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(All parts in English)

So, you know how I resumed with you last time, connecting our discourse to my talk directed at Catholics.
Do not believe this was an easy way for me to resolve things. I did not merely serve you the same material I had presented to them in Brussels. In truth, for the best reasons, I had not even told them half of what I have explained to you.

Thus, what I articulated last time concerning the death of God the Father is what will lead us today to another question—a question where FREUD stands unequivocally, unambiguously, at the very heart of our authentic experience. This experience does not seek escapes through generalities or through generalizations about religious sentiment or the function of religion in humans but rather articulates the mode in which it becomes manifest to us. Namely, this is the commandment that in our civilization is articulated as the commandment to love one’s neighbor.

It is quite certain that FREUD confronts this commandment in its full articulation. If you are willing to read Civilization and Its Discontents, you will see:

• that this is where he begins,
• it is against this that he stands,
• and it is upon this that he concludes.
  He speaks only of this, and what he says about it is, all in all, quite remarkable. Ordinarily, it should even make ears buzz and teeth grind. But no—curiously enough, once a text has been printed for a certain amount of time, it seems to dissipate that sort of precarious vertigo that we call the virtue of meaning.

Therefore, today, I will attempt to revive the meaning of these lines for you. And since, after all, as you will see, this might lead me to some rather strong statements, all I can do is ask language—logos, as FREUD might say—to inspire me with a tempered tone.

God—then—is dead. Since He is dead, that means He always was. And what I explained to you last time—the essence of FREUD’s doctrine on this matter—is this myth expressed in Totem and Taboo. It is precisely because He is dead—and has always been dead—that a message could be conveyed through and beyond all the beliefs that rendered this God always alive, resurrected, springing forth from the void left by His death, and this in the form of proliferating gods, truly non-contradictory gods. FREUD points us to Egypt as the chosen land of this proliferation.

This message is the message of a singular God who is simultaneously the master of the world and the dispenser of the light that warms life and spreads the clarity of consciousness—attributes that, all in all, belong to a thought that governs the order of reality. This is the God of AKHENATEN, the God of the secret message that the Jewish people carry insofar as they inscribe upon MOSES the death—the archaic murder—of the father. FREUD explains this to us: Who is the God to whom this rare and exceptional sentiment—unreachable to the masses—is addressed, the sentiment called amor intellectualis Dei?

FREUD speaks of this. He also knows that this love of God, while it has been articulated here and there in the thoughts of exceptional men—such as a certain lens grinder who lived in Holland, SPINOZA—is not of great importance. Likewise, the fact that such amor intellectualis Dei appeared in some individuals, and in some in its mature expression, did not prevent, at the same time, the rise of the style, power, and architecture of VERSAILLES. This showed us that the colossus of DANIEL, with its feet of clay, remained—just as it still does—standing, no matter how many times it collapsed.

Undoubtedly, a science arose from this fragile belief—the very one expressed in terms perpetually on the horizon of our aspirations: that all reality is rational, and all rationality is real. Curiously enough, if this science, one might say, has made use of it, it nonetheless remains well-served, even well-regarded, in the service of the colossus. This colossus of DANIEL, which I have just mentioned, fallen a hundred times, yet always present.

The love cult that a solitary figure—be it SPINOZA or FREUD—might harbor for this God of the message has absolutely nothing to do with the God of the believers. No one doubts this, especially not the believers themselves, who have never missed an opportunity, whether they are Jewish or Christian, to express more than mere reservations about this, even causing some troubles for SPINOZA.

Yet it is curious to observe that for some time, since it became known that God is dead, we have seen these so-called believers resort to ambiguity. That is, by referring to the God of dialectics, they attempt to find an alibi for their shaken faith. Paradoxically—and something history has never shown us before—the torch, as you know, in the history of AKHENATEN, now easily serves as an alibi for the sectarians of AMMON. This is not to disparage the historical role of this God of the believers, the God of the Judeo-Christian tradition.

That it was within its tradition that the message of the God of AKHENATEN was preserved, was, after all, worth the confusion between the Egyptian MOSES and the Midianite—the one whose Thing (that which speaks in the burning bush) affirms itself as a distinct God, even if not the sole God. A God, as I have already pointed out—perhaps too hastily when I referred to the Bible’s text on the commandments—a God before whom others cannot be taken into account.

In other words—and I will not insist more than necessary on the thread that continues today—it is not strictly forbidden to honor other gods, but not in the presence of the God of Israel. This distinction is certainly significant for the historian. However, for us, as we attempt to articulate FREUD’s thought and experience to give them weight and consequence, we will frame what he formulates in the following way: this God-symptom, this God as much a totem as a taboo, certainly deserves our attention. It claims to be a myth insofar as it served as the vehicle for the God of truth. Through it, and by its mediation, the truth about God could emerge—that God was, in fact, killed by men and that this act was reproduced, thereby redeeming the original murder of the father. The truth found its way through the one Scripture calls the Word, but also the Son of Man, thus confessing the human nature of the Father.

FREUD, therefore, neither neglects the Name-of-the-Father…

He speaks of it quite eloquently. In Moses and Monotheism, we might say—speaking to those who do not take Totem and Taboo for what it is, namely, a myth—that he expresses himself on the Name-of-the-Father in these terms: in human history, the recognition of the father’s function is a sublimation, he says, one that is essential for opening up a spirituality that, as such, represents a novelty—an essential step for man in apprehending a reality. However, in spirituality as such, it ranks as a level, a stage in accessing reality itself.

…nor, for that matter, the real father. For FREUD, throughout the subject’s adventure, it is desirable that, if not as a God, the father might at least appear as a good father. He speaks of this so well that I will one day read you the passage marked by that almost tender tone with which he describes the exquisite nature of this virile identification that stems from love for the father and its role in normalizing desire. But what must be understood is that this effect occurs favorably, in its privileged mode, only insofar as everything is in order on the side of the Name-of-the-Father—that is, to return to it, on the side of the God who does not exist.

This results in a particularly difficult position for this good father. I would even say that, to a certain extent, he is a limping figure, as we know all too well from experience, practice, and the myth of OEDIPUS. Although the myth of OEDIPUS shows us that it might be better if he himself were unaware of these reasons. But now he knows them, and it is precisely this knowledge that entails, in what I call “the ethics of our time,” certain consequences that, of course, unfold on their own, becoming perceptible in common discourse and even in analytical discourse. It is not merely that they are perceptible; rather, if we have chosen this year to discuss the ethics of psychoanalysis, they must be articulated.

FREUD himself, I note in passing, could not—being the first to have fully demystified this paternal function—could not be entirely a good father. I will not dwell on this point today. It could be the subject of a special chapter on what we sense from his biography. Suffice it to label him for what he was: a bourgeois whom his admirer and biographer JONES called a bourgeois uxorieux. This, as everyone knows, is not exactly the ideal model of a father.

Moreover, where FREUD is genuinely the father—our father, the father of psychoanalysis—what can we say except that he left it in the hands of women and perhaps also of fools? As for the women, let us withhold judgment; they are beings full of promise, if only because they have not yet fulfilled it.

As for the fools, that is another matter. In truth, I would like to address something about them, as it pertains to the delicate terrain we are navigating regarding ethics, which today cannot be separated from what is called ideology. I would like to clarify what might be termed “the political sense” of this ethical turn, insofar as it is necessary to delineate and designate it, since it is one for which we, the heirs of FREUD, are responsible.

So, I have spoken of fools. This may seem impertinent, even excessive. Nevertheless, I wish to make clear what I mean. There was a time—already distant, already past, at the very beginning of our Society, you may recall—when we spoke, in connection with PLATO’s Meno, about intellectuals.

It became apparent that the question of what it means to occupy the position of an intellectual is not new. I would like to say some massive, weighty things about this—things that, even if somewhat unwieldy, I believe will shed light.

There are, as has long been observed, left-wing intellectuals and right-wing intellectuals.
I would like to provide you with formulations which, although they may appear sharp at first glance, can nonetheless help illuminate the path.

The term fool, or dimwit, a rather charming term for which I have a certain fondness, does not fully capture a particular something that, I must say—and I will return to this later—the English language and its literary tradition seem to me to offer an infinitely more valuable signifier.

This is a tradition that begins with CHAUCER but fully blossoms in Elizabethan theater—a tradition, I say, that allows us to center on the term fool. The fool is indeed an innocent, a simpleton, but through his mouth come truths that are not merely tolerated, thanks to the fact that the fool is sometimes adorned, designated, or assigned the functions of a jester… this sort of joyful shadow, this fundamental foolery—this, to my eyes, is what makes the left-wing intellectual so valuable.

To this, I will oppose…
and I must emphasize a qualification for which the same tradition provides us a strictly contemporary term, a term used in a coordinated way. I will show you, if time permits, the texts—they are numerous, abundant, and unambiguous—where the term knave appears. The knave, which at one level can be translated as “servant,” goes further. It is not quite the cynic, with all the heroic connotations of that stance.

It is, strictly speaking, what STENDHAL calls the perfect scoundrel—that is, after all, an Everyman, but an Everyman with more or less resolve. Everyone knows that a certain manner of presenting oneself, central to the ideology of the right-wing intellectual, consists precisely in claiming to be what one indeed is: a knave. In other words, not shying away from the consequences of what is called realism, which is to say, when necessary, admitting to being a scoundrel. The result of this is only interesting if one considers its outcomes. After all, a scoundrel is at least as amusing as a fool, unless, of course, the formation of scoundrels into a collective inevitably results in collective foolishness. This is what makes the ideology of the right so despair-inducing in politics.

Let us observe that we are analyzing the intellectual and the groups structured as such. What is less often recognized is that, through a curious effect of chiasmus:

• foolery, in other words, that joyful shadow that gives the individual left-wing intellectual their style,
• ultimately leads very effectively to group knavery, or, in other words, collective scoundrelism.

This observation, which I submit for your reflection, I do not conceal, has the nature of a confession. Those of you who know me can guess my reading habits, know which weeklies linger on my desk. What delights me most, I confess, is the face of collective scoundrelism. In other words, that innocent cunning, even that serene impudence, which allows them to express so many heroic truths without being willing to pay the price. Thanks to this, what is proclaimed as the horror of MAMMON on the first page ends, by the last, in purring tenderness toward the same MAMMON.

What I want to emphasize here is that while FREUD may not have been a good father, he was certainly neither a scoundrel nor a fool. This is why we find ourselves confronted with the disconcerting position of being able to assert both of these seemingly contradictory truths about him: he was humanitarian. Who would dispute this by pointing to his writings? He was, and he remains so, and we must take this into account, however discredited this term may be by the scoundrels of the right.

On the other hand, he was no dimwit, so we can equally say—and here we have the texts—that he was not a progressive. I regret to say it, but it is a fact: FREUD was not progressive in the least, and there are even aspects of his work that are extraordinarily scandalous in this regard. The minimal optimism he expressed—I do not wish to insist too heavily—about the prospects offered by the masses is something that, coming from one of our guides, is bound to be jarring. But it is essential to acknowledge this if we want to know where we stand. You will see in what follows the relevance and utility of these remarks, which may at first appear crude.

Thus, I say this: a friend and patient of mine once had a dream, which undoubtedly bore the trace of some thirst left in him by the seminar’s formulations—a dream in which someone concerning me exclaimed, “But why doesn’t he tell the truth about the truth?”
I recount this because it reflects an impatience I have indeed sensed expressed by many, through avenues other than dreams.

On this occasion, I would like to point out to you that this formulation is true in certain respects. I may not say the truth about the truth, but have you not noticed that in striving to “tell the truth about the truth,” which is the principal occupation of those we call metaphysicians, it often happens that little truth remains. And that is precisely what is precarious about such a claim. I would say that this inclination readily leads us into a register of scoundrelism—indeed, a certain metaphysical knavery—when modern “treatises on metaphysics” shelter themselves under the guise of the truth about the truth and let pass many things that really should not.

I am content to say “the truth” at the first step, to proceed step by step. And when I say that FREUD is a humanitarian but not a progressive, I am saying something true. Let us attempt, in the next step, to connect this and take another truthful step.

The truth from which we begin, the truth we must accept as true if we genuinely follow FREUD’s analysis, is that we know “God is dead.”

Only—here is the next step—He Himself does not know it. And, by assumption, He can never know it, since He has always been dead. What this formula suggests is precisely the sense of the matter we must resolve here, what remains in our hands from this adventure, and how it changes the foundations of the ethical problem for us. In other words, that enjoyment remains forbidden to us, as it was before we knew that “God is dead.” This is what FREUD states.

And this is the truth—not “the truth about the truth,” but the truth of what FREUD says, undoubtedly. From this, we must formulate the following: if we continue to follow FREUD—and here I refer to a text like Civilization and Its Discontents—enjoyment is an evil. FREUD leads us by the hand on this point: it is an evil because it entails harm to one’s neighbor.

This may shock, upset, surprise, disturb your habits, or cause an uproar among the “joyful shadows,” but nothing can be done about it. This is what FREUD says.

And if he states it at the very principle of our experience, if he writes Civilization and Its Discontents to tell us that, as the experience of analysis advanced, this became something that emerged, proved itself, arose, and spread—what we call Beyond the Pleasure Principle—it has a name and effects that are not metaphysical, not to be tossed about between “surely not” and “maybe.”

It suffices for me to open FREUD to the passage where he expresses this. It is true that those who prefer “fairy tales” turn a deaf ear when one speaks to them of “man’s innate tendency toward malice.” I think there is no need to go further, although continuing beyond the comma—”to aggression, to destruction, and therefore also to cruelty”—does nothing more than soften the effect by commenting on it in these terms.

But that is not all. On page 47 of the French text (Denoël):
“Man tries to satisfy his aggressive needs at the expense of his neighbor…

…we must still assign meaning to words…

…to exploit his labor without compensation, to use him sexually without his consent, to appropriate his property, to humiliate him, to inflict suffering upon him, to torment and kill him.”
[Original: “Infolgedessen ist ihm der Nächste nicht nur möglicher Helfer und Sexualobjekt, sondern auch eine Versuchung, seine Aggression an ihm zu befriedigen, seine Arbeitskraft ohne Entschädigung auszunützen, ihn ohne seine Einwilligung sexuell zu gebrauchen, sich in den Besitz seiner Habe zu setzen, ihn zu demütigen, ihm Schmerzen zu bereiten, zu martern und zu töten.”]

If I had not first mentioned the page and the work from which I extracted this text, I might have—at least for a moment—made you think it was a passage from SADE. And indeed, we will come to that, as it is my goal. The next step, the forthcoming lesson, will indeed focus on the “sadistic elucidation of the moral problem.”

For now, we are at FREUD’s level, and what must be noted is that what is addressed in Civilization and Its Discontents is the need to seriously rethink the problem of evil, realizing that it is radically altered in the absence of God. This is where I wish to introduce some remarks today, which I believe are fundamental.

The problem has been evaded, always, by moralists in a way that, frankly, once the ear is attuned to the terms of experience, is literally designed to inspire disgust in us. The traditional moralist—regardless of who they are—inevitably falls into this rut: they are there to persuade us that pleasure is a good, that the path of goodness is indicated and guided by pleasure.

The delusion is, frankly, striking. For it carries an aspect of paradox that lends it a certain audacity. This is precisely how one is deceived on a second level: one believes there is only one hidden layer and is thrilled to have uncovered it, yet one is even more fooled after discovering it than before suspecting it—a rarity. For everyone senses that something is amiss.

The fact is as follows: stripping bare from the outset, even before the extreme formulations of Beyond the Pleasure Principle, FREUD’s formulation of the pleasure principle itself clearly has a beyond. And from that moment on, one can clearly see that it is precisely designed to keep us this side of it. From the outset, from its first formulation in FREUD under the terms principle of unpleasure or least suffering, it was evident that the function of pleasure—of this “good”—and its designation as “good” lies in the fact that it ultimately keeps us away from our enjoyment.

What could be more evident to us than this in our clinical experience? Who, in the name of pleasure, does not falter at the very first serious step toward their own enjoyment? Is this not what we encounter daily, almost palpably? Naturally, then, we can understand the dominance of the principle of hedonism in a certain type of morality—a morality rooted in philosophical tradition, whose motives no longer seem so unassailably pure in their supposed selflessness.

In truth, it is not by highlighting the beneficial effects of pleasure that we fault the so-called hedonistic tradition. Rather, it is for failing to articulate what exactly this good consists of. This, so to speak, is where the fraud lies. This allows us to understand what I would call “FREUD’s reaction.”

If you read Civilization and Its Discontents, FREUD is literally horrified by the concept of “love thy neighbor.” Let us examine his reasoning and arguments. Neighbor in German is der Nächste. The commandment is articulated in German as: “Du sollst den Nächsten lieben wie dich selbst”—“You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”

FREUD’s argument, emphasizing the exorbitant nature of this commandment, stems from several points, which are, in essence, all one and the same. The first is that the neighbor is a malicious being, whose fundamental nature FREUD’s pen has exposed and unveiled. But this is not all FREUD expresses.

What he states cannot be dismissed with a smile, as if it were merely expressed with a certain thrift of tone. He explicitly says: “My love is something precious, and I will not simply give it away in its entirety, as if it were myself, to just anyone who happens to present themselves, merely by being there, in that moment, as the closest one.” And here, he makes several very valid observations about what is worthy of love. Some of these observations are not just valid but carry a moving resonance.

He elaborates, opens up, and reveals how one ought to love a friend’s son. If this son causes suffering to the friend, or if the friend is deprived of the son, that suffering would be intolerable to the friend. The entire Aristotelian conception of the good comes alive in this deeply human man. He tells us, then, that what is worth sharing with others is precisely this good, our love. On this point, he says some of the most sensitive and reasonable things. Yet what remains missing is perhaps that, by taking this path, we may miss access to enjoyment.

It is in the nature of good, after all, to be altruistic. But what FREUD makes us feel here is that this is not what the love of the neighbor entails. He does not fully articulate it, but we will try—without forcing anything—to do so in his stead, based solely on his observations. Each time he recoils, seemingly horrified, at the consequences of the commandment to love one’s neighbor, what arises is the presence of the fundamental malice inhabiting this neighbor and, therefore, also within myself. For what could be closer to me than this heart within myself, the seat of my enjoyment, which I dare not approach?

For as soon as I approach it—and this is the meaning of Civilization and Its Discontents—there arises that unfathomable aggressiveness that makes me recoil. FREUD explains that I turn this aggression against myself, which then takes the place of the now-vanished law, erecting barriers that prevent me from crossing a certain boundary, the limit of the Thing.

As long as it concerns the good, there is no problem, because what we call good, whether ours or another’s, is of the same fabric. Saint MARTIN divides his cloak, and it has been made into a great story. Yet, fundamentally, it is simply a question of supply. The fabric is made to be used; it belongs as much to the other as to oneself. Undoubtedly, we are touching here upon a primitive term of need that must be met.

The beggar is naked, but perhaps beyond the need for clothing, he begged for something else—be it for Saint MARTIN to kill him or kiss him. It is an entirely different matter to consider what the response of love, rather than charity, means in such an encounter. It is in the nature of utility to be utilized. If I can do something with less time and effort than someone else within my reach, I will naturally be inclined to do it in their stead, thereby condemning myself for what I owe to that “closest of the close” within me. I damn myself to ensure for another, to whom it would cost more time and effort than me, what? A comfort whose value depends solely on the assumption that if I had this comfort—i.e., less work—I would make the best use of that leisure. But it is far from proven that I would know how to make the best use of it if I had all the power to satisfy myself. Perhaps I would only end up bored.

Thus, in providing others with this power, perhaps I am merely leading them astray. I imagine their difficulties, their pain, mirrored by my own. It is not imagination I lack—it is feeling, specifically what might be called that arduous path, the love of one’s neighbor.

Here again, notice how the same paradox ensnares us concerning the discourse of utilitarianism. The utilitarians, that tiresome school of thought I began this year discussing, are entirely correct. Contrary to what is often opposed to them—and if one lacked such opposition, they would be even easier to refute—their principle holds: “But my good does not align with another’s, and your principle, Mr. BENTHAM, of the greatest happiness for the greatest number, runs counter to the demands of my selfishness.”

It is not true. My selfishness is quite satisfied with a certain altruism, one that operates on the level of utility. And it is precisely through this pretext that I avoid confronting the problem of evil, both the evil I desire and the evil desired by my neighbor. Thus, I spend my life bartering my time in some dollar zone, ruble zone, or elsewhere, alongside my neighbor’s time, keeping everyone, myself included, at the same “low level of reality” of my existence. Under these conditions, it is no surprise that everyone feels sick, that there is a malaise in civilization.

It is an experiential fact that what I want is the good of others, modeled on my own. It doesn’t cost me that much. What I want is the good of others, as long as it resembles mine. I will go further—it deteriorates so quickly that it becomes: as long as it depends on my effort.

I don’t need to ask you to delve too deeply into your patients’ experiences to recognize this: in seeking my partner’s happiness, I undoubtedly sacrifice my own. But who is to say that their happiness doesn’t also completely evaporate in the process? Perhaps this is where the true meaning of the love of neighbor could give me proper direction. To do so, I would need to confront this: the enjoyment of my neighbor—their harmful, malignant enjoyment—presents itself as the true problem for my love.

From here, it becomes clear that one could easily leap directly into the extremes of mysticism. Unfortunately, I must say that many of their most striking traits still appear to me marked by something somewhat puerile. Of course, it is about this beyond the pleasure principle, this realm of the nameless Thing and what occurs there, which is invoked when we are asked to pass judgment on certain exploits illustrated with images. For example, when we are told that an Angèle de Foligno delightedly drank the water with which she had just washed the feet of lepers. And I will spare you the details: there was a skin that stopped in her throat, and so on. Or that the Blessed Marie Alacoque, with no less spiritual effusions as a reward, ate the excrement of a sick person.

What seems to me to be missing from these undoubtedly edifying facts is the sense that their convincing power might waver somewhat if, for instance, the excrement in question belonged to a beautiful young girl or if it were a matter of eating the semen of the forward on your rugby team. In failing to fully emphasize the dimensions of what is at stake—in other words, masking the erotic aspect—I believe we need to take a broader perspective.

In truth, we are standing at the threshold of examining something that, at least, has attempted to force the gates of the inner hell, something that more overtly lays claim to doing so than we might merit. This, it seems to me, is our task. And this is why, step by step, to demonstrate the modes by which access to the problem of enjoyment presents itself, I will attempt to follow with you what someone named SADE articulated on this matter.

Undoubtedly, it would take two months to speak adequately of sadism. But I will not address SADE as an eroticist. One could even say that, on this point, he is a rather poor eroticist. The path to enjoyment with a woman does not necessarily involve subjecting her to all the treatments inflicted on poor JUSTINE. However, in the realm of articulating the ethical problem, SADE seems to me to have undoubtedly made the firmest statements, at least regarding the problem now before us.

Before delving into this next time, I want today to highlight a precisely contemporary example that is relevant not by accident: that of KANT, whom I have previously referenced. I have pointed to this example in our discussion of ethics. We will take the already-cited example by which KANT attempts to demonstrate the value and weight of the Law as such, formulated by him as practical reason, imposed purely by reason, beyond any affective or pathological considerations. This means without any motive that interests the subject. This will serve as a critical exercise, allowing us to return to the core of today’s problem.

Here is his example, which, I remind you, consists of two stories:

1. The first involves a man placed in the following position: if he wishes to meet a woman he desires, illegally—it is important to highlight this, as you will see how every seemingly simple detail here plays a deceptive role—he will be executed upon leaving.
2. The second case involves someone at the court of a despot, confronted with the following choice: either to give false testimony against someone who will lose their life as a result, or, if he refuses, to be executed himself.

And KANT, dear KANT, with all his innocence—his innocent cunning—assures us that any reasonable person would say no, that no one would have the folly to risk their life just for a single night with their beloved. Since it is not merely a struggle but an execution, the gallows await. For KANT, the question is settled—it is not up for debate.

In the second case, however, no matter how heavily the pleasures on one side might outweigh the false testimony, or how cruel the punishment promised for refusing to give false testimony might be, at the very least, we can conceive—this is all KANT tells us—that the subject hesitates, that there is a debate, a problem. It is perfectly conceivable that, rather than give false testimony, the subject might consider accepting death. On what grounds?

On the grounds that this is a situation in which the question of the rule of the act arises—whether it can or cannot be elevated to the status of a universal maxim. To infringe upon another’s possessions, let alone their life or honor, is something that compels the subject to pause, recognizing that this universally applied rule—first to themselves—might place them in the gravest danger. Its universal application would plunge human society into disorder and, quite simply, into evil.

Can we not, at this point, stop and critique the situation precisely in that the seemingly compelling force of these examples paradoxically rests on presenting a night with the lady as pleasure—something weighed against the suffering to be endured—in an opposition that homogenizes the two.

There is a plus and a minus in the terms of pleasure. And it is because KANT—and he is not alone in this—treats the matter this way. I am not quoting his worst examples, but there is one instance where he discusses the feelings of a Spartan mother learning of her son’s death—it is in his Essay on Negative Magnitudes. The mathematical calculation he performs, where the pleasure derived from the family’s glory must be subtracted from the pain of the child’s death, is almost grotesque. Here, we are dealing with something of the same order.

Notice this: it suffices for us, through an effort of thought, to categorize “the night with the lady” not under pleasure, but under enjoyment. Enjoyment—and no sublimation is needed for this—precisely involves the acceptance of death, which immediately annihilates the example. In other words, it suffices for enjoyment to be considered an evil for the entire situation to shift entirely, and thus for the meaning of the moral law in this instance to change entirely as well.

Indeed, anyone can perceive that if the moral law plays any role here, it is precisely in supporting this enjoyment, in making what we might call sin—in this context—what Saint PAUL describes as “exceedingly sinful.” This is what KANT simply fails to grasp in this instance.

But that is not all, because in the second example—which, incidentally, let us note (as we should not overlook minor logical flaws) differs somewhat from the first—the conditions are different. In the first case, pleasure and suffering are presented to us as a single package to accept or reject. By declining, one avoids risk and renounces enjoyment. In the second case, however, it is a matter of either pleasure or suffering.

This distinction is not insignificant and deserves emphasis. It produces an effect of a fortiori, which misleads us about the true scope of the question. For what is at stake here? Is it that I violate another’s rights as my equal in the formulation of a universal rule? Or is it the act of false testimony itself? What if, by chance, I altered the example slightly and spoke of true testimony—say, the moral dilemma I face if I am called upon to denounce my neighbor, my brother, for actions that threaten the security of the state?

Here, we see the emergence of a question that shifts the focus from the universal rule. And as I stand here testifying before you that there is no law of good except in and through evil, should I offer this testimony? Should I uphold this law, which essentially makes the enjoyment of my neighbor—as such—the pivot around which my sense of duty oscillates in this instance? Should I move toward my duty to truth insofar as it preserves the authentic space of my enjoyment, even if that space remains empty?

Or should I resign myself to a lie that, by forcibly substituting good for the principle of my enjoyment, commands me to alternately blow hot and cold:

• either by recoiling from betraying my neighbor to spare my equal,
• or by hiding behind my equal to renounce my own enjoyment?