Psychoanalytic explanations are typically couched in terms of motives or wishes: people do one thing or another in order to satisfy the desire which, as we say, “motivates” their behavior. While this sort of explanation is of some value, its worth is easily exaggerated. For example, a psychoanalyst might say about a person who takes up parachute-jumping as a hobby that he is motivated by a suicidal impulse. Regardless of whether or not this account assigns the correct motive to the actor, it obviously fails to explain why he expresses his suicidal propensity through parachute-jumping rather than through some other dangerous and potentially self-destructive activity. In other words, motives explain actions in a general or abstract way; they do not tell us why a particular person acted in a particular way at a particular time. To explain specific actions in concrete ways, we must know other things besides what motivates the actor. The concepts of rule and role are indispensable in this connection.
The distinction between motives and rules as explanations of behavior is explored by Peters in his essay The Concept of Motivation. He correctly remarks that in order to foresee and foretell what a person will do, it often is not necessary to know much about him as an individual. It is enough to know the role he is playing:
We know what the parson will do when he begins to walk toward the pulpit in the middle of the penultimate hymn or what the traveller will do when he enters the doors of the hotel because we know the conventions regulating church services and staying at hotels. And we can make such predictions without knowing anything about the causes of people’s behaviour. Man in society is like a chessplayer writ large.1
From this, Peters concludes that the first things we must know about human actions are the norms and goals that regulate the actor’s conduct. The basic sciences of human action are, therefore, anthropology and sociology, for it is these disciplines that are concerned with exhibiting, in a systematic manner, the framework of norms and goals which are necessary to classify actions as being of a certain sort. Psychiatry and psychoanalysis, too, deal with these problems, although they often do so inexplicitly. For example, in the psychoanalytic study of perversions—indeed in the very definition of what constitutes a “perversion”—the observer is concerned with norms and goals. However, by tacitly supporting the socially accepted norms, and by couching the discussion in the language of “psychosexual functions,” the psychoanalyst makes it appear as if he were not concerned with norms at all, but only with “biological processes.”2 This is just what Freud did in his Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality3 and in much of his other work as well.
Another way of putting this matter is to say that psychoanalytic theory offers causal explanations of behavior, whereas role theory4 offers conventional explanations of it. Causal explanations are, furthermore, mechanistic, often make use of “hidden factors,” and frame their hypotheses in terms of antecedently acting events or forces, such as instincts, drives, or libido. In contrast, conventional explanations are vitalistic, often make use of concepts like choice and will, and frame their hypotheses in terms of behavior-regulating conventions and goals, such as are articulated in religious and professional codes of conduct.
Actually, Freud entertained both causal and conventional explanations, relying on the former for psychoanalytic theory and on the latter for psychoanalytic therapy. Hence the epistemologically and ethically confusing character of psychoanalysis as developed by Freud and his followers.
I have offered examples of Freud’s use of causal and motivational explanations, and now want to remark briefly on his use of conventional explanations. Especially in his so-called clinical or therapeutic work, Freud was concerned mainly with a general class of activities—composed of such things as dreams, obsessions, phobias, and perversions—which, according to Peters, are characterized by the fact that they seem “to have no point or a very odd point … . By extending the model of purposive rule-following behaviour to cover the unconscious,”5 Freud reclaimed these phenomena for the “scientific psychology” he called “psychoanalysis.” However, because like others in his time and place, Freud equated “conscious” rule-following behavior with the notions of responsibility and punishability, and because he wanted to treat hysteria, and mental illnesses generally, in a nonjudgmental “scientific” fashion, he mystified the very discovery he had made—namely, that “symptomatic” behavior also obeys the principles of rule-following actions. His famous therapeutic dictum, “Where id was, ego shall be,” could thus be translated into our present idiom to mean that “obscure and inexplicit rule-following shall be replaced by clear and explicit rule-following.” In the following chapters I shall describe and comment on the precise rules which hysterical behavior follows, how such behavior originates, and why it persists.
A fundamental principle of modern science is that there is a logical gulf between nature and convention.* As Peters puts it: “Movements qua movements are neither intelligent, efficient, nor correct. They only become so in the context of action.”6 It follows, then, that whether a given phenomenon involving human participation is regarded as action or happening will have the most profound consequences, because happenings “cannot be characterized as intelligent or unintelligent, correct or incorrect, efficient or inefficient. Prima facie they are just occurrences.”7 For happenings, causal explanations are appropriate and conventional ones are not; for actions, it is the other way around.
Further, Peters notes that when a person is asked to state the motives for his actions, it is often implied that he might be up to no good; and when it is said that his motives are unconscious, it is implied that he is not only up to no good but does not even know it. In other words, there is an important difference between giving a reason for one’s action and giving a justification for it. We hear of causes and reasons in contexts which are ostensibly morally neutral; whereas we hear of motives and justifications in contexts in which moral considerations are essential ingredients. The psychoanalytic effort to supply a motivational analysis of mental illnesses has thus fulfilled more than just a need to offer a scientific explanation of behavior: it has also supplied a covert moral justification for the patient’s deviant or offensive behavior, and for the psychiatrist’s interest in the patient and his efforts to cure, rather than control, him.
Nontechnical terms such as “ethics” and “morals” refer to the rules which persons follow in the conduct of their lives, and sometimes also to the study of these rules. The psychoanalytic term “superego” refers to much the same things: it denotes both a set of rules which the person follows, and sometimes also the scanning and study of his own rules and the rules of others. Furthermore, as I have suggested already, the word “psychoanalysis” itself sometimes refers to the study, and the approval or disapproval, of certain rules of personal conduct. The upshot is that we face here a plethora of terms, some a part of ordinary language and others a part of the specialized language of psychoanalysis, all of which mean approximately the same things. To cut through this morass, I shall simply speak of rule-following and of the consciousness of rules.
The fundamental moral limitation of psychoanalytic theory stems from the fact that Freud was more interested in denouncing the defects inherent in a “morality of infantilism,” which is often displayed by “neurotics,” than he was in defining the sort of morality he considered appropriate for the “mentally healthy” adult.
Still, it would be an error to believe that psychoanalytic theory makes no contribution to describing and assessing different types of ethical conduct. The crucial notion in this connection is the relative rigidity or flexibility of the superego. The childish, immature, or neurotic superego is rigid; it is characterized by slavish adherence to rules which, moreover, may not be clearly understood. The mature or normal superego, on the other hand, is flexible; it can evaluate the situation at hand and modify the rules accordingly. Thus, in an early, classic paper, Strachey suggested that the basic aim of psychoanalytic treatment is to make such “mutative interpretations” as would help to render the patient’s “rigid superego” more “flexible.”8 Like the psychoanalytic theory of the superego, on which it is based, this view suffers from the limitation of being silent on what sort of rigidity is considered bad or undesirable and what sort of flexibility is considered good or desirable. In short, Freud and other psychoanalysts have persistently dallied with normative systems without ever committing themselves on normative standards.
Indeed, when it came to confronting openly the issue of normative standards, Freud refused the challenge. He went so far as to reiterate the simple, common-sense belief which many people hold—namely, that what is right is what they do. “Many years ago,” Jones tells us, “Freud conducted a private correspondence with Putnam on the subject of ethics. Putnam showed it to me and I remember these two sentences: Ich betrachte das Moralische als etwas Selbstverständliches… . Ich habe eigentlich nie etwas Gemeines getan.”9
To assert that morality is self-evident and that one had never done a mean thing are strangely revealing statements to come from the lips of a person whose object of study was man, himself included. It reflects, I believe, Freud’s unshakable determination to be a moralist in the guise of a scientist.10 In this endeavor, he succeeded only too well: as a crypto-moralist, Freud became the founder of a sort of secular religion which has had immense influence on popular contemporary thought and life. As a philosopher, moralist, and psychologist, however, the source of Freud’s success was also the source of his failure. Virtually all behavior with which the psychoanalyst and psychiatrist deal is learned behavior. Since such behavior cannot be properly described or analyzed without dealing explicitly with the norms and standards that regulate it, and with the goals it seeks to attain, psychoanalytic theory is foreordained to being unable to offer an adequate account of such conduct.
The distinction between happening and action is crucial to my argument, not only in this chapter but throughout this book. I have suggested that, in general, we view physicochemical disorders of the body—for example, cancer of the colon—as happenings; and that we view so-called mental illnesses or psychiatric disorders—for example, a hand-washing compulsion—as actions.
Sometimes the line of demarcation between happening and action is not clear. The point at which a passively incurred event becomes transformed into a role-playing situation, provided that the person affected is neurologically intact, will depend on his own attitude toward his human condition. By “attitude” I refer here to whether he is hopeful or dejected, oriented toward active mastery or passive endurance. To illustrate this, let us consider the hypothetical case of a man involved in a train collision on his way to work. He is injured, is rendered temporarily unconscious, and is taken to a hospital: all this happens to him. On regaining consciousness, he finds himself in the patient role: henceforth his behavior must be viewed in terms of rule following and role playing. Indeed, no other analysis could adequately account for his personal conduct once his total loss of control due to unconsciousness is replaced by a measure of self-control due to his recovery of consciousness. While this may be obvious, I emphasize it because people in quandaries so often regard themselves as utterly helpless, the “victims of circumstances.”
Actually, people may or may not be victims of circumstances. Usually, unfavorable circumstances and personal “styles of life”11 both play a role in shaping the fates of men. The point is that even though a person may experience and define his situation as if he played no part in bringing it about, this may in fact not be true. On the contrary, such a claim often serves a defensive purpose. In other words, when choices are made—either by specific action, or more often by inaction—and when these lead to unhappy consequences, people often feel that “it was not their fault” that things turned out as they did. In a purely conventional moral sense they might be correct. But this is simply because common sense assigns guilt or blame only to the specific commission of acts—much less often to omissions—and even among these usually only to acts whose deleterious effects are immediate or short-range. In any case, I would insist that, to some extent at least, all people do shape their own destinies, no matter how much they might bewail the superior forces of alien wills and powers.
To assert that man follows rules implies more than that he is inclined to act on the basis of rules which he has been taught; it implies that he is also inclined to act in diametrical opposition to these rules.
In this connection, Freud’s12 observations concerning the antithetical meanings of so-called primal words are pertinent. He noted that certain basic words of a language may be used to express contrary meanings; in Latin, for example, sacer means holy and accursed. This antithetical meaning of certain symbols is an important characteristic of dream psychology. In a dream, a symbol may stand for itself or for its opposite—for example, tall may signify tall or short, or young may stand for young or old. I have suggested that this principle also applies to affects.13 For example, feeling afraid may signify that one is afraid—or that one is vigilant and prepared for danger; feeling guilty, that one is guilty—or that one is conscientious; and so forth. This antithetical signification seems to be inherent in the nature of man’s capacity to form and use symbols: it applies to affects, iconic signs, words, rules, and systems of rules (games), each of which may signify or, more often, suggest both the referent and its opposite.
Antirules are especially significant in the behavior of children or other psychosocially unsophisticated individuals. Such persons tend to perceive and order their world mainly in terms of the rules they have been given and their opposites. It must be noted, too, that while positive rule following tends to assure social harmony, it often fails to satisfy the human need for personal autonomy. To satisfy this latter need, it is necessary to follow one’s own rules. The earliest and simplest rules which we experience as our own are antirules. Thus, as early as during the first year of life, when babies are urged to eat, they often protest by refusing to eat. The so-called negativism of young children probably constitutes the earliest instances of negative rule following—or the following of antirules. This is well understood by intuitive persons and is expressed by such remarks as “If I want him to do something, I must ask him to do the opposite.” The proverbially stubborn mule can be made to advance only if his master acts as if he were trying to make him back up. And then there is the familiar rule about forbidden fruit tasting sweeter. The importance of this principle for antisocial and delinquent behavior is well known to psychologists and even to laymen. The notion of antirules which I suggest here is, however, of wider scope, as it includes both proscriptive and prescriptive rules.
Thus, some of the rules set forth in the Ten Commandments are prohibitions—for example, of murder and theft; others are prescriptions—for example, to honor one’s father and mother. Clearly, each of these implies and suggests its opposite. To be told not to kill or steal creates the idea that one might. To be sure, people no doubt entertained such ideas even before the Ten Commandments were promulgated. It would be fair to assert, therefore, that most criminal laws are aimed at curbing propensities that exist prior to their legislative prohibition. Still, this does not negate the fact that laws—especially many modern laws—also create and encourage propensities to engage in the very behaviors which they prohibit.
We are ready now to examine the function and transmission of rules. Children growing up in contemporary Western cultures must learn a large variety of rules. These may be conveniently divided into three classes: (1) natural laws or biological rules; (2) prescriptive laws or social (religious, moral) rules; and (3) imitative or interpersonal rules.
Biological Rules
Biological rules form a special part of the larger category commonly called the Laws of Nature. These rules are concerned with the physics and chemistry of the human body in relation to its material or nonhuman environment. The implicit aims of biological rules—made explicit by man—are survival of the individual as a physicochemical machine and survival of the species as a biological system. Many basic biological rules are learned by direct experience, but some, at least in a rudimentary form, may be said to be inborn. More sophisticated knowledge concerning biological rules must be learned by the methods of science. The basic medical sciences could be said to serve this end.
In this connection, the question arises as to whether animals “know” certain basic biological rules. In one sense, the answer must be that they do, for without “obeying” them they would perish. It is important, however, to be clear about the sense in which animals “know” such rules. This knowledge consists of the appropriate responses to certain objects in their environment; it is automatic, conditioned, and not self-reflective. In a hierarchy of learning and knowing, this type of knowledge would have to be considered the simplest and most basic. It consists of responding to objects as objects, not as signs, and may be called object learning.
Animals do not know any other types of rules—that is, metarules. Although monkeys play games, and some other animals—for example, bears and seals—can readily be taught to follow rules by imitation and practice, it appears that the animal’s limited capacity for symbolization restricts his use of rules to those which are nonreflective. In short, animals cannot use rules intelligently, with an awareness or knowledge that they are using rules: they cannot modify rules in accordance with the demands of a particular situation, nor can they learn metarules.14
Social, Religious, or Moral Rules
In the class of social, religious, and moral rules belong all prescriptive laws governing social relationships, whether these are said to originate from a single God, a multiplicity of deities, or culture and society. These laws differ from so-called natural laws with respect to geographical scope or distribution and also in the nature of the sanctions. Natural laws hold for all parts of the world, although, as it is now realized, they may not apply in situations outside of it, for example on another planet.
The term “social rules” designates all the rules that originate from the prevailing practices of a social group. If these are significantly disobeyed, the person will perish. The emphasis here is on the word “person,” for our focus has shifted from biological to social survival—which depends on adapting to the social rules or changing them to suit one’s needs, much as biological survival depends on adapting to biological rules.
Imitative or Interpersonal Rules
Imitative or interpersonal rules are learned, principally in childhood, by imitating someone else’s example. In innumerable instances children look, literally as well as metaphorically, to their parents, siblings, or peers, to see how they should act. Their conduct is based on example, much as a mock-up model in engineering serves as an example after which a particular product to be manufactured is fashioned.
The boundary between imitative and social rules is not always sharp or clear. Some social rules are acquired by imitation. Moreover, since imitative rules are learned chiefly in the family, they form a subgroup of the larger class called “social rules.” Nevertheless, it is useful—especially for our present purpose in regard to hysteria and mental illness—to draw as sharp a distinction as possible between these two types of rules. Let us therefore pay special attention to the differences between social and interpersonal rules.
Imitative rules usually refer to trivial, everyday matters, such as how to eat, dress, care for one’s body, and so forth. Instead of being articulated in verbal form, these rules are displayed in the actual everyday behavior of the older members of the family or group. Children acquire these rules by “blind imitation.” The “blind” quality of this sort of learning must be emphasized, because—in contrast to, say, attempting to forge another person’s signature—this type of imitation is unconscious or unreflective. For example, in learning to speak one’s mother tongue, one is not aware of imitating others.
In contrast to the trivial nature of many of the acts learned by imitative rule following, and to the inexplicit nature of these rules, social rules refer to the regulation, by explicit rules, of more complex behavioral situations. Imitative rules thus articulate customs, while social rules articulate moral-religious prescriptions or secular laws. The sanctions for each vary accordingly: failure to learn or comply with imitative rules leads merely to being thought of as eccentric, stupid, foolish, or naughty; deviance from social rules, however, brings serious consequences upon the offender, ranging from stigmatization to expulsion from the group, and even to death. By and large, sociologists study social rules; psychologists and psychoanalysts study imitative or interpersonal rules; and anthropologists study both types. (See Table 5 for a schematic summary of the characteristics of these three classes of rules.)
Table 5. A Classification of Rules: Biological, Social, and Interpersonal
The existence and durability of social rules—irrespective of the sources to which man may have attributed them—is evidence of the intensity of the human need to follow rules. Indeed, man’s need for rules and his propensity to follow them is equaled only by his desire to reject rules and be free of them. As I will try to show later,15 this antithetical disposition is a special instance of a more general human ambivalence—namely, the simultaneous needs for intimacy and solitude. Alternating attitudes of submission to and rebellion against people and rules may be best viewed as manifestations of this fundamental human paradox. One of the most useful methods for resolving this dilemma is our capacity for abstraction which makes it possible to construct progressively higher levels of symbolization; these constructs, in turn, lead to a lessening of the feeling of compulsion attached to rules explicitly understood as rules. Thus, for each set of rules we can, in principle, construct a set of metarules. The latter are made up of the specifications governing the formation of the rules at the next lower (logical) level. Explicit awareness of metarules implies an understanding of the origin, function, and scope of the (next lower level) rules. Acquiring such understanding constitutes a form of mastery. Only by practicing what may be called the metarule attitude—which is actually a special case of the scientific attitude applied to the domain of rules—can we acquire a secure yet flexible integration of rules as behavior-regulating agencies. Finally, the metarule attitude enables us to increase our range of choices about whether or not to comply with rules, and whether or not to try to change them.
* This distinction is obscured—or perhaps one should say denied—in the essentially religious concept of “natural law.”