Joan Copjec’s article “May ‘68, the Emotional Month” which appears in Lacan: The Silent Partners (Ed. Slavoj Zizek) fleshes out Lacan’s distinction between shame and guilt in which shame is the experience, very close to anxiety, of being overly proximate to objet a, the object cause of desire. Guilt, on the other hand, is called a sham jouissance by Lacan and betrays a flight from anxiety, and thus a flight from Being. There is a play on the French word for shame (honte) and the science of being (ontology) giving us the neologism, hontology. Guilt arises because one has fixed one’s response to the encounter with the object that induces anxiety, in a desperate effort to control the situation. Copjec writes: The fraudulent nature of this jouissance has everything to do with the fact that it gives one a false sense that the core of one’s being is someething knowable, possessable as an identity, a property, a surplus-value attaching to one’s person.” (109) How then shall we steer clear of this transformation from shame into guilt, especially seeing that capitalism is founded on such a universal move of taking loans out on our shame, securing a future at the cost of Being. One helpful image that Copjec gives us is of the veil that covers this place of shame. Shall we avert our eyes from it? Shall we rip it off? Shall we tremble in fear of the priests who stand before it? Is it not clear that these are all responses which engender guilt (which, don’t forget, has its own peculiar pleasure)? Copjec urges us to notice the veil itself, to enter into its arabesques, to thank God for the distance that it affords us, the breathing room. I’ve been looking at the wonderful images on Davis’ blog, all of which are veils upon the almighty. For our words to be good words, we must speak from these terrible places, from these veils that inspire terror and unknowing. There is no way to abolish anxiety (as Auden said, it is the condition of human existence, and in this way our age is most honest) but there is a way to transform our relationship to it.
Author Archive for A.D.
It’s worth it just to see them sledding
Or to see a spider moving its foreleg
How moving! Its going to get something to eat!
These monks are as close to children
As spiders are to the grass
Around the vegetable garden
And when they speak. . . .
But they have forgotten exchange
But prayer is changing
A reviewer said that they were aliens
The Word comes from outside us
The Bell clangs from other side of galaxy
Ch. 1 Q. 3 of Hall’s Theological Outlines gets into the relations of miracles to the natural order of things with Hall holding that miracles are necessary in order for evolution to take place:
The advance of the aion requires innovations, steps, and the entrance of higher forces than those previously resident in the kosmos. The evolutionary hypothesis requires this supposition; and, unless we become materialists, we must assume that the progress of cosmical development, however gradual, depends upon an involution of forces which are supernatural to the previously existing natures which undergo development.
Maybe someone (Janet?) can let me know if this is hopelessly out of date. . . . but I do like his his use of cosmos and aion, reminds me a little bit of the way the structuralists talked about synchrony (cosmos) and diachrony (aion). Again perhaps Janet can let me know if this is off or on, here or there, or neither. I am a little surprised that Hall considers these evolutionary advances to be miracles (supernatural events which inspire wonder) rather than events like the sacrament of the host, which is supernatural but invisible and thus not technically a miracle.
Thanks Dan for starting off our conversation of Francis Hall’s Theological Outlines. Lets have a go at question 2, on the supernatural. While I thought he opened clearly with his definition of theology, some confusion immediately comes in when he starts in on the supernatural , or at least some terms go by without being well explained. Of course, “the supernatural” is a huge topic, especially when we also look at philosophical concerns (which he apparently wants to do). I would like to quote this bit at the end though, and then make a brief comment: “Certain writers err in supposing that the distinction between lower and higher natures and between the forces resident in them (for this is what the distinction between natural and supernatural really means) has the effect of banishing God from nature and of reducing nature’s Divine significance. It is God that worketh whether He employs the forces resident in lower or higher natures, or dispenses with the use of means.” In other words, grace founds nature, as Balthasar and de Lubac stressed. And if we look at Hall’s definition of supernatural, which is anything the causation of which cannot be assigned to visible or human means, then obviously men and women are fundamentally graced, and all of the natural causes which they assign and effect come from grace. Balthasar makes the same point at the end of “Love Alone” and it really grounds his understanding of universal salvation. More on that later.
Dan and I are reading Volume 5 right now of A Theological Aesthetics, and we’re going to be posting often on our reading and subsequent discussions. We just looked at his section on Nicholas of Cusa, who he definitely respects as being kind of a super-Catholic–I say this because Cusa, like Pico, was obsessed with explaining all phenomena and all religion in terms of the catholic faith. Kudos to Cusa says Hans. Apparently Cusa was down with the analogia entis as well, which Hans likes, but what we gleaned this past week was that the analogy may be a little too tight with Cusa, as Hans accuses him of preparing the ground (eventually) for Idealism, which equals loss of feeling for eros, and an inability to see eros and God in the same picture. Every metaphor must limp it seems. I agree here, we must be careful about tightening these comparisons too much. The analogy must grow in both directions. Advice I take seriously as I critique Carl Jung’s notion of quaternity for my thesis, definitely an example of too clean a symbol. Wrapping up an analogy should always falter at the last step (between the 3 and the 4) like Bjork says in Dancer in the Dark, where she hoped the penultimate song would never end.
The Passion of Joan of Arc, by Carl Dreyer (1928). Another dumb signifier, this one in a silent film, and perhaps one of the very first, for it seems like in order to be able to identify one we must have a sense of individuality, we must be ripped away from the church.
We see this played out on Joan’s face during this intense film. She is placed between the church and God, and she learns that this the only place where she may take the sacrament, this is the only place where she is delivered, even if at the end she knows she is delivered by none other than Death. This is the desert of the real, something Simone Weil also touched on, something which the existence of the Catholic Church will always send looming up. It is true that we must always ask ourselves why we are not Catholics, and the answer should always set us somewhere outside of the domain of salvation, in between salvation and God. It occurred to me that, however deserted this place is, Mary must be there, an Ark herself, a tabernacle of grace. We see schizophrenia being created as the wily priests use her absolute faith in their cloth and absolute loyalty to the vision God has sent her. She defies Descartes by affirming that it was an angel and not a devil which appeared to her, but she does not escape being tortured by the representatives of this doubt. Is she pure because she does not know this doubt? Perhaps, but she must die and the church must function as the vehicle of this act, which ultimately is one of enjoyment, which at the end spreads to the crowds and the soldiers (British, I think) who cut them down with maces. Most crucial, and what sets Joan apart from the crowd, is that she at one point signs the abjuration, denies that the visions came from God, but then abjures this act as well. She is now in a desert beyond all human reach, for she cannot even trust her own insane loyalty. And this is where death, I don’t know how the film manages this, death comes to appear welcoming. We feel that it is a consummation, a love feast. But only she has won it for herself.
I just watched the movie Being There, starring Peter Sellers. It’s a real fantastic movie, one of the most profound statements on death, language, and TV that I’ve seen in a long time. The story revolves around this gardener whose name is Chance Gardner, who has grown up in an estate that he’s never been allowed to leave. His only source of knowledge of the outside world has come through TV, which he watches constantly, while eating, sleeping, and talking to people. The movie opens with the death of his boss, the owner of the estate, and Chance is simply dumped out on the means streets of DC, completely out of place, an autistic baby man.
By the end of the movie the movers and shakers our great capital want him to run for president of the United States of America. How did this happen? I don’t want to go into the details because what I’m really interested in is the relations to language, image, and The Other. In Lacan, the master signifier, while truly ruling the world of discourse, is primordially dumb, both in the sense that it’s most powerful when it’s silent, and that it is in essence ridiculous, absurd, stupid, meaningless. The master signifier is not a word, but it is the Word. And it is not only the Word that determines our lives (perhaps a phrase that we misunderstood when we were three years old) but the Word that created the universe. How absurd that at the end of analysis we see that our desire is compelled by a misunderstanding, by a slip of the tongue, and that tongue was not even ours–we can’t even claim the mistake as our own. Like at the end of The Death of Ivan Ilyich where everyone gathers around the bedside of the pitiful dying Ivan, and when they see the end has come, say “it is over.” But Ivan Ilyich hears in his eternal fall, “Death is over.” His ear fails him as he gains the ranks of the blessed.
But back to the movie, where we must take into account the name of our Gardener, that is, Chance. The master signifier is arbitrary, aleatory, pure chance, pure gamble, as is the Word–why does God speak to Israel, to Abraham, and Moses? Why does he choose the dunce, Peter, and all those greedy and cowardly tax collector types? We cannot know but we must believe, like Adam in Paradise Lost, which makes us end up sounding pious and ignorant, a label that we will never completely shake. . . . We should notice too that his last name is problematic as well—we never know if people call him Gardner because he is one or because that’s his name. Does not the Master Signifier name hold all the confusion that is related to trying to distinguish a name from a proper name, trying to distinguish Adam from Man, Jesus from the archetype laid down by Joshua.
As Chance finds himself in the middle of big money and big politics in Washington all of a sudden we realize people are calling him Chauncey; they have misheard him, there was some confusion, and he doesn’t take any pains to clear it up. Is it Chance or Chauncey? Is he a gardener, or is Gardner simply his name? In avoiding the signifier Chance are they betraying their disavowal of the arbitrary nature of the Word, the kind of fear we feel when we read that, “God hardened the heart of Pharaoah”? How could heaven and hell be so arbitrary? But beyond that, how could Christians accept such an arbitrary God? Pascal said that we must simply wager on the truth of God’s reveleation! Gambling? with God? Its ridiculous. Could even be a fraud.
How does the film represent this? By showing that everything Chance does he learned from TV, the ultimate source of dumb (even with all that talking!) if there ever was one. He shakes hands like prime ministers do, he kisses like fake lovers, he does yoga and aerobics simply because he sees it on the screen—and everyone says that he is the most authentic, the most real, person they have ever met. He is the only one who doesn’t lie in Washington, and yet everything he does comes from that buzzing talking box. Now this isn’t completely true because we must remember that he is one who works in the garden, and who knows the life and death of trees and shrubs. He becomes famous overnight for saying on a talk show that economics must be like gardening, having a time to grow and a time to die. We should also note that he is illiterate.
The women adore him, want to sleep with him, the men idolize him (some of them also want to sleep with him, especially when he tells them he just “likes to watch [TV!]”). He gets adopted by an extremely rich “king maker” and his wife: Ben and Eve. Ben is dying and Chance sees what everyone else does, but doesn’t mince words. He simply looks at Ben and says, “You’re dying, aren’t you?” Which makes Ben trust him with all his being and soul. So the master signifier, the Word, is not only dumb, but it makes friends with death. It sees death as simply another episode on television, a child’s view of death, mixed with an unassuming resurrection (watch Ponette). And we love nothing more than those who are close to death. And those like Yeltsin we can love only after they are dead.
When Eve, who is falling in love with him, attempts to kiss him, he can’t take his eyes off the TV, luckily enough there is a love scene at the moment on the screen and so he can imitate that with Eve and have a moment of “sexual relationship”–but the channel changes and his body goes limp. He says to her “I like to watch”; she is confused, but then falls to the floor, writhing. Is she masturbating? Is she coming? It’s hard to tell. Chance is not really interested, as he’s attempting to imitate the yoga posture on TV at that moment. The next morning she says to him that because he did not take her, did not take advantage of her, she was finally able to take advantage of herself, and she was opened, purged, renewed. Is this a sexual relationship? I would say yes, a Lacanian, non-sexual relationship, relationship. They are truly in love because they give to each other what they do not have. He, as the final Word, has no desire, and thus cannot not desire her, cannot make love to her. But he has given her desire back to herself, and she finally sees her own self-love. Is she just a narcissist? Perhaps, but she has finally seen herself as one. Will they ever make love again? Will he become the president? These questions are absurd, which is why the final scene in the movie shows him walking on water, while Ben’s funeral goes on behind him. Here the narrative breaks down, well, the movie is over for one, but our ability to look into the future of these characters is nullified, for they have no future. Their exposure to the Word has un-sutured their lives, and they have become like mad Peters, walking on water in spite of themselves.
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