn a frog into a beautiful man, a full phallic presence (in Lacan’s mathems, the big Phi); for the man, the point is to reduce the woman to a partial object, the cause of his desire (in Lacan’s mathems, the object small a). On account of this asymmetry, there is no sexual relationship.

We have either a woman with a frog or a man with a bottle of beer. What we can never obtain is the “natural” couple of the beautiful woman and man. Why not? Because fantasmatic support of this “ideal couple” would have been the inconsistent figure of a frog embracing a bottle of beer. …

This, then, opens up the possibility of undermining the hold a fantasy exerts over us through our very over-identification with it-that is, by way of embracing simultaneously, within the same space, the multitude of inconsistent fantasmatic elements. Each of the two subjects is involved in his or her own subjective fantasizing: The girl fantasizes about the frog who is really a young man, the man about the girl who is really a bottle of beer. What modern art and writing oppose to this is not objective reality but the “objectively subjective” underlying fantasy that the two subjects are never able to assume, something similar to a Magrittesque painting of a frog embracing a bottle of beer, with the title “A man and a woman” or “The ideal couple.” … And is this not the ethical duty of today’s artist-to confront us with the frog embracing the bottle of beer when we are daydreaming of embracing our beloved? Does the artist need to stage fantasies that are radically desubjectivized and which can never be assumed by the subject?

This, then, is the point we were aiming at all along. Perhaps cyberspace, with its capacity to externalize our innermost fantasies in all their inconsistency, opens up to the artistic practice a unique possibility to stage, to “act out,” the fantasmatic support of our existence, up to the fundamental “sadomasochistic” fantasy that cannot ever be subjectivized. We are thus invited to risk the most radical experience imaginable: the encounter with our “noumenal Self,” with the Other Scene which stages the foreclosed hard core of the subject’s Being. Far from enslaving us to these fantasies and thus turning us into desubjectivized, blind puppets, it enables us to treat them in a playful way and thus to adopt toward them a minimum of distance-in short, to achieve what Lacan calls la traversee du fantasme, “going-through, traversing the fantasy.”

So let us conclude with a reference to the (in)famous last proposition of Wittgenstein’s Tractatus: “Wovon man nicht sprechen kann, davon muss man schweigen” [Whereof one cannot speak, thereof must one be silent] (87). This proposition renders in the most succinct way possible the paradox of the Oedipal law that prohibits something (incestuous fusion) which is already in itself impossible (and thereby gives rise to the hope that, if we remove or overcome the prohibition, the “impossible” incest will become possible). If we are effectively to move to a region “beyond Oedipus,” Wittgenstein’s proposition is to be rephrased into: “Wovon man nicht sprechen kann, davon muss man schreiben” [Whereof one cannot speak, thereof must one write].

There is, of course, a long tradition of conceiving art as a mode or practice of writing which augurs that which “one cannot speak about”- the utopian potential “repressed” by the exis ting sociosymbolic network of prohibitions. There is also a long tradition of using writing as a means to communicate a declaration of love too intimate and/or too painful to be directly asserted in a face-to-face speech act.

The Internet is widely used as a space for the amorous encounters of shy people, and, significantly, one of the anecdotes about Edison, the inventor of the telegraph, is that he himself used it to declare love and ask the hand of his secretary (being too shy to do it directly, by the spoken word). However, what we are aiming at is not this standard economy of using cyberspace as a place in which, since we are not directly engaged in it (since we maintain a distance toward it), we feel free to externalize and stage our innermost private fantasies. What we have in mind is a more radical level, the level that concerns our very fundamental fantasy as that “wovon man nicht sprechen kann.”

The subject is never able to assume his or her fundamental fantasy, to recognize him- or herself in it, in a performance of a speech act.

Perhaps cyberspace opens up a domain in which the subject can nonetheless externalize or stage his or her fundamental fantasy and thus gain a minimum of distance toward it.

This, however, in no way suggests that inducing us to “traverse the fantasy” is an automatic effect of our immersion into cyberspace. What one should do here is, rather, accomplish a Hegelian reversal of epistemological obstacle into ontological deadlock.

What if it is wrong and misleading to ask which of the four versions of the libidinal or symbolic economy of cyberspace that we outlined (the psychotic suspension of Oedipus, the continuation of Oedipus with other means, the perverse staging of the law, and traversing the fantasy) is the “correct” one? What if these four versions are the four possibilities opened up by the cyberspace technology, so that, ultimately, the choice is ours? How will cyberspace affect us is not directly inscribed into its technological properties; it rather hinges on the network of sociosymbolic relations (e.g., of power and domination) which always and already overdetermine the way cyberspace affects us.

dialectic

Bryant, Levi R. “Žižek’s New Universe of Discourse: Politics and the Discourse of the Capitalist” International Journal of Žižek Studies 2.4 (2008): 1-48. Web.

[Quoting Žižek] There are, roughly speaking, two philosophical approaches to an antagonistic constellation of either/or: either one opts for one pole against the other (Good against Evil, freedom against oppression, morality against hedonism, etc.), or one adopts a ‘deeper’ attitude of emphasizing the complicity of the opposites, and of advocating a proper measure or their unity. Although Hegel’s dialectic seems a version of the second approach (the ‘synthesis’ of opposites), he opts for an unheard-of third version: the way to resolve the deadlock is to engage oneself neither in fighting for the ‘good’ side against the ‘bad’ one, nor in trying to bring them together in a balanced ‘synthesis’, but in opting for the bad side of the initial either/or. Of course, this ‘choice of the worst’ fails, but in this failure it undermines the entire field of alternatives and thus enables us to overcome its terms. ( Slavoj Žižek Presents Mao on Practice and Contradiction, 2007. 12)

antigone beckett

Belsey, Catherine. Culture and the Real : Theorizing Cultural Criticism. 2005

Malone Dies, opens with the words, ‘I shall soon be quite dead at last in spite of all’ (Beckett 1994: 179). Malone is resigned to the inevitability of death, although he would prefer it to take place without struggle. ‘Throes’, he observes laconically, ‘are the only trouble, I must be on my guard against throes’ (179– 80). First published in French in 1951, and translated into English by the author in 1956, Malone Dies anticipates some of the concerns of Lacan’s Seminar 7, though in a manner entirely characteristic of its own author. The novel is also characteristic of its moment.

Lacan’s exemplary text, Antigone, shows its protagonist refusing to give ground relative to her desire. Organically linked to her dead brother, as to no other human being (a husband or a child would be replaceable, she says, but her mother and father are dead: she can have no new brothers), Antigone insists on carrying out his burial rites, contrary to Creon’s law.

Because she accepts the penalty of living burial, Antigone’s ‘incarnation’ of the death drive is heroic (Lacan 1992: 282).

Oedipus, meanwhile, enters the zone between life and death because he too has insisted on following his own desire, in this instance, ‘to know the last word on desire’. Everyone else tries in vain to discourage him from pressing his questions about who he is, but he persists. Oedipus dies cursing, unreconciled to the goods.

On the other hand, King Lear, the irascible old man who does not give up on his desire either, represents a ‘derisory’ version of the same commitment (1992: 310). The ‘old fool’ thinks he can go into the same zone with everyone’s agreement – and ‘makes the earth and ocean echo’ with his imprecations, because he fails to grasp that this is a place of dispossession (1992: 309– 10) 153

Malone, however, is a protagonist for our own ironic time. There is nothing remotely heroic about Malone except his refusal of the goods. Neither stoical nor serene, Malone makes no concessions whatever to the moral law: ‘Let me say before I go any further that I forgive nobody. I wish them all an atrocious life and then the fires and ice of hell and in the execrable generations to come an honoured name’ (Beckett 1994: 180). Malone inhabits the zone between life and death alone in an isolated room that he cannot quite locate. Could it be ‘one of heaven’s mansions’ perhaps? He thinks not (184). It seems to be in an ordinary house. There remains a doubt, however. … Finally, The ceiling rises and falls, rises and falls, rhythmically, as when I was a foetus . . . . I am being given, if I may venture the expression, birth to into death, such is my impression. The feet are clear already, of the great cunt of existence. Favourable presentation I trust. My head will be the last to die. Haul in your hands. I can’t . . . . That is the end of me. I shall say no more. (285)

To die is to be reunited with the real we came from, but the living Malone is at home neither as an organism, in the flesh, nor at the level of the signifier. ‘All my senses are trained full on me, me. Dark and silent and stale, I am no prey for them. I am far from the sounds of blood and breath’ (186).

Malone is not his body. On the other hand, he is not a consciousness either: thought seeks him out, ‘as it always has, where I am not to be found’ (187). The space he inhabits, however unstable, ill-defined, seems easier to specify than his identity. It is to the signifier, however, that Malone turns to keep his distance from the real, physical process of dying. He tells – and then writes in an exercise book – stories. … 154

Is there anything uplifting here? Not really. But there is comedy, and it pacifies. In the absence of heroism, there is at least dedication, if only in Malone’s resolute contempt for the good death. Above all, there is pleasure in the grim wit of Beckett’s prose. What are verbal dexterity, stories, jokes, satire, parody, and satirical excoriation itself, after all, but an affirmation of the signifier in the face of the real? And isn’t that exactly what, as organisms-in-culture, we speaking beings are good at? 155

A THEORY OF CULTURE?

Lacan’s account of sublimation offers a way of understanding the pleasures the signifier offers the speaking being, without reducing culture to something else: ethical instruction, ideological control, or scripted determinism. Aspects of culture may at a specific moment represent any or all of these. In itself, however, culture does not make us better or worse. If it subjects people, it does not exclude the possibility of resistance. It does not do away with our discontents, but it offers to engage with them while finding a focus for desire. And to the attentive interpreter, culture can in addition tell more than it thinks it knows about who and what we are. 156

sublimation death drive

Belsey, Catherine. Culture and the Real : Theorizing Cultural Criticism. 2005

Tracing a path through Freud’s own widely distributed observations, Lacan repudiates the binary opposition Freud holds on to so precariously between the libido and death: for Lacan the drive is both sexual and deadly, at once life-giving and destructive. In Seminar 7 sexual desire is not the central problem. Sex, Lacan says, is fine in its way, but you can’t count on it:

Sex ‘simulates’ the impossible jouissance, the encounter with the Thing, but does not in any circumstances enact it. Meanwhile, however, Seminar 7 is less concerned about sex than death. For Lacan sex was never an origin: instead, it merely ‘occupies’, like an invading army, the field of desire (1977: 287),which is brought into being with the loss of the real entailed in our subjection to the symbolic order.

In Lacan’s account, sublimation includes romantic love; there is conflict between sublimation and sex; on the contrary, sex involves the pleasurable signifier. Sublimation rails off the impossible encounter with the engulfing Thing, not the pleasures of sex. 145

A product of his time, however, in the late 1950s and early 1960s, when the world held its breath as two superpowers threatened each other with nuclear annihilation, Lacan became increasingly preoccupied by the death drive, and specifically its expression in the capacity of human beings to destroy their world with weapons of mass destruction. Sublimation pacifies the drive without pathology and without destruction.

There are two possible barriers between the subject and the object of the drive, two ways to keep at bay the death-dealing and vital Thing: on the one hand, the superego; on the other, sublimation.

True to Freud, Lacan finds the superego, ‘obscene’, ‘ferocious’ and ‘morbid’ (1992: 7). The more we concede to this ‘parasite’, the more it demands of us, he argues (302). Its ideals are ‘the goods’: conventional values, ‘family goods, domestic goods . . . the goods of our trade or our profession, the goods of the city, etc’. But psychoanalysis is not there, Lacan insists, to support the bourgeois dream, with its puritanical demands for human sacrifice (303).

If, then, we refuse the goods, one option is to go willingly with Antigone, into a heroic region beyond pleasure, a world of total dispossession, the unearthly place of the drive itself. 146

In the meantime, sublimation promises pleasure at the level of the signifier – including the pleasure offered by the plays of Sophocles, and not least, of course, Antigone.

Sublimation, then, is the ‘true’ barrier between us and absolute destruction, preferable to the goods because beauty ‘gets closer’ to the Thing (216– 17). The pleasure principle presents the beautiful as capable of alluding to the Thing, revealing the nature of the drive, and in the process offering a gratification that differs from its aim (111, 293).

There is nothing sentimental or escapist about the beautiful in Lacan. On the contrary, ‘the beautiful is closer to evil than to the good’ (217). Moreover, it is ‘precisely the function of the beautiful to reveal to us the site of man’s relationship to his own death, and to reveal it to us only in a blinding flash’ (295).

By encircling the void, which marks the place of the real that is lost to the subject, culture exercises the creative aspect of the drive to make allusions at the level of the symbolic to the inaccessible Thing, which is itself beyond pleasure. In culture the symbol comes between us and the enticing, terrifying, dangerous object of the drive.

There is in Seminar 7, however, no sublime object, unreasonably elevated to the dignity of the Thing, no fetish, no fantasy offering a focus for antagonism. On the contrary, while the Thing is best acknowledged, it is also preferable that it should be veiled by the signifier. And the signifier gives pleasure. 147

To secure the sublime object of ideology, Žižek sacrifices the version of sublimation that explains the existence of culture. If Žižek offers on the basis of Lacan a theory of human nature, what Lacan offers on the basis of Freud is a theory of human culture as the only hope of a rapprochement between the symbolic and the real. Lacan insists on the gap between the real and the signifier. … Žižek denies the existence of the real but places the sublime object at the heart of culture. 🙂 hmm don’t know about dat.

Paradoxically, however, this leads him to ignore the capacity of the signifier to give pleasure – though he demonstrates it in his own extremely pleasurable writing over and over again. Only Lacan retains a substantial positivity that the signifier cannot master, an unknown region which we encounter in fear and trembling, but with no trace of theology.

Žižek says you have to go through the fantasy to the void; Lacan says you can do that – but in the meantime, you can make things.

Making things is what culture consists of, given that the things in question include pots, beads, stories, paintings, photographs, films, essays and academic books. This is the material of cultural criticism, and only Lacan, who largely ignores the Kantian sublime, gives us a theoretical explanation of its existence. 148

Antigone don`t give ground sublimation

Belsey, Catherine. Culture and the Real : Theorizing Cultural Criticism. 2005.

THE PLEASURE PRINCIPLE

What difference does Žižek make by his intertextual conjunction of psychoanalytic sublimation with the Kantian sublime? Lacan’s Seminar 7 concerns the ethical implications of psychoanalysis. The question it asks is what psychoanalysis offers as its outcome for the analysand.

Given that ‘the goods’ – duty, self-sacrifice, the conventional virtues – solve nothing, what would it mean to be free from the symptom, which always conceals the drive towards the Thing? How, in other words, can we avoid, on the one hand, the naked aggressivity that represents the direct projection outwards of the death drive and, on the other, the effect of repression, the symptom’s deception, by which neurosis promises its own pathological version of satisfaction?

It is in answer to the question how to avoid pathology that Lacan impels us not to give ground relative to our desire (1992: 319). His instance of the tragic outcome of this ethic is Antigone, whose bond with her brother impels her to defy Creon’s law, knowing that the consequence is to be walled up alive in her own tomb.

The rest of us, less heroic, may be less ready to venture beyond everything we think we know, or more eager to postpone the moment, since we are all required to rejoin the real in the end. For us, what is deadly in desire must be acknowledged, but may also be tamed, pacified, fenced off, as a way of living with – or, indeed, surviving – the effects of that uncompromising commitment.

The beautiful, then, is the acceptable barrier to ‘the unspeakable field of radical desire that is the field of absolute destruction’ (216).

People are speaking beings, organisms-in-culture, able to find themselves fully at home neither in the organic real nor in the symbolic order. The Thing beckons with the promise of gratification at the level of the real, but the price we should pay for such jouissance would be the dissolution of the subject.

Conversely, the symbolic order, the Other which constitutes us as subjects, is empty; it cannot give a satisfaction it does not possess. Sublimation in Lacan’s account offers a way of inhabiting the symbolic without submission to the exorbitant demands of the ferocious moral Law. Sublimation, which gratifies without repression, involves the pleasure principle. 143

Sublimation appears repeatedly in Freud’s work from 1905 onwards as a diversion of part of the sexual drive towards other aims.

Under the influence of the ego, he argues, people relinquish a proportion of organic satisfaction in favour of culturally acceptable activities. Art is the effect of sublimation.

At times Freud displays all the scepticism of science in his depiction of the artist. ‘He’ (artists are characteristically male, of course, in Freud) is probably exceptionally driven, but also exceptionally socially inept. What he wants is what all men want: glory, power and the love of women. But when he fails to secure any of them, the artist retreats into fantasy, imagines the satisfaction he seeks. Whereas most people in these circumstances would have to make do with their meagre day-dreams, however, the artist, Freud explains, is especially good at making his fantasies public in acceptable forms, while disguising their origins. Artists convert imagination into works of art. By means of this skill, they go on to acquire glory, power and the love of women in the process, thus securing their objectives after all, but by another route (Freud 1976: 423– 4). Elsewhere, however, Freud’s account is more elegiac.

Something in the nature of the sexual drive, he proposes, is incompatible with civilization, so that for human beings, divorced by culture from their organic origins, perfect sexual gratification is not possible. But paradoxically, the pleasure that culture withholds in this way reappears in culture itself by means of sublimation:
[Freud quote] The very incapacity of the sexual instinct to yield complete satisfaction as soon as it submits to the first demands of civilization becomes the source, however, of the noblest cultural achievements which are brought into being by ever more extensive sublimation of its instinctual components. For what motive would men have for putting sexual instinctual forces to other uses if, by any distribution of those forces, they could obtain fully satisfying pleasure? 144

That element of lack in the sexual relation was to reappear in Lacan’s account of unconscious desire as indestructible and insatiable, and in his repeated insistence in Seminar 20 that there was no sexual relation (rapport). But what complicates the issue further is Freud’s increasing conviction after the First World War that there are two drives, the libido on the one hand, and the death drive on the other. While Beyond the Pleasure Principle, published in 1920, holds them apart only with some degree of uncertainty, Civilization and its Discontents, ten years later, insists on the distinction and pays renewed attention to the dangerous capabilities of the death drive. Externalized, it leads to cruelty and brutality towards others; internalized, it produces the self-destructive and voracious superego, conscience, an exorbitant sense of moral obligation that can never be fully met, and which therefore creates unending anxiety:

[Freud quote] ‘Every renunciation of instinct now becomes a dynamic source of conscience and every fresh renunciation increases the latter’s severity and intolerance’ (Freud 1985a: 321).

Civilization is necessary as a defence against unqualified aggressivity, but its effects remain disappointing. Among its discontents we must include the self-denying, self-excoriating ethical imperatives of the superego, aggression itself by another name. 144-145

Belsey, Catherine. Culture and the Real : Theorizing Cultural Criticism.

That idealist complacency, the certainty that we not only make ourselves, but also make the world in our own minds, confining what exists to consciousness and erasing the real in the process, may be one of the most dangerous features of Western culture in the twenty-first century.

While idealism does not overtly ally itself with the West’s depredation of the planet or its militaristic foreign policy, a theory that materiality is no more than the effect of culture offers no grounds for repudiating either of these practices. On the contrary, the conviction that what exists depends on our idea of it helps to disconnect our lifestyle from the damage it causes. 58

THE INCURSION OF THE REAL

There is some evidence, however, that the irreducible real is beginning to put up a resistance to our wasteful, culturally scripted habits, and to make itself knowable in the form of melting icecaps, floods, forest fires and high levels of skin cancer. Sadly, the West, which has done most to bring this about, only grudgingly acknowledges the situation, at least explicitly, while at the same time scrambling for control of the planet’s remaining natural resources. 60

Why was 9/11 so shocking? Perhaps because it represented the momentary incursion of the unknowable real into an increasingly idealist culture. The destruction of the twin towers seemed unheralded, inexplicable, unaccountable, out of our control. In the immediate aftermath of the event, sophisticated commentators, including Žižek, delighted in maintaining that 9/11 was first and foremost a media spectacle, reproducing in actuality an already-familiar Hollywood fantasy. … These planes were not a repressed fragment of our own psyche but, on the contrary, a violent material intrusion from outside. Idealism could not accommodate them.

Paradoxically, to deny the real is also to claim to know for sure. The subject can never achieve such surety, the correspondence between world and consciousness that was Hegel’s goal. Nor can it confidently assert even the more modest conviction that what we don’t know doesn’t matter. How can we be sure even of that, when we can be certain of nothing? 61

What idealism misses, he maintains, is the crucial contribution of psychoanalysis, its understanding of the continuity between the subject and the world, interrupted but not finally erased by the advent of the symbolic order. We remain marked by the lost but inextricable real. The subject is alienated by the Otherness of the signifier and the consequent lack in being, with its propensity at any moment to subtract something from coherent thought or speech. We are subject to temporary disappearances from the signifying chain, liable at any moment to fade. Indeed,

[Lacan quote] “this is the essential flaw in philosophical idealism which, in any case, cannot be sustained and has never been radically sustained. There is no subject without, somewhere, aphanisis [fading] of the subject, and it is in this alienation, in this fundamental division, that the dialectic of the subject is established.” (1979, 221) 62

world without alterity

Belsey, Catherine. Culture and the Real: Theorizing Cultural Criticism.

Why, in more general terms, should we worry about idealism? Or, to put it differently, what has cultural criticism to gain by invoking the Lacanian real? … Lacan … offers an independent material alterity: ‘the real is what does not depend on my idea of it’ (Fink 1995: 142). 56

‘What could it possibly mean’, Lacan asks early on, ‘to say that the subject is everything?’ (1988b: 98). What indeed? Perfect sovereignty for the subject, damaged or not, of course. Idealism delivers what the free West prizes most.

In a world without alterity, I increasingly constitute my own origin; moreover, I construct my own body, cause my own diseases by bad habits or irrational worry, and bring about my own death if I am foolish enough to let either of these get out of hand. Western culture treats life as a constant process of self-fashioning, unimpeded by external constraints.

In science fiction Hollywood heroes materialize their anxieties; in cultural theory I materialize my own sex. Death, however, remains frightening, as does the threat of physical impairment that would impugn our autonomy. Idealism turns the object of desire into an increasingly prosthetic immortality, secured by remorseless self-discipline: a regime of diet and exercise, supplemented by surgery.

Lacan saw the possibility of assuming our own being-for-death as heroic, the consequence of a struggle to be what we are in the face of everything that may oppose us. His Antigone asserts her autonomy against the cultural script, and against the ‘good sense’ of other people, who urge her not to break the law.

Idealism, by contrast, leaves such autonomy there for the taking, or rules it out on the basis of cultural determinism. In the absence of any substantial alterity, how or what should we oppose? The abolition of opposition in turn does away with the heroism. 57

Critique of Žižek

Žižek, aware of the seductions of imaginary sovereignty, repeatedly insists that we should ‘traverse the fantasy’ presented by the symbolic order, go through the cultural screen to encounter the emptiness beyond it (1997: 30– 31). This bleak proposition takes Lacan’s account of the death drive to its logical conclusion, but it is his subscription to idealism in the first place that makes it all the more imperative for Žižek to prescribe suicide as the supreme ethical act. Traversing the fantasy to the void both constitutes a counterweight to the self-indulgence of an idealist culture, and at the same time installs the true sovereignty of the subject itself (see, for example, 1991: 63– 4; 1992a: 77– 8). 57

antigone

Belsey, Catherine. Culture and the Real : Theorizing Cultural Criticism.

Zeuxis wanted to look behind the veil of the paint that constituted his rival’s picture. The psychoanalytic subject longs to look behind the veil of the signifier, but what it seeks there is not so much the forgotten, repressed real, not that part of itself, or its continuity with the world, cut off by the symbolic and lost. Instead, it looks for the object and cause of its own desire, an identifiable something that would fill the gap created by the loss of the real. This object that motivates and perpetuates desire took on increasing importance for Lacan. In Seminar 7 in 1959– 60, he named it the Thing (das Ding); later, the Thing disappeared, to be remodelled as the objet a. 45

We need to go back a bit. For much of his life Freud insisted that the unconscious motor force of all human life was sexual. But during and after the First World War, his work begins to demonstrate a mounting conviction that there must be another drive that presses towards death. How else to account for the sustained carnage of that extraordinary and unheralded episode of history? Beyond the Pleasure Principle, published in 1920, begins by proposing an antithesis between the life-affirming sexual drive towards pleasure and, in contrast, the death drive that seeks inertia for the organism, but may equally be projected outwards by the subject as aggression against others. As Freud’s argument here unfolds, however, the two principles refuse to stay apart. On the one hand, there often seems to be an element of aggression in the sexual act; on the other, the pleasure principle too seeks release from tension, and so shares the aim of the death drive. Do they, then, support rather than oppose each other? Jacques Derrida has brilliantly deconstructed the opposition between the two (1987a), in this instance ably supported by Freud himself, who concluded his book with disarming honesty by admitting that he was not satisfied with a theory that remained purely speculative. 45

Beginning where Freud had left off, but going back to take account of a passage from ‘Instincts and their Vicissitudes’, published five years earlier (Freud 1984: 136– 8), Lacan condensed the two drives into one. His rereading of Freud acknowledges only one drive, and it is both life-giving and deadly. Seminar 7 attends primarily to the quest for pleasure, which Lacan locates on the side of the signifier. Love is allied with pleasure, a form of sublimation, separable from desire itself. But Lacan also brings pleasure together with death here in his account of tragedy. Where Freud roots his theory in the story of Oedipus, Lacan (as a child of Freud?), defies his phallocentric reputation and takes as his heroic protagonist Antigone, daughter of Oedipus and offspring, therefore, of an incestuous marriage. On the basis of the organic bond with her brother, Antigone is impelled to bury him against Creon’s law, and to confront death as the inevitable punishment for her deed. Lacan sees Antigone as heroic because, like Marvell’s lovers, she assumes her fate, her Até, ‘atrocious’ though it is. For Lacan, she represents human sovereignty in the face of death: 46

“Antigone appears as autonomos, as a pure and simple relationship of the human being to that of which he miraculously happens to be the bearer, namely, the signifying cut that confers on him the indomitable power of being what he is in the face of everything that may oppose him.” (1992: 282)

Rather than languish as the victims of incompleteness that the signifier makes us, we are enabled by the same signifier to desire not to remain at its mercy. We can, in other words, want not to be. … Antigone, in Lacan’s account, just as defiantly precipitates her own death. It is because she loves her brother that she ‘pushes to the limit the realization of something that might be called the pure and simple desire of death as such. She incarnates that desire’ (1992: 282).

Lacan’s death drive bears very little resemblance to Freud’s, which depends on the thesis that the organism prefers stasis, or inertia. 46 We do not seek annihilation, Lacan says, for the sake of restoring equilibrium. But he does draw on Freud’s proposal that the organism is driven to die at its own time and in its own way (Freud 1984: 311– 12). In Lacan the death drive operates in the speaking being, at the level of the signifier, and seeks what he calls ‘the second death’.

This is not just physical extinction (the first death), which might take place at any time, by accident. Instead, the second death entails the full recognition of what we are, which is to say, of course, what we are not: not complete, not knowing, not immortal. The tragic hero acts on this understanding, assumes the destiny of a being-for-death and, when the time comes, willingly accedes to the state of non-being that is the outcome of the human condition.

At this stage of Lacan’s work the object of the drive is identified as the Thing. An archaic, maternal, forbidden and impossible object of desire, the Thing is ‘both living and dead’ (1992: 300), at once life-giving and deadly. Lacan’s name for it is partly ironic, since no such object exists in the real; at the same time, there is the suggestion of a pun in French on la Chose and the cause of desire that we attribute to the Thing. The Thing is ‘that which in the real, the primordial real, I will say, suffers from the signifier’ and ‘presents itself’ to the analyst in the gap produced by the signifying cut (1992: 118). Constructed retroactively to occupy the space of pure loss that is left by the erasure of the real, the Thing marks the place where the real was, constitutes itself as filling the emptiness that resides there for the speaking being. Subsequently the object of the drive is renamed by the even more evasive term, objet a, and located more firmly at the level of demand. Lacan also calls it the petit a, to differentiate the little ‘a’ from the Autre, the big Other, which is language itself. Little Ernst’s wooden reel offers an example of the objet a.

Zizek, The Most Sublime of Hysterics: Hegel with Lacan
This essay was originally published in French in Le plus sublime des hystériques – Hegel passe, Broché, Paris, 1999. It appears in Interrogating the Real, London: Continuum, 2005, Rex Butler and Scott Stephens editors.

The idea that one is able from the outset to account for error, to take it under consideration as error, and therefore to take one’s distance from it, is precisely the supreme error of the existence of metalanguage, the illusion that while taking part in illusion, one is somehow also able to observe the process from an ‘objective’ distance. By avoiding identifying oneself with error, we commit the supreme error and miss the truth, because the place of truth itself is only constituted through error. To put this another way, we could recall the Hegelian proposition which can be paraphrased as ‘the fear of error is error itself: the true evil is not the evil object but the one who perceives evil as such.

One already finds this logic of the error interior to truth in Rosa Luxemburg’s description of the dialectic of the revolutionary process. When Eduard Bernstein raised objections apropos of the revisionist fear of taking power ‘too soon’, prematurely, before the ‘objective conditions’ have reached their maturity, she responded that the first seizures of power are necessarily ‘premature’: for the proletariat, the only way of arriving at ‘maturity’, of waiting for the ‘opportune’ moment to seize power, is to form themselves, prepare themselves for this seizure; and the only way of forming themselves is, of course, these ‘premature’ attempts … If we wait for the ‘opportune moment’, we will never attain it, because this ‘opportune moment’ – that which never occurs without fulfilling the subjective conditions for the ‘maturity’ of the revolutionary subject – can only occur through a series of ‘premature’ attempts. Thus the opposition to the ‘premature’ seizure of power is exposed as an opposition to the seizure of power in general, as such: to repeat the celebrated phrase of Robespierre, the revisionists want ‘revolution without revolution’.

Once we examine things more closely, we see that Luxemburg’s fundamental wager is precisely the impossibility of a metalanguage in the revolutionary process:

the revolutionary subject does not ‘conduct’ the process from an objective distance, he is himself constituted through this process; and it is because the time of revolution occurs by means of subjectivity that no one is able to ‘achieve revolution on time’, following ‘premature’, insufficient efforts.

The attitude of Luxemburg is exactly that of the hysteric faced with the obsessional metalanguage of revisionism:

strive to act, even if prematurely, in order to arrive at the correct act through this very error. One must be duped in one’s desire, though it is ultimately impossible, in order that something real comes about.

The propositions of ‘grasping substance as subject’ and ‘there is no metalanguage’ are merely variations on the same theme. It is therefore impossible to say: ‘Although there must be premature attempts at revolution, have no illusions and remain conscious that they are doomed in advance to failure.’ The idea that we are able to act and yet retain some distance with regard to the ‘objective’ – making possible some consideration of the act’s ‘objective signification’ (namely, its destiny to fail) during the act itself – misperceives the way that the ‘subjective illusion’ of the agents is part of the ‘objective’ process itself. This is why the revolution must be repeated: the ‘meaning’ of those premature attempts is literally to be found in their failure – or rather, as one says with Hegel, ‘a political revolution is, in general, only sanctioned by popular opinion after it has been repeated’.

Žižek on democracy

Žižek, Slavoj. “From Democracy to Divine Violence” Democracy in What State, (Démocratie dans quel état. (2009)) New York: Columbia University Press, 2011. 100-120.

Page 100: Starts off by citing Martin Luther King, he was not only advocate of racial equality but also delved into issues regarding worker’s rights. Shot in 1968 while supporting striking sanitation workers. Now racial equality is a given in every liberalistic creed, “however, in the 1920s and 1930s the Communists were the ONLY political force that argued for complete equality between the races.” states Žižek

Page 102: Žižek is already into the relationship of knowledge to power. We know too much, its not that we are not acting on ecology issues because we don’t know enough, rather is “the fact that we know too much and do not know what to do with this mass of inconsistent knowledge, how to subordinate it to a Master- Signifier? This brings us to a more pertinent level, that of the tension between S1 and S2: the chain of knowledge is no longer totalized/quilted by Master-Signifiers.” Knowledge is getting out of control. But really this tangent quickly peters out.

Page 103: China. Žižek argues that capitalism=democracy, no longer holds. What China is today is liberal capitalism in Europe in its very early stages. “All the features we identify today with liberal democracy and freedom (trade unions, universal vote, free universal education, freedom of the press, etc.) were won in a long, difficult struggle of the lower classes throughout the nineteenth century, they were far from a natural consequence of capitalist relations. Recall the list of demands with which The Communist Manifesto concludes: most of them, but for the abolition of private property with the means of production, are today widely accepted in “bourgeois” democracies — the result of popular struggles.” And then Žižek sums up this point nicely adding, “There is thus nothing exotic in today s China: what happens there merely repeats our own forgotten past.”

Page 105: Citing Ralph Dahrendorf’s argument that countries emerging into capitalism have first to dismantle the securities of welfare state and in the example of Eastern Europe, communist measures that provided certain securities and welfare to the populace, so that a market can be instituted. But this takes time and the tendency is to forego this pain, and elect a slate of politicians who will ameliorate this pain and thus interfere with the market discipline. So Žižek wonders, is not the logical conclusion of D’s argument that “an enlightened elite should take power, even by nondemocratic means, to enforce the necessary measures and thus lay the foundations for a truly stable democracy?”

Page 106: So developing countries that “prematurely democratize” can only end up in catastrophe. “no wonder today’s most economically successful Third World countries (Taiwan, South Korea, Chile) embraced full democracy only after a period of authoritarian rule. Is this line of reasoning not the best argument for the Chinese way to capitalism as opposed to the Russian way? After the collapse of communism, Russia adopted a “shock therapy” and threw itself directly into democracy and the fast track to capitalism—with economic bankruptcy the result.” And further stating, “The Chinese, on the contrary, followed the path of Chile and South Korea, using unencumbered authoritarian state power to control the social costs of the passage to capitalism, thus avoiding the chaos. In short, the weird combination of capitalism and communist rule, far from a ridiculous anomaly proved a blessing (not even) in disguise; China developed so fast not in spite of authoritarian communist rule but because of it. So, to conclude with a Stalinist-sounding suspicion: what if those who worry about the lack of democracy in China really worry about the fast development of China that makes it the next global superpower, threatening Western primacy?”

Page 107: Žižek finally makes the point he’s been harping on for the past 5 years now. He points out the unsettling fact regarding China today: “the suspicion that its authoritarian capitalism is not merely a reminder of our past, the repetition of the process of capitalist accumulation that, in Europe, went on from the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries, but a sign of the future? What if “the vicious combination of the Asian knout and the European stock market” proves itself to be economically more efficient than our liberal capitalism? What if it signals that democracy, as we understand it, is no longer a condition and driver of economic development, but its obstacle?”

Page 108: Haiti, here Žižek makes some good points: Firstly when Haiti declared independence in 1804 it was more of an Event that the French Revolution itself. “It was the first time that the colonized rebelled not on behalf of returning to their precolonial “roots” but on behalf of the very modern principles of freedom and equality And the sign of the Jacobins’ authenticity is that they immediately recognized the slaves’ uprising—the black delegation from Haiti was enthusiastically received in the National Assembly (As expected, things changed after the Thermidor: Napoleon quickly sent the army to reoccupy Haiti.)” Now because of the ‘failed’ revolution, France the former colonial occupier, demanded that Haiti pay France a restitution for the loss of its slaves. ” Haiti HAD thus to be made an exemplary case of economic failure, to dissuade other countries from taking the same path. The price—LITERAL price—of the “premature” independence was horrible: after two decades of embargo, France, the previous colonial master, established trade and diplomatic relations only in 1825, and for this Haiti had to agree to pay the sum of 150 million francs as a “compensation” for the loss of its slaves. This sum, roughly equal to the French annual budget at the time, was later cut to 90 million, but it continued to be a heavy burden that prevented any economic growth: at the end of the nineteenth century Haiti’s payments to France consumed around 80 percent of the national budget, and the last installment was paid in 1947. When, in 2004, celebrating the bicentennial of the independence, the Lavalas president Jean-Baptiste Aristide demanded that France return this extorted sum, his claim was flatly rejected by a French commission (whose member was also Regis Debray)—so while U.S. liberals ponder the possibility of reimbursing U.S. blacks for slavery Haiti’s demand to be reimbursed for the tremendous amount the ex-slaves had to pay to have their freedom recognized was ignored by liberal opinion, even if the extortion here was double: the slaves were first exploited, then had to pay for the recognition of their hard-won freedom.”

Page 110: Here’s something I’ve never heard from Žižek before: “Leftist political movements are like “banks of rage”: they collect rage investments from people and promise them large-scale revenge, the reestablishment of global justice. Since, after the revolutionary explosion of rage, full satisfaction never takes place and an inequality and hierarchy reemerge, a push always arises for the second—true, integral— revolution that will satisfy the disappointed and truly finish the emancipatory work: 1792 after 1789, October after February . . . The problem is simply that there is never enough rage capital. That is why it is necessary to borrow from or combine with other rages: national or cultural. In fascism the national rage predominates; Mao’s communism mobilizes the rage of exploited poor farmers, not proletarians. In our own time, when this global rage has exhausted its potential, two main forms of rage remain: Islam (the rage of the victims of capitalist globalization) plus “irrational” youth outbursts, to which one should add Latino American populism, ecologists, anticonsumerists, and other forms of antiglobalist resentment: the Porto Allegre movement failed to establish itself as a global bank for this rage, since it lacked a positive alternate vision.”

Page 115: I’m picking up the thread here because he goes on a tangent regarding communists in ex-Yugoslavia who wait for the precise moment to strike and then banish democracy. Now he returns to his argument in support of Aristide in Haiti. Now Žižek gets to the important crux of his argument. Citing Aristide’s use of violence, particularly the use of what is called Pere Lebrun, or necklacing that kills a political opponent through the use of a burning tire or necklace, “Liberals immediately draw the parallel between chimeres, the Lavalas popular self-defense units, and tonton macoutes, the notorious murderous gangs of the Duvalier dictatorship—their preferred strategy is always the one of equating leftist and rightist “fundamentalists” so that, as with Simon Critchley, al Qaeda becomes a new reincarnation of the Leninist party, etc. Asked about chimeres, Aristide said: “the very word says it all. Chimeres are people who are impoverished, who live in a state of profound insecurity and chronic unemployment. They are the victims of structural injustice, of systematic social violence. . . . It’s not surprising that they should confront those who have always benefited from this same social violence.” These desperate acts of violent popular self-defense were examples of what Benjamin called “divine violence“: they are to be located “beyond good and evil” in a kind of politico-religious suspension of the ethical. Although we are dealing with what, to an ordinary moral consciousness, cannot but appear as “immoral” acts of killing, one has no right to condemn them, since they replied to years—centuries even—of systematic state and economic violence and exploitation.”

Žižek goes on to defend violence, as described here, a violence of the ‘part of no part’ and then goes to to identify what he terms a class bias to the very form of democracy. His big point being that the choice between either struggling for state power or withdrawing to resist from a distance not getting involved in the state, is for Žižek a false choice: “Here one should shamelessly repeat the lesson of Lenin’s State and Revolution: the goal of revolutionary violence is not to take over the state power but to transform it, radically changing its functioning, its relation to its base, etc.” The dictatorship of the proletariat is less a ruling class than a form of people’s power.

But here is the absolute nerve centre of Žižek’s article. He cites an absolute moment of truth in totalitarianism. And that is the fact the people are necessarily split. It is not as if they know what they want and tell their representative who then represents them. Žižek argues that the split between the in-itself and for-itself of political demands, the former are the interests of the people still in unarticulate inchoate form, and the latter are these demands universally expressed,

“they only know it “in itself; it is their representative who formulates their interests and goals for them, making them “for-itself “ The “totalitarian” logic thus makes explicit, posits “as such,” a split that always already cuts from within the represented “people.” This is called the TOTALITARIAN EXCESS and as long as it is on the side of the people, that is more specifically the ‘part of no part’ that one could say the democratic form is truly expressive and universal.

It is at this level that the concept of the “dictatorship of the proletariat” functions: in it the “totalitarian excess” of power is on the side of the “part of no part,” not on the side of the hierarchical social order — to put it bluntly, ultimately, they are in power in the full sovereign sense of the term, i.e., it is not only that their representatives temporarily occupy the empty place of power, but, much more radically, they “twist” the very space of state re-presentation in their direction.

This ‘twisting’ fo the very space of state power is a way of expressing the way in which to combat what Žižek perceives as the inherent class bias in the democratic form.

“That is why when radical leftists came to power through elections, their signe de reconnaissance is that they move to “change the rules,” to transform not only electoral and other state mechanisms but also the entire logic of the political space (relying directly on the power of the mobilized movements; imposing different forms of local self-organization; etc.) to guarantee the hegemony of their base, they are guided by the right intuition about the “class bias” of the democratic form.“

Review of Excessive Subject

In this book Molly Anne Rothenberg makes clear that progressive political theorists need to re-think their understanding of the subject because the current deadlock has resulted in either structuralist dead-ends, or immanentist ‘Foucaultian’ type analyses that don’t account for the nature of agency and resistance, and so can’t with any sort of robustness contribute to an understanding of social change that includes an idea of radical subjectivity. According to Rothenberg, social theory has been deadlocked around these two versions of subjective agency and their respective theories of causality. She suggests that we toss these theories into the wastebin, and look at an newly emerging way of thinking the ‘social field’ reflected in the recent work of Alain Badiou, Slavoj Zizek and Alenka Zupancic. I think she benefits most from the theory of Badiou, but is definitely influenced by the latter two as well. Critical of Zizek’s notion of the Act, she nonetheless draws much theoretical weight from his notion of subjective destitution, which Rothenberg, much to her credit, takes to new heights in this book. It is a difficult concept, but one can see Rothenberg struggling to articulate a new approach to thinking subjectivity and its articulation to the social field through an ‘excess’ and a ‘relation of non-relation’. Her final chapter rewards the reader’s discipline (the book overall is a challenging yet clear and insightful read) and patience. Taking up an alternative reading of Melville’s Bartleby, R. allows the reader to get a further handle on her theory of the ‘excessive subject’. Additionally the reading of Felix Guattari’s early work shows the extent to which R. does not shy away from seeking to show how a relation to ‘excess’ via a Möbius subjectivity allows us to begin to think a radical newness and an ethicality that is truly radical and original. Buy this book.

Note: Adam Kotsko in the latest installment of the Journal of Zizek Studies, helpfully points out that Zizek reads Agota Kristof’s novel The Notebook, and claims the twin boy characters as new vehicles of a radical ethical subjectivity. One certainly wonders what Rothenberg would make of this, that is, whether she would see this as a more positive elaboration by Zizek of his important notion of the de-constituted subject, hence shadowing her idea of the Möbius subject? Reading Kotsko’s article together with Rothenberg’s book, gives me the impression that there is a subtle groundswell for a different articulation of the subject that gets us beyond many of the deadlocks that have stymied creative and radical theory for so long now.

retroversive act

[For] Žižek … an act becomes a properly political Act when it leads to its own politicization/legitimation after the fact. Explaining that the “Act occurs in an emergency when one has to take the risk and act without any legitimization, ” Žižek adheres to his sense that strategizing for success or making claims about being able to foresee and bring about a desired future — in short, the whole apparatus of political fulfillment — are illusory routes to political practice. It is a fantasy to imagine that a procedure or political form could guarantee a promised result — or, perhaps more importantly, guarantee that no unforeseen, horrible consequences will occur. Such people want “an Act without an Act” (Rothenberg citing Welcome to Desert 153). Žižek is decisive on this point: “there is no guarantee against the possibility of excess — the risk has to be assumed, it is part of the very field of the political” (WDR 153-154 in Rothenberg 166). Not even democracy can furnish such a guarantee. Since we cannot know in advance what will happen, our only criterion for the Act must come after the fact, in a retroversive movement of politicization. (166) “we have to take a risk, a step into the open with no big Other to return our message to us,” (169).

Rothenberg replies:

every single act that anyone might undertake whether the act is large or small and whether it is enacted by someone authoritative (for example, de Gaulle) or not (for example, Rosa Parks), carries with it a significative excess — that is, a potential for appropriation, misunderstanding, and causing unforeseen consequences. We can recall here that Butler makes the error of proposing a distinction among types of actions on the basis of some imagined ability to assume a risk (for example, taking a risk in order to keep signification open). The risk is part and parcel of all signification, not just “the political field itself.” Does Žižek think that there is some quality that makes an Act inherently political or not? (168)

Žižek’s preferred example of an Act is not Park’s nonviolent refusal to take a seat at the back of the bus, an act which was prepared for in advance by political organizing and a discourse of legitimation, and which resulted in further politicization and ultimately changes in laws and social insitutions. Instead he nominates the heroic action of the “famous Jewish ballerina” who shot the Nazi guards for whom she was forced to dance, effectively committing suicide in the process. The difference between these two incidents is striking: a nonviolent act that achieves politicization in Parks’ case versus a violent one that does not. Nonetheless, Žižek specifically designates the example of the ballerina as “the way of the act” (Rothenberg 172, citing Žižek in Revolution at the Gates 249).