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(The Freudian Thing)

Introduction: Vienna and the Return to Freud

“At a time when Vienna, in making itself heard again through the voice of its Opera, is reassuming, in a moving variation, its age-old mission at a cross-roads of cultures from which she was able to create harmony, I have come here — not unfittingly, I think — to evoke the fact that this chosen city will remain, this time forevermore, associated with a revolution in knowledge of Copernican proportions.”

Lacan opens by situating his lecture in Vienna with a grand historical flourish. He notes that Vienna is once again vibrant (its Opera singing again) and fulfilling its age-old cultural role as a hub where diverse cultures meet and find harmony. This poetic image of Vienna’s “voice” suggests a restoration of cultural life after wartime silence, and Lacan implies it is fitting (“not unfittingly, I think”) that he speaks here. He intends to “evoke” – literally call forth – the idea that Vienna will now and forever be linked with a “Copernican” revolution in knowledge. By “Copernican proportions,” he alludes to Sigmund Freud’s discovery of the unconscious as an upheaval in our worldview comparable to Copernicus’s heliocentric revolution. In Lacan’s symbolic register, Freud’s insight displaced the human subject from the center of itself, just as Copernicus displaced Earth from the center of the cosmos. So, Vienna stands as the eternal site of this radical shift in understanding human beings. Lacan emphasizes the epoch-making significance of Freud’s work, and by doing so in Vienna, he’s paying homage to the city’s role as cradle of psychoanalysis.

“I am referring to the fact that Vienna is the eternal site of Freud’s discovery and that, owing to this discovery, the veritable center of human beings is no longer at the place ascribed to it by an entire humanist tradition.”

Here Lacan makes explicit what he only evoked before. Vienna is “the eternal site” of Freud’s discovery – the birthplace and enduring locus of the Freudian revolution. Because of Freud’s work (the discovery of the unconscious mind), “the veritable center of human beings” has shifted. In other words, what we consider the true core of the human self is no longer where centuries of humanist tradition thought it was. Humanism had assumed a rational, conscious subject at the center of the self – a knowing “I” fully in charge. Freud shattered that assumption by showing that the ego is decentered by the unconscious. Lacan is rephrasing Freud’s famous idea that the ego is not master in its own house: the subject’s center is displaced. He is emphasizing that Freud effected a profound de-centering of the subject, analogous to how Copernicus decentered Earth. This sentence highlights the symbolic order’s reconfiguration – the inherited cultural narrative (“humanist tradition”) about what a human being is must be revised because Freud revealed an Other scene (the unconscious) governing our thoughts and actions. Lacan, staying internal to Freud’s insight, underscores that psychoanalysis permanently altered our concept of the self.

“Perhaps even prophets whose own countries were not entirely deaf to them must be eclipsed at some point in time, if only after their death.”

Lacan now makes a subtle, almost prophetic remark about Freud’s reception. He suggests that even great visionaries or “prophets” often go unrecognized or are underappreciated in their homeland and lifetime. Freud, though he had some hearing in Vienna (“not entirely deaf to them”), still had to face eclipse – a period of obscurity or neglect – “if only after [his] death.” This implies that after Freud died, his legacy in Vienna (and Europe) might have dimmed or been overshadowed for a time. Lacan could be hinting at how Freud’s ideas, though revolutionary, did not immediately gain unambiguous honor in the places one might expect. The imaginary register here conjures the image of a prophet overshadowed (eclipsed by darkness), yet it also resonates with Freud’s personal fate: a man whose genius was acknowledged but who still encountered resistance and exile. Internally, Lacan acknowledges that even if a home country hears a prophet’s message, historical forces may still obscure that prophet’s light for a period – setting the stage for why a return to Freud is needed now.

“It is appropriate for a foreigner to exercise restraint in evaluating the forces at work in such a phase-effect.”

Lacan, a Frenchman speaking in Vienna, now displays a modesty or tact regarding local psychoanalytic history. He says it’s fitting for an outsider (“a foreigner”) to be cautious in judging the situation he described – the “phase-effect” of Freud’s eclipse and resurgence. By “phase-effect,” he means a transient historical phase or after-effect in which Freud’s influence waned or was distorted. Lacan acknowledges that as a foreign visitor he should not presumptuously analyze Austrian affairs or assign blame. This restraint is part politeness and part strategic humility: he positions himself as a respectful herald rather than an arrogant critic. It’s as if Lacan’s symbolic role here is to announce a call (the return to Freud) without overstepping by directly criticizing the Viennese or Freud’s immediate followers. Internally, this sets a tone of respect: Lacan aligns himself with Freud’s cause while carefully avoiding any chauvinistic judgment, suggesting that the distortions of Freud’s legacy are a delicate matter.

“The return to Freud, for which I am assuming here the role of herald, is thus situated elsewhere: where it is amply called for by the symbolic scandal which Dr. Alfred Winterstein, who is here with us today, rightly highlighted when it occurred during his tenure as president of the Vienna Psychoanalytic Society — namely, upon the inauguration of the commemorative plaque marking the house in which Freud pursued his heroic work — the scandal being not that this monument was not dedicated to Freud by his fellow citizens, but that it was not commissioned by the international association of those who live off his patronage.”

In this long sentence, Lacan declares himself the “herald” of a return to Freud. He’s announcing a movement to go back to Freud’s authentic insights. He immediately clarifies that the impetus for this return comes from “elsewhere” – meaning not just local Viennese pride or nostalgia, but from a more profound need provoked by a “symbolic scandal.” He invokes Dr. Alfred Winterstein (a respected Viennese analyst present in the audience) who had drawn attention to this scandal. The scandal occurred during Winterstein’s presidency of the Vienna Psychoanalytic Society, at the unveiling of a commemorative plaque on Freud’s former house.

Lacan recounts the event: when a plaque was finally put up on Freud’s house to honor his “heroic work,” it turned out Freud’s fellow Viennese citizens hadn’t initiated this tribute. Instead, the plaque was commissioned by outsiders. The true scandal was that the international psychoanalytic community itself failed to honor Freud – those who “live off his patronage” (i.e. those whose professional lives and authority derive from Freud’s legacy) did not sponsor the memorial. In Lacan’s view, it is a symbolic failure: the very heirs of Freud’s work showed ingratitude or disavowal by leaving it to others to commemorate Freud.

This pointed anecdote illustrates a betrayal within the psychoanalytic movement. The “symbolic scandal” touches on the Symbolic order’s duty to recognize its founder. By neglecting to erect the monument, the international analytic establishment symbolically “disowned” the father figure Freud. Lacan, speaking as herald, implies that this scandal is a symptom of a broader problem: the psychoanalytic community has strayed so far from Freud that calling for a return appears revolutionary. The use of the term “patronage” conveys that many analysts owe their professional existence to Freud’s patronage (his theory), yet they did not honor the debt. This line sets the stage for Lacan’s mission: to call the Freudian community back to fidelity to Freud’s true message, since clearly something has gone wrong if honoring Freud was left to chance.

“This failure is symptomatic, for it indicates that he was disowned, not by the land in which, by virtue of his tradition, he was merely a temporary guest, but by the very field he left in our care and by those to whom custody of that field was entrusted — that is, the psychoanalytic movement itself, where things have come to such a pass that to call for a return to Freud is seen as a reversal.”

Lacan interprets the memorial plaque incident as “symptomatic,” meaning it’s an outward sign of an underlying malady. What does it signify? Not that Austria (“the land” where Freud was an often uneasy guest due to his Jewish background and new ideas) disowned Freud, but rather that the psychoanalytic establishment disowned him. Freud’s own disciples and successors – those entrusted with the “field” of psychoanalysis – have betrayed him. The field here refers to the domain of psychoanalytic theory and practice that Freud founded and “left in our care.” According to Lacan, the guardians of Freud’s legacy failed in their duty, just as they failed to commission his plaque.

The gravity is clear: if even the official psychoanalytic institutions effectively reject or distort Freud’s teachings, then calling for a “return to Freud” becomes necessary. Yet Lacan notes bitterly that in the current state of the movement, such a call is viewed as a shocking “reversal.” In other words, asking analysts to go back to Freud’s original truths looks like turning backward against progress. This reveals how far off-course the movement has drifted – returning to fundamentals is perceived as radical.

The language “such a pass” conveys exasperation: things have degenerated to the point that fidelity to Freud sounds subversive. Lacan’s commentary points inward: the psychoanalytic community’s Imaginary investments (institutional egos, prestige, new theories) have led them to renounce their Symbolic father, Freud. The return to Freud is thus positioned as a restorative gesture to correct a profound misalignment. Lacan implies that what needs reversing is not progress, but the misdirection of that progress which has forgotten its origin. In Lacanian terms, the Name-of-the-Father (Freud) has been foreclosed or minimized by his own heirs, producing symptoms in the theory and practice of analysis.

Echoes of History and the Diaspora of Freud’s Message

“Since the time when the first sound of the Freudian message rang out from the Viennese bell to echo far and wide, many contingent factors have played a part in this story.”

Lacan now steps back to recount the historical journey of Freud’s message. He poetically evokes the moment Freud’s ideas first emerged in Vienna – as if a great bell in Vienna rang, sending the “sound” of the Freudian message reverberating across the world. This metaphoric bell toll marks the birth of psychoanalysis in the early 20th century. From that moment onward, Lacan notes, “many contingent factors” influenced the spread and fate of Freud’s ideas. By saying “contingent,” he means accidental or external circumstances (not essential to the theory itself) that nonetheless shaped psychoanalytic history. He is preparing us to see how two World Wars and geographical upheavals affected psychoanalysis.

In this sentence, Lacan situates Freud’s discovery in historical context: once Freud spoke (the symbolic act of enunciation of the unconscious), the message traveled. The “echo far and wide” suggests that Freud’s insights resonated globally, but what happened to those echoes depended on various worldly events. This sets up a narrative: he will show how history interrupted and transformed the transmission of Freud’s signal. Internally, Lacan maintains a reverent tone: Freud’s original message was powerful and clear (a ringing bell of truth about the unconscious), but what followed was subject to worldly noise and distortion.

“Its reverberations seemed to be drowned out by the muffled collapses brought about by the first world conflict.”

Freud’s message, having echoed widely, met its first major obstacle: World War I. Lacan says the echoes “seemed to be drowned out” by the chaos of World War I. The metaphor is acoustic: the loud, clear ring of Freud’s discovery was nearly silenced by the “muffled collapses” – the sound of societies and empires crumbling in the Great War (1914–1918). The war was a massive trauma and upheaval that disrupted intellectual life. In Lacan’s image, the clarity of psychoanalytic insight was overwhelmed by the noise of war’s destruction.

The phrase “muffled collapses” captures both the physical reality of falling structures/explosions and the psychological collapse of the old world order under the roar of war, muffling Freud’s voice. Psychoanalysis lost momentum and visibility during that period; indeed, many early analysts served in war hospitals or fled conflict. Lacan’s use of “seemed” (the message seemed drowned out) allows that maybe the effect was temporary or not complete – the Freudian message survived, but under the surface.

In terms of Lacan’s registers: the Real of the war (violence, death) overpowered the Symbolic discourse of psychoanalysis for a time. The continuity of Freud’s work endured, but its open propagation took a blow. Lacan is highlighting that external historical forces nearly stifled Freud’s emerging movement.

“Its propagation resumed with the immense human wrenching that fomented the second and was its most powerful vehicle.”

After the First World War, Freud’s message began propagating again. Lacan says this propagation resumed during the “immense human wrenching” that led to the Second World War, and that this upheaval became the “most powerful vehicle” for spreading Freud’s ideas. This is paradoxical: World War II, a catastrophe, actually helped disseminate psychoanalysis. By “immense human wrenching,” Lacan refers to the massive displacements of people and agony of the 1930s–40s: the persecution of Jews (including Freud and many analysts), the Holocaust, and the refugee crises. These horrific events “fomented” the war (stirred it up) and, ironically, carried psychoanalysis far beyond Vienna.

How so? Because many psychoanalysts were forced into exile, taking Freud’s teachings with them across Europe, to the Americas, and elsewhere. The very violence that caused the Second World War scattered Freud’s disciples around the globe, turning the war into an unwitting “vehicle” for Freudian thought. In Lacan’s view, the second world conflict propelled Freud’s doctrine further than peaceful times might have. The tragic irony is clear: what Hitler’s terror intended for destruction ended up spreading Freud’s legacy to new lands (for instance, the Freudian diaspora to Britain, North and South America).

Thus, Lacan reads history dialectically: the Real trauma of WWII simultaneously served the Symbolic transmission of psychoanalysis. This sets up the next image of Freud’s voice riding the “waves of hate’s tocsin” – i.e., Freud’s truth carried on the very sirens and alarms of hatred. Lacan is emphasizing that Freud’s message proved resilient and even opportunistic, finding new life in the upheavals of war.

“It was on the waves of hate’s tocsin and discord’s tumult — the panic-stricken breath of war — that Freud’s voice reached us, as we witnessed the Diaspora of those who transmitted it, whose persecution was no coincidence.”

Here Lacan vividly depicts how Freud’s message arrived to the wider world (including to Lacan and his generation in France) “on the waves” of war. A tocsin is a warning bell or alarm. “Hate’s tocsin” suggests the siren call of hatred – the war alarms driven by fascist hate. “Discord’s tumult” likewise indicates the chaotic noise of conflict. Lacan calls the atmosphere of World War II “the panic-stricken breath of war,” personifying war as a terrifying gust or gasp that spread everywhere. This poetic language conveys that Freud’s voice carried through the darkest, most tumultuous winds of the 1930s–40s.

He says “Freud’s voice reached us” on those winds – meaning Lacan and others in far-off places heard and received Freud’s ideas in the very midst of war’s upheaval. Crucially, he notes this happened “as we witnessed the Diaspora of those who transmitted it.” The term Diaspora evokes the scattering of people (often used for the dispersion of Jews). Lacan is pointing to the forced exile of Freud’s followers (many of whom were Jewish or otherwise targeted) fleeing Austria, Germany, and other occupied countries. This diaspora – analysts like Ernest Jones, Anna Freud, Melanie Klein, and many others – carried Freud’s teachings abroad. Their persecution “was no coincidence,” Lacan adds. In other words, it’s deeply meaningful that the bearers of Freud’s message were persecuted by Nazi and authoritarian regimes: the same forces of hatred that rejected psychoanalysis (as “Jewish science”) persecuted its practitioners. This persecution is structurally tied to what Freud’s message represented: an uncomfortable truth about human desire and aggression that fascist ideology could not tolerate.

By emphasizing this, Lacan aligns Freud’s truth with those persecuted by fascism, framing psychoanalysis as subversive to regimes of hatred. Freud’s voice “reached us” through the suffering and displacement of its transmitters, which invests that voice with a kind of martyrdom and urgency. Lacan himself, in occupied France, literally heard Freud’s teachings amidst war – the Symbolic voice of Freud riding the Real horrors of World War II. This sentence paints psychoanalysis almost as a message in a bottle, cast abroad by a storm of hate, arriving on distant shores to continue its life.

“The shock waves were to reverberate to the very confines of our world, echoing on a continent where it would be untrue to say that history loses its meaning, since it is where history finds its limit.”

After describing Europe’s turmoil, Lacan now turns to the global impact of those events, especially focusing on the New World (North America). The “shock waves” of war and diaspora didn’t stop in Europe; they spread to the farthest boundaries (“confines”) of the world – notably, the United States. Psychoanalysis took root in the U.S. during and after WWII, as many European analysts emigrated there. Lacan describes America obliquely: a “continent where it would be untrue to say that history loses its meaning, since it is where history finds its limit.”

This is a careful, paradoxical formulation. There was a notion, often European, that America is ahistorical or outside of history, a land of eternal present and progress. Lacan refutes the naive idea that “history loses meaning” in America; instead, he says it’s “where history finds its limit.” By this he suggests that in the U.S., history still exists but in a peculiar way: it approaches a kind of edge or extreme. America is the limit-case of history – perhaps history in its most reduced, pragmatic, or forgotten form.

He’s hinting that the United States embodies a culture that consciously tries to cast off historical burdens (such as class tradition or old European conflicts) – an ahistorical culture. Psychoanalysis echoing there faces a different environment. Lacan’s phrase indicates that while it’s false to claim Americans have no history, it’s true that history operates differently there: curtailed or flattened. Symbolically, the meaning of historical events (like those that shaped psychoanalysis in Europe) meets a boundary in American culture which prides itself on newness and break from the past. So the Freudian shock waves reverberating in America encounter a culture that might not fully hear history’s resonance.

In sum, Lacan prepares to critique how Freud’s legacy fared in the U.S.: the echoes of Freud reach even there, but America’s relationship to history (and thus to Freud’s historically charged message) is peculiar. The Real shock of war delivered Freud’s voice to a continent that sees itself almost beyond the old historical dialectics – a place where psychoanalysis risked being reinterpreted in a context of supposed fresh starts.

“It would even be a mistake to think that history is absent there, since, already several centuries in duration, it weighs all the more heavily there due to the gulf traced out by its all-too-limited horizon.”

Lacan strengthens his point about America. He cautions: don’t think America truly lacks history. The United States has a few centuries of history of its own, and precisely because its historical horizon is “all-too-limited” (relatively short and self-contained), that history weighs heavily in its own way. The “gulf” traced by its limited horizon suggests a sharp break or isolation from the older histories of Europe. America’s historical perspective might be narrower (focused on a few hundred years internally, often ignoring deeper world history), and this gap creates a distinct burden.

In other words, American culture carries an unconscious weight: by not integrating the longer sweep of human history, it suffers the pressure of its unacknowledged history. There is a bit of irony: Americans might act as if only the present and future matter (minimizing historical consciousness), but the repressed history returns in heavy, unarticulated ways. Lacan implies that the country’s short-sighted or “ahistorical” stance is itself a historical phenomenon with effects. History isn’t absent; it’s denied. And denial in the symbolic register leads to symptoms – in this case, perhaps a cultural shallowness or repetitive mistakes.

For psychoanalysis arriving in America, this context meant that Freud’s ideas were at risk of being absorbed without full appreciation of their historical depth. The American psychoanalytic movement, largely spearheaded by emigrants, might simplify or adapt Freud under this limited horizon. Lacan’s emphasis that history indeed “weighs…heavily” in the U.S. hints that the unspoken past (slavery, rapid industrialization, etc.) casts long shadows on American culture, affecting how psychoanalysis would be practiced or understood (for example, a focus on ego adaptation and “adjustment” to society, rather than radical inquiry into historical causes of neurosis).

Thus, Lacan sets up a critique: psychoanalysis in America develops under a constrained, pragmatic worldview that underestimates historical and symbolic dimensions. This will feed into his notion of a cultural ahistoricism that characterizes the American approach to psychoanalysis.

“Rather it is where history is denied with a categorical will that gives enterprises their style, that of a cultural ahistoricism characteristic of the United States of North America.”

Now Lacan directly characterizes American culture: it’s not that America has no history, but that history is actively denied there. There is a “categorical will” – a deliberate, firm intention – to reject or ignore history. This willful denial shapes the distinctive “style” of American enterprises (all undertakings, including intellectual ones). Lacan calls this style “cultural ahistoricism” and marks it as characteristic of the United States.

By ahistoricism, he means a mindset that disregards historical context and development. In America, projects are launched as if anew, focusing on innovation, practicality, and the future, often without homage to or awareness of the past. This gives a certain Imaginary self-confidence and Symbolic blank slate to American endeavors, which can be creative but also naive. For psychoanalysis, this meant that when Freud’s ideas were transplanted to the U.S., they were at risk of being recast in purely presentist, decontextualized terms – for instance, turning into techniques for adaptation rather than a profound exploration of psychic history (childhood, unconscious memory).

Lacan’s tone is critical: American ahistoricism is a defining cultural trait that psychoanalysis must confront. It suggests why American psychoanalysts might have reinterpreted Freud in ego-psychological terms, emphasizing immediate functioning and deemphasizing the historical (genetic) insight of symptoms. This “categorical will” to deny history is almost ideological – perhaps a byproduct of the American myth of constant renewal and the “new man.”

In Lacanian terms, this is a refusal in the Symbolic register: the Other of American culture does not anchor identity in a rich historical narrative but in forward-looking ideals. The result is a certain foreclosure of the past, which Lacan believes has affected the psychoanalytic movement. Thus, he identifies America’s cultural ethos as a key factor in how Freud’s legacy became transformed. The need for a return to Freud is partly driven by this: to counteract the flattening of Freud’s theory in a culture that undervalues historical depth.

The Temptation of the New World: Psychoanalysis in America

“This ahistoricism defines the assimilation required for one to be recognized there, in the society constituted by this culture.”

Lacan continues analyzing how American culture’s ahistoricism affects individuals – including the émigré psychoanalysts themselves. To “be recognized” in American society, one must undergo a certain assimilation shaped by ahistoricism. In other words, immigrants (like the European analysts) and new professionals must adapt to the local culture’s style: they have to downplay history and speak the language of pragmatic present to gain acceptance and legitimacy in the U.S. context.

This sentence implies that American society has a strong conforming force. It demands that anyone wishing to integrate – even an intellectual discipline like psychoanalysis – adopt its ahistorical, forward-driving attitude. The psychoanalysts who fled to America couldn’t simply continue as European Freudians; to prosper, they had to translate psychoanalysis into terms acceptable in the New World. That meant emphasizing things like empirical results, adaptation, normalcy – aligning with American cultural norms and the Scientific-positivist bend – and setting aside some of Freud’s more radical or culturally foreign aspects.

Lacan is basically saying Americanization of psychoanalysis took place through this required assimilation. The Symbolic order in the U.S. grants recognition (professional acceptance, institutional support) if one conforms to its values, which included optimism, empiricism, and a relative indifference to deep historical or philosophical context. Thus, the European analysts had to perform a kind of Imaginary adjustment of their image and practice – becoming more like American practitioners to be heard. This transformation is critical in Lacan’s narrative: it’s part of how Freud’s message got distorted or diluted, necessitating a call to return.

By identifying this mechanism, Lacan remains internal to psychoanalysis’ story: he’s not blaming individuals morally, but revealing a structural temptation they faced – the temptation to fit in by abandoning some of Freud’s intransigence on truth and history. This sets up the theme of temptation and compromise that he will elaborate.

“It was to its summons that a group of emigrants had to respond; in order to gain recognition, they could only stress their difference, but their function presupposed history at its very core, their discipline being the one that had reconstructed the bridge between modern man and ancient myths.”

Now Lacan explicitly discusses the European émigré analysts (“a group of emigrants”) and how they answered the call of American assimilation. America “summoned” them to adapt. To succeed in the New World, these analysts initially “could only stress their difference.” That is, they had to highlight what set them apart – presumably their new and different theory of the mind (psychoanalysis). They portrayed psychoanalysis as something unique and valuable to American society – possibly emphasizing therapeutic results or the ego’s empowerment to align with American values. By stressing their “difference,” they carved a niche for themselves professionally (making psychoanalysis stand out among other approaches).

However, Lacan points out a deep contradiction: the very function of psychoanalysis is historical at its core. Psychoanalysis, by nature, “reconstructed the bridge between modern man and ancient myths.” This beautiful phrase means Freud’s discipline connected contemporary psychological symptoms with age-old stories and unconscious structures (like the Oedipus myth). Freud showed that modern individuals are still shaped by primal fantasies and archaic heritage. In essence, psychoanalysis is all about uncovering the historical (childhood events, primal fantasies, mythic structures) behind present suffering.

Thus, the emigrant analysts were in a bind. While psychoanalysis presupposes history (it needs the idea that personal and collective history matter profoundly), the American cultural summons was to minimize history. The analysts responded by emphasizing how psychoanalysis was a novel, effective “different” approach (suiting American fascination with innovation and difference), possibly downplaying the mythic, historical aspect to seem more scientific or present-focused. They “could only” do this – Lacan suggests it was the only viable strategy to establish themselves. But in doing so, something essential might have been lost or sidelined.

Lacan’s tone is sympathetic but critical: he shows understanding that these emigrants had to do this to gain recognition, yet he underscores the irony that the discipline they were transplanting inherently contradicts an ahistorical outlook. Psychoanalysis is the very field that says: you cannot escape your history or the ancient truths of human desire. So if in America they had to act as if history doesn’t weigh so much (perhaps focusing on adapting ego to reality, rather than interpreting myths), they were cutting out part of Freud’s core.

This sets up that the “return to Freud” Lacan heralds is about restoring that historical, mythic core which was neglected. The émigrés stressed how psychoanalysis was different, but perhaps oversimplified it into techniques devoid of Freud’s rich ties to ancient myth (like Oedipus, Orpheus, etc.). Lacan implies that psychoanalysis without its historical/mythical dimension is hollow – thus the urgent need to return.

“The combination of circumstances was too strong and the opportunity too attractive for them not to give in to the temptation to abandon the core in order to base function on difference.”

Lacan condenses the plight of those emigrant analysts in America as a “temptation” they succumbed to. Multiple forces coincided: the war’s displacement, the promise of a new thriving life in America, the cultural pressure to adapt – this “combination of circumstances was too strong”. Additionally, the American boom for psychoanalysis (especially in the post-WWII era, when it became popular in culture and academia) was “too attractive.” There was great opportunity: new clinics, students, funding, and a wide public eager for psychological insight. These analysts understandably wanted to seize this chance.

So, they yielded to a temptation: “to abandon the core in order to base function on difference.” The “core” refers to the essential Freudian principles – the deep structure of psychoanalytic theory (the primacy of the unconscious, the significance of childhood sexuality and myth, the radical critique of the ego). To “base function on difference” means they chose to define psychoanalysis by how it differed (presumably from other psychotherapies or from past frameworks) rather than by its core truth. In practice, this implies they highlighted the ego psychology approach (different from older psychiatry) and the immediate functional benefits (what psychoanalysis can do for adjustment) instead of holding fast to Freud’s own theoretical core (which might have seemed abstruse or too tied to European intellectual traditions).

In plainer terms: they trimmed away some of Freud’s more challenging, historical insights (the core) and repackaged psychoanalysis in a form more palatable to American tastes (difference). The temptation was likely to simplify Freud into a set of adaptive techniques and clear-cut theories of ego, superego, id, that could integrate with American psychology departments and medical practice – a compromise to gain legitimacy and influence.

Lacan does not outright condemn these analysts as bad actors; he suggests any of us might “give in” under such strong conditions. But the phrase “give in to temptation” also has a moral-spiritual connotation: a fall from grace. What is lost in this fall is fidelity to Freud’s real message. Thus, Lacan is framing the current state of psychoanalysis (especially in its dominant American form) as a result of human temptation and compromise. This justifies his call to return: to recover the abandoned core. It’s akin to saying: they couldn’t resist watering down Freud, the lure of success was too great. Now Lacan, as a herald, wants to undo that compromise and remind the community of what was forsaken.

Clarifying the Nature of the Temptation

“Let us be clear about the nature of this temptation.”

Having described the scenario in broad strokes, Lacan now pauses to analyze exactly what kind of temptation those analysts faced (and yielded to). This is a signal for careful conceptual unpacking. He invites the audience to “be clear” – meaning he will dissect and specify the temptation’s components, not leaving it as a vague notion. In a way, Lacan is shifting from narrative to theoretical mode here, ensuring no misunderstanding.

This line serves as a transitional marker: he is about to list or characterize what the temptation was not and was, sharpening our understanding. It’s an important rhetorical move: by clarifying the nature of the temptation, Lacan will implicitly distinguish his own stance (the return to Freud) from misunderstandings. In particular, he’s likely going to argue that the analysts didn’t sell out for mere comfort or profit (he will exonerate them of simplistic motives) but fell prey to a subtler mirage linked to knowledge and function.

So, internally, this sentence sets up a didactic clarification. Lacan’s discourse often anticipates potential objections or simplifications; here he ensures that when he criticizes Americanized psychoanalysis, no one mistakes it as him accusing colleagues of just laziness or greed. The temptation had its own logic. By clarifying it, Lacan keeps the discussion immanent: we will analyze this error in psychoanalytic terms. This approach again stays within Lacan’s discourse, not pointing fingers externally but understanding how the Imaginary and Symbolic lures operated on the psychoanalytic community itself.

“It was neither that of ease nor that of profit.”

First, Lacan states what the temptation was not. The analysts didn’t simply choose an easier life (“ease”) or chase money (“profit”). He dismisses the idea that they watered down Freud out of laziness or crude greed. This is important: Lacan isn’t accusing his peers of selling out in a vulgar sense. Adapting psychoanalysis to American culture wasn’t a get-rich-quick scheme or a vacation. In fact, building psychoanalytic institutions in a new country took hard work, and many analysts did fine but were not primarily motivated by financial gain. By clearing this up, Lacan maintains respect for their intentions.

So the temptation wasn’t just comfort or material success. The emigrant analysts were not primarily seduced by making their lives simple or by lining their pockets – something more intrinsic to their role was at play. This preempts any straw-man criticism that Lacan is calling them lazy opportunists. On the contrary, he acknowledges they likely thought they were doing what was necessary and even ideal for spreading psychoanalysis.

This clarification also subtly flatters his audience (which included some of these figures or their students): it says, I know you weren’t just being self-serving; there was a deeper error. That strategy ensures they remain open to hearing his deeper critique. It also frames the coming analysis of temptation in terms of psychoanalytic concepts (beyond ordinary motives). In Lacanian terms, the lure was on the level of Imaginary identification and Symbolic function rather than simple Real needs like comfort or money.

Thus, Lacan zeroes in: the true temptation was something inherently deceptive within the practice of psychoanalysis itself in that context, not a trivial moral failing.

“It is certainly easier to efface the principles of a doctrine than the stigmata of one’s origins, and more profitable to subordinate one’s function to demand.”

Now Lacan cleverly formulates why the analysts’ choice, though not merely about ease or profit, had an aspect of each. He presents two comparative truths:

1. “It is certainly easier to efface the principles of a doctrine than the stigmata of one’s origins.” Here he suggests that for the émigré analysts, it was easier to erase some core principles of Freudian doctrine than to erase who they were (foreigners, Europeans, Jews, etc.) in American eyes. The “stigmata of one’s origins” refers to the visible marks of where they came from – accents, cultural differences, Jewish identity, European intellectual style. Those are hard to hide or change; they carry a kind of (in American society) stigma or at least differentiation. But Freud’s principles could be softened or concealed more readily. For instance, they might downplay Freud’s emphasis on sexuality or myth because those principles might have clashed with mainstream American values of that time. By trimming or altering the doctrine, they could fit in better, compensating for the unchangeable fact that they were outsiders. In short, modifying theory was a path of less resistance compared to modifying who they were.
2. “[It is] more profitable to subordinate one’s function to demand.” This clause uses “profitable” not just in the monetary sense, but as advantageous. The analysts discovered that aligning their function (their role as psychoanalysts) to what was in demand in the American context brought rewards. Subordinating one’s function to demand means tailoring your professional identity and work to what people ask for or expect. In the U.S., there was a demand for solutions to trauma (from war), for techniques to ensure well-adjusted individuals (in a booming, competitive society), and for a psychology compatible with empirical science. If analysts made their function mainly about fulfilling those demands (e.g. being therapists who help people adjust and thrive, or experts who provide measurable outcomes), it was “profitable” in terms of career: they got institutional support, clients, and respect. In contrast, insisting on Freud’s original, perhaps less immediately palatable aims (like making conscious the deepest unconscious truths, which might challenge societal norms) would have been less welcomed.

In essence, they found success by bending psychoanalysis to meet external demand rather than holding it independent of demand. This is a critical point: psychoanalysis originally is a subversive, truth-seeking function, not meant to cater to social expectation. But making it cater – making the analyst into a service provider meeting the patient’s or society’s demand for happiness or normalcy – yielded “profit” (recognition, growth of the field).

So Lacan concedes: yes, from a practical viewpoint it was easier and advantageous to do what they did. Abandoning some doctrine was easier than trying to change who they were seen as; adjusting their role to fit what Americans wanted got them further than stubbornly sticking to Freud’s original posture.

By laying this out, Lacan shows he understands the rationalizations and real pressures. However, the tone is a bit ironic: “certainly easier… more profitable” – it’s a factual observation laced with the suggestion that this ease and profit came at a cost. The cost is what he calls “the mirage” in the next lines. The Imaginary lure was to take the easy, profitable route, which most did. Now he is about to explain that this route is a mirage internal to psychoanalysis itself.

“But to reduce one’s function to one’s difference in this case is to give in to a mirage that is internal to the function itself, a mirage that grounds the function in this difference.”

Here Lacan identifies the precise nature of the temptation: it was a mirage internal to the psychoanalytic function. The émigré analysts “reduced their function to their difference.” This means they let the fact that they were different (having a new method and perspective) completely define their role. They essentially sold psychoanalysis in America on the basis of “We are different, we have a unique approach that others lack,” and gradually their analytic function became nothing more than being that different approach.

This, Lacan says, is a mirage. A mirage is an illusion that deceives the gaze. It appears real but isn’t. The analysts saw the reflection of their “difference” (their unique selling point) and chased it, thinking it was solid ground. But it’s a false image. Why? Because psychoanalysis as a function shouldn’t be grounded simply in being “not like other therapies” or “exotic European wisdom.” It should be grounded in the pursuit of truth in the unconscious. By basing themselves on otherness/difference alone, they lost sight of the true goal.

He emphasizes this mirage is “internal to the function itself.” Psychoanalysis inherently deals with identity, ego, and the Other. The analysts’ role (function) always involves how they are perceived by the patient and society – are they the Subject-supposed-to-know, the healer, the outsider? In the American context, the analysts’ ego-function became tied to their identity as Freudian experts distinct from others. This created an Imaginary identification: “We are the Freudians (different from regular doctors or psychologists).” That identification became a trap – a mirror image they tried to live up to. The function (healer of souls) got reduced to an image (the Freudian specialist).

So the mirage was believing that by emphasizing their distinctive approach, they were fulfilling their function. It “grounds the function in this difference” – meaning they started to measure their success by how well they met the American demand for something new/different, rather than how well they adhered to psychoanalysis’s true essence. The analytic function became grounded in marketing, essentially, rather than in truth.

By giving in to this, they lost Freud’s “core” (like focusing on adaptation rather than revelation). Lacan calls it “giving in” to underscore it’s a surrender to illusion. He’s saying: They mistook the shiny image of being new and accepted (their Imaginary self-image as successful American analysts) for the real duty of psychoanalysis. This critique is internal: it’s about how their own psyche and professional identity got caught in an illusion, not just an external betrayal. It implies that psychoanalysts themselves are not immune to ego-traps and need psychoanalytic insight into their own institutional behavior.

“It is to return to the reactionary principle that covers over the duality of he who suffers and he who heals with the opposition between he who knows and he who does not.”

Lacan concludes his clarification of the temptation by diagnosing its ultimate effect: psychoanalysis in America (and elsewhere when misled by this mirage) regressed to an old “reactionary principle.” Originally, in healing, there’s a duality between he who suffers and he who heals – the patient and the doctor, linked by compassion and treatment. Psychoanalysis aimed to transform that relationship; it wasn’t supposed to be a simple authoritarian knowledge transfer. However, by succumbing to the mirage of difference and playing the role expected, the analysts ended up reinforcing an older model: the opposition of “he who knows” vs. “he who does not.”

In simpler terms, the temptation made psychoanalysis fall back to a doctor-knows-best paradigm. The analyst became the expert with knowledge (about the mind, about the patient’s unconscious), and the patient the ignorant one who needs that knowledge. This is “reactionary” because it harkens to a pre-Freudian or non-analytic stance: a hierarchical, almost pedagogical model of therapy. Freud’s true innovation was actually to disturb this model – the analyst is not just a knowledge authority giving advice or interpretation from on high; instead, the analyst listens and lets the unconscious speak, often not-knowing in order to let truth emerge. The subject supposed to know is in play, but Freud’s aim was ultimately to subvert simplistic mastery by knowledge.

By grounding their function in their difference and meeting demands, the émigré analysts inadvertently placed themselves as authorities dispensing psychological truths – “we are the ones who know (the theory, the technique), you patients do not.” Therapy then becomes about the knowledgeable analyst adjusting the not-knowing patient. This covers over the more equal duality of suffering/healing because the relationship loses the dimension of shared human struggle and becomes one of instruction or management. It also covers over the fundamental split within the subject (the duality inside each person between the conscious suffering ego and the unconscious cause). Instead, it externalizes that duality into analyst vs. patient.

Lacan calls this a “reactionary principle” because it’s a regression to a conservative form of interaction, where power and knowledge are not questioned. Psychoanalysis was meant to be radical – to show that often the patient does know in a way (their unconscious knows the truth of their symptoms) and the analyst must also confront not-knowing. The Americanized approach, as Lacan sees it, risked turning into just another ego-soothing expertise, where the analyst is a technician.

Thus, giving in to temptation meant psychoanalysis was becoming what it originally set out to challenge: another normative, authority-driven cure. Lacan’s highlighting of “he who knows and he who does not” also resonates with his critique of ego psychology – the ego-psychologist sets himself up as a master of adaptive knowledge, whereas Lacan champions the idea that truth arises from the not-knowing position.

In sum, Lacan is warning that by taking the easier, institutionally rewarding path, psychoanalysis degenerated into mere applied psychology, reversing the Freudian revolution. This is why a “return to Freud” is cast as almost a revolution or “reversal” itself earlier: because things have slid back to pre-Freudian attitudes. The internal discourse message is: We must rescue psychoanalysis from having become a tool of mastery and return it to being a quest for truth that destabilizes both analyst and analysand.