I’ve included my lectures on chapter two of Gilles Deleuze’s Difference and Repetition below. I gave these lectures some years ago at Manchester Metropolitan University, and they formed the basis for work on that chapter in my guide to Difference and Repetition. That chapter tidies up these lectures, and corrects a number of interpretive errors, but also involved cutting out a lot of the detail of Deleuze’s argument.
For this final lecture, I want to summarise some of the results of Deleuze’s investigations in the first two chapters of Difference and Repetition before presenting some of the themes that will occupy Deleuze in the later chapters of the text. We have covered a fair bit of ground during the course, but there are still some outstanding questions that need to be answered. First, given the possibility of a philosophy of difference, why is it that philosophers have previously constructed their philosophies on the basis of a concept of identity? Second, Deleuze makes it clear that difference cannot be understood for him on the basis of negation, so the question is, how do we understand difference without negation? A question that follows from this is, in what way does the notion of difference actually provide an explanation of phenomena? Finally, I want to look at the question of intensity and the phenomenal world. Deleuze has argued that the extensive world is understood as grounded in intensity. As we saw last week, Deleuze also privileges the perspectivism of the simulacrum over the objectivity of the icon. This raises the question of how different perspectives can be generated from a field of intensive difference (in other words, is there a synthesis of space that parallels the synthesis of time in chapter two of Difference and Repetition?).
In providing a brief summary of the first half of Difference and Repetition, the place to begin, I think, is to present the problems, or perhaps symptoms is a better word, which lead Deleuze to put forward his own metaphysics. I think we can see Deleuze’s project as responding to four specific challenges to a philosophy built upon identity in the first part of DR. These problems are:
- The Underdetermination of resemblance
This difficulty emerges when we try to present an account of the law that operates purely in terms of resemblance, that is, in terms of the universal and the particular. When we want to show that something operates according to a given law, we are faced with a problem. As Deleuze notes, ‘everything reacts on everything else, and everything resembles everything else.’ (DR 3) In that sense, we need some kind of criterion by which to select which objects a law will range over. If we take law (determination by particulars and universals) to be completely determinative of the world, then there is nothing that will allow us to decide what are ‘natural joints’ of the world, and what are arbitrary connections. The same problem emerges in chapter two of Difference and Repetition: if memory is defined purely in terms of actuality as a passed present, why does recollection bring this memory to the fore rather than that one, given that they are all alike in some way and different in some way?
- The exception to the law
The second problem is provided by analyses such as Kierkegaard’s. The figure of Abraham, for instance, simply falls outside of the law, and so cannot be adequately characterised by an analysis in terms of the universal and the particular. Abraham, from the perspective of the moral law, should be seen as a murderer, but he is also the champion of faith: ‘Yet no one is as great as Abraham; who is able to understand him?’ (FT, 48) We could relate this to Kant’s argument from incongruent counterparts: even if we can provide a complete list of the conceptual relations of a glove, we could still not completely determine it – the complete list does not determine whether it is left or right handed.
- The inexplicability of repetition
On this basis, we can see that there is a third problem. Repetition obviously occurs – we see it all the time, but yet we cannot provide a coherent conceptual explanation of it. Either the second object is the same as the first object, but then there is no repetition, as the two cases are indiscernible, or it differs, in which case we once again do not have a true repetition,
- The equivocity of judgement
The big problem that we dealt with last term was the problem of the equivocal nature of judgement. If we describe the world in terms of subjects and predicates, then we seem to be forced to posit a fundamental distinction between substances and properties. Now, this distinction between different (and incommensurate) types of being is not in itself a criticism, but it does go against our intuitions that the world is constituted of one kind of ‘stuff’.
- The limited conception of synthesis
Finally, taking judgement to be central to the organisation of the world presents a problem, in that it seems that creatures that are not capable of forming judgements about the world are still able to inhabit the world, and ‘make sense’ of it. In the case of Kant, this problem shows itself by the fact that Kant attempts to explain the notion of habit through judgement, rather than realising that habit is the broader phenomenon exhibited by creatures not capable of judging.
As we have seen, Deleuze’s response to these problems involved showing the strong connection between an equivocal ontology, and a concept of difference which was subordinated to identity. Deleuze’s project in the first part of Difference and Repetition can therefore be seen to revolve around generating an alternative conception of difference which does not function extensively, but rather intensively (the difference between Aquinas’ distinction of the finite and infinite, and Scotus’ distinction, for instance). Deleuze’s characterisation of intensive difference basically sees it as operating on the level of a quasi-Spinozist substance. Given that there we do not relate to substance directly, and that there are two different ways of understanding the determinations of substance, either through intensive or extensive difference, Deleuze’s project involves a large genealogical component. The difficulty is deciding whether a given entity is grounded in difference or identity, or in Deleuze’s terms, whether it operates according to a sedentary or a nomadic distribution. As we have seen in the last few sessions, Deleuze sees this genealogical project as operating according to an ‘inverted Platonism’, whereby difference is selected according to a myth, the myth of the Eternal Return. This philosophical schema led to the following answers to the problems with representation:
In place of a conception of synthesis based on notions of a subject and an object (the Kantian notion of synthesis), Deleuze developed a concept of passive synthesis that constituted centres of subjectivity rather that emanating from them. As passive synthesis was pre-predicative, it explained how habits were contracted without relying on the ‘higher’ form of synthesis defined by judgement. This in turn allowed us to see why judgement appears to be such a successful way of characterising the world (it is a surface effect of a deeper process), while also explaining why an extra element was needed to explain why judgement or law was able to operate. Repetition therefore becomes, not the bare repetition of a state of affairs, but rather the play of the same intensive differences in difference situations.
Further Questions for Difference and Repetition
I now want to briefly go through what occurs in the rest of the book. Apologies for the rather schematic nature of these comments.
The Image of Thought and Representation as Transcendental Illusion (Chapter 3)
Chapter three of Difference and Repetition deals with what Deleuze calls the ‘Image of Thought’. The main questions which Deleuze deals with in this chapter is, I think, why is it that thinking does not naturally develop the kind of account of the world which Deleuze has put forward, and why does it remain caught in an understanding of the world in terms of judgement? To sketch Deleuze’s answer to this question, we can begin by noting that when thinking goes wrong, this is normally because of assumptions which underlie our thinking which are false. For instance, Aristotle argued that the Earth had to be stationary, because if it were in motion would be left behind by the Earth once they left the ground. Now this argument is false because Aristotle falsely assumes that the motion of the birds should be understood in relation to an absolute frame of reference, whereas in fact, the motion of the bird can be understood as relative to the motion of the Earth. If it were assumptions that led one to ‘go wrong’ in one’s reasoning, then something like Descartes’ model of philosophical enquiry would be appropriate. That is, one should strive to remove all assumptions from one’s thinking through the method of doubt. If one only reasoned from absolutely certain assumptions, one could not go wrong: ‘reason now leads me to think that I should hold back my assent from opinions that are not completely certain and indubitable just as carefully as I do from those which are patently false’ (Descartes, 1996, p. 12). What is important about this move by Descartes is that it is reason itself which instigates a method of doubt. Whereas classical doubt often related various faculties to each other in order to undermine all of their claims to primacy in the search for truth, Descartes installs reason as the arbiter of the process of doubt itself. The aim of methodological doubt is therefore to create a space for reason to conduct its enquiries into the nature of the world, as ‘deduction of one thing from another can never be performed wrongly by an intellect which is in the least degree rational’ (Descartes, 1985a, p. 12). If the intellect is incapable of error, however, we have the difficulty of explaining how error can and does occur. Descartes’ solution to this central problem of his method is to situate error in the relations between the faculties. In the Meditations, it is the mismatch between the large domain of the will, which has no concern over truth, and the smaller domain of reason which leads to error. Likewise, in the Rules for the Direction of the Mind, Descartes writes, ‘while it is the intellect alone which is capable of knowledge [scientia], it can be helped or hindered by three other faculties, viz, imagination, sense-perception, and memory’ (Descartes, 1985a, p. 32).
Deleuze instead takes up Kant’s radical suggestion that reason itself is subject to internal illusions that lead it to go astray. That is, that reason itself is responsible for thought ‘going wrong’. Kant’s claim emerges from the fact it is ‘set as a task’ (Kant, 1929, A498/B526) to understand empirical phenomena as a totality, as ‘human reason is by nature architectonic.’ (Kant, 1929, A474/B502) It does this by determining the conditions that lead to a particular phenomenon arising. The difficulty is that the totality of conditions cannot be given, as not all of the conditions for empirical phenomena are themselves empirical (some of the conditions will be transcendental, or will derive from the noumenal nature of things prior to our imposition of space and time on them). So reason takes what is given as a legitimate task, the systematisation of knowledge, but it makes the false assumption that because its task is to understand empirical phenomena as a totality, such a totality can actually be given. Rather, the idea that knowledge can be given as a totality is an imaginary focal point that allows the unending and incompletable process of systematising knowledge to proceed:
This is an illusion which can no more be prevented than we can prevent the sea appearing higher at the horizon than at the shore, since we see it through higher light rays; or to cite a still better example, than the astronomer can prevent the moon from appearing larger at its rising, although he is not deceived by this illusion. (Kant, 1929, A297/B355)
This is what is known as a ‘transcendental illusion’, and explains why reason sometimes falls into contradictions when, for instance, it tries to determine whether the universe has a beginning in time, or is eternal. Neither option can be definitively proved, because verifying one or other of the hypotheses would require us going beyond the given. In the sense that reason holds all conditions of phenomena to be in principle accessible to it, it is therefore subject to error, not in the Cartesian sense of external interference or false assumptions, but according to its very nature. Deleuze’s claim will similarly be that the failure of representation is that its very structure contains within it the transcendental illusion that everything is susceptible to representation. In fact, the domain of representation is limited to actuality (in fact, it is further limited than this, but determining exactly why would draw us into some rather tangential issues), as it is not able to adequately represent the virtual.
Difference without negation/the structure of the Idea (Chapter 4)
The central questions which I take to be addressed in chapter four of Difference and Repetition are, how can we develop a positive account of intensive difference, and how does this account of difference serve as an explanatory principle? Deleuze here talks about the Idea as the way in which we characterise intensive difference, and uses the calculus to provide an example of what a difference that isn’t understood in terms of spatial separation might look like. Basically, the differential calculus allows us to determine the gradient of a line. Now, with a straight line, the gradient is the same along the whole length of a line, so we can determine the gradient by simply seeing how much it rises or falls along a given stretch. That is, on a graph, we would divide the increase in height on the y axis by the distance that increase takes place over: y/x. So if a line rises on the y axis by six units as over a two unit stretch of the x axis, the gradient is (6/2) = 3. If we want to determine the gradient of a curved line, the situation is more complex, however, because what makes a curve a curve is the fact that the gradient of the line is constantly changing. This means that we cannot simply determine the gradient by drawing a line between two points, because this would give us the average gradient, not the gradient itself. Leibniz’s solution to this problem was to determine the gradient by assuming that the distance between the two points was infinitesimal (hence the term, infinitesimal calculus). While this solved the problem de facto, it didn’t solve the justificatory problem of why the calculus works, as we are still determining the gradient on the basis of an average between two points (albeit two points infinitesimally close to one another). The difficulty, is, in a sense, that with a curve, we are attempting to determine the gradient of a point, but a gradient is traditionally understood as a ratio between two distances. Deleuze’s solution (which is somewhat similar to Newton’s) is to posit the difference between the two elements of the ratio as intensive. Thus, while they do truly allow us to determine the gradient at a given point of a curve, the differential ratio, (dy/dx) cannot be represented extensively – each of the elements, dy and dx are equal to 0, but when put into a ratio form, they give us a determinate gradient for the point. For this reason, Deleuze claims that ‘just as we oppose difference in itself to negativity, so we oppose dx to not-A, the symbol of difference to that of contradiction.’ (DR 217)
Deleuze introduces the notion of the Idea as what is supposed to provide an explanation of phenomena without relying on simply repeating the structure of these phenomena at a higher level. So, for instance, Deleuze uses it to oppose the Kantian style of explanation that we looked at in chapter two of DR where the operations of the empirical imagination were explained by positing a transcendental imagination in the case of habit. Deleuze sets up three criteria that the Idea must meet:
- ‘The elements of the multiplicity [of the Idea] must have neither sensible form nor conceptual signification, nor therefore any assignable function.’ (DR 231)
If it is going to explain actual states of affairs, it has to be different in kind from them, otherwise the explanation will be tautologous.
- ‘These elements must in effect be determined, but reciprocally, by reciprocal relations which allow no independence whatsoever to subsist.’
If the Idea is going to be different in kind from states of affairs, it cannot be made up of elements which maintain themselves through self-identity. Rather, the being of the elements is purely defined by their relations to other elements.
- ‘A multiple ideal connection, a differential relation, must be actualised in diverse spatiotemporal relationships.’
If the Idea is going to explain situations, then clearly it cannot apply to just one situation – it has to have a greater degree of generality in order to allow us to select in what way given phenomena are alike and dissimilar.
We can see how this works by looking at one of Deleuze’s examples: the use of homologies in biology. For traditional (and pre-evolutionary) comparative anatomy, the names of the parts of animals are, to a certain extent, derived analogically with other animals, archetypally with man. When the function or form of the parts differ from those of man, however, a different term must be assigned to the part in question. Thus, although there is a similarity between the fins of a fish and the arm of man, on a teleological account, the functional and structural differences mean that different terms must be applied to each. Now, because an organism was defined as a unity of these parts defined by their functional roles, the transformation of species became problematic. This is because deviations in the structure of the parts had to be understood as accompanied by a reduction in functional performance. In effect, deviation could only be understood as lacking the functional unity of the species in question (as deformity).
So we have a situation in which a conceptual understanding does not cut reality at the joints, hence preventing us from properly understanding a key natural phenomenon – evolution. Now, one of the key conceptual developments that made the theory of evolution possible was Geoffroy St. Hillaire’s positing of homologies between different parts of organisms. That is, rather than seeing an organism as defined by the form or function of parts, Geoffroy saw it as defined by the relations between parts. By focusing on relations rather than functions, Geoffroy was able to provide an account that explains one of the key results of evolutionary theory, that the same structure can change its function in different organisms (fins becoming arms, for instance). Now Geoffory didn’t relate organisms to one another directly to generate his account of homologies, but rather posited a transcendental structure of an ideal organism that other organisms were instantiations of (he called his approach ‘transcendental anatomy’).
Deleuze’s interpretation of Geoffroy’s work rests on what he calls Geoffroy’s dream, ‘to be the Newton of the infinitely small, to discover ‘the world of details’ or ‘very short distance’ ideal connections beneath the cruder play of sensible and conceptual differences and resemblances’ (DR, 185). He argues that what Geoffroy is aiming at with his emphasis on connections is a field of differential elements (the ideal correlates of the bones) forming specific types of relations (the connections which are central to Geoffroy’s account). On this basis, Deleuze claims that Geoffroy’s transcendental anatomy functions like a Deleuzian Idea, with its three characteristics. The elements of the Idea ‘must have neither sensible form nor conceptual signification,’ and transcendental anatomy fulfils this requirement due to the fact that it is essentially non-metric and topological, therefore differing from the actual structures which express it. Second, ‘these elements must be determined reciprocally,’ which in the case of the unity of composition, Deleuze takes to mean that what is central is not the bones themselves, but the connections they hold with other bones. Third, ‘a multiple ideal connection, a differential relation, must be actualised in diverse spatio-temporal relationships, at the same time as its elements are actually incarnated in a variety of terms and forms.’ emphasises that homologies do not exist directly between actual terms, ‘but are understood as the actualisation of an essence, in accordance with reasons and at speeds determined by the environment, with accelerations and interruptions’ (DR, 184). That is, we note a homology by recognising that the actual parts of both organisms are actualisations of the same transcendental essence, the unity of composition, rather than by a direct correlation of actual terms, as in comparative anatomy. The Idea in this case therefore allows us to determine in what way diverse phenomena are related to one another.
Depth and Intensity (Chapter 5)
I don’t want to go into much detail about the final chapter, but its main concern is to explain how we can understand perspectivism without these perspectives being correlated with a central identity that generates them. Now, in this chapter, Deleuze draws upon a central distinction that Merleau-Ponty makes in the Phenomenology of Perception, and his last published work, Eye and Mind. The reason why we might consider perspectives to be related to an identity which generates them is because we normally see the dimensions of a perspective as interchangeable. So we feel that what is depth from one perspective will be seen as width from another. So even though objects obscure one another from our own perspective, ‘another man, situated elsewhere – or better, God, who is everywhere – could penetrate [the objects] hiding place and see them openly deployed’ (EM, 173). Different perspectives are therefore situated within a common space that co-ordinates them. In this case, each perspective can be explained purely in terms of extensity. Deleuze claims rather that depth therefore forms the generative space from which extensive space is generated. Following Merleau-Ponty once again, in his claim that ‘a first dimension which contains all the others is no longer a dimension’ (EM, 180), Deleuze argues that ‘once depth is grasped as an extensive quantity, it belongs to engendered extensity, and ceases to include in itself its own heterogeneity in relation to the other two’ (DR, 229). In this sense, for Deleuze, we see intensity, rather than extension as generative of perspective in relation to a field of depth. We can compare these two approaches by noting the two different ways in which perspective has been represented in art. In the renaissance, perspective was represented through projective geometry, which essentially involved deforming the scene in such a way as to allow the brain to reconstruct depth information from the two visible dimensions. In modern artists such as Cezanne or Klee, however, we find that depth is constructed through the interplay, and interpenetration, of colour that doesn’t rely on a prior sharply determined geometry of objects or identities. In this sense, in making depth as a field of intensity the ground for perspective, Deleuze takes up Merleau-Ponty’s claim that ‘any theory of painting is a metaphysics.’ (EM, 171)
Each of those summaries is, of course, far too short to do justice to Deleuze’s arguments in those chapters, but they do, I hope give an indication of the themes of the rest of the book.
Today I want to talk about another figure that Deleuze takes up in his analysis of the history of philosophy: Plato. Plato occupies an ambivalent position in Deleuze’s philosophy, and he claims that ‘the Heraclitean world still growls in Platonism.’ (DR 71) In this respect, the claim that one must ‘overturn’ [renverser] Platonism does not involve a complete repudiation of it. Rather, ‘that this overturning should conserve many Platonic characteristics is not only inevitable but desirable.’ (DR 71) We will turn to Deleuze’s analysis of Plato itself in detail next week, but this week, I want to focus on Plato himself, and particularly on the method of division. The text I want to look at is the Sophist, which presents a dialogue not with Socrates himself, but rather with the stranger, or visitor. The dialogue revolves around the attempt by the stranger to define his notion of the sophist. Socrates begins the dialogue by questioning whether the visitor believes that ‘sophists, statesmen and philosophers make up one kind of thing or two.’ (217a) The visitor then offers a series of possible definitions of the sophist. While much of the dialogue is taken up by an analysis of the forms, and the way in which they relate to one another. This is because the visitor has to explain how the sophist can profess knowledge that seems to be the case, but is not – in other words, how can the sophists knowledge really be about nothing, given that nothing is not, and therefore cannot be a subject that one can relate to. While there is much that is interesting (and relevant) in this analysis, I want to focus instead on the method of division that Plato presents earlier in the dialogue, in order to compare his approach with that of Aristotle. My focus will be on tracing out how this method differs from that of Aristotle, despite the apparent similarity to definition in terms of species and genera. In particular, I want to pick up Deleuze’s claim that ‘Platonic dialectic is neither a dialectic of contradiction nor of contrariety, but a dialectic of rivalry, a dialectic of rivals and suitors.’ (LS 292) In this respect, Plato’s dialectic is seen by Deleuze as closer to the procedure of Nietzsche in the eternal return than to the method of definition found in Aristotle. To see why this is the case, I want to begin by looking at how the visitor in the Sophist goes about determining the nature of the sophist.
Determination and the Method of Division
The central theme of the Sophist is the effort by the Eleatic visitor to draw out what exactly a sophist is using the method of division. To provide an example of how this works, the visitor suggests that they use the example of defining an angler, as the fact that an angler is ‘recognizable to everybody’ means that the method itself will be more easily seen. Now, the method of division appears to be very similar to the Aristotelian method which we looked at last term. The visitor begins by noting that the angler is an expert, and dividing expertise into arts of acquisition and arts of production. Acquisition is in turn divided into two categories, taking possession of something, and acquisition by exchange, and taking possession in turn into combat and hunting. We carry on dividing the various groups, between animal hunting and the hunting of the inanimate, animals that swim and animals that live on land, swimmers with wings and swimmers without, and through the various ways in which fish can be hunted. The result of this examination is therefore an account of what an angler is, arrived at through a progressive division of a whole into parts.
There are some restrictions on the way in which we divide the whole into different parts. In the Phaedrus, Socrates states that we should ‘cut up each kind according to its species along its natural joints, and not try to splinter any part, as a bad butcher might do.’ In this respect, the divisions cannot simply be arbitrary. In the Statesman, the procedure of division goes wrong because the young Socrates has failed to cut up reality at its joints properly. Here, the visitor gives the following general account of how division should occur in order to avoid such errors:
It’s as if someone tried to divide the human race into two and made the cut in the way that most people here carve things up, taking the Greek race away as one, separate from all the rest, and to all the other races together, which are unlimited in number, which don’t mix with one another, and don’t share the same language—calling this collection by the single appellation ‘barbarian’. Because of this single appellation, they expect it to be a single family or class too. Another example would be if someone thought that he was dividing number into two real classes by cutting off the number ten-thousand from all the rest, separating it off as a single class, and in positing a single name for all the rest supposed here too that through getting the name this class too came into existence, a second single one apart from the other. But I imagine the division would be done better, more by real classes and more into two, if one cut number by means of even and odd, and the human race in its turn by means of male and female, and only split off Lydians or Phrygians or anyone else and ranged them against all the rest when one was at a loss as to how to split in such a way that each of the halves split off was simultaneously a real class and a part. (Statesman 262 d-e)
In this sense, we can see that the attempt to define something appears to operate much like the search for essence that Aristotle proposes, where we arrive at the true nature of something through taking what appears to be a genus, and dividing into two classes. By the repetition of this procedure, when applied to one of the species, we gradually ‘home in’ on the species we are attempting to define.
When we turn to the case of the definition of the sophist, however, the situation is not so straightforward. The visitor begins by noting that both the sophist and the angler are hunters, although rather than hunting fish, the sophist hunts men, and rather than hunting by force, the sophist hunts by ‘legal oratory, political oratory and conversation,’ that is, by persuasion. The sophist therefore turns out to be ‘the hunting of rich, prominent young men’ in private for money. This definition, however, turns out not to be a complete account of the sophist, and so the visitor offers another. It is also ‘the expertise of the part of acquisition, exchange, selling, wholesaling, and soul-wholesaling, dealing with words and learning that have to do with virtue.’ (Sophist 224b) The sophist is therefore a merchant of knowledge. He can also be defined as a cleanser of the spirit:
So let it be the cleansing part of the expertise of discriminating things; and let it be marked off as the part of that which concerns souls; and within that if s teaching; and within teaching it’s education. And let’s say that within education, according to the way the discussion has turned now, the refutation of the empty belief in one’s own wisdom is nothing other than our noble sophistry. (Sophist 231b)
This presents us with a problem, as it appears as if none of the definitions provided has been truly adequate to capturing the nature of the sophist. In this sense, it fails as an Aristotelian account of the definition of the individual. When we looked at Aristotle’s account, we saw that definition proceeded along one particular branch of the tree, and so each species had one definition. We cannot determine the essence of the sophist by tracing one line from the genus to the species, however. In fact, we cannot even say that sophisty is one kind of science. The visitor classifies it under the arts of production and the arts of acquisition at different points during his attempt to tie it down. Now, we can begin to explain this fact by noting that sophistry ‘isn’t a trivial sort of expertise, but quite a diverse one’ (223c), and as such it differs from cases such as angling that can be specified by the progressive determination of a single genus. What Plato is offering, therefore, is a more complex form of determination that that which is provided by Aristotle.
The ‘Quilt’ Interpretation of Division
Moravcsik, in his Plato and Platonism, provides a reading of this form of determination where he characterises it, in opposition to Aristotle’s ‘tree’ interpretation of division, as a ‘quilt’ interpretation of division. We can begin by noting that even the basic division of art into productive and acquisitive arts is not the only way in which art can be divided. In the Statesman, for instance, Plato divides art as follows:
Visitor: Well then: isn’t it the case that arithmetic and some other sorts of expertise that are akin to it don’t involve any practical actions, but simply provide knowledge?
Young Socrates: That’s so.
Visitor: Whereas for their part the sorts of expertise involved in carpentry and manufacture as a whole have their knowledge as it were naturally bound up with practical actions, and use it to complete those material objects they cause to come into being from not having been before? (Statesman 258d-e)
Art or expertise can therefore also be divided by whether it is purely theoretical, or also contains a practical component. The Sophist provides six different attempts at the definition of the sophist, each of which traces a different path through possible divisions. In his discussion of Plato’s account of division, Aristotle sees this as a fundamental problem, in that Plato has not given the proper difference in these kinds of cases:
Is man an animal or animate? If he assumed animal, he has not deduced it. Again every animal is either terrestrial or aquatic: he assumed terrestrial. And that man is the whole – a terrestrial animal – is not necessary from what he has said, but he assumes this too…For what prevents all this from being true of man yet not making clear what a man is or what it is to be a man? (Posterior Analytics 18-28)
So for Aristotle, the fact that there is more than one possible path to the sophist – that the sophist shows up on more than one branch of the tree, implies that Plato has failed to capture what is essential about the sophist. While the sophist may indeed be in fact a hunter of rich, prominent young men, this is not what he necessarily is in essence.
While such a criticism would be appropriate if Plato were dividing according to an arborescent model, such as Aristotle’s, we should note that instead that there is something more like a geometrical model at play in Plato’s approach. What we have is something more like the genus, art, as a space that can be demarcated in a variety of manners which can overlap with one another, rather than the model of man as a collection of individuals that are separated off from others by process of selection. In this way, the addition of alternative potential modes of division does not invalidate the original as not providing the essential determination of the sophist, but allows us to grasp the multifaceted nature of the art of sophistry. Each different definition further cuts down the space in the genus that the sophist occupies, and we thus arrive at a picture of him through the addition of a number of ‘brush strokes’ that together make up a definition. In a sense, what we are presented with here, to use the characteristics found in Deleuze and Guattari’s later thinking, is something like a rhizomatic model of thought – that is, a thought not defined by hierarchy, and a central line, but rather by a kind of flat multiplicity.
The Aim of Plato’s Method of Division
Given that Plato is not providing something like a biological taxonomy – the kind of thing we found in Aristotle, the question naturally arises, what is it that Plato is attempting to do in the Sophist? Deleuze claims that Platonic division in no way proposes to determine the species of a genus … rather, it proposes to do so, but superficially, and even ironically, the better to hide under this mask its true secret.’ (DR 72) The answer starts to become clearer when we note the fact that a sophist is a thinker who resembles a philosopher, without actually being one. Similarly, in the Statesman, the Eleatic visitor there defines a statesmanship as ‘knowledge of the collective rearing of human beings.’ (Statesman, 267d) Once we have this definition, we are still faced with a difficulty, however, as it appears that there are a large number of people who fulfil this description: ‘merchants, farmers, millers and bakers’ (Statesman, 267e). Even with a given definition, we have not answered the question at the root of the dialogue. As Deleuze puts it, ‘difference is not between species, between two determinations of a genus, but entirely on one side, within the chosen line of descent.’ (DR 72) What Plato is trying to do, according to Deleuze, is not to define a particular class of individuals, but rather to do something different – to trace the genealogy of the subject in question – to distinguish between the sophist and the philosopher in terms of their origin. The visitor makes this project explicit in the Statesman, where he describes the project of determining statesmanship in the following way:
Visitor: Yes, but there is something else remaining that is still more difficult than this, by reason of its being both more akin to the kingly class, and closer to it, and harder to understand; and we seem to me to be in a situation similar to that of those who refine gold.
Young Socrates: How so?
Visitor: I imagine that these craftsmen also begin by separating out earth, and stones, and many different things; and after these, there remain commingled with the gold those things that are akin to it, precious things and only removable with the use of fire: copper, silver, and sometimes adamant, the removal of which through repeated smelting and testing leaves the ‘unalloyed’ gold that people talk about there for us to see, itself alone by itself.
Young Socrates: Yes, they certainly do say these things happen in this way.
Visitor: Well, it seems that in the same way we have now separated off those things that are different from the expert knowledge of statesmanship, and those that are alien and hostile to it, and that there remain those that are precious and related to it. (Statesman 303d-304a)
How, do we therefore distinguish the statesman from the merchants, farmers, millers and bakers, or Socrates from the sophist? Well, in many dialogues, though ironically, not in the sophist, we have the introduction of a myth. In the Statesman, the visitor introduces the fable of two cosmic eras, that of Cronos, and the present age of Zeus. Each of these gods allows ordered existence to carry on in the world by ensuring that the universe continues to revolve around its circle. By incorporating a myth into the structure of our enquiry, we are able to resolve the question of which of the various contenders is in actual fact the statesman. That is, myth provides an archetype by which to properly separate the pure gold of the statesman from the mixed elements of the other figures. How does it do this? Well, these gods’ governance of the universe provides us with a model by which to assess which of the claimants is the true statesman. When we looked at the notion of time in joint, we saw that Plato argues that the world of appearances is derivative, or secondary to, an atemporal rational structure. The demiurge in that myth created the universe as a ‘moving image of eternity’. Now, the statesman and the true philosophers are both going to be figures who relate to the true ground of the world, the atemporal realm of ideas or forms, rather than the realm of appearances. Obviously, however, a statesman or a philosopher cannot actually be a god, just as they cannot be atemporal, but they can still resemble one. Here, therefore, we find the Platonic view that the world of appearances contains just shadows or copies of real things. Those copies that resemble real things has more reality than those which do not. An important point to note, however, is that there are two ways in which something can be a copy of, or resemble, something else. The visitor sets these two ways out in the Sophist:
Visitor: One type of imitation I see is the art of likeness-making. That’s the one we have whenever someone produces an imitation by keeping to the proportions of length, breadth, and depth of his model, and also by keeping to the appropriate colours of its parts.
Theaetetus: But don’t all imitators try to do that?
Visitor: Not the ones who sculpt or draw very large works. If they reproduced the true proportions of their beautiful subjects, you see, the upper parts would appear smaller than they should, and the lower parts would appear larger, because we see the upper parts from further away and the lower parts from closer. (Sophist, 235d-236a)
Something can therefore resemble the way something is (in which case it is an icon), or just in the way in which sculptors may employ tricks of perspective, it can resemble the way something appears (in which case it is a phantasm). The true statesman resembles the Idea or form of the statesman in the first of these senses, as the form itself cannot be given in appearance, as it is not spatiotemporal. The pretender only resembles the appearance of the form, not the form itself. The problem, therefore, is to distinguish the candidates who bear a true likeness from those which merely appear to. We can now also see why there is no myth in the Sophist. The sophist resembles the forms in the second sense: that is, he presents the appearance of knowledge, which is a resemblance to the philosopher. The philosopher, on the contrary, presents a resemblance to the forms themselves, in that he has knowledge. As the sophist relates himself to appearances, and not to the forms, there is no lineage in him to trace back to the forms, as there is with the statesman. The sophist, rather, is determined by a lesser reality. In this sense, there can be no myth of the sophist, because there is no eternal form that he resembles. Most of the dialogue itself attempts to make this notion of existing but not being a copy of the forms coherent.
It is this distinction between different forms of resemblance that Deleuze takes to be the essential feature of Platonism, and is a key distinction for Deleuze’s own early philosophy:
In Chapter I, we suggested that Plato’s thought turned upon a particularly important distinction: that between the original and the image, the model and the copy. The model is supposed to enjoy an originary superior identity (the Idea alone is nothing other than what it is: only Courage is courageous, Piety pious), whereas the copy is judged in terms of a derived internal resemblance… More profoundly, however, the true Platonic distinction lies elsewhere: it is of another nature, not between the original and the image but between two kinds of images [idoles], of which copies [icones] are only the first kind, the other being simulacra [phantasmes]. The model-copy distinction is there only in order to found and apply the copy-simulacra distinction, since the copies are selected, justified and saved in the name of the identity of the model and owing to their internal resemblance to this ideal model. The function of the notion of the model is not to oppose the world of images in its entirety but to select the good images, the icons which resemble from within, and eliminate the bad images or simulacra. (DR 154-5)
In what sense, therefore, can Plato be seen as the instigation of representation, but also the point at which representation has not yet properly asserted itself (‘an animal in the process of being tamed’ [DR 71])? Well, when we look at Aristotle, we see that the notion of difference relies on a prior identity. This is what allows different species to be related without simply being ‘other’ to one another. Aristotelian taxonomy therefore presupposes the presence of identity as a ground for differences. Aristotle’s complaint against Plato is that Plato has not properly grounded the notion of division. This is the reason why the determinations he gives (‘man, the terrestrial animal’) are not, according to the Aristotelian account, essential determinations. As we saw, while it appears that Plato is providing a hierarchical taxonomy, in fact, his characterisations specify lines that cut up the world according to its joints. Deleuze makes the following comment on this situation:
The Idea is not yet the concept of an object which submits the world to the requirements of representation, but rather a brute presence which can be invoked in the world only in function of that which is not “representable” in things. (DR 71)
I take Deleuze to mean by this that essence is not yet determined by default according to a categorial scheme that presumes a central identity, but rather has to be given by something that falls outside of the dialectic, that is, by myth. Myth therefore plays an essential role in the Platonic method, and places Plato outside of representation.
In making myth central to his philosophical account, Plato resembles Nietzsche, with his myth of the evil demon which grounds the eternal return. We can draw further parallels. In both cases, we have a test of selection that attempts to determine the true grounds of entities. Or Nietzsche, this test was the Eternal Return, which sought to select those entities which were grounded in an ontology of becoming, whereas for Plato, this test selects those entities which can be grounded in the proper realm of being, the forms. In both cases, this test cannot be expressed propositionally, so the eternal return appears in two forms – on the one hand as the thought experiment of the evil demon, and on the other as the story of Zarathustra. For Plato, we instead have the turn to mythology as that which grounds the test of selection. The choice, which for Deleuze is still open in the work of Plato, is therefore whether we take the test as selecting icones, and thereby instituting representation, or as selecting perspective, and phantasma, thus opening up the possibility of a philosophy of difference.
Last week, we looked at Deleuze’s analysis of the death drive, and his attempts to reinterpret this drive in line with his own philosophy of intensive difference. In order to do this, Freud associated death not with the entropic return to a material state, as we found in Freud’s Beyond the Pleasure Principle, but with the third synthesis of time (the pure and empty form of time), and consequently, with the Eternal Return. This week, I want to go through Deleuze’s analysis of the structure of Freud’s account more generally. As we shall see, Deleuze’s analysis of Freud mirrors his own analysis of the structure of time, apart from the final synthesis, and there are parallels to both the notions of active and passive synthesis. In this way, we will find that we have two relations to the world that operate in parallel, the first in terms or actual and representational structures, but also a second, which is non-representational, and governed by ‘virtual’ objects, just as we had two presents in the first account of time, the actual present, and the virtual present of the past.
The Pleasure Principle
The first thing to note about Deleuze’s characterisation of Freud’s project is that he claims that the concern of Beyond the Pleasure Principle is not ‘the exceptions to this principle, but rather to determine the conditions under which pleasure effectively becomes a principle.’ (DR 120) I bring this up because this highlights an important point about Deleuze’s own project. Deleuze is signalling that Freud’s project, like his own, is a transcendental project, but also that such a project is not concerned with ‘demolishing’ the self, but rather with determining the conditions under which the self emerges. So what Deleuze is giving us is a critique of representation in the Kantian sense, that is, an attempt to determine the limits of representation, rather than to overturn it. As we saw a few weeks ago, Freud defined pleasure as the reduction in excitation of the psychic apparatus. Now, prior to the organising principle of the ego, Deleuze argues that we can see ‘biopsychical life’ as ‘a field of individuation in which differences in intensity are distributed here and there [Ça et là] in the form of excitations.’ (DR 119) Within such biopsychical life, we will, of course, have variations in the level of excitation of the system at various points and at various moments. In this sense, pleasure, as a process, will be operative within the system (the level of excitation will sometimes drop). In this context, Deleuze makes a rather swift (and problematic in English or German) linguistic argument to equate the ‘here and there [Ça et là]’ of biopsychical life with Freud’s id [Ça]. Now, in spite of the problematic nature of the argument, it does seem like a reasonable equation, and it allows us the raise the key question of this section, which is, how does pleasure cease to be a process, in order to become a principle that organises the life of the unconscious? Now, an answer such as ‘pleasure is pleasing’ is tautologous, and misses the point. If we try, as Freud has, to give an account of pleasure that does not already presuppose the existence of a subject who values it, then we have to be able to account for how his value gets attached to this particular biological process in the first place. That is, how a (value neutral) process becomes a principle of organisation and action.
Deleuze points out that if pleasure is going to become a principle, there cannot simply be a free flow of excitations. There needs to be some process of binding or annexation of excitation so that excitations can have ‘systematic resolution,’ rather than arbitrarily traversing the life of the organism. So some kind of integration, or organisation is necessary for us to be able to relate pleasure to a principle. Freud himself makes this point in a passage that we have already looked at:
As the drive-impulses all act on our unconscious systems, it is scarcely a new departure to assert that they follow the primary process, and it is also no very great step to identify the primary psychic process with Breuer’s ‘free-flowing’ cathexis, and the secondary one with his ‘annexed’ or ‘tonic’ cathexis. This would then mean that it was the task of the higher echelons of the psychic apparatus to annex excitations originating from the drives and reaching it via the primary process. Any failure of this annexion process would bring about a dysfunction analogous to traumatic neurosis. Only when the annexion has taken place would the pleasure principle (or, once the latter has been duly modified, the reality principle) be able to assert its dominion unhindered. In the meantime, however, the psychic apparatus’s other task of controlling or annexing the excitation would be very much to the fore – not, it is true, in opposition to the pleasure principle, but independently of it, and to some extent quite heedless of it. (BPP 74-5)
The pleasure principle therefore rests on the integration of excitations that are originally unbound. It’s helpful to here note that there are parallels with the first synthesis of time. There, we were dealing with a flux of experience that needed to be contracted into an organised flow of anticipations. In that case, we could not rely on the notion of the self, as the synthesis was precisely what constituted the self. Here, in a similar manner, we have a synthesis not performed by a subject, a passive synthesis, as we are dealing with processes of ‘biopsychical life’ before it has become a system capable of supporting a unified self. Furthermore, Deleuze claims that this process is actually constitutive of a subject:
‘an animal forms an eye for itself by causing scattered and diffuse luminous excitations to be reproduced on a privileged surface of its body. The eye binds light, it is itself a bound light.’ (DR 120)
Deleuze’s point, I think, is also that as the self that is constituted by the integration or contraction of excitations, it simply is these excitations. This gives us the reason why Deleuze calls these contracting egos ‘narcissistic’. What they relate to is, in a sense, themselves, or an image of themselves, in the form of the excitations that they bind. The movement of binding therefore finds satisfaction in a narcissistic relation to its own image (this has some parallels, I think, with Lacan’s ‘mirror stage’). In this sense, the fact that the egos constituted by the binding process are narcissistic parallels the way in which the selves that were contracted habits in the first synthesis of time related not to objects, but to signs. So just as I said that a heartbeat appears as a sign in our world that doesn’t resemble the movement of the heart itself, the binding of excitations constitutes egos that do not relate directly to objects, but to images of themselves.
Just as we found with the notion of habit, therefore, we have a series of reversals in our understanding of binding/habit and pleasure. It is not the case that pleasure gives rise to habit, therefore, in the sense that we might talk of repeating something enjoyable, but rather it is the existence of habits that lead to pleasure. In the discussion of habit, Deleuze claimed that habit was only conceived of as reproduction when it was incorporated into a mathematicised ‘temporal space’ by the imagination. Similarly here, it is only by relating pleasure to the past and the future, and instituting the pleasure principle that we are able to see pleasure as operating prior to habit. That is, by talking about ‘pleasure in general’, we introduce the ‘idea of pleasure.’ Once pleasure is not related to a passive synthesis, but is seen as organised in relation to a principle, we have an active synthesis that relates to an ego. The result of this is that the pleasure principle will now be seen as primary, as without some kind of external organising principle, it is impossible to explain how indifferent processes can form a coherent system, and how individual excitations can be related to one another (how habits are formed). On final thing to note is that the objects that binding and the pleasure principle relate to are different. Binding operates on free excitations in order to enable the pleasure principle to relate them together into a system.
We can here return to the question of the compulsion to repeat. When we looked at the fort-da game, the attempt to master an excitation was an explanation that Freud looked at, but ultimately rejected. That is, Freud considered that the child may throw the spindle away and then recover it in order to master the trauma of being separated from its mother. As Deleuze writes, ‘binding syntheses cannot be explained by the intention or the effort to master and excitation, even though it may have that effect.’ (DR 121) Now such an explanation rests on a conflations of the two levels of analysis. To the extent that binding brings an excitation within the domain of the pleasure principle, the process of binding (the passive synthesis) is a form of mastery. But insofar as we remain on this level, we do not have anything like an intention, or an effort to master. These notions only come into play when we are dealing with active syntheses, and, I’m guessing, the mathematical conception of time.
The Second Synthesis
Is the model of the psyche as it stands adequate? At present, passive synthesis involves the binding of excitations that occur within the biopsychical system. Now, clearly pleasure does operate within this system, but it is also the case that ‘biopsychical systems’ have some kind of relation to an outside. As Deleuze puts it, ‘A child who begins to walk does not only bind excitations in a passive synthesis, even supposing these were endogenous excitations born of its own movements. No one has ever walked endogenously.’ (DR 123) That is, our actions have an object. Now, as we might expect, given the account of the three syntheses of time, this second stage, the relation of the biopsychical system to a world of objects, is going to involve two different syntheses, an active and a passive synthesis. As the active synthesis is the most straightforward, I will begin with that.
We can start by recalling one of the central axioms of Kant’s model of active synthesis, which was that the subject made the object possible, and vice versa. In Kant is right about the interdependence of subjects and objects (and Deleuze takes him to be right, at least at the level of representation), then a relation to an object is going to require a subject that relates to it. In this sense, Deleuze writes the following:
Active synthesis is defined by a test of reality in an ‘objectal’ relation, and it is precisely according to the reality principle that the ‘ego’ tends to ‘be activated’, to be actively unified, to unite all its small composing and contemplative passive egos, to be topologically distinguished from the Id. (DR 122)
If we recall that pleasure relates to individual bindings, or drives within the unconscious, then it becomes apparent that the organism cannot simply function according to the pleasure principle alone. Sometimes one drive may seek satisfaction in a way which threatens the integrity of the organism as a whole. As we saw a couple of weeks ago, Freud therefore supplements the pleasure principle with the reality principle, which overrides the interests of the particular satisfaction of drives in favour of the pleasure (and survival) of the organism as a whole:
We know that the pleasure principle belongs to a primary operational level of the psychic apparatus, and that so far as self-preservation is concerned it is never anything but useless, indeed highly dangerous, given the challenges posed by the external world. Thanks to the influence of the ego’s self-preservation drive it is displaced by the reality principle, which, without abandoning the aim of ultimately achieving pleasure, none the less demands and procures the postponement of gratification, the rejection of sundry opportunities for such gratification, and the temporary toleration of unpleasure on the long and circuitous road to pleasure. (BPP 48)
Once we have a unified ego, then it is straightforward to see that this ego can relate, intentionally, to an object outside of itself. In fact, Deleuze is here arguing, I think, that in the Freudian analysis, in much the same way that the object is constituted by the subject, the act of unification of the ego is what allows the organism to confront a unified field of objects that it can act on.
As well as the extension of active synthesis, we also have an extension of a passive synthesis. This revolves around the notion of a virtual object which is, I think, quite obscure:
The child constructs for itself another object, a quite different kind of object which is a virtual object or centre and which governs and compensates for the progresses and failures of its real activity: it puts several fingers in its mouth, and appraises the whole situation from the point of view of this virtual mother. (DR 123)
Why might we need a separate conception of an object to deal with passive syntheses? Well, the first point to note is that if the child is going to continue to be able to bind excitations, then clearly it needs to relate in some way to a source for those excitations. This implies some kind of relationship to the outside (it needs to relate to some kind of object that generates excitations). Now, as we noted, binding does not relate to objects, but rather to signs – binding is an integration of excitations rather than a relation to a representation. This means that the kind of external object that allows for the generation of excitations will be different in kind from the actual objects of representation.
Now, the notion of a virtual object as presented here is not particularly clear, but I think we can get somewhere with explaining it if we take up Keith Faulkner’s definition of it as ‘an image of an action that will satisfy a drive in an auto-erotic manner.’ (Faulkner PhD, 57) Bearing this in mind, we can understand Deleuze’s claim that ‘sucking occurs only in order to provide a virtual object to contemplate in the context of extending the passive synthesis.’ (DR 123) As I said when we looked at the first synthesis, the process of binding did not rely on the nature of an external object as such, but rather operated in terms of signs (just as the heartbeat doesn’t resemble the motion of the heart). Similarly, in sucking its thumb, the child is not interested in the actual object it is related to (the thumb), but rather in providing signs for a passive synthesis. Thus, the thumb takes the place of the mother’s breast as providing excitations for the organism. Now, given that passive syntheses do not operate with representations, the child does not take the thumb to be the breast, but rather that aspect of the breast which satisfied the original binding process. This aspect is an action, or an image of an action. The thumb therefore provides a series of excitations that can be bound by a sub-representational passive synthesis.
Once we accept this account of the nature of the virtual object, we can start to piece together Deleuze’s analysis of it. The fact that we have two types of objects, one of which is actual, and one of which is virtual, should put us in mind of the notion of the pure past that Deleuze introduced in his discussions of the syntheses of time, and in fact, Deleuze characterises virtual objects as ‘shreds of pure past.’ (DR 126) So how are they constituted? Deleuze gives the following description of the constitution of the virtual object:
We see both that the virtuals are deducted from the series of reals and that they are incorporated in the series of reals. This derivation implies, first, an isolation or suspension which freezes the real in order to extract a pose, an aspect or a part. This isolation, however, is qualitative: it does not consist simply in subtracting a part of the real object, since the subtracted part acquires a new nature in functioning as a virtual object. (DR 125)
When we are dealing with an object of representation that we intend towards, we cannot help but think of the object as a totality. When we think of a chair, for instance, we cannot help but think that if we walked around the object then we would continue to be presented with different perspectives on it. Now, the binding process isn’t concerned with the totality of the object, but only with those aspects of the object which are capable of generating excitations. It is thus subtracts from the total object those aspects that are capable of creating excitations in it. It is only interested in a particular gesture, motion, or aspect, and not for instance, the object which actually moves to create the gesture. But as a representation has to be a coherent object separate from the particular perspective it is presented from, then the process of subtraction actually changes its nature (a gesture without a gesturer is incoherent as a representational object, for instance).
This, I think, explains why the virtual object is not to be understood in terms of actual objects, either as a full object, or as a partial object. Why does Deleuze refer to them as ‘shreds of pure past’? Well, I think that this point is related to the further comment that virtual objects are incorporated in the series of reals. On the one hand, this is obvious, in that virtual objects have to in some sense motivate behaviour – they have to be found in the world somewhere. So when the child sucks his thumb, it is relating to a virtual object, but only on the basis that this is incorporated into an actual object.
There is a second reason, which is that once again, the positing of a non-actual series paralleling the actual world allows us to explain the notion of association. Deleuze puts the question as follows:
The difficulties in conceptualising repetition have often been emphasised. Consider the two presents, the two scenes or the two events (infantile and adult) in their reality, separated by time; how can the former present act at a distance upon the present one? How can it provide a model for it, when all its effectiveness is retrospectively received from the later present? (DR 129)
When we looked at the syntheses of time, the problem with understanding association as operating purely in terms of actual memory was that everything was like everything else in some way. That meant that it was impossible to explain why a particular experience conjured up this memory. We have the same kind of problem here with repetition. How is a present experience connected with a past experience? Freud argues that a trauma, for instance, means that we repeat a prior experience, instead or representing it. Similarly, character involves a repetition of our relations to new situations. So for Freud, what is repeated is a prior actual state of affairs. Ultimately this understanding of repetition makes it obscure therefore why the past still influences the present, and why this past rather than that is repeated. It is also the reason why we end up positing the death drive as a material process, as repetition is always repetition of an actual event.
For Deleuze, what ties together two series of events is that the same virtual object is at play (incorporated) in both series. This explains why a past event can still influence the present, not because of the actual events themselves, but because of the virtual object incorporated into them. This also explains why it is the case that we can see, for instance, in someone’s character, a repetition of the same relationships, or the same actions, in different situations. The subject does not reason by analogy on the basis of their past responses, but is reacting to the same event incorporated into a different state of affairs.
In this sense, we can say that what is repeated is something that has never actually been present, but rather that the same virtual object is present in disguise in the various states of affairs that make up the repetition. There is no first term to the series itself, however, as repetition takes place in response to the drives rather than the ego and its object.
Once again, we find that Deleuze’s discussion of the first two syntheses appears to him to be inadequate. Deleuze makes the claim that the virtual and actual objects ‘inevitably become confused, the pure past thereby assuming the status of a former present, albeit mythical, and reconstituting the illusion it was supposed to denounce, resuscitating the illusion of an original and a derived, of an identity in the origin, and a resemblance in the derived.’ (DR 135) The implication, I take it is that ultimately once again, we have a subordination of the virtual to the actual.
Deleuze’s resolution to this problem is, I think, once again to posit a fracture within the self. The following is quite speculative, but I think gives the general account of what is happening in the third synthesis.
First, we can note that Deleuze criticised the death drive for instituting a fundamental dualism between life drives and death drives which, as we saw last week, Deleuze sought to overcome through the notion of intensive difference.
Now, the introduction of the narcissistic ego is supposed to show how this is possible by bringing in the notion of a single form of libido, which is present in the death drive, but also desexualised in the life drives. If Deleuze can show that there is one form of libido that is operative in both, he can show that both drives are simply different expressions of the same intensive force. In the Ego and the Id, Freud presents the following account of narcissism:
Where an individual is required or compelled to give up a sexual object, there is not uncommonly a compensatory process in the form of that particular ego-alteration43 that we can only describe as ‘erecting the object within the ego’, just as occurs in melancholia. We do not yet know the precise circumstances in which this surrogation process takes place. Perhaps the ego uses this introjection, which is a form of regression to the mechanism of the oral phase, in order to make it easier to give up the object, or even to make it possible in the first place. Perhaps this identification is the one and only condition under which the id will give up its objects.
When the ego adopts the features of the object, it so to speak presses itself on the id as a love-object; it seeks to make good the id’s loss by saying ‘There, you see, you can love me too – I look just like the object.’ (BPP 120)
In this case, therefore, the ego gives up relations to the outside world in order to relate itself to the id. Now this process is essentially one of the individual abandoning its sexual goals, and its intentional relations to the outside world in order to relate directly to itself. As such, this involves a process of desexualisation of its libido:
By thus commandeering the libido of the various object-cathexes, setting itself up as sole love-object, and desexualizing or sublimating the libido of the id, it operates directly counter to the designs of Eros; it puts itself at the service of the opposing drive-impulses. (BPP 136)
Now, this movement presupposes the existence of what Deleuze calls ‘a neutral, displaceable energy, essentially capable of serving thanatos’ (DR 137), or in other words, of equally becoming expressed in the structures of the id or of the ego. As this is prior to habit and memory, it can be equated with the intensive difference which is actualised in both of them. This account is incomplete without a discussion of the fracture of the ego, which, I take it, occurs through the Oedipus complex, and mirrors Kant’s paralogisms, but it does at least give the basic outline at least.
For the final two weeks of this term, I want to look at with Deleuze’s reaction to Freud’s work, particularly Beyond the Pleasure Principle. Now, as I said last week, Deleuze’s reaction to Beyond the Pleasure Principle is ambivalent, as on the one hand, Freud recognises both that we need a transcendental account of repetition, and that a transcendental account cannot be given in terms of representations. Repetition escapes from representation. In this regard, Freud sets out what we might call a transcendental empiricist account of repetition, much as Deleuze does. As we saw last week, however, the ground of this transcendental empiricist account is, in the final analysis, a principle of inertia, rather than an intensive field of difference, as we find in Deleuze’s metaphysics. Today, I want to look at Deleuze’s formulation of this criticism in regard to two sections of Difference and Repetition. First, I want to look at Deleuze’s critique of Freud as it appears in the introduction. It is here that Deleuze highlights the fact that what Freud has produced is an account of the transcendental conditions of repetition. Second, I want to look at Deleuze’s discussion of the two kinds of death to see how these differ from the death instinct itself.
Two Forms of Repetition
As we saw last term, the aim of the introduction was to show that the concept of repetition could not be adequately captured within a conceptual schema. Repetition is commonly seen as ‘difference without concept’ (DR 30), as in the case of Kant’s incongruent counterparts, which can only be distinguished from one another by their reference to a spatial (and hence non-conceptual) milieu. As we saw last week, Freud presents a number of cases of repetition that fall outside of our conceptual understanding: war trauma, the fort-da game, the repeating of the past by the patient, and the case of fate that we find in our lives. Now, while (many of) these cases may be explicable in terms of the pleasure principle, Freud notes that at the very least, the compulsion to repeat seems to be underdetermined by it. Or this reason, Freud introduces the theory of the death drive in order to explain why we feel compelled to manifest this surface compulsion. Now, Deleuze’s question in this regard is as follows:
Do the disguises found in the work of dreams or symptoms – condensation, displacement, dramatisation – rediscover while attenuating a bare, brute repetition (repetition of the Same)? (DR 18-19)
That is, given that we need to find a foundation for repetition, is this foundation going to be a kind of repetition which is different in kind from empirical repetition? A foundation for repetition that simply rests on another bare repetition will simply be inadequate, as rather than explaining repetition, it will presuppose it. I hinted last week that Deleuze’s claim is going to be that underlying repetition for Freud is a material repetition, rather than a spiritual repetition, and indeed this is the case:
Even beyond the pleasure principle, the form of a bare repetition persists, since Freud interprets the death instinct as a tendency to return to the state of inanimate matter, one which upholds the model of a wholly physical or material repetition. (DR 19)
Now, what is interesting about this claim is that Deleuze is not here rejecting the death instinct, but rather claiming that the error is with Freud’s interpretation of it. I want to come back to this next week, when we look at Deleuze’s positive interpretation, but for now, we can note that Deleuze claims that there are two reasons why Freud’s interpretation fails:
- ‘the persistence of a dualistic and conflictual model which inspired the whole theory of drives’
- ‘the material model which presided over the whole theory of repetition.’ (DR 137)
I want to now go through these two problems before looking at Deleuze’s own account of death.
First, the persistence of a dualistic model. In the Ego and the Id, Freud gives the following summary of the relation between the sexual drives and the death drive:
On this view, we need to distinguish two types of drives, one of which – the sexual drives, or Eros – is far more conspicuous, and far more accessible to our knowledge and understanding. It includes not only the uninhibited sexual drive itself and the goal-inhibited and hence sublimated drive-impulses deriving from it, but also the self-preservation drive that we perforce ascribe to the ego, and that at the very outset of our psychoanalytical work we had good reason to regard as contrasting sharply with the sexual object-drives. … On the basis of theoretical considerations underpinned by biology, we posited a death drive charged with the task of causing animate organisms to revert to an inanimate state, whereas Eros pursues the goal of maximizing the complexity of life – and thereby of course preserving it – by an ever more catholic combination of the particles into which living matter had been fragmented…According to this view, the emergence of life is therefore the cause both of the urge to carry on living and, simultaneously, of the urge for death, while life itself is a battle and constant compromise between these two urges. Considered thus, the question as to the origin of life remains a cosmological one, while the question as to the purpose and intention of life is answered in dualistic terms. (BPP 130-1)
Now, the difficulty with the notion of opposition, as we saw last term, is that it operates according to an overarching identity. This is problematic if we are going to explain the transcendental conditions of the operation of the pleasure principle, as if such a transcendental account is going to be of explanatory value, it cannot simply presuppose elements we find already within the pleasure principle, such as the notion of force. The fact that the death drive is seen as an active force in opposition to the sexual drives can be seen in statements such as the following:
…in certain lower animals death coincides with the act of procreation. Reproduction is the cause of these creatures’ death in the sense that the death drive can effect its aims without let or hindrance once Eros has been removed from the picture through the act of gratification. (BPP 137)
Deleuze and Guattari in The Anti-Oedipus present the following alternative account, which is already at work in Difference and Repetition:
It is a question of different parts of the machine, different and coexisting, different in their very coexistence. Hence it is absurd to speak of a death desire that would presumably be in qualitative opposition to the life desires. Death is not desired, there is only death that desires, by virtue of the body without organs or the immobile motor, and there is also life that desires, by virtue of the working organs. There we do not have two desires but two parts, two kinds of desiring-machine parts, in the dispersion of the machine itself. (AO 329)
Now, this description is framed through terminology such as the body without organs, but we can still see the fundamental kind of structure that we found in the three syntheses of time. Just as habit and memory were not opposed to one another, but simply differed from one another (and indeed functioned together), the life drive and the death drive are moments of the same system that operate in fundamentally different manners. In both cases, it’s also important to note that we do not have drives, or principles which operate on energy (desires), but rather the movement of desire itself is a manifestation of energy. A properly transcendental account of the death drive cannot oppose it to life drives, therefore, as such an opposition posits them as separate (or separable) from one another, and as structurally similar.
The second problem is the material model at the heart of Freud’s theory. At base, Freud’s explanation of the compulsion to repeat is in terms of a compulsion to return, which, due to the recapitulation theory of embryology, is a compulsion to return to the earliest stages of life, and beyond this, to the ground of life itself, the inorganic. What Freud is therefore proposing is something like an entropic principle for life. Life wants to return to the lowest possible energy state. Now, we have already looked at the influence of Bergson on Deleuze to some extent, and so I just want to give a brief indication of Bergson’s conception of life:
Let us imagine a vessel full of steam at a high pressure, and here and there in its sides a crack through which the steam is escaping in a jet. The steam thrown into the air is nearly all condensed, and this fall represents a loss of something, an interruption, a deficit. But a small part of the jet of steam subsists, uncondensed, for some seconds; it is making an effort to raise drops which are falling; it succeeds at most in retarding their fall. (Creative Evolution, 247)
The Bergsonian conception is, therefore, one of life as a force which works against the tendency of the inorganic to fall back into a low energy state, even if this process can only delay the inevitable return. Deleuze will, in fact, push this point further, and argue that the notion of entropy emerges through a transcendental illusion – we tend to see the world in terms of extension, and this is a necessary condition for the formulation of the second law of thermodynamics.
So this brings us to the question of whether Freud’s assumption of the death instinct as a ‘material repetition’ is correct. We can note three factors have to be combined in his explanation. First, it has to be the case that there is a distinct separation between the principles of the life drives and the death drive. Second, it is going to be the case that the death drive is the first of the drives which are developed by the organism. Finally, it is going to be the case that the death drive, as it originates from the leap from inorganic to organic, will be present in all life.
Following Keith Ansell Pearson, I want to look at some of the final sections of Beyond the Pleasure Principle, and their relation to biology. In part VI, Freud talks about the early stages of life, and introduces the biologist August Wiesmann into the discussion, claiming that ‘what is truly fascinating here is the unexpected similarity to the view that we arrived at by such a very different route.’ (BPP, 85) Simply put, Weismann’s view of the organism divides it into two parts, soma cells and germ cells. Weismann’s central claim arises from the fact that sperm and egg cells divided differently from cells in the rest of the body. Weismann’s argument was that whereas the role of soma-cells was to perform one of many functions within the body (for which they contained only the information necessary for that function), the role of germ cells was solely to produce replacements of the organism itself. Thus, there is a division of labour between different cells within the organism. Now, this explains, for instance, why cutting the tail off a rat does not lead to a rat that in turn breeds tailless rats, as the germ cells and the soma cells develop in different directions too early for changes in the structure of the organism to affect the germ line (an experimental puzzle for other theories of inheritance, such as Lamarck’s). As such, Weismann’s model is roughly the same, structurally, as we find in modern genetics.
We can see that this model relates to Freud’s in that the organism is governed by two separate principles, as is made explicit by Weismann’s account of the necessity of death of the organism:
Let us imagine that one of the higher animals became immortal; it then becomes perfectly obvious it would cease to be of value to the species to which it belonged. Suppose that such an immortal individual could escape all fatal accidents, through infinite time – a supposition which is of course hardly conceivable. The individual would be nevertheless unable to avoid, from time to time, slight injuries to one or another part of its body. The injured parts could not retain their former integrity, and thus the longer the individual lived, and the less perfectly would it fulfil the purpose of its species. Individuals are injured by the operation of external forces, and for this reason alone it is necessary that new and perfect individuals should continually arise to take their place, and this necessity would remain even if the individual possessed the power of living eternally.
From this follows, on the one hand, the necessity of reproduction, and, on the other, the utility of death. (Weismann, Essays upon Heredity, 23-4)
In multicellular organisms, death is a necessary and natural part of the process of living, as is a drive to reproduce. In this sense, therefore, we can find in higher organisms both a death drive, and life drives. The important question is one of priority, however, which comes first, the drive to life, or that to death? Here we encounter the fundamental limitation of Freud’s account, as it is simply not the case that simple life, such as the amoeba, has an inherent tendency to its own destruction. In fact, provided conditions are right, an amoeba would carry on living forever, and reproduce through division, whereby its own existence is multiplied, rather than replaced. In unicellular organisms, we do not have the division of labour between germ cells and soma cells, and so it is not the case that the organism can degenerate through the loss of some of its cells, but not others. The utility of death is to allow the germ cells to perpetuate themselves at the expense of the soma cells, but if we return to a point prior to this division, then there simply is only one type of cell, and so death has no utility for the organism:
Although they are certainly destroyed by other animals, there is nothing comparable to that deterioration of the body which takes place in the higher organisms. Unicellular animals are too simply constructed for this to be possible. If an infusorians is injured by the loss of some part of its body, it may often recover its former integrity, but if the injury is too great, it dies. The alternative is always either perfect integrity or complete destruction.
We may now leave this part of the subject, for it is obvious that normal death, that is to say, death which arises from internal causes, is an impossibility among theses lower organisms. (EH, 27)
This, therefore, presents a problem for Freud, in that it does not appear to be the case that the earliest forms of life do, in fact, exhibit the propensity to death that Freud has posited of them. Further, it is the case that for Weismann, even in higher organisms, the death of the soma-cells only exists to make possible to perpetuation of the germ cells. This perpetuation has to be, on Freud’s reading, simply an infinite deferment of death, an infinite extension of the circuit of the organism’s return to the inorganic. Returning to the first of these points, Freud’s only response is to claim that the death drive is merely implicit in lower life:
The primitive structure of these organisms may conceal from us certain features which, though present in them too, are actually observable only in the higher animals, where they have found morphological expression. (BPP 88)
Given the nature of simple organic life, it seems difficult to align Freud’s claim that life is entropic with the basic facts of biology. In fact, it appears to be the case that a drive to preservation precedes the death drive. If that is the case, then Freud’s model becomes problematic.
Two notions of Death
How do we reconcile this claim with the fact that Deleuze maintains the principle of the death drive? Well, for Deleuze, the retention of the death drive will be premised on a reinterpretation of what death amounts to. For Freud, death is understood in terms of a material repetition. Deleuze is instead going to understand death in terms of the other category of repetition, spiritual repetition.
In fact, Deleuze here introduces the same distinction that has been running through chapter two between active synthesis and passive synthesis. Now, the parallel isn’t perfect here, but death within the Freudian model is a principle that operates in relation to a synthesis of undifferentiated elements. It comes into play at the point at which these elements become organised as something separate from them and active in its own right (it is a principle over and above that which it is a principle of). The death drive in Freud’s terms thus operates therefore according to an active synthesis. As with Deleuze’s discussions throughout this chapter, we will find that as well as the active synthesis, there is a passive synthesis that underlies it. Thus, Deleuze writes as follows:
Blanchot rightly suggests that death has two aspects. One is personal, concerning the I or the ego, something which I can encounter in a struggle or meet at a limit, or in any case, encounter in a present which causes everything to pass. The other is strangely impersonal, with no relation to “me”, neither present nor past but always coming, the source of an incessant multiple adventure in a persistent question. (DR138)
Freud’s model is clearly closer to the first of these forms of death, although I think it is somewhat broader than Freud’s own case. This first model of death is not simply ‘the model of an indifferent inanimate matter to which the living would return.’ (DR 137), and there is an open question of whether Deleuze is here making a deeper point about ‘this death [that] always comes from without, even at the moment when it constitutes the most personal possibility, from the past, even at the moment when it is most present.’ (DR 138) Whereas the death drive appears to be an impersonal instinct that has merely an ‘extrinsic, scientific and objective definition,’ (DR 137) the personal nature of death seems to relate it more to something like Hegel’s Phenomenology. In the Master-slave dialectic, Hegel claims that it is the experience of death that allows us to develop an understanding of ourselves freed from inessential determinations:
For this consciousness has been fearful, not of this or that particular thing or just at odd moments, but its whole being has been seized with dread; for it has experienced the fear of death, the absolute Lord. In that experience, it has been quite unmanned, has trembled in every fibre of its being, and everything solid and stable has been shaken to its foundations. But this pure universal movement, the absolute melting away of everything stable, is the simple, essential nature of self-consciousness, absolute negativity, pure being-for-self, which consequently is implicit in this consciousness. (Hegel, Phen Sp, §194)
Deleuze would be claiming that this is once again a surface manifestation of the true nature of death. This might also be a criticism of Heidegger’s notion of being towards death, although Deleuze’s position on this point is rather ambiguous.
So what is the true nature of death? Well, we saw a couple of weeks ago, that the third synthesis of time in the case of Zarathustra was represented by Zarathustra’s death. Deleuze’s discussion of Freud also sees death as ‘a pure form – the empty form of time.’ (DR 137) Death therefore refers us to the field of intensities of chapter one, it is ‘the state of free differences when they are no longer subject to the form imposed upon them by an I or an ego.’ (DR 138) So, the real notion of death is in fact the collapse of a given structure in the face of a some kind of pure becoming. In this sense, death is a perpetual drive that destabilises identities, and makes transition possible:
The experience of death is the most common of occurrences in the unconscious, precisely because it occurs in life and for life, in every passage or becoming, in every intensity as passage or becoming. (AO 330)
In this sense, life is characterised by death, to the extent that it is run through with experiences which destabilise the structure of the organism, and the identity of the ego. There is, therefore, for Deleuze, something equivalent to the death drive, but this does not operate according to an entropic principle in the way that we find in Freud’s model. Structures are not destabilised through a drive to return to a state where there is no energy in the system, but rather through the emergence of intensities into the field of representation. In this sense, the death drive does not operate according to a principle, but simply is the manifestation of intensive difference into the realm of the unconscious (‘this energy does not serve Thanatos, it constitutes him’ [DR 139]). This leads to a reversal of our understanding of death. Since intensive death is a part of life (the destabilising of identities), our ‘death’ in this sense is coextensive with life:
‘it finally ceases to die since it ends up dying, in the reality of a last instant that fixes it in this way as an I, all the while undoing the intensity, carrying it back to the zero that envelops it.’ (AO 330-1)
Deleuze’s interpretation of the death drive is therefore one that replaces the fundamentally entropic model that we find in Freud’s interpretation with one that opens up onto the univocal ontology that we looked at last term. So the final question is, why do we repeat that which we cannot represent? Earlier, Deleuze has stated that ‘the present is the repeater, the past is repetition itself, and the future is that which is repeated.’ (DR 117) It is therefore the field of intensive difference which expresses itself in the present. Now, as this is different in kind from representation, it cannot occur within the field of representation as it is in itself. In this sense, the intensities which constitute us express themselves throughout our lives in a variety of contexts ‘in disguise.’ In this sense, when we are dealing with intensive difference, ‘the path it traces is invisible and becomes visible only in reverse, to the extent that it is travelled over and covered by the phenomena it induces in the system.’ (DR 146)
This brings us on to the theme of the dark precursor, which hopefully we will talk about next week. I also want to talk about how this understanding of the death drive as intensive plays through Deleuze’s reinterpretation of Freud’s essay, Beyond the Pleasure Principle, in other words, how the third synthesis relates to the first two syntheses of habit and memory within Freud’s model of teh psychic apparatus.
This week, I want to look at Freud’s Beyond the Pleasure Principle. As we will see in the coming weeks, Deleuze’s relationship to Freud, even within Difference and Repetition itself is ambivalent. We can see this ambivalence as arising from Freud’s introduction of two projects which, at least from Deleuze’s perspective, are at odds with one another. First, Freud recognises that the phenomenon of repetition cannot be understood purely on the basis of the subject’s conscious relation to the world. Like Deleuze, Freud is interested in the conditions that make repetition possible. Freud’s account of repression sets up a relation between repetition and representation that mirrors Deleuze’s own:
…the patient does not remember anything at all of what he has and repressed, but rather acts it out. He reproduces it not as a memory, but as an action; he repeats it, without of course being aware of the fact that he is repeating it. (RRWT, 36)
The analyst’s treatment of a patient involves helping the patient to form a representation of an initially unrepresentable trauma, therefore, which the patient repeats without being able to represent this repetition. The notion of repetition at work in the project of psychoanalysis therefore bears certain structural analogies with that which Deleuze is interested in.
The other side of Freud’s project is to provide a scientific (and physical) basis to psychoanalysis. Now, this aim is in tension with Deleuze’s philosophy, since Deleuze attempted to show in the introduction to Difference and Repetition that it was impossible to formulate a conception of repetition on the basis of scientific law. I want to come back to these themes over the next few weeks. This week, I just want to focus on Freud’s own work in Beyond the Pleasure Principle. As we shall see, what Freud is attempting to provide is something like a transcendental account of the conditions of repetition. We can divide the essay into two parts. The first, parts I to III provides an account of the nature of repetition, and shows that we cannot explain the nature of repetition in terms of the obvious principle, the pleasure principle (we repeat because we take pleasure from repeating, or at least, some part of the system of the psyche takes pleasure in repeating). Rather, we need to go beyond this principle in order to explain repetition. This lecture is therefore divided into two primary parts. First, I want to explain the nature of the problem with repetition, before moving on to Freud’s account of the source of repetition in the nature of the death drive.
Repetition and the Pleasure Principle
Before Freud introduces the notion of repetition, he begins with the notion of pleasure. Now, it seems to be a truism that we act in order to maximise our own pleasure (the key assumption, or at least something like it, which we find at the root of utilitarianism). As Freud points out, however, there are a number of cases where it appears to be the case that we in fact act in ways which are guaranteed to lead to unpleasure. In order to begin to explain these cases, we need some kind of definition of what pleasure amounts to. Freud’s account of pleasure relates it to unannexed energy within the psychic apparatus. What does this amount to? Essentially, we can see the psyche as a system subjected to excitations both from inside and outside. Insofar as these excitations threaten the stability of the psyche (traumas and shocks which the mind cannot adequately get to grips with), these excitations are interpreted by consciousness as ‘unpleasure’. A relaxation of the psyche, which involves a reduction in energy which hasn’t been incorporated into the psychic system, on the contrary, is seen as involving pleasure. The psyche is therefore a homeostatic system which seeks to minimise the amount of energy that could destabilise it. The principle that the psyche attempts to maximise pleasure is therefore tied to a principle of homeostasis, the constancy hypothesis:
[O]ne aspiration of the psychic apparatus is to keep the quantity of excitation present within it at the lowest possible level, or at least to keep it constant. (BPP 47)
Now, it’s clearly the case that we do not simply experience pleasure in our lives. The question is, can the experience of unpleasure be brought into accord with the pleasure principle? Most of our experiences of unpleasure can be classified in two ways, the intervention of the reality principle, and the repression of drives:
In the first case, we often have to defer pleasure in order to gain a greater amount of pleasure in the future, that is, the psyche has to take account of reality in order to preserve itself. Unpleasure in this case is simply a consequence of a process which more effectively accords with the pleasure principle.
In the second, it may be the case that a part of the psychic apparatus seeks pleasure at the expense of the psyche as a whole, which can happen particularly in sexual repression. Here, one drive of the psyche is separated off from the others by the ego. When this drive seeks to get rid of an excitation (to experience pleasure), it becomes expressed through ‘direct or surrogate gratification’ that leads to unpleasure on the part of the ego itself. The pleasure principle is therefore still in operation in this case, overall, and the appearance of unpleasure is a result of the split caused by the ego.
While these cases may explain instances of unpleasure, Freud goes on to argue that in the case of repetition, these explanations are not sufficient. There are four cases of repetition that Freud considers:
The first of these instances is what we might call today post traumatic stress disorder. Soldiers who suffered shocks during the great war had a tendency to relive these experiences in dreams. Now, these shocks are essentially moments where energy is released into the psychic apparatus which cannot be contained by the psyche itself. As shock is experienced as unpleasure, why is it the case that those who have suffered trauma repeat these experiences in contravention of the pleasure principle?
The second is the fort-da game. In this example, Freud introduces the case of the child in the habit of throwing a wooden reel into his cot and exclaiming ‘o-o-o-o’ (which Freud interprets to mean ‘fort’, or gone), and then pulling it back and exclaiming ‘da’ (there). The child repeats this action, and derives obvious pleasure from it. How are we to explain it? Well, Freud gives a psychoanalytical reading of it in terms of the mother. In throwing away the reel and then recalling it, the child is re-enacting the departure of the mother, and the child’s own ability to abnegate his drives, in that he is able to deal with her absence without fuss. This explanation gives a good account of the child’s pleasure at the mother’s return (the ‘da’ aspect of the game), but cannot explain why the child takes pleasure in both aspects (the mother going away as well). Freud therefore brings in the parallel case of the child taking pleasure in the absence of the father (who was in the military), and the fact that the child has the mother all to himself (the game of ‘go in war!’). Now, while in both of these cases, we have somewhat satisfactory explanations of specific repetitions, Freud argues that they point to the fact that there is a general compulsion to repeat in operation in child’s play.
The third instance is that encountered in therapy. As neurosis involves making the paitent conscious of the unconscious elements that have been repressed by him, it involves bringing to light repressed experiences (bringing them into memory). Freud notes that a repressed experience enters consciousness in two forms. On the one hand, it emerges into memory (it becomes representable), as therapy brings the experience to light. On the other, insofar as it has not been brought into consciousness, it is played out, or repeated by the subject of therapy as if it were a present experience. Now, we can understand why the ego wants to repress the experience, as bringing it to light will lead to unpleasure. The question is, however, what is it that causes the drive to want to express itself through repetition. What is it that compels this drive itself to want to repeat itself?
Finally, we encounter repetition in everyday life regardless of neurosis. People often find themselves repeating the same situations, the same relationships, throughout their lives. In fact, the whole notion of ‘character’ is grounded in the fact that there is a continuity throughout one’s life that expresses itself in the repetition of reactions to the same situations, even when this repetition gets in the way of satisfying the pleasure principle:
We are much more strongly affected by cases where people appear to be the passive victim of something which they are powerless to influence, and yet which they suffer again and again in an endless repetition of the same fate. (BPP 60)
What Freud takes from these clinical cases is the fact that as well as the explanations given by the pleasure principle, we also need to give an explanation of a parallel fact, the compulsion to repeat. In order to do so, Freud claims that we have to move beyond the clinical foundation of the pleasure principle itself, and therefore to move to a speculative account of repetition.
The Biological Model of the Psyche
If we are going to explain the principles that operate beyond the pleasure principle, we need to have a better understanding of how the various systems of the psyche interact. Now, pleasure is the perception of a change in the level of excitation of the psyche, and as such is a conscious experience. In order to explain what principles operate prior to the instigation of the pleasure principle, we need to therefore give an account of the genesis of consciousness itself. In was follows, Freud refers to the system responsible for perception and consciousness as the Pcpt-Cs system, and consciousness in particular as the Cs-system. I first want to go through how this system functions normally before looking at Freud’s account of its genesis.
What happens when we receive some kind of excitation from the world? Well, obviously, this excitation both needs to be recognised in some way (we need to be conscious that something has happened), and we also need to store the excitation in some way (we need to incorporate them into memory). Now, Freud’s contention is that ‘it is not possible within a given system for something both to enter consciousness and also to leave a memory trace.’ (BPP 64) The reason for this is that if traces of excitation remained in consciousness, then they would prevent the system from registering new excitations. We therefore need to see the processes of memory and consciousness as operating within two parallel systems. How is it that consciousness develops the role that it does? In order to answer this question, Freud turns to embryology, and the recapitulation theory of evolution (which has since been discredited). The central claim is that the fact that consciousness is located in the cerebral cortex, which is ‘at the surface of the brain,’ (BPP 63) together with the recapitulation theory of evolution, can allow us to explain how the pleasure principle comes into being.
We can begin with the most primitive form of life, an ‘undifferentiated vesicle of irritable matter.’ (BPP 65) Now, due to the fact that a part of this organism is turned towards the world, it naturally becomes affected by various stimuli affecting it from the outside world. As it is affected by these various shocks, its nature changes so that it is able to transmit them without its elements changing. This, therefore, is the origin of consciousness. As the system evolves, it develops protection against excessive stimulation from the outside by partially reverting to the inorganic (the skull), and, in higher creatures, by separating off the perceptual aspects further (the development of particular senses). Such a model allows Freud to explain a number of key results of psychoanalysis. It is not simply the case that all stimulation comes from outside the organism. The organism will also suffer disturbances from processes within it. Now, since these processes operate within the organism, the trauma produced by them cannot be reduced by the presence of a barrier, as was the case with shocks from the outside. Traumas which affect the organism from the inside therefore have a far greater role within the economy of the organism than those which affect it from the outside. We can further note that the organism will tend to interpret internal trauma as originating from the outside in order to allow its defences to be brought into play, which leads to the notion of projection.
On this level, we can explain some of the cases of repetition I discussed at the opening of this lecture. I have mentioned that what is shocking in the case of trauma is energy that is unbound operating through the psychic apparatus. We can now note that as well as unbound energy, there is also energy that forms a reservoir that can be used to deal with external threats to the psychic apparatus. Thus we can use energy to cathect, or annex free flowing energy within the psychic system. The example Freud uses is the case of pain. If the barriers of the organism are damaged by some kind of shock, so that they no longer protect it from the influx of stimuli, then the organism can attempt to use its own inner resources to annex this free flowing energy into a state whereby it becomes a part of the psychic system. Pain is therefore a case of this kind, where a stimulus is incorporated into the economy of the psyche, rather than simply being dissipated.
This means that the pleasure principle does not always govern the operations of the psyche. In the case of an extreme threat to the psyche as a whole, the organism may attempt to stabilise the psychic system by suspending the pleasure principle, and instead annexing the free flowing energy into the system of the psyche. Now, this process of annexing energy from the outside can explain some of the situations where it appears as if the pleasure principle has been contravened. In the case of severe trauma, the system experiences unpleasure in order to retain its overall integrity. If we return to the question of war trauma, Freud now claims that such phenomena are a retrospective attempt to master the phenomena in question, that is, to assert control over it. Now, in the case of war trauma, this attempt to master, and bind energy within the system leads to the repetition of experiences which lead to unpleasure on the part of the subject. Freud therefore claims that such compulsions to repeat simply cannot be understood according to the pleasure principle.
There are therefore two principles operative within the psyche. The first is to increase pleasure within the psychic apparatus by reducing the quantity of energy within it. This is the pleasure principle. The second is a principle that attempts to convert unbound energy into bound energy by mastering excitations. This is the compulsion to repeat, which will become the death drive. Freud’s claim is that it is only once excitations have been annexed by the psyche that the pleasure principle can become operative:
This would then mean that it was the task of the higher echelons of the psychic apparatus to annex excitations originating from the drives and reaching it via the primary process. Any failure of this annexion process would bring about a dysfunction analogous to traumatic neurosis. Only when the annexion has taken place would the pleasure principle (or, once the latter has been duly modified, the reality principle) be able to assert its dominion unhindered. In the meantime, however, the psychic apparatus’s other task of controlling or annexing the excitation would be very much to the fore – not, it is true, in opposition to the pleasure principle, but independently of it, and to some extent quite heedless of it. (BPP 75)
Beyond the Pleasure Principle
At this stage, it may be worth pondering why we have taken this detour through the sphere of biology in order to essentially repeat a result which was already given within the first, clinical section of Beyond the Pleasure Principle. Well, by grounding the compulsion to repeat in the original structure of the organism, Freud has opened the possibility of analysing this compulsion as a basic function of life itself. In fact, there is touch of sleight of hand at this point in Freud’s account, as the compulsion to repeat is understood as a compulsion to return. While the compulsion to repeat can operate in accordance with the libido, it can also operate as a tendency of life to return to an earlier stage.
Freud characterises this tendency to return in the following terms:
At this point we cannot help thinking that we have managed to identify a universal attribute of drives – and perhaps of all organic life – that has not hitherto been clearly recognized, or at any rate not explicitly emphasized. A drive might accordingly be seen as a powerful tendency inherent in every living organism to restore a prior state, which prior state the organism was compelled to relinquish due to the disruptive influence of external forces; we can see it as a kind of organic elasticity, or, if we prefer, as a manifestation of inertia in organic life. (BPP 76)
What leads Freud to this conclusion? Central to this conception are, I think, two primary assumptions in the account we have been looking at so far. The first is that the organism is defined essentially as closed off from the world. Organic life’s engagement with the world is seen as essentially traumatic and disruptive for Freud. Second, there is the belief that organisms, in their particular development, tend to repeat their development as a species. If we combine these two assumptions, then we have the claim that change (and hence, development) is traumatic, and therefore generates a move for the organism to return to a prior, less traumatic state. Now, Freud claims that this movement can be seen in the fact that fish, when spawning, return not simply to their own birthplace, but also ‘to the previous domain of their species, which, in the course of time, they have exchanged for others.’ (BPP 77) Here the second claim, the recapitulation theory of embryo development, comes into play, as each animal carries with it the history of its development from the simplest forms of life. In fact, this movement is not simply to the earliest forms of life, but to the origin of life itself as the move from the inorganic to the organic. Thus, the drive to repeat is not simply a drive to return to an earlier form of life, but in fact, a death drive. In this sense, the compulsion to repeat/return and the death drive are equivalent:
The goal of all life is death, or to express it retroactively: the inanimate existed before the animate. (BPP 78)
Freud’s account of the origin of repetition therefore ultimately traces it back to the constitution of consciousness itself, therefore. Life can be seen as playing out the relations between two different drives. First, there is the libido, which aims at conserving life by protecting the organism from external traumas that threaten to destabilise it. This conservation of life is ultimately to be understood as simply making more complex the more fundamental drive, the death drive, which seeks to return the organism to its primal state. I want to relate this to Deleuze’s criticisms of Freud next week, but for now, we can note a number of key features of this account:
The first is that the death of an organism is not (necessarily) something that is due to external factors, but rather something that is inherent to the organism itself. The organism seeks to return to the inanimate. The obvious question to ask about this claim is, why is it the case that life therefore exists at all if it seeks its own dissolution? Well, death is at first ‘still easy for living matter; the course of life that had to be gone through was probably short, its direction determined by the newly created organism’s chemical structure.’ (BPP 78-9) Over time, however, the complexity of life means that more and more detours are incorporated between life and death. These drives delay the movement towards death, and so appear to be conservative. They are the ‘guardians of life’ in that they allow the organism to perpetuate itself, but in the end, these drives, such as the sexual drives, are ultimately subordinated to the death drive. They are determined by the fact that the organism wants to choose its own death, rather than succumb to external influences.
Second, the account of the organism that Freud has developed is essentially conservative. We can note, for instance, that life does not itself develop into more complex forms, but only increases in complexity under the influence of external circumstances, which mould the organism by chance. Life is essentially passive, therefore:
[I]t must be the developmental history of our planet and its relationship to the sun that has left its imprint for us to behold in the development of organisms. The conservative organic drives have assimilated every one of these externally imposed modifications of the organism’s life-cycle and duly preserved them in order to repeat them, and therefore inevitably give the misleading impression of being forces bent on change and progress, whereas they merely seek to achieve an old goal by new means as well as old. (BPP 78)
Third, from the very beginning of Freud’s account, we are dealing with an isolated organism. Freud’s account essentially sees life as closed off from the world. The key transition, in which the organism emerges from the inorganic, is therefore something of which we are ‘quite incapable of imagining.’ (BPP 78) This is quite different from the kind of account we find in Deleuze, where the organism is only provisionally isolated from the world, as a set of ‘relations of motion and rest, of speeds and slownesses between particles.’ (SPP 123)
Finally, in spite of these differences, what Freud essentially has given us is a transcendental account of the conditions of repetition, where they are traced back to an operation outside of consciousness itself. In this regard, we can see that Deleuze’s relationship to the Freudian enterprise is going to be essentially one of ambivalence, rejecting the organicism, whilst accepting the notion of a transcendental and non-representational ground to repetition.
Last week, we looked at the metaphysical structure of the third synthesis of time. Today, I want to look at how this synthesis is related to two other topics by Deleuze: the structure of drama, and the eternal return. Deleuze takes up Rosenberg’s suggestion in ‘Character Change and Drama’ that we can distinguish between two forms of organisation of a character. What Rosenberg calls ‘identity’, which derives from law, and what he calls ‘personality’, which is a unifying principle that ‘can only be felt’ (Rosenberg, 135). This leads to a distinction between classical drama, which focuses on the acts of the characters, and (some) modern drama, which instead relies on a substratum to action which makes it possible. In this regard, Hamlet is iconic, as it is a drama where, at least prior to Hamlet’s voyage to England, the time of the play is defined by the absence of action (Hamlet’s hesitation). We can compare this approach to drama to the three syntheses in the following manner: in the case of classical drama and active synthesis, time is simply the manner in which a deeper structure is played out – movement for Plato, and the law governing action for classical drama. Hamlet, and as we shall see, Zarathustra, follow a different structure, where action takes time to unfold. In this case, action is ontologically, and theatrically secondary to the structure of temporality itself. I therefore want to structure today’s lecture as follows. First, I want to talk about how Rosenberg presents the different kinds of drama. Second, I want to show how we can apply this account of drama to Thus Spoke Zarathustra, and arrive at the first doctrine of the Eternal Return present in Difference and Repetition. Finally, I want to talk a little about the esoteric doctrine of the Eternal Return, and its relationship to intensive difference.
Rosenberg on Drama
How does Rosenberg conceive of drama? Well, at the beginning of last term, we talked a little about the relationship between Hegel and Kierkegaard on drama. What was central to Hegel’s understanding of a play such as Antigone was the nature of the ethical. Here, the conflict occured between the rights of the family, represented by Antigone’s desire to bury her brother, Polyneices, and the rights of the state, represented by King Creon’s desire to punish Polyneices as a traitor. While both characters are in fact also governed by the principle of the other (Antigone is the daughter of a king, and Creon is a father and husband), they choose to act solely according to one determining principle. Difference is thus turned into opposition, and the dissolution of this one-sidedness can only be achieved by the tragic death of Antigone, and Creon’s loss of his wife and son. In the case of dramas such as this, Rosenberg notes that what is being offered is something like a legal conception of the individual. When we look at the law, Rosenberg notes,
[T]he concepts of morality or social law, applying exclusively to human beings and ignoring possible analogies with other living creatures, tend to define the individual not as an entity enduring in time but by what he has done in particular instances. A given sequence of acts provokes a judgement, and this judgement is an inseparable part of the recognition of the individual. (Rosenberg, 136)
Much as we found with Hume, therefore, Rosenberg provides a conception of drama, which he is implicitly critical of, where the rational, human aspects of personality are played up to the expense of recognising that man is also a biological and psychological entity. Now when we look at the legal conception of the person, it isn’t the case that the unity of the individual can be given in terms of their acts themselves. Rather, when someone comes before a judge, what the judge sees is not a unity governed by personality, but rather a series of acts which are unified by the last act’s relationship to the law. So, as Rosenberg notes, the actual acts of a murderer are in large part no different from the acts of anyone else, and are only made criminal by the fact that they precede the murder itself: ‘entering an automobile, stepping on the gas, obeying the traffic lights.’ (138) In this sense, when we look at a criminal act, it is the law that provides a framework for the analysis of action, and which imposes a structure of artifice that unifies the conduct of the perpetrator. In the case of the law, Rosenberg elicits two reasons for supporting the artificiality of this mode of analysis. First, there is the fact that in determining the guilt or innocence of the perpetrator of a crime, the judge explicitly sets to one side the personality of the individual in order to base their judgement purely on the identity of the actions. Second, we can note that if it is suddenly discovered that the alleged perpetrator did not commit the crime, then the entire identity of them before the law disintegrates. The actions of ‘stepping on the gas’ and ‘obeying the traffic lights’ now take on an entirely innocent aspect. In this sense, the law operates according to an active synthesis, as it provides the active principle uniting indifferent determinations.
Now, obviously in the case of the law, the problem is of determining whether the structures of the law apply to the actions or not (whether the person is guilty or innocent). In the case of ‘old drama,’ we do not have the difficulty of determining whether acts properly accord with the structure of the law. Rather, characters in ‘old drama’ are constituted to be in accordance with their fate from the outset:
The dramatists definition of the character was not an arbitrary superimposition that exchanged the emotional, intellectual, and mechanical characteristics of a biological and social organism for some one deed that concerned the court; it constituted instead the entire reality of a character, avoiding the ruinous abstraction of the law by determining in advance that his emotions, his thoughts and his gestures should correspond with and earn in every respect the fate prepared for him. (Rosenberg, 139)
In this sense, therefore, we can see Rosenberg’s conception of classical drama as being something like the Leibnizian notion of time that we looked at last week. Here, the phenomenal manifestations of characters in classical drama are merely manifestations of an underlying law, or an underlying judgement: the fate of the character. Hence, ‘psychology can establish the plausibility of Macbeth’s or Lear’s behaviour, but for the sufficiency of his motivation, we must not refer to a possible Macbeth or Lear “in real life” but to the laws of the Shakespearean universe.’ (140)
How does this differ with Hamlet? Deleuze notes that Hamlet’s claim that ‘time is out of joint’ can be read as an essentially philosophical claim, and we looked at what this claim might entail last week. Here we can see that Hamlet was not a purely arbitrary choice on the part of Deleuze. In fact, we can see in the structure of the play itself an intimation of the reversal of the roles of time and succession/action/movement.
The first half of Hamlet sees Hamlet himself not as an identity in the legal sense, or in the dramatic senses which I have just outlined. As Rosenberg points out, the drama prior to Hamlet’s return from England concerns his inability to act:
I do not know
Why yet I live to say ‘This thing’s to do;’
Sith I have cause and will and strength and means
To do’t. (Hamlet, iv. Iv)
Now, as this quote makes clear, Hamlet is very much aware of what he should do, but he is simply not able to do it. To this extent, we have an odd dramatic structure, since, if characters are understood in terms of the relations of acts to the judgement of the law, then Hamlet’s various speeches, and use of speech in the first half of the play, are simply irrelevant to the structure of his role. As Deleuze writes, ‘Hamlet is the first hero who truly needed time in order to act, whereas earlier heroes were subject to time as the consequence or an original movement (Aeschylus) or aberrant action (Sophocles).’ (Essays Critical and Clinical, 28) Rosenberg’s interpretation is precisely this, that Hamlet exists as a person, rather than an identity, and hence exists outside of the role that the play assigns him. The task of taking on the role of avenging his father is simply too big for him. The sea voyage is therefore necessary to the structure of Hamlet, as it represents the break whereby Hamlet becomes equal to the task allotted to him. What does this involve? Deleuze talks about the first half of Hamlet in terms of the ‘a priori past’. In this sense, Hamlet exists in the past in relation to the event (he is yet to become equal to his action). Now, here the two notions of the past and of inaction should remind us of Bergson’s theory of the pure past. Hamlet, in the first half of the play, exists in a state of relation to a past that is disconnected from the present. In this sense, there is a failure to relate the past to action, which is mirrored by the failure to identify himself with the actual structure of the law. As Deleuze puts it, in his discussion of Hamlet and Oedipus, ‘they are in the past and live themselves as such so long as they experience the act as too big for them.’ (DR 112) The second time, the action, is the moment of the present, where the self becomes capable of acting. This is where the emergence of our representation of the self emerges as a parallel to the self of habit (‘the projection of an ideal self in the image of the act’ [DR 112]). But, however, it is only against the future that these two moments can be related. It is only the future that allows the self of the past to be brought into a ‘secret coherence’. This secret coherence is the coherence exhibited by the Eternal Return.
Zarathustra as Drama
If we turn to Zarathustra, we can see that there are clearly parallels between the structure of Hamlet and Zarathustra. Both involve their central characters moving from a state where they are not equal to their action to the act itself. The bulk of Zarathustra is therefore governed by Zarathustra’s inability to think the eternal return (‘O Zarathustra, your fruits are ripe, but you are not ripe for your fruits.’ 169). This first part of Zarathustra is bound up with the question of the past. Of Redemption is central in this respect, in that it explores two different relationships to the past. As Zarathustra says ‘this alone is revenge itself: the will’s antipathy towards time and time’s “it was”.’ (162) Now this conception of time, with its ‘dreadful chance’ is the past of representation – the line of time that we looked at in the last few weeks. Such a form of time involves the fragmentation, and negations that we find in, for instance, the Aristotelian view of the world (it is the time of ‘fragments of men and limbs of men’ ). In this framework, temporality itself is seen as the ground for resentment, man is not the ground for his own actions (he cannot will backwards), and so he is in this sense alienated from what he is by the structure of temporality. In this, we can perhaps see the structure of the paralogisms that we looked at last week – the inability of man to find the ground of his own activity through recourse to a determinable identity. The spirit of revenge is therefore engendered by the passing of time, and its incommensurability with the will. Nietzsche offers two solutions to this problem. The first is the annihilation of the will (the Schopenhauerian solution), the second is the redemption of time. The Eternal return is thus that which offers us the possibility of a more appropriate relation to temporality. It functions on the one level as an ethical principle, which Deleuze formulates in a way which parallels that of Kant (‘what ever you will, will it in such a way that you also will its eternal return.’ [NP 68]). It is also that which ties the account of temporality given in chapter two to the metaphysical account of univocity which was presented in chapter one, as ‘the eternal return is neither qualitative nor extensive, but intensive, purely intensive. In other words, it is said of difference.’ (DR 303)
Deleuze claims that the second part of Zarathustra is concerned with the transformation of Zarathustra, as he finally becomes adequate to the thought of the eternal return. In the last part of Zarathustra, Zarathustra finally throws off his ‘pity for the higher man’ (335) and truly embraces the form of temporality explicit in the eternal return. The final stage, Deleuze claims, is unwritten, and would have dealt with the death of Zarathustra. On this point, I spoke with Keith Ansell Pearson over the weekend, and he told me that the current state of Nietzsche research sees Zarathustra’s death as actually occurring in part three of Thus Spoke Zarathustra, (c.f. Paul S. Loeb, The Death of Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, CUP). Deleuze describes this final time as ‘time by excess’ (DR 113), where the subject is once again dissolved. In essence, we can read the eternal return in this formulation purely in terms of the first two syntheses. We act by incorporating the pure past into the present (we repeat), but this generates something truly novel, the future as new. In other words, it is on the basis of the return of the past that the future is constituted as being in excess of the present. While we can give the eternal return a tripartite structure in terms of the act, as incorporating the past into the present in order to relate to the future, ‘such an exposition remains purely introductory.’ (DR 113) In fact, Deleuze presents a second interpretation of the eternal return, this time in terms of an ‘esoteric truth’ that ‘concerns – and can concern – only the third time or the series.’ (DR 113)
The Eternal Return
So, what is the structure of the Eternal Return? Well, in the Gay Science, Nietzsche presents it in the following concise form:
What, if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: ‘This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more’ … Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus? Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment when you would have answered him: ‘You are a god and never have I heard anything more divine.’ (GS §341)
Now the key question, I think, is, what is it that returns? In Zarathustra, at several moments, two different forms of return are presented. In Of the Vision and the Riddle, Zarathustra struggles with the spirit of gravity (the Dwarf). The dwarf appears to know the truth of the eternal return, that ‘Everything straight lies…all truth is crooked, time is itself a circle’ 178). Likewise, in the Convalescent, the animals tell Zarathustra that ‘everything breaks, everything is joined anew; the same house of existence builds itself forever. Everything departs, everything meets again; the ring of existence is true to itself forever.’ (234) In both these cases, Zarathustra dismisses these readings of the eternal return (the dwarf takes it too lightly, the animals make a hurdy-gurdy song of it).
This first reading essentially sees time as circular. Deleuze equates this model with a historical (and physical) mode of repetition. For example, he sees this as exemplified in the thesis of Giambattista Vico that the history of man progresses between three different ages: the age of the gods, the age of heroes, and the age of man, where we have a movement from a culture based on imagination to a culture based on reason. Vico’s conception is circular, however, with the age of man suffering a recurso to the age of the gods. In this sense, history is a process of eternal repetition. The present repeats a prior cycle, and the future is already determined in terms of the past. Now, we saw last term when we looked at Kierkegaard’s Repetition that Deleuze does not think that repetition in terms of actuality is possible (there is only resemblance). In this respect, Deleuze writes that ‘historians sometimes look for empirical correspondences between the present and the past, but however rich it may be, this network of historical correspondences involves repetition by analogy or similitude.’ (DR 113) If the eternal return was operating in these terms, then what we would have is an affirmation of judgement. We would have a redemption of the will within time, rather than a redemption of time itself. Such a redemption in essence reaffirms the representational account of the past and present, rather than overturning it. What the eternal return has to give us instead is a transfiguration of the form of time itself.
So what is it that is repeated? Well, I think the answer can be given by looking at the Genealogy of Morality. Here, Nietzsche presents a contrast between two basic attitudes towards the world, that of the lamb and the bird of prey:
There is nothing strange about the fact that lambs bear a grudge towards large birds of prey: but that is no reason to blame the large birds of prey for carrying off the little lambs. And if the lambs say to each other, ‘These birds of prey are evil; and whoever is least like a bird of prey and most like its opposite, a lamb, – is good, isn’t he?’, then there is no reason to raise objections to this setting-up of an ideal beyond the fact that the birds of prey will view it somewhat derisively, and will perhaps say: ‘We don’t bear any grudge at all towards these good lambs, in fact we love them, nothing is tastier than a tender lamb.’ – It is just as absurd to ask strength not to express itself as strength, not to be a desire to overthrow, crush, become master, to be a thirst for enemies, resistance and triumphs, as it is to ask weakness to express itself as strength. A quantum of force is just such a quantum of drive, will, action, in fact it is nothing but this driving, willing and acting, and only the seduction of language (and the fundamental errors of reason petrified within it), which construes and misconstrues all actions as conditional upon an agency, a ‘subject’, can make it appear otherwise… no wonder, then, if the entrenched, secretly smouldering emotions of revenge and hatred put this belief to their own use and, in fact, do not defend any belief more passionately than that the strong are free to be weak, and the birds of prey are free to be lambs: – in this way, they gain the right to make the birds of prey responsible for being birds of prey. (GM Sec. 13)
Nietzsche here is presenting an argument which combines moral and ontological aspects. The natural state of affairs is that of the bird of prey, who exercises his strength naturally, and sees itself as good. The lamb, however, sees the bird of prey as evil, and therefore sees itself as good. The symmetry between these two positions is misleading, however, each rests on fundamentally different ways of seeing the world. For the bird of prey, its action is simply an expression of its strength, or, in more Nietzschean terms, we might say that the bird of prey itself is an expression of strength: “It is just as absurd to ask strength not to express itself as strength, …, as it is to ask weakness to express itself as strength.” The lamb’s reaction is both a moral reaction, and one that is made possible by an illusion fostered by grammar: it posits a subject who is responsible for exercising its strength. We can illustrate this grammatical illusion using Nietzsche’s example of lightning. When we say that ‘lightning strikes’, we are forced by the structure of language to posit a distinction between a subject (‘lightning’) and an act (‘striking’) on the other. Now we might recognise in this case that in fact there is nothing other to the lightning than its striking itself – there is not a hidden subject behind the act – but language opens up a way of thinking of the world in terms of agents and actions. Now that the lamb understands the bird of prey as an agent acting, he can posit the (illusory possibility) of the agent withholding this action. Thus, the bird of prey, once it is seen as a subject, becomes culpable for what it does.
If we return last term’s discussion of univocity, we left off with Deleuze’s account of Spinoza as providing a univocal ontology in terms of a single substance that expresses itself in finite things as modes. Despite the fact that Spinoza succeeds in generating a univocal ontology, Deleuze claims that for Spinoza, ‘substance must be said itself of the modes and only of the modes. Such a condition can be satisfied only at the price of a more general categorical reversal according to which being is said of becoming, identity of that which is different, the one of the multiple, etc.’ (DR 50) Although we have a new concept of difference with the move from oppositional difference to intensive difference, this concept of difference still has to be understood in terms of identity, as intensive difference is still a characteristic of being. Deleuze’s point is that the relation of difference to being is still structured like the terms of a judgement. Difference is said of being, and so we still understand being as if it were a subject, even if we know that in reality it is singular rather than one. The eternal return is what overcomes this conception, by giving us a conception of a substance that is a becoming rather than a being.
Instead, what returns is going to be the nomadic distribution. Deleuze’s analysis of Spinoza saw being as the ground for the modes. Replacing being with becoming means that for Deleuze, taking up the eternal return, the ground for modes is going to be a field of becoming, and so it is the intensive, nomadic distribution which returns. “Only the extreme, the excessive, returns; that which passes into something else and becomes identical…Eternal return or returning expresses the common being of all these metamorphoses, …, of all the realised degrees of power.” (DR 51) The priority of difference does not, therefore preclude the existence of identities, but asserts that what returns is not these identities themselves, but something prior to identity, which Deleuze characterises as difference. The eternal return appears as a test – whether we can bear the heaviest burden of the demon’s truth. What is this a test for? The lamb and the bird of prey both operate according to different distributions; the former according to the sedentary distribution, the latter according to the nomadic distribution. In this case, deciding between them is straightforward, but it may be difficult to see whether something is governed by a sedentary or nomadic distribution. The eternal return allows us to differentiate those two classes. Only that which is pure affirmation, or which is not separated from what it can do, can truly will the repetition of everything that makes it what it is. Those who cannot affirm this do not have their ground in the affirmative field of differences, but are instead, like the lamb, grounded in the sedentary distribution. The eternal return therefore allows us to differentiate “the superior form of everything that ‘is’” (DR 51) from those beings that are really not (as the sedentary distribution does not have an adequate origin). As he puts it in Nietzsche and Philosophy, “The eternal return teaches us that becoming-reactive [the existence of the lamb, for instance] has no being.” (NP 72) The eternal return therefore allows us to select which entities can be traced back to intensive difference and which cannot. In doing so, it allows us to characterise that set of entities which genuinely are, and are not merely secondary effects, as the lamb’s attitude is a secondary effect of the bird of prey’s.
Last week, we looked at the first two passive syntheses of time, and saw how they corresponded to the active syntheses of apprehension and reproduction. This week, I want to look at the final synthesis, which relates to the transcendental unity of apperception in Kant’s system. Rather than looking at the transcendental deduction, Deleuze draws on another part of the Critique of Pure Reason, however, the paralogisms, to show that an understanding of the self as substantial involves a ‘transcendental illusion’, and that it in fact depends on time as a transcendental principle. What is central to the third synthesis is therefore the conception of time that Kant develops, both in order to explain how the first two syntheses are related to one another, and to show why we are able to take the subject as the source for synthesis. I want to begin by looking at Deleuze’s characterisation of Kant’s intuition of time as being ‘out of joint’, before moving on to Kant’s account of the paralogisms. Finally, I want to relate the insights Deleuze draws from Kant’s conception of time back to Deleuze’s own three syntheses.
- Time is Out of Joint
Key to Deleuze’s analysis of Kant is the claim that for Kant, a notion of time is introduced which is ‘out of joint’. Now, this is central to both Deleuze’s attempt to overturn the traditional view of active synthesis, and the understanding of the third passive synthesis. Deleuze introduces the idea that time is out of joint with the following cryptic claim:
The joint, cardo, is what ensures the subordination of time to those properly cardinal points through which pass the periodic movements which it measures (time, number of the movement, for the soul as much as for the world). By contrast, time out of joint means demented time or time outside the curve which gave it a god, liberated from its overly simple circular figure, freed from the events which made up its content, its relation to movement overturned; in short, time presenting itself as an empty and pure form. (DR 111)
So, I want to look at this quote in three stages. First, what does it mean for time to have not been considered ‘out of joint’ (what is the ‘standard view’)? Second, how does Kant put time (and, indeed, space) ‘out of joint’? And third, what is the structure of time ‘out of joint’ (what is the ‘pure and empty form of time’)?
- Time in Joint
What is the view of time that Deleuze is here opposing? Well, as we might expect, it is in fact represented by a whole series of philosophers. Well, Deleuze gives the following account in the 1978 lecture:
Cardinal comes from cardo; cardo is precisely the hinge, the hinge around which the sphere of celestial bodies turns, and which makes them pass time and again through the so-called cardinal points, and we note their return: ah, there’s the star again, it’s time to move my sheep!
What Deleuze is referring to here is the account of time given in Plato’s Timaeus of the nature of time. The Timaeus tells the story of the creation of the world by the creator (Demiurge), who seeks to create the universe by imposing form on chaotic matter. Now, ‘finding the whole visible sphere not at rest, but moving in an irregular and disorderly fashion, out of disorder he brought order, considering that this was in every way better than the other.’ As the creator himself is perfect, he desires to create the universe as far as possible as an image of himself. As he wants to create the most perfect world possible, the world has several key attributes. First, as it cannot be less intelligent than the creatures within it, it is an animal. Second, as unity is an attribute for perfection, the world is composed of just one animal. Third, as the sphere is the most perfect form, the universe is formed as perfectly spherical. Finally, the creator himself is eternal, but given the nature of the world as already in motion, he can only create the world as a likeness to eternity:
Now the nature of the ideal being was everlasting, but to bestow this attribute in its fullness upon a creature was impossible. Wherefore he resolved to have a moving image of eternity, and when he set in order the heaven, he made this image eternal but moving according to number, while eternity itself rests in unity; and this image we call time. (Timaeus)
The universe is here seen, therefore, as a sphere in motion. Now, at this point, we can already note the first important point in this myth. Time is here seen as a structure of the realm of appearance. While the world itself is a copy of the creator, time has no place in relation to the eternity of the creator himself. So how does time come about? Well, the first thing to note is that before the universe is organized according to time, it is still in motion, although this motion is ‘disorderly’. Thus, motion is not dependant on time, which appears afterwards. In fact, Timaeus believes that time is grounded in the elements which are most perfect in the universe. That is, the celestial bodies. Plato writes as follows:
Time, then, and the heaven came into being at the same instant in order that, having been created together, if ever there was to be a dissolution of them, they might be dissolved together. It was framed after the pattern of the eternal nature, that it might resemble this as far as was possible; for the pattern exists from eternity, and the created heaven has been, and is, and will be, in all time. Such was the mind and thought of God in the creation of time. The sun and moon and five other stars, which are called the planets, were created by him in order to distinguish and preserve the numbers of time; and when he had made-their several bodies, he placed them in the orbits in which the circle of the other was revolving-in seven orbits seven stars.
The celestial bodies thus occupy something like a mediating position, as on the one hand, they are similar to the eternal, whereas on the other, they are the ground for time. In what way do they form the ground of time? Well, the planets move in an orderly manner, which is what allows time to be related to measure (the star that represents the time to move the sheep in Deleuze’s example). This represents the Greek notion of time (although Aristotle does have a slightly more nuanced position), in that time is fundamentally subordinated to motion. Aristotle presents a somewhat similar position in the Physics, arguing that time requires change, as without change, we would not be able to determine that time had passed.
Thus then, and for this reason the night and the day were created, being the period of the one most intelligent revolution. And the month is accomplished when the moon has completed her orbit and overtaken the sun, and the year when the sun has completed his own orbit. Mankind, with hardly an exception, have not remarked the periods of the other stars, and they have no name for them, and do not measure them against one another by the help of number, and hence they can scarcely be said to know that their wanderings, being infinite in number and admirable for their variety, make up time. (Timaeus)
Time here is simply the measure of motion. On the Platonic model, therefore, we cannot have something like an understanding of the pure form of time, as time is a way in which something else (in this case, the number, or measure of motion) presents itself. Time is simply an imperfect way in which the eternal patterns of the world present themselves. To put time out of joint will therefore be to move to an understanding of time that is not based on this kind of Platonic subordination of time to intelligible motion. Now, although we might feel that rejecting something like the Platonic conception is not a particularly radical move, we can see that the subordination of time to an eternal, intelligible, and also, representational, model of time is central not just to Plato’s conception, but also to pre-Kantian philosophy in general. Leibniz, for instance, argues that the notions of space and time are simply ways in which we, as finite intellects, perceive what are essentially a series of intelligible relations between things:
As for my own opinion, I have said more than once that I hold space to be something purely relative, as time is – that I hold it to be an order of coexistences, as time is an order of successions. For space denotes, in terms of possibility, an order of things that exist at the same time, considered as existing together, without entering into their particular manners of existing. And when many things are seen together, one consciously perceives this order of things among themselves. (Leibniz Clarke Correspondence)
Space and time are simply ‘well founded phenomena’ by which we inadequately perceive the true ‘conceptual’ order of things. As such, time is really a mode in which the essential structure of succession appears to us. In this case too, therefore, time is secondary to a rational, conceptual, and representational way of ordering things. Time is predicated on a prior representational structure. To be ‘in joint’ is therefore to be hinged, tied to cardinal numbers, and tied to a prior representational order. In what sense, therefore, does Kant make time ‘out of joint?’
- Time Out of Joint and Intuition
The key innovation in the Kantian system which Deleuze picks up on is the division between intuition and the understanding. As we saw at the start of this term, Kant uses this distinction to show that rather than our knowledge conforming to objects, the structure of objects must conform to the structure of our cognition. He argues that relating to an object involves the active faculty of the understanding taking up what is given in passive intuition. The key problem for Kant was how to relate these two faculties together. Why was this a problem? Because, as we saw at the start of last term, these faculties dealt with the object of cognition in ways that are different in kind from one another. Now, we have already dealt with this in terms of space. As Kant showed, if we look at an object such as a glove, even if we understand all of the relations between the parts of the glove, it is still the case that we cannot determine whether this glove is left or right handed. In this case, therefore, Kant writes that ‘there are no inner differences here that any understanding could merely think; and yet the differences are inner as far as the senses teach.’ (Prolegomena, sec. 13) So, the argument from incongruent counterparts shows that space cannot be seen as a mode of presentation of conceptual relations in the way that Leibniz proposed, and Kant makes similar arguments in the Critique of Pure Reason for the difference between time and succession. Kant’s distinction of concepts and intuition therefore has the consequence that time cannot be seen as the moving image of eternity, as it is no longer the expression of an underlying representational structure, whether the ‘number of movement’ or the true ‘order of things’. Clearly, however, we do see space as involving co-existence, and time as involving successive states. How, therefore, does Kant’s view that time is non-conceptual relate to conceptual determinations, then? Or, what is the pure and empty form of time?
III The Pure and Empty Form of Time
As we saw in the first week of this term, Kant’s claim is that the understanding actively synthesises the manifold of intuition on order to make knowledge possible. As we saw, the transcendental deduction details how succession is imposed on the spatiotemporal manifold. The procedure involved three syntheses. First, the manifold is ‘run through’ by intuition. In order for it to appear as connected, however, these connections need to be taken up by the imagination, as we need to not simply reproduce past moments, but also to recognise them as reproduced. Finally, to provide coherence to these various moments, they need to be seen as moments related to the same object. This final stage therefore relies on a conceptual determination of the experience as the successive presentation of the same object. In this sense, succession in the case of time, and co-existence in the case of space are imposed upon time and space, rather than determining them. Kant therefore reverses the order of determination that we found in the previous model. Rather than time being a mode of the appearing of an underlying succession, for Kant, succession is a way of synthesising a prior intuition of temporality. This opens the way to escaping from an understanding of the temporal as a derivative form of representation, and grounds representation instead on something fundamentally non-representational. Succession is now a determination of a notion of an intuition of time which is not inherently successive. Now, because Kant associates all synthesis with an active subject, time is simply a material which can be taken up by the understanding. This means that he cannot fully develop the implications of this move. But there is another interpretation of this notion of time which I want to return to in the final part of the lecture.
- The Paralogisms
Before moving on to Deleuze’s own interpretation of time, however, I want to follow Deleuze and talk a little about the difference between the Kantian and Cartesian cogitos. Now, Deleuze claims that Kant’s theory of the ‘I’ is the ‘element of the Copernican Revolution’ (DR 109) itself. The section he is referring to is the paralogisms, and it is here that Kant mounts his attack on Descartes’ principle of the cogito (I think therefore I am). In essence, what Kant is objecting to is the inference Descartes makes from the fact that I think to the fact that I am a thinking thing, that is, a substance. Kant argues that the logical structure Descartes’ inference is really something like the following:
- That, the representation of which is the absolute subject of our judgements and cannot therefore be employed as determination of another thing, is substance.
- I, as a thinking being, am the absolute subject of all my possible judgements, and this representation of myself cannot be employed as predicate of any other thing.
- Therefore I, as thinking being (soul) am substance. (CPR A348)
Now, this seems to be a valid inference, in that the premises seem to lead us to the conclusion that the subject is a substance. Why is it that we cannot make the inference from ‘I think’ to ‘I am a thinking thing’? Kant’s claim is that the argument confuses a premise which is about how cognition relates to objects and a premise which is simply a logical truth. Starting with premise 2, this really states that the ‘I’ should be seen as the logical subject. This just means that we apply predicates to the ‘I’, but don’t in turn say that ‘I’ is a predicate of something else. In this sense, it is analytically true. The first statement instead refers to the way in which we talk about objects. It is a transcendental claim. Really, what it is saying is that if a given object is the subject of judgements, and cannot be taken to be the predicate of something else, then that object is a substance. As such, it is really a statement about the relation between representation and objects (a claim about how objects must be constituted in order for judgements to be able to relate to them). There is thus an equivocation in Descartes’ argument between two different uses of the term, logical subject.
Here we come to Descartes’ essential problem. Objects conform to our cognition, and in this sense, the category of substance is something we use to construct a world that is amenable to judgement. It is one of the categories that the transcendental deduction shows makes thinking about objects possible. Now, Descartes is attempting to apply a determination (‘I think’) to an object that is undetermined (the ‘I am’), but according to our notion of substance, substance is a way of organising something which is given. According to Kant, the mistake is that Descartes hasn’t considered how the object can become determinable (under what form it can be given). For Kant, the answer is that objects are given in intuition, and therefore that the ‘I am’ can only be determined provided it is given to us by the intuition of time. But clearly the ‘I am’ that Descartes is introducing as a thinking thing us not an object which is given to us in intuition. As Kant notes, when we introspect, we don’t find the self as a given object: ‘No fixed and abiding self can present itself in this flux of inner appearances.’ (A107) Descartes is therefore guilty of attempting to apply a determination outside of its proper sphere of application, by not using it as a form of synthesising intuitions, which leads him into error.
This brings us to the split in Kant’s philosophy. We can see what is going on here by relating the situation back to the one we found in the transcendental deduction. There, Kant made the claim that ‘it must be possible for the ‘I think’ to accompany all my representations.’ (B131) What made this possible was a prior synthesis by the transcendental unity of apperception. Now, this prior synthesis was something that we couldn’t say anything about, as it was the ground for the categories (it was prior to notions such as substance). Now, Descartes’ error therefore emerges because he conflates two different levels: ‘the unity of apperception, which is subjective, is taken for the unity of the subject as a thing’ (Reflexionen 5533).
When we looked at Bergson, we noted that the self was merely the expression of the actualisation of the past in relation to the future. That is, the self is merely an epiphenomenon of a deeper process. In fact, Kant seems to have ended up at a similar position here. Synthesis is really conducted on a transcendental level that is presupposed by the fact that we can apply the ‘I think’ to all of our experiences. As we can only be given to ourselves in time, when we reflect, what we observe isn’t the activity itself (which is transcendental), but merely the empirical after-effect of it (the ‘I think’ is merely an analytic result of an underlying process of synthesis):
The spontaneity of which I am conscious in the “I think” cannot be understood as the attribute of a substantial and spontaneous being, but only as the affection of a passive self which experiences its own thought…being exercised in it and upon it but not by it. (DR 108)
This brings us to the final point in our discussion of Kant’s three syntheses. What is it that makes the final synthesis possible, that is, the synthesis of recognition? Kant argues that in order for us to be able to accompany all of our representations by an ‘I think’, there must be a prior, active synthesis, as the unity of the manifold is experienced through the passive form of time. This inference to the conditions of possibility of the ‘I think’, however, rests directly on the notion that time is simply passively given, and that all synthesis takes place by an active self. Given the passive nature of the ‘I think,’ which is determinable under the form of time, Kant is therefore obliged to posit a transcendental ego which makes the ‘I think’ possible. Deleuze has an alternative explanation of how we are able to confront a unified world, which is to recognise that syntheses can also be passive. In this regard, what makes the ‘I think’ possible is ‘a synthesis which is itself passive (contemplation-contraction).’ (DR 109) In this sense, Kant posits the third synthesis simply because he has ruled out a constitutive role for time itself by assigning all organisation to the understanding.
- The Pure and Empty Form of Time
Finally, I want to turn to Deleuze’s final synthesis itself. The key questions are, what is the pure form of time for Deleuze (I don’t have much of an answer to this, I’m afraid), and second, what is the role that it plays? We can give a schematic answer to the first question by noting the revolutionary result of the Kantian theory of intuition. That is, that rather than time being a mode of succession, succession is rather a mode in which time appears to us. In fact, succession is simply a way in which we organise time for Kant. Deleuze puts this point forward as follows:
Time cannot be defined by succession because succession is only a mode of time, coexistence is itself another mode of time. You can see that he arranged things to make the simple distribution: space-coexistence, and time-succession. Time, he tells us, has three modes: duration or permanence, coexistence and succession. But time cannot be defined by any of the three because you cannot define a thing through its modes. (14/03/78 lecture)
The talk about modes is important here, and is, I think, a reference to Spinoza and substance. As we saw briefly last term, Spinoza held that all attributes, such as thought and extension, were equally expressions of the same substance. This allowed him, for instance, to overcome the difficulty Descartes had of explaining how the mind and body interacted. Here, Deleuze is suggesting that succession and co-existence are simply different ‘attributes’ of time. The pure and empty form of time therefore has the same relationship to succession and co-existence as the attributes for Spinoza have to substance.
Finally, it’s necessary to ask why the third synthesis is introduced, given that habit and memory seem to give us everything we need to explain the synthesis of time. Well, I think that there are two reasons for this. The first is that memory ‘still remains relative to the representation that it grounds.’ (DR 110) That is, memory ultimately orients itself to actuality. As such, it is ultimately understood only as what allows us to deploy representations. We therefore risk collapsing back into a prioritisation of identity as that for which memory is. The second reason, which I infer from the text, is that we need to explain the interaction of the two very different forms of time themselves. The question of how memory is able to relate to habit is much like Kant’s question of how two different faculties can relate to one another. Deleuze’s answer to this question in terms of time is ultimately Spinozist. Habit and memory can relate to each other because they are simply different modalities or expressions of the form of time itself. As such we can think (somewhat figuratively) of memory and habit as simply being different ways of presenting the same underlying form of time itself. By taking this approach, the problem of the priority of succession over co-existence, or vice versa, is put out of play. They are both expressions of the same ontologically prior temporal form, which in itself is neither successive nor co-existent. The pure and empty form of time is therefore that which bifurcates itself into the past of memory and the present of habit. Next week, I want to explore this further by talking a little about Deleuze’s use of Nietzsche and the Eternal Return.