🦋🤖 Robo-Spun by IBF 🦋🤖

(All parts in English)

To continue our discussion on the role I attribute to “the Thing” in defining what concerns us now, namely sublimation, I will start with something amusing.

After leaving you the other day, in the very same afternoon, troubled by those scruples that always make me regret not having exhausted the bibliography concerning the topics we discuss here, I revisited an article cited in the works on sublimation that I had previously outlined for you. This article, difficult to find, was referenced by GLOVER, who cited a piece by Melanie KLEIN in Contributions to Psycho-analysis.

In fact, there are two articles by Klein in that collection.

The first is Infant-analysis (1923), which contains significant insights on sublimation, particularly in how it allows us to understand what might be called the secondary impact of inhibition on certain functions. According to the Kleinian conception, these functions in children, because they are linked to sublimation, are sufficiently libidinalized to later experience inhibition in the context of sublimation. This highlights the importance of the issues raised here, but this is not where I will linger initially. Instead, I aim to engage you with the concept of sublimation itself, as the confusion surrounding it often stems from insufficient framing and understanding of the problem.

The second article is Infantile Anxiety Situations Reflected in a Work of Art and in the Creative Impulse, referring to how infantile anxiety situations are mirrored in artistic works and creative impulses (here, “impulse” is the term used). This second article, which I had regretted never examining before, is brief but, as often happens, provided me with the satisfaction of what one might call “a ring on the finger.”

The first part of the article, which I highlight for you, is structured as follows: it primarily consists of—this I noted with some amusement because, truthfully, Klein discusses it through German and English translations, which was not immediately obvious to me—a commentary on a musical work by RAVEL based on a scenario by COLETTE, entitled in French L’enfant et les sortilèges (The Child and the Spells).

We see Melanie KLEIN marvel at how the work of art aligns remarkably well with the sequence of infantile fantasies concerning the mother’s body, primitive aggression, and the counter-aggression provoked by it.

In short, it is a fairly lengthy and highly enjoyable presentation of how the imagination of the creator—more specifically, the musician—harmonizes admirably with something that I indicated last time lies in the direction of that primordial, essentially central, field of psychic elaboration. The Kleinian fantasies, as identified and emphasized in child analysis, reveal something striking. Not, of course, in a fully satisfactory manner, but rather in terms of the organization, coordination, and convergence of these creative potentials with the structural forms easily discerned in works of art.

However, the second part of the article is even more noteworthy and, amusingly, you’ll soon see why. This section references an article by an analyst, Karin MICHAELIS, titled The Empty Space, where a clinical case is presented. I’ll summarize it for you so that, if you read it in English, you can quickly grasp the intriguing nature of the case. Even within the four-page summary, it is undeniably striking.

The case concerns a borderline patient, not described in a way that allows us to make a definitive diagnosis—whether the depressive episode was melancholic or not in clinical terms remains unclear. The patient, named Ruth KJAR, is referred to as “the painter,” though she had never been a painter in her life. This is precisely what makes the case remarkable. We find ourselves in the realm of psychoanalytic marvels—or, more accurately, marvels that psychoanalysis, albeit with a certain naïveté, can highlight in certain cases. Central to the lived experience of her depressive crises is a complaint about something she calls an “empty space” within herself, which she can never fill. I’ll spare you the biographical details.

In any case, aided by her psychoanalyst, she gets married. Initially, her marriage goes fairly well. However, after a brief period, her melancholic episodes recur. Here begins the marvel reported with the kind of satisfaction characteristic of certain psychoanalytic accounts. She has a brother-in-law who is a painter. For reasons not fully explained, the home of the newlyweds is wallpapered—the walls, particularly in one room, are entirely covered—with the brother-in-law’s paintings.

Then, at one point, as it seems that the brother-in-law is a talented painter—this is indicated, though we have no other means to verify it—he sells one of his paintings, takes it, and removes it. This leaves an empty space on the wall. This empty space assumes a polarizing role, triggering depressive melancholic episodes that resurface in the patient’s life at this moment.

She overcomes it as follows: one fine day, she decides to “daub a little” on the wall to fill that cursed empty space, which has taken on a crystallizing significance for her. Naturally, we would have appreciated a better clinical description to understand what function this space played in her case.

Starting from this empty space, she attempts to fill it—imitating her brother-in-law—with a painting she strives to make as close as possible to the others on the wall. To this end, we are told, she goes to the art supply store to purchase the exact same colors from her brother-in-law’s palette and sets to work with an enthusiasm that seems characteristic of a phase movement leaning more toward the depressive side. Out of this process emerges a piece of work.

The most amusing part is the reaction when the work is shown to her brother-in-law. Her heart races with anxiety as she awaits the connoisseur’s verdict, only for him to grow almost angry, exclaiming:

“You will never make me believe that you painted this. It’s a damned lie. This painting was made by an artist, not only experienced but a veteran. The devil take your story. Who could it possibly be? I want to know.”

He cannot be convinced and continues to insist:

“If it was you,” he tells his sister-in-law, “who painted this, I might as well conduct a Beethoven symphony at the Royal Chapel, even though I don’t know a single note of music.”

This is reported to us with a seeming lack of critical discernment, a kind of hearsay that nonetheless inspires some reservations regarding the miraculous technical prowess being described—an account that merits at least a few initial questions we would like to have answered. Yet, this does not concern us directly.

For Melanie KLEIN, what matters in this case is finding confirmation of a structure she believes is illustrated here in an exemplary fashion. You cannot fail to see how closely it aligns with that central framework I have been outlining for you topologically, addressing how the question of what we call “the Thing” arises.

As I have mentioned, Kleinian doctrine situates “the body of the mother” at the core of this framework. As I also noted last time, the phases of sublimation—including miraculous sublimations such as this spontaneous, almost illuminative ascension of a novice to the most expert techniques of painting—are understood by Klein as confirmations of this framework. She identifies elements that dispel her surprise, notably in the subjects the novice chose to paint to fill this empty space. These subjects include:

1. A nude Black woman.
2. An extremely old woman, described as embodying all the marks of the burdens of age, disillusionment, and inconsolable resignation that come with advanced years.
3. Finally, an absolutely radiant figure, representing a rebirth, a rediscovery of the image of her own mother in her most vibrant years.

With this—Q.E.D.—Melanie KLEIN sees this as sufficient motivation for the entire phenomenon.

What I found amusing, undoubtedly, lies in how these sublimation phenomena are placed within this kind of topology. However, you likely sense that we are left somewhat wanting in terms of the broader implications.

I am attempting to show you, regarding sublimation, the necessary coordinates for us to pinpoint and qualify what is at stake. Sublimation is, as I have demonstrated with this example, fundamentally linked to a certain relationship with what we call “the Thing.” This Thing occupies a central position concerning the constitution of the subject’s reality.

Last time, I illustrated this point using a small example borrowed from the psychology of collecting—an attempt to highlight the starting point from which we will try to conceive sublimation. I explained that sublimation is, above all… (and I illustrated this with the example of matchboxes, though you would be mistaken to expect this example to fully encapsulate or center the subject)…

…a “transformation,” essentially, of an object into a Thing.

This is what sublimation is about. It is the phenomenon whereby a matchbox is suddenly elevated to a dignity it did not previously possess. Naturally, I must emphasize here that this Thing is, of course, not the Thing itself.

The Thing, if it were not fundamentally veiled, would not involve us in this mode of relation, which compels us—as indeed all psychism compels us—to encircle it, even skirt around it, in order to conceive it.

Where it asserts itself, as you will see, it does so in domains that I will direct you toward today—domains that are nothing other than domestic fields. This is precisely why these fields are defined as such: the Thing always presents itself as a veiled unity. But within our topology, how will we try to define it more closely at first?

Let us say today that, ultimately, if it occupies this position in the psychic constitution that Freud taught us based on the framework of the pleasure principle, it is—this Thing—that which, from the real…
let us understand here a real that we do not yet need to limit. I mean the real in its totality:
it pertains equally to the real of the subject and to the real that the subject deals with as external to him…
it is that which, from the primordial real, we might say, suffers from the signifier, because:

• It is insofar as it is through signifying elements that the first relationship crystallizes, or coagulates, within the subject. This relationship is formed in the Ψ system, the psychic system, which is itself subjected to homeostasis, to the law of the pleasure principle.
• It is thus insofar as this signifying organization dominates the psychic apparatus, as revealed to us through the examination and handling of the patient.
• It is under these conditions that we can say, in a purely negative sense, that there is nothing between this organization of the signifying network—this network of Vorstellungsrepräsentanzen—and the constitution, within the real, of this space, this central place, under which the field of the Thing first presents itself to us as such.

It is precisely within this field, ultimately, that we must locate what Freud elsewhere presents as corresponding to the finding itself—as being that object that is wiedergefunden, rediscovered. For Freud, this is the fundamental definition of the object in its guiding function.

He emphasizes this in a way that I have already shown to be paradoxical: the object is not said to have truly been lost. By nature, the object is a rediscovered object. That it was, so to speak, lost is a consequence, but one that arises only afterward. And thus, insofar as it is rediscovered, it is rediscovered without our knowing that it was lost through this rediscovery. Here we encounter this fundamental structure, which allows us to articulate that the Thing in question is open in its structure to being represented by what we have previously called—recall our discourse on boredom and prayer—what we referred to as “Something Else.” “Something Else” is essentially the Thing. This brings us to its second characteristic:
insofar as it is veiled, and insofar as, by its nature, in the rediscovery of the object, it is as such represented by “Something Else.”

You cannot fail to recognize here Picasso’s famous phrase: “I do not seek, I find.”
It is the “finding”—the trobar of the troubadours and poets of all rhetorical traditions—that takes precedence over the “seeking.”
Clearly, what is found has been sought, but sought within the pathways of the signifier. Yet this search is, in a way, an anti-psychic search—one that, by its position and function, lies beyond the pleasure principle.

For according to the laws of the pleasure principle, the passage of the signifier projects equalization, homeostasis—the tendency toward uniform investment of the ego-system as such—into this beyond, where it causes a lapse. The function of the pleasure principle is to carry the subject from one signifier to another, introducing as many signifiers as necessary to maintain the lowest possible level of tension, which governs the operation of the psychic apparatus.

Thus, we are led to the relationship between man and the signifier. This allows us to take the next step:
how man’s relationship to the signifier—his role as its manipulator—can lead him…
since it seems that the pleasure principle reigns alone, according to a law which, as you know, is expressed as a law of deception…
[how this relationship to the signifier] governs his speculation, through that immense discourse…
which is not merely what he articulates, but also all his actions, insofar as they are dominated by the search that drives him to rediscover things in signs…
how this relationship to the signifier can place man in relation to an object—an object that represents the Thing.

Here arises the question: what is man doing when he fashions a signifier? The difficulty, regarding the signifier, is precisely knowing not to rush into the idea that man is the mere artisan of its supports. For years, I have accustomed you to the notion—which must remain primary and prevalent—of what constitutes the signifier, namely:
the structures of opposition whose emergence profoundly transforms the human world as such.

Nonetheless, these signifiers, in their individuality, are shaped by man—and, if one may say so, probably more with his hands than with his soul. This brings us—inevitably, as you likely already sense—to our convergence with the use of language, which, at least regarding the sublimation of art, never hesitates to speak of creation. This notion of creation, with all that it entails regarding the creature and the creator, must now be elevated and examined. It is utterly central not only to our theme, the motif of sublimation, but also to ethics in its broadest sense—to the problem that Freud’s question introduces into ethics.

I posit this: an object can fulfill the function of not avoiding the Thing as a signifier, of representing it, as long as the object is created. What does this mean? Let us turn—through a parable provided by the chain of generations, which nothing prevents us from employing—to what might be the most primitive function of the soul: the artistic function of the potter.

I spoke to you last time about the matchbox; I had my reasons. You will see that we will encounter it again. It may allow us to demonstrate more and delve deeper into our dialectic than the vase, but the vase is simpler. It surely came before the matchbox. It has been around forever. It is perhaps the most primordial element of human industry. Undoubtedly, it is a tool, a thing, an implement that, without any ambiguity, affirms the presence of humanity. It is something before which we must pause.

This vase, which has existed since time immemorial and has long been used metaphorically, parabolically, analogically, to help us conceive of the mysteries of creation, can still serve us. To confirm its relevance and make us feel what the Thing is, I need only say: if you refer to what Heidegger—the latest thinker on the subject of creation—presents when he discusses das Ding in his writings (including the essay I will mention), it is through a vase that he develops the entire dialectic.

This dialectic, as you know, for Heidegger, is a dialectic of Being. The function of das Ding, in the Heideggerian perspective of modern revelation tied to what he calls the end of metaphysics, of what Being is, I will not engage with here. I simply want to say that you can all easily refer to it. Just look at Essays and Lectures and the article The Thing. There, you will see the function Heidegger assigns it: a kind of essential human process, a conjunction of celestial and terrestrial forces around it.

For us today, I want to focus on the elementary distinction between the vase’s utilitarian use and its function as a signifier. If it truly signifies, and if it is the first signifier shaped by human hands, then it signifies nothing other than everything that signifies. In other words, it signifies nothing in particular.

If Heidegger places it at the center of the essence of heaven and earth, binding them primitively through the act of libation—through the dual orientation directing it upward to receive and also toward the earth, from which it raises or elevates something—this is indeed the vase’s function. We must pause here and recognize immediately that the particular absence characterizing its signifying function is embodied in its very form. What defines the vase as such is precisely the void it creates—the “something” that introduces the idea, the very perspective, of filling it. The void and the fullness, in the vase and through the vase, are introduced into a world that, on its own, knows nothing of such concepts. It is through this crafted signifier, the vase, that the notions of void and fullness enter the world, no more or less than this, and with the same meaning.

This is where we can grasp the fallacy, the fictitious nature, of the supposed opposition between the dimensions of the concrete and the figurative. It is in exactly the same sense that words and discourse can be full or empty, and that the vase itself can be full—because, first and foremost, in its essence, it is empty.

This is precisely what we touched upon at a certain congress in Royaumont (which we have since distanced ourselves from) when I emphasized that the mustard jar’s essence in our practical lives is to present itself as an empty mustard jar. This idea, which at the time may have seemed like a witty or sharp observation, will find its point and explanation as we advance in our perspective.

In any case, on all these points, you must follow this direction as far as your imagination and creativity allow. To this end, I will not resist your recognizing the name Bornibus, which, for us, corresponds to one of the most elegant and familiar presentations of the mustard jar, as one of the forms of what we may call divine names—since it is Bornibus that fills the mustard jars. It is here, indeed, that we can set a boundary.

The example of the mustard jar and the vase allows us to introduce something fundamental: the central problem of the Thing, which is, itself, the central problem of ethics. Namely: if a rational power, if God, created the world, how is it that—first, regardless of what we do, and second, regardless of what we refrain from doing—the world is in such disarray? This, indeed, is the crux of the question.

The potter who makes the vase does so from a material, a clay that is more or less refined. It is at this moment that religious preachers stop us to make us hear “the groan of the vase under the hand of the potter.” Sometimes, the preacher makes the vase speak, in the most moving way, making it groan and ask the creator why he treats it so roughly—or, conversely, so gently.

What is concealed in the example I cite from creationist mythology—and particularly by those who use the example of the vase—is precisely what I have mentioned: they are always authors bordering on the religious and mystical, undoubtedly not without reason. What is not emphasized in this parable, which is so fundamental to the imagery of the creative act, is that, without question, there is an aspect of the issue that shows the vase is made from a material, and nothing is made from nothing.

This is the foundation of all ancient philosophy. The entirety of Aristotelian philosophy must be understood—and this is why it is so difficult for us to grasp—in a mode that never omits the premise that matter is eternal and nothing is made from nothing. Consequently, it remains embedded in a worldview that never allowed even a mind as powerful as Aristotle’s—perhaps one of the most formidable intellects in the history of human thought—to escape the closure represented to him by the celestial sphere. He considered all his world, including the realm of human relationships and language, as included within this eternal and fundamentally limited nature.

Yet the simple example of the vase, if you consider it from the perspective I have initially presented—namely, as an object created to represent the existence of a void at the center of this reality we call the Thing—this void, as it appears in representation, indeed presents itself as a nihil, as nothing. That is why the potter, much like myself as I address you, even though he creates the vase around this void with his hand, creates it, just as the mythical creator does, ex nihilo, starting from the void.

Everyone knows this and jokes about it—be it macaroni, which is a hole with something around it, or cannons. The humor does not alter the essential truth: there is an identity between the shaping of the signifier and this introduction into reality of an aperture, a void, which human action—reasoned and deliberate human action—has always enlarged since its origin.

This has extended to the point where, remarkably, this could still surprise any contemporary interlocutor. I recall an evening when I was dining with one of the descendants of the royal bankers who hosted Heinrich Heine in Paris over a century ago. I astonished him greatly by stating—and I believe he remains astonished to this day—that modern science, born with Galileo, could only develop and conceive itself from the biblical and Judaic ideology, to which it should feel closer. It was not from ancient philosophy or the Aristotelian perspective that modern science emerged.

This is because its entire progress—its entire process—is founded on the symbolic efficacy that, beginning with Galileo, continually expands its domain and consumes around it all references limiting it to intuitive data, leaving full play to the signifier. As such, it results in this effective science which, today, cannot help but astonish us. Its laws continually move toward greater coherence, yet nothing in particular seems to motivate what exists. For instance, the celestial sphere, which no longer exists, or the collective ensemble of celestial bodies, which were once the best reference points, now present themselves as fundamentally contingent. They could as well not exist at all.

Existentialism, as it might say, marks them with a character of facticity. In their reality, they are inherently contingent. Furthermore, we should note that, at the extreme, what we discern in the equivalence articulated between energy and matter is the possibility that one day, the entire fabric of appearance could unravel from this void we introduce into it and vanish. This is, indeed, what is at stake.

The introduction of the crafted signifier—the vase—is already entirely bound to the notion of ex nihilo creation. This notion of ex nihilo creation is coextensive with the exact and proper placement of the Thing itself. Indeed, it is in this way that, over the ages—especially those nearest to us, those that have shaped us—the articulation and balance of the moral problem have been situated.

A passage from the Bible, marked by an optimistic tone of cheerfulness, states that when the Lord, in due order, created the world in six days, He looked at the whole and saw that it was good. Surely, the same could be said of the potter after he has made the vase: it is good, it holds, it works. In other words, the creation is always beautiful. Yet, everyone knows what may emerge from a vase or enter it. One thing is clear: this optimism is not justified by the general functioning of things in the human world or by all that human works produce.

Thus, it is around this benefit, this harm of creation, that the entire crisis of conscience has crystallized, particularly in the West. This crisis endured for centuries and culminated in the period I referenced when I introduced a particularly classic citation from Luther, who, as you know, long tormented the Christian conscience.

It was in this context that I could formulate and articulate the idea that nothing could be attributed, no merit could be credited, to any work. This is not to say that this position is heretical or invalid—on the contrary, it is assuredly grounded in profound reasons.

To guide you in understanding how what we might call the “flow of sects” consciously or unconsciously divided around the problem of evil, it seems to me that the very simple tripartition arising from the example of the vase, as we have articulated it, is excellent. I mean that in its anxious search for the source of evil, humanity is confronted with this choice—because there is no other. But it must also be said that there are these three.

First, there is the work itself, a position of renunciation taken by many wisdom traditions beyond our own. This position asserts that any work is inherently harmful, engendering as much negative as positive consequence. Such an outlook is formally expressed in Taoism, to the extent that even using a vase in the form of a spoon is barely permissible. The mere introduction of a spoon into the world is already the source of the entire flow of dialectical contradictions.

Then there is matter. Here we encounter something you may have heard of—certain theories referred to as “Cathar,” though the reasons for this nomenclature are unclear. I will not give a lecture on Catharism but will instead offer a brief reference for a starting point: a book that, while not the best on the subject, is highly engaging. It is Love in the Western World by Denis de Rougemont. I have reread it in its revised edition, and I must admit that, on a second reading, I found it less disappointing than I expected—it even pleased me.

In it, you will find, articulated through the author’s specific lens, various insights that allow us to grasp the profound crisis represented by Cathar ideology and theology in the evolution of Western thought. Even so, the author demonstrates that the roots of this issue likely lie on the periphery of what we typically call “the West,” a term I do not hold to and one which should not be central to our thinking.

Nevertheless, at a certain juncture in European collective life, the question of what was wrong with Creation itself arose. This question preoccupied a group whose precise thoughts remain difficult to discern today. I refer to the profound implications of the religious and mystical movement known as “Cathar heresy.” One might even say that this is the sole historical instance in which a temporal power was so effective that it nearly succeeded in erasing all traces of the process. Such was the remarkable feat of the Holy Catholic and Roman Church. Today, we are left scouring obscure corners for documents, of which very few provide a satisfactory record. Even the inquisitorial trial records have largely vanished, leaving us with only scattered secondary accounts.

For instance, a Dominican father noted that these Cathars were, in all cases, deeply honorable people, profoundly Christian in their way of life, and particularly pure in their morals. Indeed, their morals were exceptionally pure, for their fundamental belief was to avoid any act that could, in any way, perpetuate this execrable and inherently evil world.

Their practice of perfection consisted of striving for the most advanced state of detachment, culminating in death, which for them marked reintegration into a world of light, a soul-filled realm characterized by purity and light—a world of the true, good original Creator. This Creator’s work had been corrupted by the intervention of the evil Creator, the demiurge, who introduced into Creation the dreadful element of generation and decay—of transformation, in other words.

In the Aristotelian view of matter transforming into other matter, perpetuating itself, this perpetual material cycle was where evil resided. The solution, as you can see, is simple. It has a certain coherence, though it may lack full rigor.

One of the few reliable documents we have about the movement—because, as I repeat, the reasons for the loss of records, including the disappearance of inquisitorial trial accounts, are multifaceted—was a late work discovered and published in 1939 under the title The Book of Two Principles. It is readily available under the title Cathar Writings, a beautifully crafted book edited by René Nelli.

Here, evil is located in matter. However, what remains open—and which, undoubtedly, holds a pivotal role in understanding the historical development of moral thought around the problem of evil—is the possibility that evil lies elsewhere. In other words, not merely in works or in this execrable matter (which ascetic effort seeks to shun without escaping into a mystical realm that might seem mythical or even illusory) but in the Thing itself.

It may lie in the Thing:

• Insofar as it is not the signifier that guides the work,
• Nor is it the matter of the work,
• But rather as it keeps humanity at the heart of the myth of creation, upon which the entire question is suspended.

For whatever you do, even if you scoff at the Creator because you believe in Him “as much as a fig,” it remains that you conceive of the question of evil and its resolution in creationist terms. It is necessary to recognize the place the Thing occupies in this problem, as it is defined by the fact that it defines the human—even if humanity itself escapes us. At this point, what we call “the human” here would not be defined any differently than how I just defined the Thing: namely, as that aspect of the real which suffers from the signifier.

Indeed, observe this carefully: Freud’s thought directs us to consider what lies at the heart of the pleasure principle’s functioning, namely, a Beyond the Pleasure Principle—and very likely what I previously referred to as “a fundamental good or bad will.” Of course, all kinds of traps and fascinations present themselves to your thinking here: What does it mean if humanity is fundamentally—though as if it were so simple to define humanity—good or bad?

But note that this is not the issue. The issue concerns the whole: the fact that man, through the signifier, shapes and introduces himself into the world. In other words, it is a matter of understanding what he does in shaping himself in the image of the Thing—a Thing which is characterized precisely by its impossibility to be imagined.

This is where the problem lies. And this is where the problem of sublimation lies. That is why, as a starting point to advance you toward it, I revisit what I previously called the history of Minne. I use this term because it is particularly exemplary, avoiding ambiguity in the Germanic language. In Germanic, Minne is distinct from Liebe. Here, we use the same word, “love.” It refers to something that—if you are willing to delve into it—will be clarified by the work I mentioned earlier. You will see what it is about.

The problem the author in question grapples with is the link between:

• The existence of that profound and secret heresy that began dominating Europe from the late 10th century, though it is unclear whether it reached higher peaks,
• And the emergence of a very curious phenomenon: the articulation, foundation, and establishment of an entire morality, ethic, and way of life called courtly love.

I must stress that I am not exaggerating when I say: after stripping away all historical data and employing all methods of interpreting a superstructure in relation to social, political, and economic factors, historians, in the end, univocally throw up their hands.

Nothing provides a completely satisfactory explanation for this extraordinary trend, which emerged at a time that was neither particularly gentle nor civilized. Believe me, it was quite the opposite. Humanity was just emerging from the era of early feudalism, where life largely revolved around bandit-like customs dominating vast geographical areas. It was only just after this period that the rules of a relationship between men and women were elaborated, marked by the astonishing characteristics of paradox.

Given the time, I will not begin to articulate this for you today. However, you should know what my aim will be in our next session: to demonstrate…
and believe me, this is neither unique nor original to me. I will not attempt to introduce anything beyond the insights already available to us…
the ambiguous and enigmatic problem of what is at stake in the feminine object.

This is the question of how this object of praise, service, submission, and all sorts of stereotypical sentimental behaviors of the knight—the adherent of courtly love—toward La Dame leads to a notion so peculiar that one author remarked it seems as if they are all praising the same person. This, of course, leaves us in a naturally interrogative position.

The Romance scholar who made this observation is Mr. André Moret, a professor at the Faculty of Letters at the University of Lille, who also produced a beautiful anthology of Minnesang published by Aubier. This creation revolves around an object, and we are left questioning the exact role played by the flesh-and-blood characters who were nevertheless deeply engaged in this phenomenon.

It is entirely possible to name the Ladies and the individuals who were central to the emergence and spread of this new style of behavior and existence at the time of its appearance. We know the early figures of this phenomenon—which can almost be characterized as a kind of social epidemic—just as well as we know Mr. Sartre and Madame de Beauvoir. Eleanor of Aquitaine is not a mythical figure, nor is her daughter, the Countess of Champagne.

I will try next time to make this clear to you. But what is important is to see how some of the enigmas raised by historians regarding this topic can be resolved…
I mean specifically through the doctrine I am presenting to you, the analytic doctrine…
can be resolved in light of this doctrine and solely through it, as it enables us to explain the entire phenomenon as a work of sublimation in its purest scope.

I mean that you will see, even in the details, how this mechanism operates to assign an object—in this case, what is called the Lady—the value of representing the Thing. This will then allow me to outline the path we still have to travel before I leave you in mid-February. I will show you what remains in this construction as traces we must also conceive within the forms of analytic structure, particularly regarding the relations to the feminine object and the problematic character it still presents to us today.

As I conclude today, I also want to indicate to you, for the period beyond this February separation, that the ultimate aim of all this is to help you grasp the true significance of Freud’s innovation. This innovation, in light of this framework and the coordinates it introduces, does not abandon the idea of creation. The idea of creation is absolutely fundamental and consubstantial with your thinking. You cannot think—and no one can think—in terms other than creationist ones. What you may believe to be the most familiar model of your thinking, namely evolutionism, is, for you and your contemporaries, merely a defensive formation. It clings to religious ideals as such, preventing you from seeing clearly what is happening in the world around you.

But it is not simply because you—like everyone else, whether you are aware of it or not—are bound to the notion of creation that the Creator’s position is clear to you.

It is, in fact, quite clear that God is dead, and this is precisely the point. You will see that this is what Freud expresses throughout his myth. Since God emerged from the fact that the father is dead, this undoubtedly means that we have come to realize—and this is why Freud reflects so deeply on this—that God is dead. But it also means that, since it is the dead father at the origin that Freud’s myth addresses, God has, in a sense, always been dead.

Thus, Freud’s question of the Creator raises the issue of what is at stake, what is happening, and what modern frameworks must now sustain what continues to operate in this domain—namely, science. It is in this context that the mode of questioning the Thing as it pertains to us today arises, and this is the culmination of our research this year.

This is what Freud approaches for us in the psychology of drive. Drive (Trieb) is not something that can in any way be reduced to a psychological notion. It is a fundamentally ontological concept that corresponds to an awareness we are not necessarily forced to fully identify, because we live it. Whatever way we live it, it is the purpose of what I am attempting to articulate before you: to help you bring it to consciousness.