The Sense and Non-Sense of Revolt

The title of this book is meant to evoke the current political state and the lack of revolt that characterizes it. I promise not to elude this aspect of the problem, but I will approach things from a bit of a distance: from the roots of memory, which is nothing other than language and the unconscious. There are two facets to the reflections presented here: the first concerns psychoanalysis, its history, and its present state; the second takes into consideration different literary texts.

I will explain first what I mean by “revolt” and why the problematic of the sense and non-sense of revolt is inscribed in a psychoanalytical perspective. A number of major texts of our time can be approached from this angle, and I have selected the works of three well-known authors, each linked, though differently, to rebellion in the twentieth century: namely, Aragon, Sartre, and Barthes.

Some psychoanalytical questions will allow us a more profound approach to these three authors. To begin quite naturally—some might say provocatively—I think it would be useful to look into the etymology of the word “revolt,” a word that is widely used, if not banal, but that holds a few surprises. As a linguist by training, I sought out what linguists had to say about it.¹ Two semantic shifts mark the evolution of the word: the first implies the notion of movement, the second, that of space and time.

The Latin verb volvere, which is at the origin of “revolt,” was initially far removed from politics. It produced derivatives with meanings—semes—such as “curve,” “entourage,” “turn,” “return.” In Old French, it can mean “to envelop,” “curvature,” “vault,” and even “omelet,” “to roll,” and “to roll oneself in”; the extensions go as far as “to loaf about” (galvauder), “to repair,” and “vaudeville” (vaudevire, “refrain”). If this surprises you, so much the better: surprise is never extraneous to revolt. Under Italian influence in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, volutus, voluta—in French volute, an architectural term—as well as volta and voltare suggest the idea of circular movement and, by extension, temporal return. Volta also means “time”—as in “one time” or “once”—hence, “turning back.” Another direct derivative from Latin belongs in this lineage, the adjective volubilis, “that which turns with ease,” as in volubilitas linguae; the French equivalent is volubile (voluble). And volumen, sheets of paper scrolled around a stick, with the spatial meaning of “wrapping” or “covering,” results in “volume,” which comes to mean “book” in the thirteenth century. (In a second usage the word acquired the more abstract meaning of “mass” and “thickness.”) That the book has kinship with revolt might not be self-evident at first, but I will try to remedy this obfuscation.

The linguist Alain Rey stresses the cohesion of these diverse etymological evolutions, which start with a matrix and driving idea: “to twist, roll, wrap” (going back to the Sanskrit varutram, the Greek elutron, eiluma) and “covering,” an object that serves as a wrapping. The idea of twisting or enveloping, a topological and technical concept, is dominant; it can even be found in the name of the Swedish car company, Volvo, “I roll.” The old Indo-European forms *wel and *welu evoke a voluntary, artisanal act, resulting in the denomination of technical objects that protect and envelop. Today we are barely aware of the intrinsic links between “revolution” and “helix,” “to rebel” (se révolter), and “to wallow” (se vautrer). But while I encourage readers to use etymology as a deciphering tool, do not rely solely on the appearance (or image) of a word and its meaning. Go further, go elsewhere, interpret. Interpretation, as I understand it, is itself a revolt.

“Evolution,” in its first attested appearance in 1536, inherits the semes I have just mentioned but concerns only the movement of troops being deployed and redeployed. More interesting as far as the modern meaning of the word is that “to revolt” and “revolt,” which come from Italian words that maintained the Latin meanings of “to return” and “to exchange,” imply a diversion at the outset that will soon be assimilated to a rejection of authority. In sixteenth-century French, “to revolt” is a pure Italianism and signifies “to turn,” “to avert” (to revolt the face elsewhere), or “to roll up” (thus hair was revolted). In 1501 the sense of a reversal of allegiance—siding with the enemy or religious abjuration—is attested, close to the Italianism “volte-face” (about-face). Thus in Calvin (“If a city or a country revolted from its prince . . .”) or in Théodore de Bèze (“Those who revolt from Jesus Christ . . .”) the idea of abjuration is linked to that of cycle and return, sometimes indicating only a change of party. In the psychological sense, the word contains an idea of violence and excess in relation to a norm and corresponds to émouvoir (to move), hence émeute (riot) for “revolt.”

In the sixteenth century, the word does not involve the notion of force but strictly indicates opposition: to leave (a party), to abjure (a belief), to turn away (from a dependency). Until the eighteenth century, the word “revolt” is not used for war, as is the series “rebel,” “rebellion,” but is used in the political and psychological domain: “It’s always been allowed by right of war to fire revolt between one’s enemies,” Laodice says to Arsinoë, in Corneille’s Nicomedes.² There is also reference to “feelings in revolt.”³

The historical and political sense of the word prevails until the end of the seventeenth century and beginning of the eighteenth: in The Age of Louis XIV, Voltaire uses “revolt” to mean civil war, unrest, cabal, insurrection, war, and revolution when speaking of Mazarin’s time.⁴ The relationship between “revolt” and “revolution” is not yet clearly established, revolution maintaining its celestial origins until 1700.

Turning to the semantic line of time and space, the Latin verb revolvere engenders intellectual meanings: “to consult” or “reread” (Horace) and “to tell” (Virgil). “Revolution” appears later, entering the French language in scholarly astronomical and chronological vocabularies. In the Middle Ages, the word “revolution” is used to mark the end of a period of time that has “evolved”; it signifies completion, an occurrence, or a completed duration (the seven days of the week). In the fourteenth century, the notion of space is added: mirrors, interlocking objects, the projection of images.⁵ The revolution of human affairs is a stopping point in a preexisting curve. Gradually, the term comes to signify change, mutation. In 1550, and for a century afterward, it is applied to another semantic field, that of politics: thus the revolution of time leads to the revolution of State.⁶ In the second half of the seventeenth century, in the context of the Fronde and the period that followed, from Gondi to Retz and Bossuet, the word’s political sense of conflict or social upheaval is confirmed.⁷ In the eighteenth century, “revolution” becomes more specific and widespread, with parallels frequently drawn between planetary and political mutations.⁸

That’s all I have to say about the evolution of the term “revolt,” but I hope I have given you an idea of the richness of its polyvalence; I wanted to wrest it, etymologically, from the overly narrow political sense it has taken in our time. From these various etymological uses, I would like you to remember what I will call the “plasticity” of the term throughout its history, as well as its dependence on historical context. I have made passing reference to its links with astronomy but also with Protestantism, the Fronde, and the Revolution to show how rooted this plasticity is in scientific and political history. This preoccupation will guide the following reflections.

In the series of rather disparate semes I proposed, a number of them ought to be thought of in relation to this book’s title, which emphasizes the impact, as much as the impasses, of revolt (“the sense and non-sense”): the non-sense suggested by words such as galvaudage (sullying, idling about) and vaudeville but also the uncertainties and randomness implicit in “reversal,” “abjuration,” “change,” “detour,” which repeat and transform, as well as the semes “curve,” “quarrel,” and “book”; “cycle,” “stalling,” and “upheaval”; and finally, “recovery,” “unfolding,” and the somewhat bland “reassessment.” Also worth noting are the classic, though very different, uses of this notion by clans, tradesmen, and diverse social groups (artisans, astronomers, meteorologists), as well as its uses in psychology and politics.

In short, revolt twists and turns—indeed, veers off—depending on history. It is up to us to complete it. But why now? Why, given the plasticity I have briefly described, grapple with revolt now? What do I mean to convey in the present context, if it is true that historical context must be taken into account in order to renew the sense of the word? In response, allow me to make a point to which I will not return but which I would like to place on the implicit horizon of this book. This political observation supports a reflection I have expressed and pursued on various occasions that concerns the moment we are traversing and, to my mind, particularly justifies the necessity of reexamining the notion of revolt.

The postindustrial and post-Communist democracies we live in, with their affairs and scandals, share characteristics that humanity has never confronted. Two of these accompany the society of the image, or of the spectacle, and justify the attempt to rethink the notion of revolt even while they seem to exclude the possibility of it: the status of power and that of the individual.

As watchers and readers of the media, we all know what the power vacuum means: the absence of plans, disorder, all the things we speak of and that political parties show the effects of, that we as citizens show the effects of. Yet in spite of this anarchy (who governs? who is going where?), signs of a new world order do exist, and if examined closely this order appears to be both normalizing and falsifiable, normalizing but falsifiable. This is what grounds my inquiry into the possibility of revolt.

Consider the status of the legal system, of law: we no longer speak of culpability but of public menace; we no longer speak of fault (in an automobile accident, for example) but of damages. Instead of responsibility, there is liability; the idea of responsibility-without-fault is becoming acceptable; the right to punish is fading before administrative repression; the theatricality of the trial is disappearing in favor of the proliferation of delaying techniques. Crime cannot be found at the same time as prohibition; as a result, people are increasingly excited when they think they have unearthed a guilty party, a scapegoat. Look at the scandals judges, politicians, journalists, businesspeople are involved in. Crime has become theatrically media-friendly. I do not contest the benefits of this situation for democracy: perhaps we have in fact arrived at a so-called liberal society in which there is no surveillance and no punishment except in these theatrically mediatized cases that become a sort of catharsis of the citizen’s nonexistent guilt. Though we are not punished, we are, in effect, normalized: in place of the prohibition or power that cannot be found, disciplinary and administrative punishments multiply, repressing or, rather, normalizing everyone.⁹

This regulation—invisible power, nonpunitive legislation, delaying tactics, on the one hand, and media theatricalization, the fear of getting caught up, of being theatricalized in turn, on the other—supposes and engenders the breaches and transgressions that accompany business, speculation, and Mafia activity. The causes for this are multiple, but on the legal level, it is possible to describe what allows for them in terms of normalization, on the one hand, and perversification, on the other. There are no longer laws but measures. (What progress! How reassuring for democracy!) Measures are susceptible to appeals and delays, to interpretations and falsifications. This means that, in the end, the new world order normalizes and corrupts; it is at once normalizing and pervertible. Examples of this abound in all countries. Note, for example, the importance of stock market speculation on industrial production; bookkeeping leads to the accumulation of capital, on the right as on the left, and to the falsification of true wealth, which even recently was still measured in terms of production and industrial capacities. This example may clarify my idea of the new world order as a normalizing and falsifiable order. It is neither totalitarianism nor fascism (as is said in Italy particularly), though we have a tendency to resuscitate these terms in order to continue thinking according to old schemas. Still, the current normalizing and falsifiable order is formidable in another way: indirect and redirectable repression. Faced with these impasses, shouldn’t we try to determine how a new regulation of power and transgression has come to replace the totalitarianisms of yesteryear and stop letting old terms like “fascism” and “totalitarianism” distract us?

Because literature reveals the singularity of experience, it is worth looking at what is becoming of the individual, the singular subject, in this new normalizing and pervertible economic order. Consider the status of the individual in the face of biological technologies. The human being tends to disappear as a person with rights, since he/she is negotiated as possessing organs that are convertible into cash. We are exiting the era of the subject and entering that of the patrimonial individual: “I” am not a subject, as psychoanalysis continues to assert, attempting the rescue—indeed, the salvation—of subjectivity; “I” am not a transcendental subject either, as classical philosophy would have it. Instead, “I” am, quite simply, the owner of my genetic or organo-physiological patrimony; “I” possess my organs, and that only in the best-case scenario, for there are countries where organs are stolen in order to be sold. The whole question is whether my patrimony should be remunerated or free: whether “I” can enrich myself or, as an altruist, forgo payment in the name of humanity or whether “I,” as a victim, am dispossessed of it. Some provisions set forth by the European Economic Community concerning the dynamics of the sale of bodies have even found that, thanks to biotechnological advances, the patrimonial individual may favor European economic development. Happily, speculations such as these incite resistance and are challenged by many jurists. Nevertheless, the primacy of the market economy over the body is certainly something to worry about, perhaps even to get dramatic about, to protest before things are firmly established, before it is definitely too late. Again, I am not discussing the democratic advantages that this new world order may entail; they are no doubt considerable. Still, I would underscore that an essential aspect of the European culture of revolt and art is in peril, that the very notion of culture as revolt and of art as revolt is in peril, submerged as we are in the culture of entertainment, the culture of performance, the culture of the show.

The European tradition, where this phenomenon is most manifest, has an experience of culture that is at once inherent in the social fact and active as its critical conscience. Europeans are cultured in the sense that culture is their critical conscience; it suffices to think of Cartesian doubt, the freethinking of the Enlightenment, Hegelian negativity, Marx’s thought, Freud’s unconscious, not to mention Zola’s J’accuse and formal revolts such as Bauhaus and surrealism, Artaud and Stockhausen, Picasso, Pollock, and Francis Bacon. The great moments of twentieth-century art and culture are moments of formal and metaphysical revolt. Stalinism no doubt marked the strangling of the culture of revolt, its deviation into terror and bureaucracy. Can one recapture the spirit itself and extricate new forms from it beyond the two impasses where we are caught today: the failure of rebellious ideologies, on the one hand, and the surge of consumer culture, on the other? The very possibility of culture depends on our response.

Just under the surface of this question is another we could legitimately ask: what is the necessity of this culture of revolt? Why relentlessly attempt to resuscitate forms of cultures whose antecedents lie in Cartesian doubt and Hegelian negativity, the Freudian unconscious and the avant-garde? Aren’t they simply lost forever? Why should we want to find modern responses to these past experiences? After the death of ideologies, shouldn’t we just be content with entertainment culture, show culture, and complacent commentary?

We shouldn’t! I will try to demonstrate why through a discussion of Freud, for in listening to human experience, psychoanalysis ultimately communicates this: happiness exists only at the price of a revolt. None of us has pleasure without confronting an obstacle, prohibition, authority, or law that allows us to realize ourselves as autonomous and free. The revolt revealed to accompany the private experience of happiness is an integral part of the pleasure principle. Furthermore, on the social level, the normalizing order is far from perfect and fails to support the excluded: jobless youth, the poor in the projects, the homeless, the unemployed, and foreigners, among many others. When the excluded have no culture of revolt and must content themselves with regressive ideologies, with shows and entertainments that far from satisfy the demand of pleasure, they become rioters.

The question I would like to examine—from the somewhat narrow though not socially irrelevant perspectives of private life, psychological life, art, and literature—is the necessity of a culture of revolt in a society that is alive and developing, not stagnating. In fact, if such a culture did not exist, life would become a life of death, that is, a life of physical and moral violence, barbarity. This is a matter of the survival of our civilizations and their freest and most enlightened components. There is an urgent need to develop the culture of revolt starting with our aesthetic heritage and to find new variants of it. Heidegger thought only religion could save us; faced with the religious and political impasses of our time, an experience of revolt may be the only thing that can save us from the automation of humanity that is threatening us. This revolt is under way, but it has not yet found its voice, any more than it has found the harmony likely to give it the dignity of Beauty. And it might not.

That’s where we are, and I see no other role for literary criticism and theory than to illuminate the experiences of formal and philosophical revolt that might keep our inner lives alive, this psychological space we call a soul and that is no doubt the hidden side, the invisible and indispensable source of what is Beautiful. Starting here, I will try to integrate the notion of the culture of revolt in the realms of art and literature, understood as experiences, and to raise the stakes. This means going beyond the notion of text—the elaboration of which I have contributed to, along with so many others—which has become a form of dogma in the best universities in France, as well as in the United States and other, more exotic places. In its stead, I will try to introduce the notion of experience, which includes the pleasure principle as well as the rebirth of meaning for the other, which can only be understood in view of the experience of revolt.

My writing a book and your reading it might seem evidence that culture is still possible, that it goes without saying, and that there can be only one version of it. Allow me to express my concern about this notion. Our modern world has reached a point in its development where a certain type of culture and art, if not all culture and all art, is threatened, indeed, impossible. Not, as I have said, the art or culture of the show, or the art or culture of consensual information favored by the media, but specifically the art and culture of revolt. Even when examples of this culture are produced, they take on such strange and stark forms that their meanings are lost on the audience. At that point, it is our responsibility to be interpreters, givers of meaning. For this reason, I am including critical work in the contemporary aesthetic experience: more than ever, we are faced with the necessary and inevitable osmosis between production and interpretation, a process that also implies a redefinition of the distinction between the critic, on the one hand, and the writer or artist, on the other.

It is not at all certain that a culture and art of revolt can see the light of day when prohibition and power have taken the forms of falsifiable normalization that I have described or when the individual has become a patrimonial ensemble of accessories with market value. If this is the case, who can revolt, and against what? Can a patrimony of organs revolt against a normalizing order? How? Through remote-controlled images? If we want to talk about art and culture in this context, clarification is necessary: what culture are we talking about?

I do not have the answer, but I propose a reflection. I submit that past experience, the memory of it, and particularly the memory of the Second World War, the Holocaust, and the fall of Communism, should make us attentive to our cultural tradition, which has advanced a thought and an artistic experience of the human subject. This subjectivity is coextensive to time—an individual’s time, history’s time, being’s time—more clearly and more explicitly than anywhere else. We are subjects, and there is time. From Bergson to Heidegger, from Proust to Artaud, Aragon, Sartre, Barthes, different figures of subjectivity have been thought out and put into words or given form in our contemporary culture. Likewise, various modalities of time lead us not to imagine an end of history (as some have been able to do in the United States or Japan) but to try to bring new figures of temporality to the fore.

Let us, then, contemplate and highlight the experiences of writers attentive to the dramas of subjectivity and to different approaches to time. They will allow us to consider the historical moment as well as the multiple, ruptured temporality that men and women experience today, that shuttles them from fundamentalism or nationalism to biotechnology. Let us not be afraid to examine meticulously these explorations of subjective space, these complexities, these impasses; let us not be afraid to raise the debate concerning the experience of time. People today are eager for introspection and prayer: art and culture respond to this need, particularly the unusual, even ugly forms that artists are now proposing. Often, they are aware of their place as rebels in the new normalizing and pervertible order. But they also sometimes revel in a rudimentary—or, on the contrary, refined—minimalism. The role of the art critic then becomes essential to clarifying the subjective and historical experience of the writer or painter. Rather than falling asleep in the new normalizing order, let us try to rekindle the flame (easily extinguishable) of the culture of revolt.

The question I would like to ask at the outset can be formulated this way: Is the Beautiful still possible? Does Beauty still exist? If the answer is yes, as I think it is (for what other antidote to the collapse of fantastic ideologies, what other antidote to death, than Beauty?), then what Beauty does one observe in contemporary works of art? I will draw on a few examples from the 1993 Venice Biennale to guide this brief inquiry.

When I attended this event, I had—and still have—the impression that the examples of modern art being presented were not situated within the same history of the Beautiful offered by museums, including museums of modern art of the last twenty or thirty years. Certainly present were the perfection and technical mastery of the American artist Louise Bourgeois, who transforms trauma into fetish, and the skulls of the French sculptor Reynaud, who in a graceful and Cartesian way alleviates an obsession with death. But there was also something different that appeared to be the emblem of this biennale and perhaps even of contemporary art. Two works particularly struck me, for they seemed to bear a symbolic meaning of which the artists who made them may not have been aware. These two installations, or, if you prefer, sculptures, one by the German artist Hans Haacke, the other by the American artist Robert Wilson, in different ways represented the collapse of a foundation. Haacke’s unusual installation had visitors walk on ground that shifted, crumbled; Wilson’s ground did not erode but caved in, sank. A field of ruins, on the one hand; sinking ground, on the other. Viewers were fascinated, overwhelmed by volume, as if a troubling question had physically seized them in these two spaces. Loss of certainty, loss of memory. Political, moral, aesthetic loss?

To me, these artistic expressions resonate—in the furthest reaches of our culture’s memory—with the Bible, particularly, Psalm 118, which talks of builders rejecting a stone that then becomes a cornerstone. This is done through God, and it is marvelous in our eyes. A song of glory and joy follows: Exultate, Jubilate, a hymn found in Catholic ritual, other rituals celebrating foundations, and Mozart.

We are a long way from that. We can no longer exult or be jubilant about our foundations. Artists no longer have pedestals. Art is no longer certain it can be this cornerstone. The ground is sinking; the foundation no longer exists. A great artist, the writer Marcel Proust, was able to celebrate the cornerstone in the image of the cobblestones of Saint Mark’s in Venice, to extract from it a metaphor for art made from the vestiges of these traditions. This cornerstone may return at some point, but today it is crumbling. And we are anxious and unsettled. We don’t know where to go. Are we still capable of going anywhere? We are confronted with the destruction of our foundation. Part of our pedestal is falling into ruin.

Yet there is an exquisite ambiguity to this moment, harrowing though it is, for it is not solely negative. The simple fact that an installation has been created in a place where the foundations are disintegrating gives rise to a question as well as to anxiety. This is the sense of Haacke’s and Wilson’s constructions: a question, a sub-version, a re-volt in the etymological sense of the word (a return toward the invisible, a refusal and displacement). And this question is a sign of life—certainly a modest, humble, minimal one but already a detour, a revelation, a shifting of the collapse—and it is deeply affecting. Of course, it isn’t quite jubilation or exultation, as the response being formulated is minute, but it is a sign of life nevertheless, a timid promise, anguished and yet existent.

Many young artists make installations rather than simple art objects. Are these merely signs of an incapacity to produce a distinct and intense object? An inability to concentrate metaphysical and aesthetic energy within a frame, on a piece of wood, in bronze or marble? Perhaps. But I think something else is at stake. In an installation, the entire body is called on to participate through its senses—sight, of course, but also hearing, touch, sometimes smell. As if instead of creating an object, these artists seek to situate us in a space at the borders of the sacred and ask us not to contemplate images but to commune with beings, an unquestionably tentative and sometimes unvarnished communion but a call nonetheless. And seeing these young artists’ installations, tangles, bundles, pipes, fragments, and various mechanical objects, I got the impression that beyond the malaise of a lost foundation, they were communicating this: the ultimate goal of art is perhaps what was once celebrated as incarnation. I mean by that the desire to make one feel—through abstraction, form, color, volume, sensation—a real experience.

Contemporary art installations aspire to incarnation but also to narration. These installations have a history: the history of Germany, the history of prehistoric man, the history of Russia, as well as more modest personal histories. An installation invites us to tell our story, to participate, through it and our sensation, in a communion with being. It also produces an unsettling complicity with our regressions, for when faced with these fragments, these flashes of sensations, these disseminated objects, you no longer know who you are. You are on the verge of vertigo, a black hole, a fragmentation of psychical life that some call psychosis or autism. Is it not the fearsome privilege of contemporary art to accompany us in these new maladies of the soul?

And yet I think we are experiencing a low period. I tried to compare the current situation with the end of the Roman Empire in my novel The Old Man and the Wolves.¹⁰ Back then, however, a new religion was emerging, one that was already astonishing, though its arts and splendors had yet to come. Today, I am not certain that a new religion is arriving or that this would even be desirable. But I think we all need an experience, by which I mean something unknown, surprise, pain, or delight, and then comprehension of this impact. Is it still possible? Perhaps not. Perhaps charlatanism is today’s currency, and everything is both spectacle and merchandise, while those we call marginal have definitively become excluded. In this context, obviously, one has to be very demanding, that is, disappointed. Personally, once over the disappointment, I prefer to welcome these experiences: I keep my curiosity on call, expectant.

Parallel to the etymological and semiological references I have given for the term “revolt” (recalling its plasticity, its social, political, ethical motivations), two occurrences of “revolt” in Freud show the rigor and deep-rootedness of the word in both the history of psychoanalysis and its current state. At issue here are oedipal revolt, on the one hand, and, on the other, the return of the archaic, in the sense of the repressed but also the timelessness (zeitlos) of the drive.¹¹

I will return to the Oedipus complex at length in a later chapter, but in order to anchor the notion of revolt firmly in Freudian thought, I would like to remind you here that, according to Freud, the oedipal is a component of the human psyche composed of two evolutions: on the one hand, from a structural point of view, the Oedipus complex and the incest taboo organize the psyche of the speaking being; on the other, according to a speculation that is less historical than historic, Freud attributes the origin of civilization to nothing less than the murder of the father, which means that the transmission and permanence of the oedipal over generations can be understood in light of a phylogenetic hypothesis.

Why is the oedipal permanent in all humans? Why must the subject live through the oedipal as a child and then see it repeated in various metamorphoses throughout his/her life? Freud responds to these questions in Totem and Taboo,¹² telling a story that is not as subjective as one might like to think and that should not necessarily be filed away as part of Freud’s private “novel” or Freud’s “folly.”

To summarize, at the origin, primitive men lived in hordes dominated by a fearsome male who demanded total submission from his sons and prohibited access to women, the sexual enjoyment of whom he reserved for himself. One day, the sons plotted a conspiracy and revolted (there we are!) against the father: they killed him and ate him. After this totemic meal, they identified with him, and after this primary ceremony of humanity, which saw the concomitance of revolt and feast (remember this concomitance!), they replaced the dead father with the image of the father, with the totem symbol of power, the figure of the ancestor. From then on, guilt and repentance cemented the bond, the social pact, among the sons, among the brothers; they felt guilty and banded together as a result of this guilt, and “the dead father became stronger than the living one had been” (p. 143). The dead man elicited such guilt in the brothers that he became all-powerful, forcing them to keep themselves in check, to curb their desires through a sense of wrongdoing. The impulse of affection—which existed simultaneously with the impulse of hatred—was transformed into repentance and sealed the social link that first appeared as a religious link.

It is important to know that, for Freud, the social order is fundamentally religious. Which leads us to a first question: if the rebellious man is a religious man, what happens when the man is no longer religious? Is he still rebellious? How so? It is no doubt unnecessary to remind you that religion can make man docile and has no qualms about doing so. Read Nietzsche’s indignations against Christianity; these are more pertinent than facile secularisms. Furthermore, the social and/or religious link is also (though not only, keeping Nietzsche in mind) where revolt finds its conditions of possibility, hence its openings and traps, which are where I am headed. If art and literature are in fact a continuation of the sacred by other means (and not unaware of desacralization but, on the contrary, quite aware of it), this could not be more topical.

But let us return to our Freudian fable: the social link is founded as a religious link, the brothers deny themselves the women, rules of exogamic exchange are elaborated. The brothers, who have become social beings, resorb the feminine, renounce it. This feminine is the feminine of women, as objects of desire, but also the brothers’ feminine, in the sense of their passive desire for the father, their love for and fascination with the father. Freud asserts that it is this repressed homosexuality that provides the basis for the social contract: guilt and repressed homosexuality; one synthesizes that which keeps one in check in the name of the father. Homo religiosis is born, shaped by feelings of guilt and obedience. It is in this context that Freud speaks of an “uprising”: “The tumultuous mob of brothers were filled with the same contradictory feelings which we can see at work in the ambivalent father-complexes of our children and of our neurotic patients” (p. 143; emphasis mine). And Freud emphasizes the necessity to mimic this revolt: not to reproduce it exactly but to represent it in the form of a festive or sacrificial commemoration, composed of the joy of the initial crime subjacent to the religious sentiment, to guilt, to repentance, or to propitiation. After emphasizing the need for “remembrance of the triumph over the father,” Freud goes on:

Satisfaction over that triumph led to the institution of the memorial festival of the totem meal, in which the restrictions of deferred obedience no longer held. Thus it became a duty to repeat the crime of parricide again and again in the sacrifice of the totem animal, whenever, as a result of the changing conditions of life, the cherished fruit of the crime—appropriation of the paternal attributes—threatened to disappear. We shall not be surprised to find that the element of filial rebelliousness also emerges, in the later products of religions, often in the strangest disguises and transformations.

(p. 145; emphasis mine)

I will let you appreciate the richness of Freud’s text, and I point out that the “fruit” of this rebellion is the appropriation of the father’s qualities; the “fruit” is subjacent to the “guilt.” Like the religious experience, Freud’s text emphasizes the guilt following the rebellion, but he is also the first to underscore the “fruit” of this rebellion and to invite us to think of situations where it “threatens to disappear,” because it is then, and only then, that guilty obedience yields to the necessity to repeat the rebellion, particularly in the form of ritual sacrifice. When pleasure is no longer found in bonds, we start the revolt all over again. Religion allows us to do this by means of ritual sacrifice, a coded revolt.

One might ask how the rebellion can be repeated in other forms. Let us say, to anticipate, that when the sacred-social bond founded on guilt weakens, the logical—psychological—demand reappears to restart the rebellion (this is a function of the sacred as symbolic commemoration of the crime). But in certain situations wherein the bond and/or guilt is weakened, it is impossible or at least very difficult to recapture the festive “fruit” procured through the imaginary or symbolic reiteration of the rebellious act that is the sacred celebration.

Why does one sacrifice? Why does one enter into a religious pact and embrace fundamentalism, of whatever sort? Because, Freud tells us, the benefits we extract from the social contract threaten to disappear “as a result of the changing conditions of life”: unemployment, exclusion, lack of money, failure in work, dissatisfactions of every kind. From then on, assimilation to the social link disintegrates; the profit “I” find in my integration in the socius collapses. What does this profit consist of? It is nothing other than the “appropriation of the paternal attributes.” In other words, “I” felt flattered to be promoted to the level of someone who could, if not be the father, at least acquire his qualities, identify with his power; “I” was associated with this power; “I” was not excluded; “I” was one of those who obeyed him and were satisfied with that. But sometimes this identification with power no longer works; “I” feel excluded; “I” can no longer locate power, which has become normalizing and falsifiable. What happens then?

“We shall not be surprised to find that the element of filial rebelliousness also emerges,” Freud remarks, and this is when revolt is set in motion, “in the later products of religions, often in the strangest disguises and transformations.” What Freud calls a reappearance of defiance are cathartic experiences, rituals that have one or several (religious) meanings expended in an ordered profusion of signs (chants, dances, invocations, prayers, etc.). Thus we see the development of new attempts at rebellion, different from the primary revolt that was the murder of the father, in the form of religious worship and its pageantry, which today we consider aesthetic or artistic. A sacrificial situation is reproduced through which an imaginary power (which is not immediately political but has this latent vocation) is established and activated. Each participant hopes to satisfy the need to confront an authority in his/her imagination; it becomes possible not only to protest indefinitely (the rite is repeated) but also to renew the rite, in a way, with the dazzling expenditures that accompany religious celebrations: dances, trances, and other festivities inseparable from the scene of the sacrifice.

The problematic Freud broadly outlines here—condensed from a problematic of authority, of transgression as murder, of mimesis or representation, and of art as expenditure—is that there is a need for sacrifice in the sense of a remembrance and representation of the initial murder. As a speaking animal (capable of psychological representation, the results of which are thought and language), the human being needs to recall the qualities of the father (which Lacan will call the “paternal function”) if and only if he mimics the transgression of his authority or the revolt against this identity. This reprise of the primary rebellion can take different forms: either a simple representation of the murder (these are the variants of sacrifices that all religions perform), or an acting out (where religious members of one community sacrifice religious members of another community), or in a sublimated form (as in the expenditure of festivities such as dances, incantations, rites, a crucible of what will become art).

The question I would like to ask (and whose gravity surely is obvious) is, hasn’t this logic, which Freud brought to the fore and which characterizes the religious, social, and artistic man, reached a saturation point? Perhaps this is where we are: neither guilty nor responsible but consequently incapable of revolt.

The second occurrence of the theme of revolt in Freud is found in an October 8, 1936, letter to the philosopher and psychoanalyst Ludwig Binswanger. Objecting to Binswanger’s philosophical flights and metaphysical speculations, which he finds far removed from both the clinic and the scientific thought he considers to be his own, Freud writes: “I have always dwelt only in the ground floor and basement of the building. . . . In that you are the conservative, I am the revolutionary. Had I only another life of work before me I should dare to offer even those highly born people a home in my lowly dwelling.”¹³ (Translation: you are highly placed; I would like to offer people like you who deign to accord me some attention a place in this basement where I am trying to develop a revolutionary spirit.) It is easy to establish the juncture between this image of the “lowly,” “revolutionary” house and the series of archaeological metaphors in Freud whereby the unconscious is presented as invisible, hidden away, low. The comparison I am suggesting shows that the word “revolutionary” used by Freud has nothing to do with moral, much less political, revolt; it simply signifies the possibility that psychoanalysis has to access the archaic, to overturn conscious meaning. However—and this is where Freud’s apparent modesty is revealed to be extreme ambition—someone who accesses the archaic and the impossible temporality that is timelessness (the unconscious has been unaware of time since The Interpretation of Dreams) is not only benevolent and indulgent but “revolutionary,” in all the malleable senses of the word I presented at the start of this chapter. In short, Freud is a revolutionary in search of lost time.

This is the second direction I will try to explore: rebellion as access to the archaic, to what I will call an impossible temporalizing, which, as I said, will be the topic of a later chapter devoted to a discussion of time according to Freud. I take the term “temporalizing” from Heidegger, which he uses to demonstrate that even in ecstasy, even in an ecstatic state where time seems suspended, time, supposed time, is always already there. On the other hand, Freud was perhaps the only one to posit what he called “non-time,” the “timeless” (zeitlos in German), time undone.

The return, or access, to the archaic as access to a timeless temporality: this is the experience whose analysis I propose here and that the great literary texts, particularly Remembrance of Things Past, allow us to approach. The access to the archaic, to timelessness, to “pure embodied time,” to use Proust’s expression, also prepares us for benevolence. Isn’t a good analyst one who welcomes us with benevolence, with indulgence, without scores to settle, calmly, in a lowly dwelling, as Freud says, and in this sense, a revolutionary one, giving us access to our own “lowly dwelling”?

This image brings me back to the lost foundation and the installations of destroyed habitats I spoke of while describing the Venice Biennale. Robert Wilson’s installation was called Memory/Loss. I found in it the access to the archaic that Proust symbolizes magnificently in Remembrance. You entered a great hall, took off your shoes, and walked on cracked clay that gave beneath you and made you feel as though you were losing your footing. A projector illuminated a bust of a man with a shaved head. A text was handed out, and a story was told of a strange people: it was their custom to shave the heads of future slaves and then expose them to the sun. This caused their hair to grow inside as opposed to outside their skulls, which in turn led them to lose their memories. By telling us this fable with the aid of light, texture, and sound, Wilson invited us to experience the threat of the loss of memory that the normalizing order imposes on us.

For me, the analytical revolt, in the sense of the oedipal revolt and the return to the archaic, is an antidote to the threat of lost memory that certain contemporary artists seem to perceive. I propose three figures of revolt based on the Freudian experience:

Logically independent—in social behaviors, for example—these figures are nevertheless interdependent in the psychological experience, where they are imbricated in the psychical apparatus as well as in artistic or literary works.

Why Aragon, Sartre, and Barthes? Or, More Analytically, Who’s Afraid of Aragon, Sartre, and Barthes?

Besides the chance encounters and historical influences that have shaped my own course, I consider Aragon, Sartre, and Barthes representative of three essential challenges that have marked the century. Even today we have trouble assessing the upheaval their experiences have brought to mindsets, ideas, literature, and language.¹⁴

In the wake of surrealism and having succumbed to Stalin’s attraction, Aragon’s poetic writing links sexual jouissance to the jouissance of language. This approach has inspired French poets from the troubadours to Rimbaud. Georges Bataille proposed a meditation on it, inspired by mystics, Hegel, and Freud. Antonin Artaud burned with the sonorous intensities of a body whose fibers, set ablaze, challenged the facilities of sex and psychological identity: a refusal that toppled into psychosis. Aragon conducts this deidentification of sex and language to two unsustainable points: the pleasure of power and the intoxication of lying. Neither true nor false, literary revolt is plausible, as Aristotle’s Poetics already asserted. With Aragon, the plausible is pushed to the extremes of identity games—the extremes of sexual roles, the extremes of ideological opinions, the extreme virtuosity of words—and confronts revolt with the risks of compromise and cynicism.

Sartre meanwhile anchors this debate on the other and being in the literary experience (read Nausea and Being and Nothingness at the same time), a debate that Hegel and Heidegger’s philosophy deployed on academic terrain and that French thought has in large part tried to dispel. But having transfused being into the other and vice versa, Sartre applies this vision of being-as-other to politics and to all human words as long as they are in a political context. One might regret the resulting politicization of the being-as-other that leads to certain engagements that curiously forget to question their own bad consciences. But one cannot forget the simultaneous elevation of the political to the level of being-as-other and the virtually mystical implications that Sartre achieves in the literary context (reread his plays, Nausea, and The Words) and subsequently in politics. In his incisive book, Francis Jeanson rightly questions the beliefs of Sartre the atheist: Sartre’s atheism is not a rationalism but a complete engagement in the being-as-other of human existence.¹⁵ We must continue this questioning if we want to find the possible or impossible meaning of modern atheism.

Finally, Barthes caused a scandal in the sixties, when ideologies were far from dead, by declaring in substance that everything ideological was semiological and by pulverizing the polished surface of ideas, beliefs, myths, fashions, texts in a polyphony of logics, semantic networks, and intertexts. The new priests that govern the media of France today are still upset with this musician of meaning for revealing—and for teaching us to reveal—all that is left unsaid under the appearance of messages, phenomena, and images.

For different reasons, each justifiable, these three experiences provoke fascination and, especially today, rejection. I will come back to the psychological and political reasons for such an attitude. Yet it seems important to underscore right away the common impetus that incites and characterizes the specific resistance toward these authors’ works. The innovation of their texts, which has yet to be fully appreciated, resides in the revolt against identity: the identity of sex and meaning, of ideas and politics, of being and the other.

The demands of identity do not stem solely from a rationalist or Cartesian ideology that these three writers, in their specific manners, disturb. These demands are rooted in the speaking being’s need to defend identity, which is a biological and psychological necessity and which monotheistic religion perfects and sanctifies. Loosening the strictures concerning “one’s own” and the “identical,” “true” and “false,” “good” and “bad” becomes necessary for survival, because symbolic organizations, like organisms, endure on the condition of renewal and joy. Destroying them in a movement of revolt, however, leads to the risk of new defenses, false and deadly in other ways. In any case, the revolt against the One, which stands out in the experiences of Aragon, Sartre, and Barthes, raises the question of another structuring of subjectivity. Another humanity, we might say peremptorily, can be heard not only in their thought but also—and this is essential, for it signals the depth of the phenomenon—in their language: a humanity that takes the risk of confronting religion and the metaphysics that nourishes it, confronting the meaning of language.

This challenge is sizable and laden with compromises, mistakes, failures. Something new took place in Europe, the irruption of which Freud theorized with the discovery of the unconscious and which is manifested in the radical movements marking the shared thought-language destiny at the heart of what is still called literature and, indeed, philosophy. The unity of the speaking being, sealed by consciousness, is influenced by a network of biology and meaning, so that series of heterogeneous representations constitute our psychical apparatus. “We,” “me,” “I” are formed of multiple facets, and this polyphony—which depresses us or allows us pleasure, which nullifies or glorifies us—resonates in the polysemy of our verbal exchanges, extracts thought from the yoke of the rational, and reconciles an eccentric subject to the pulse of being. To write and/or to think can become, in this perspective, a constant calling into question of the psyche as well as the world.

It is no longer a matter of conforming to the universal (in the best of cases, everyone aspiring to the same values, human rights, for example) or asserting one’s difference (ethnic, religious, sexual) as untouchable and sacred; still less of fighting one of these tendencies with the other or simply and skillfully combining them. It is a matter of pushing the need for the universal and the need for singularity to the limit in each individual, making this simultaneous movement the source of both thought and language. “There is meaning”: this will be my universal. And “I” use the words of the tribe to inscribe my singularity. Je est un autre (“I is another”): this will be my difference, and “I” will express my specificity by distorting the nevertheless necessary clichés of the codes of communication and by constantly deconstructing ideas/concepts/ideologies/philosophies that “I” have inherited. The borders of philosophy and literature break down in favor of a process of meaning and the speaking being, meanings emitted and values received.

Other eras have had this experience. Its radicalness, however, is unique in our century, one of education and information. The intensity of the avant-garde movements, their impact on political debates as well as on the desires of youth, has lent it the value of a mass movement. Those devoted to old ways of thinking are keeping watch: they do not understand, or understand too well, and oppose when they do not censure. Repressive returns to systems foregrounding the needs of identity are resurfacing: nationalism, traditionalism, conservatism, fundamentalism, and so on. Thought is content to build archives: we take stock and kneel down before the relics of the past in a museumlike culture or, in the case of popular variants, in a culture of distraction. We could spend years doing this. But revolt has taken place, it has not been erased, it can be read, and it offers itself to a rootless humanity now governed by the relativism of images as well as monetary and humanitarian indifference. Nonetheless the capacity for enthusiasm, doubt, and the pleasure of inquiry has perhaps not been entirely lost. This is at the heart of the ultimate defense of human life: the meaning of language and the architecture of the idea in the human mind. This at least is the presupposition of this book, or, if you like, this is my belief.