Paul Ricœur, Four Criteria: A Reprise
These last reflections present us with one, intriguing way of tying the “archaeo-teleological principle,” outlined mainly in Freud and Philosophy, to the four “criteria” of analytic experience, developed only later in essays anthologized in On Psychoanalysis. The most explicit common denominator is, of course, desire. On the one hand, this is the uncontroversial archê of Freudian thought, hence the “truth” of its whole explanatory drift. On the other hand, as we have seen, desire is the express “object” that appears under the four-fold conditions of analytic experience, apprehended as
But precisely these criteria, it seems, give flesh once again to the teleological dimension of Ricoeur’s principle. For each of these criteria plainly have to do with desire’s “self-manifestation,” that is, the development and “making known” of the archê. Psychoanalysis advances the program of self-consciousness because, or inasmuch as, it endows desire with a “voice” through which it may be “recognized” — known, cognized — as what it is.
In analysis, there is no such thing as desire per se or “as such”; there is rather only desire (a) expressed (and concealed) by these words, (b) directed toward this person (or his or her avatar), (c) constituting and shaping this life, and (d) conceived, recalled, recounted, and projected in this way.
We will recall that Ricoeur’s “principle” stipulates that — owing, perhaps, to the dialectical structure of philosophical concepts generally — the explicit archê of Freudianism, desire, entails an implicit telos, self-consciousness. The two are finally inseparable. The very effort to analyze, regressively, the adult in terms of the infantile, is redolent of this “quest for consciousness” and so — properly conceived — is something like the final incarnation of desire itself. It is, to put it somewhat grandiosely, desire knowing itself as desire.
In other words, each of the four criteria isolates a side of the generic telos of “progress in self-consciousness.” Let us consider each at greater length:
To say that desire is discursive, expressible, sayable, and the like, is naturally at the same time to make some distinction between “potential” and “realization.” The desire in question is initially something abstract, indeterminate, or “in itself,” but via language — the “empire of speech” — it acquires concretion, determinacy, and becomes “for consciousness.” Such a thought appears, for instance, in “Consciousness and the Unconscious”: “the Freudian unconscious can in essence be known because the instinct’s ‘ideational representatives’ remain on the level of the signified and are permissibly homogeneous with the empire of speech” (105)
Likewise, calling desire “interpersonal” or “other-directed” is to postulate an “end” toward which it strives, and through which — by the mediation of which — this desire “becomes what it is.” One seeks the other’s “recognition” (first the parents’; later the analyst’s), in order to “know oneself in the other.”
The criterion of “psychic reality,” too, entails that desire is never simply desire per se — paradigmatically, a fungible, quality-less quantum of libido. On the contrary, desire is always contoured, configured, or determined as a particular fantasy. In fact, it is only in the course of “realizing" this particular configuration that it may know — and thus become more fully — “itself.” The repetition compulsion represents a stalled development, a stubborn, unconscious recurrence of the same. But an analysis, so it is claimed, may “reactivate” this development and escort the desire to meaningful awareness.
“Narration,” finally, signals the most transparently “teleological” fact about desire. As we have seen, “un-narrated” desire is per definition unsatisfied desire, while it becomes satisfied, or at least promises satisfaction, when it is called into the kind of “order” that narration effects. And this narration, for Ricoeur, is precisely the most developed and sophisticated “self knowledge” of which human begins are finally capable.
Paul Ricœur, Archaeology and Teleology (IV)
Our last entry concluded with a schematic interpretation of Ricoeur’s gnomic “identity thesis” (as I have taken to calling it). This thesis states that, in the Freudian program, the archê of desire and the telos of self-consciousness — hence the archaeological and teleological “hermeneutics” organized around them — are somehow “identical.” Yet this idea has been systematically overlooked in the self-understanding of Freudianism. The latter’s “teleological” ingredient has remained merely implicit, as has — naturally — the relation of that ingredient to the explicit and more familiar “archaeological” meaning of Freudianism.
So Ricoeur writes: “Freud links a thematized archaeology of the unconscious to an unthematized teleology of the process of becoming conscious” (FaP 461). Incidentally, I think this formulation ought to be held firmly in mind in all discussions of Ricoeur’s conception of the “archaeo-teleological principle.” For it fixes in a perspicuous way that “end” toward which analysis, the patient — indeed, the human animal per se — implicitly strains. A “teleology of the process of becoming conscious” tacitly subordinates other ends “for the sake of which” a human being might act — say, power, love, pleasure, fame. This is not to deny that such ends may figure, and prominently, in a given life (albeit in varying degrees and proportions). It is to claim, however, that — so far as the true “final cause” of Freudianism is concerned, indeed, the consummation of its very archê, desire — every rival human end receives its significance from advancing this “process of becoming conscious.”
This is perhaps Ricoeur’s analytic twist to the “teleology” promoted by Aristotle, whose Nicomachean Ethics famously begins: “Every art and every inquiry, and similarly every action and pursuit, is thought to aim at some good; and for this reason the good has rightly been declared to be that at which all things aim.” Of course, Aristotle himself quickly establishes that “the highest of all goods achievable by action” is that Eudaimonia (flourishing, fulfillment, happiness) studied in ethics and political science. This condition, in short, is the “final end” or “highest good” for human beings — “it is for the sake of this that all men do whatever else they do.”
The hidden telos that Ricoeur excavates from the Freudian program and its grounding concepts is scarcely “flourishing” per se — an unlikely proposition given the dim prospects that Freud allows to human beings for ever satisfying the “pleasure principle.” It is rather, again, self-consciousness.
Ricoeur and Hegel
These comments on Aristotle raise the question of philosophical “influence" in a way I have avoided until now. In fact, both the “form” and the “content” of Ricoeur’s procedure in these areas is quintessentially, self-consciously Hegelian. Ricoeur openly credits Hegel with inspiring his ideas, and Freud and Philosophy contains several expositions of passages from the Phenomenology of Spirit. (At other times Ricoeur appears to be drawing from the Philosophy of Right, without citations.) Here I would like to elaborate on the Hegelian substance of the “archaeo-teleological principle,” in particular:
Form. As we have seen, Ricoeur claims that, upon examination, the two positions or modes of reflection designated “archaeology” and “teleology” — seemingly irreconcilable alternatives — form a kind of “identity.” This sort of gesture is supremely Hegelian. That is, Hegel has become closely associated with the philosophical effort to demonstrate that the “poles” of some abstract dichotomy — say, subject and object, or freedom and necessity, or fact and value — are in fact mutually-determining, “identical.” In Hegel’s language, philosophy involves constructing “speculative identities” between ostensibly antithetical terms. Moreover, the demonstration of these “identities” assumes a particular shape that, again, Ricoeur knowingly echos. That is: following Hegel, Ricoeur attempts to show that one pole of a dichotomy will “realize” itself as the opposite pole; that, so to speak, an item can only become “what it is” by inverting itself into its conceptual antithesis. This method constitutes, as Hegel’s disciples have named it, a type of “immanent criticism,” since one derives the entire “movement” or “action” out of resources internal or “immanent” to the object of analysis. In the context of Ricoeur’s project, this means: upon analysis, we discover that the archê of desire only “realizes” itself, becomes properly what it is, in the telos of self-consciousness.
Content. But it is not only the form of argument that Ricoeur has assimilated from Hegel — the mere type of immanent or dialectical analysis that issues in “speculative identities” between seemingly antithetical concepts. Beyond this, Ricoeur capitalizes on the content of Hegel’s thought, that is, a specific instance of this analysis from the Phenomenology of Spirit. The very conceptual dichotomy we have now examined at length, between the archê of desire and the telos of self-consciousness — Hegel centers, analyzes, “works through” this same dichotomy in the Phenomenology’s celebrated chapter “Self-Consciousness.” The most incisive statement of Ricoeur’s identity-thesis, that “self-consciousness is desire” (466) — for arche and telos are one — is not merely “inspired” by Hegel; it is written by him: “self-consciousness is desire itself” (¶167). Of course, the meaning of this identity — let alone its concrete demonstration — will naturally look rather different in the context of 20th century Freudianism than it does in Hegel’s 1807 text. What matters is that, notwithstanding the strictly “archaeological” appearance of Freud’s naturalistic architectonic of the primitive, “desiring” mind, still, it cannot be coherently grasped without reference to its “teleological” consummation in self-consciousness. In both cases, we are effectively told that “desire,” properly conceived, is always the desire to become self-consciousness, to experience the sentiment of self and thus “know oneself.”
There is at least one additional step to this interpretation of Ricoeur’s archaeo-teleological principle — that human desire is finally a desire for the “end” of self-consciousness, hence that archê and telos are one. Fortunately, we already made a start in our commentary on the second “criterion” of a psychoanalytic fact: that in analysis desire is always other-directed, a plea for recognition.
Now, in endorsing the Hegelian trope that human “desire” is essentially a desire for recognition, Ricoeur likewise revises the meaning of human “satisfaction.” After all, one cannot revise a concept of desire without also revising the concept of satisfaction which answers to that desire. A biological urge or need — hunger, say — admits of biological satisfaction — foodstuff. By contrast, an interpersonal need demands a correspondingly interpersonal satisfaction — something on the order of acceptance, approval, validation, recognition, and the like.
But Ricoeur does more than this. For along with the Hegelian notion of a desire for recognition, he has appropriated the “epistemic” implications Hegel derives from it. Our drive for the other’s recognition — literally, re-cognition — is itself an aspect or phase of the quest for knowledge, “the task of consciousness,” and finally self-consciousness. We are “conscious” of ourselves, we know what we are, in and through our experience of others. Thus — assembling the different pieces of Ricoeur’s picture — we may retrospectively construe all human behavior as accessory to this drive for “self-recognition in the other.” I think the following syllogism roughly captures the thought:
In the psychoanalytic context, human desire is always at bottom a desire for recognition;
The desire for recognition is itself best understood as a desire for self-knowledge — my self-concept, my idea of myself, is only fully possessed when it is “validated” by another. (Indeed, in the first instance I only “know” myself through the other — one’s self-concept originates here.); therefore
In this rather expanded sense, human desire is essentially the desire for self-consciousness
For these reasons, teleology will necessarily figure in precisely those psychoanalytic explanations that seem most archaeological.
Now, one may justify a “weaker" version of Ricoeur’s claim in a straightforward way, a strategy that would obviate much of the forgoing discussion. For surely teleology of some sort is inseparable from analysis inasmuch as its central locus, desire, by definition presupposes an “end.” Even the earliest, infantile desire — which lives on as unconscious fantasy, contouring the full sweep of adult experience — is a desire for something: to possess the mother and eliminate the father.
Yet Ricoeur’s claim, again, is not merely that psychoanalysis implicitly contains some end or another. The telos he identifies is a quite specific one, namely, “the task of consciousness,” “the process of becoming conscious,” and the like. So, for evidence of his thesis, Ricoeur would not be content to point out the desire-indexed “ends” that pervade every analysis. (These would surprise no one.) His point is rather that, alongside Freudianism’s regressive “reduction” of these ends to their archaic prototypes, and precisely through this reduction, one advances the supervening, teleological “task of consciousness.” Paradoxically, it is just this “archaeological” work that realizes our “aptitude for progression, which analytic practice puts in operation, but which the theory does not thematize” (492).
For this reason, the desires expressed in analysis are never simply distorted repetitions of archaic prototypes — though they are surely that as well. One may reduce the patient’s “ends” (a promotion, a lover, a mansion), to their infantile precursors (the breast, the phallus). But that very interpretation, in the analytic setting, will then constitute the more-or-less conscious appropriation of these prototypes. It activates our “aptitude for progression” by escorting the infantile desire to its proper terminus in self-consciousness.
Hence the archaeological explanation, interpreted to the patient in the analytic context, itself enables and demands the complementary teleological explanation. The archaeological interpretation, “your desire for a mansion is unconsciously a desire for a phallus” — provided it hits the mark, “takes roots” — will license the teleological conception, “my desire for a mansion has served the “end” of making my infantile desire self-conscious.
Paul Ricœur, Archaeology and Teleology (III)
In the last entries, we stipulated the characteristics of “archaeological” and “teleological” styles of explanation, as Ricoeur understands them. His central claim is that, while Freudianism's explicit “archaeological” gestures are universally recognized, its implicit “teleological” contents have been basically disregarded — where they have not been denied altogether.
We have described, moreover, the particular forms these two “hermeneutics” take in the Freudian context. Whereas
archaeology explains, regressively, human mentality with reference to its “origin” in infantile desire, or its archê,
teleology explains, progressively, this same mentality with reference to its “end” in an emerging self-consciousness, or its telos. (According to this latter approach, we have only grasped something when we perceive the end “for the sake of which” it exists or occurs.)
In short, as Ricoeur writes: “Freud links a thematized archaeology of the unconscious to an unthematized teleology of the process of becoming conscious” (FaP 461).
It is also part of Ricoeur’s argument, however — indeed, the most significant part — that these hermeneutical “antipodes” are, in reality, internally-related or even identical. This is naturally a counterintuitive proposition. We might suspect, after all, that archaeological and teleological explanations are mutually exclusive: in a given instance one practices one or the other, but never both at once. To be sure, I may explain a given item both by what precedes it and what follows it — its arché and telos — at different times, with the aid of different proposition-types. (On the one hand: “The behavior, x, is an unconscious manifestation of infantile desire.” On the other hand: “The behavior, x, promotes the growth of self-consciousness.”) In that case, though, there is hardly any question of which one I am doing.
Yet Ricoeur is not merely claiming that Freudianism contains both hermeneutics — as though some of Freud’s assertions about human mentality are archaeological, while others are teleological. Rather, in a way that may strike the reader as paradoxical, Ricoeur is arguing that these two hermeneutics are mutually-dependent. The very thrust of Freudianism that appears most “archaeological” is itself grounded in, or presupposes, a “teleology” inseparable from it, and vice versa. Or again: upon reflection, the archê of desire and the telos of self-consciousness are finally the same.
But what do these gnomic phrases mean, exactly? Ricoeur dedicates much of the last sections of Freud and Philosophy to substantiating this puzzling “identity” thesis — that is, the “archaeo-teleological principle” as such. Already in “Consciousness and the Unconscious,” though, he’d projected such an identity, albeit cautiously and in schematic form. We already quoted a relevant passage from this essay in the last entry, and I want to reproduce it here:
“[W]hat is at stake is the possibility of a philosophical anthropology which can take up the dialectic between consciousness and the unconscious. What world view and vision of man will make this possible? What must man be to assume the responsibility of sound thought and yet be susceptible of falling into insanity, to be obligated by his humanity to strive for greater and greater consciousness and yet remain a product of topographic or economic models insofar as ‘the id speaks through him?’ What new vision of human fragility…is required by the sort of thought which has allowed itself to be decentered from consciousness through reflecting on the unconscious?” (100-101)
While at the time of this essay Ricoeur had evidently not yet settled on the terms “archaeology” and “teleology” to canvass his concerns, their operation here is unmistakable. When viewed under his or her archaeological aspect, the human being is “a product of topographic or economic models insofar as ‘the id speaks through him.’” But this same human being is defined by a telos, namely, “to strive for greater and greater consciousness” and in this way “to assume the responsibility of sound thought.”
Later in the essay, Ricoeur redescribes this definitive telos — of the human being and, by extension, of psychoanalysis — as a “task.” Perhaps, in a Kantian spirit, this is an unendliche Aufgabe, an “infinite task,” an unending end:
“Everything that can be said about consciousness after Freud seems to me to be contained in the following formula: Consciousness is not a given but a task.” (108)
And a moment later, Ricoeur indexes the possibility of progress in self-illumination — the task of that agency designated simply “consciousness” — to the unconscious:
“Our question is the following: What is the meaning of the unconscious for a being whose task is consciousness? This question is related to a second: What is consciousness as a task for a being who is somehow bound to those factors, such as repetition and even regression, which the unconscious represents for the most part?” (108-109)
What begins to emerge in these passages is the indissoluble bond between teleology and archaeology, such that
one must realize the “task” of enlightenment or “consciousness” in and through what is unconscious; while
unconscious life — its meaning, its very existence — is at the same time dependent upon the realization of this “task” of consciousness
Which is to say: consciousness, in the sense Ricoeur has in mind, simply is this vexed relation to the unconscious, and vice versa. Hence archê and telos, one’s “foundation” and one’s “end,” define one another just as consciousness and the unconscious do. Indeed, these polarities are merely two iterations of the same basic problem or “task.”
Now it seems to me we can give compressed form to Ricoeur’s “identity” thesis as follows: one’s “end” is nothing but a (more or less conscious) appropriation of one’s foundation; and, alternatively, one’s “foundation,” desire — as a moving force in one’s life — exists at all only as something (more or less consciously) appropriated as one’s end.
After all, what kind of “end” could a human being pursue, including the “task” of consciousness, if it is not one appointed by desire — a desire whose shape has been contoured beginning in the remotest past? And what is “desire,” the moving force of a life, if it is not something manifested in ends as various as the many projects constituting a life — above all, finally, the “analytic” end of self-consciousness?
This last remark raises an ambiguity I have deliberately bracketed until now. We have been drawing on some distinction between
the sundry “ends,” the projects, of a given human life — sex, family, money, fame, etc. — and
that meta-teleological “end” posited in analysis, even as analysis: the enlargement of self-understanding, or the “task of consciousness.”
There seems to be some important, albeit obscure relation between these “ends” of life and the proper “end” of analysis. And while Ricoeur is in no hurry to clarify this conceptual nexus, it is arguably crucial to the position he is defending. I want to consider two ways of conceiving this relation between the mundane ends of life and the privileged end of analysis. For they may throw light on our central issue: the purported “identity” between the archê of desire and the telos of self-consciousness.
The “end” of analysis overall, the thoroughgoing self-reflection on unconscious life and thereby the expansion of self-consciousness, draws attention to the patient’s “ends,” to the adult projects in which he or she is enmeshed, and to their largely unconscious meaning. And this “meaning” coincides with their origin in, and determination by, their infantile predecessors — that is, the archê of desire. In the course of investigation, which gradually imparts to these mature ends a conscious significance and value for the patient they formally lacked, these ends are (potentially) weakened, strengthened, or otherwise “revised.” At the same time, new ends are originated, refined, and so on. All of which suggests: the universal, meta-teleological “end” of self-consciousness, when successful, may alter — undermine, promote, or otherwise scramble —the particular “ends” of that patient in whom the “task of consciousness” takes hold.
But there is another, perhaps more satisfying way of considering this relation between the analytic “end” of self-knowledge and the many “ends” constitutive of anyone’s life. In Love and its Place in Nature, Jonathan Lear, drawing equally from Aristotle and Hans Loewald, glosses unconscious desire as “archaic mental functioning,” and argues that the “symptoms” encountered in an analysis — bodily episodes and complaints, ritualistic habits, confusing patterns of interaction — are precisely the mind’s way of pressing for self-expression when other, “mature” channels are obstructed, with the goal, viz. the end, of being known, understood, recognized. From this perspective, the “task of consciousness” (the meta-teleological “end”) is not something superimposed, externally, upon the patient’s behaviors and projects (and the “ends” embedded in them) — as though these latter were merely “objects” of reflection, over which one may subsequently exert conscious control. On the contrary, self-reflection is precisely the “end” of these phenomena, the final stage toward which they unconsciously strain.
This second interpretation, in particular, gives us a way of grasping Ricoeur’s broad identity-thesis. For in this case, the archê of desire “is” the telos of self-consciousness, in the following sense: the most primitive, infantile wishes are “manifested,” more or less unconsciously, in adult projects. Hence a desire for anything at all — a mundane end — is always also, inter alia and most significantly, a desire to “manifest,” that is, to be perceived, known, or recognized.
I will continue my exposition of this difficult thought in the next entry.
Paul Ricœur, Archaeology and Teleology (II)
Our last discussion ended on a hopeful note. We considered Ricoeur’s proposal that, alongside Freudianism’s explicit, essentially fatalistic “archaeology” — and in seeming opposition to it — we may also discover an implicit, non-fatalistic “teleology.” This possibility is developed at length in Freud and Philosophy. Ricoeur’s claim is that, upon examination, Freud’s “archaeology of the subject” bears “a relationship of dialectical opposition to the complementary concept of teleology” (459). Indeed, this seems to follow as a necessary inference: “In order to have an archê a subject must have a telos” (459). What does Ricoeur have in mind here, exactly?
We saw in the last entry that Freudian “archaeology” connotes a certain “disenchanting” explanatory drift: whatever in human affairs seems mature, complex, even noble, is “reduced” to something archaic, simple, and base. The patient’s ostensible desire for career promotion is in fact, unconsciously, a desire for a phallus. “Modern” liberal democracies are in fact, and notwithstanding their idealized self-understandings, governed by the same dynamic principles as the primitive horde. And so on with this “regressive hermeneutics,” which only ever achieves “a revelation of the archaic,” or “a manifestation of the ever prior” (440). In particular, analysis invariably divines, just beneath the deceitful surface of human mentality and behavior, “our timeless, immortal, indestructible desire” (453). Hence Freudianism
“unmasked the strategy of the pleasure principle, the archaic form of the human, under its rationalizations, its idealizations, its sublimations. Here the function of analysis is to reduce apparent novelty by showing that it is actually a revival of the old” (446)
This is what is involved in the “archaeology of the subject” — a subject whose essence accordingly is, and ever remains, “indestructible desire,” the unsurpassable “strategy of the pleasure principle.”
And yet, to repeat: Ricoeur has also told us that archaeology somehow entails the “complementary concept of teleology,” and that “to have an archê a subject must have a telos” (459). What do these formulations mean? To begin with the well-understood: if an archê — in the present case, the subject’s archaic desire — is the “prior,” the “beginning,” the “foundation,” and the like, then a telos is the “posterior,”the “realization,” the “end.” In a general way, we can say that teleological reasoning shows — or attempts to show — that an item exists, or is so-constituted, “for the sake of” some other item, or “in order to” advance some “end.” This is perfectly commonplace, of course. Every “explanation” of an action (e.g. a walk to the library) with reference to an intended outcome (e.g. “in order to” check out a book) makes use of a teleological idiom. Checking out a book is the telos or “end” that governs the walk. (Aristotelians would distinguish between “efficient” causes [in which the earlier accounts for the later] from “final” causes [in which the later accounts for the earlier.])
This idiom, we can now appreciate, is the diametrical opposite of “archaeological” reasoning, in the sense Ricoeur has specified. It is “the complete contrary of a genesis of the higher from the lower” (467). Whereas archaeology illuminates the later always with reference to the earlier, teleology inverts the order of explanation, such that the earlier is illuminated by the later — that is, its end. So the simple yet powerful thought is that we may legitimately “grasp” a thing — in this case, human mentality — with reference to both (a) its Archê, its prehistory, and (b) its Telos, its post-history.
But if a telos is, generically, “that for the sake of which” something is or occurs — such that this “end” explains that thing — we may then ask: what specifically might this involve in the context of Freudianism? What — in however latent or disregarded a way — is its “end” or “ends”? Only when we have a satisfactory answer to this question will we be positioned to understand Ricoeur’s additional, more cryptic claim: that the archê and telos of Freudianism are somehow inwardly related and, indeed, “identical.”
One passage, which I quoted in the last entry, begins to give shape to this telos:
“[I]n a direction contrary to the regressive movement psychoanalysis sets forth in theory, there must be supposed an aptitude for progression, which analytic practice puts in operation, but which the theory does not thematize.” (492)
Thus analytic practice presupposes in human beings — in the analysand specifically — an “aptitude for progression.” Now what kind of progression is this? Or again: towards what, in which direction, does someone “progress” — especially, though perhaps not exclusively, under the influence of analysis? Earlier Ricoeur had distinguished Freudianism’s explicit archaeology (an “economics”) and its implicit teleology (a “dialectic”) as follows:
“[T]he oscillation between a dialectic and an economics, between [1] a dialectic oriented toward the gradual emergence of self-consciousness and [2] an economics that explains the ‘placements’ and ‘displacements’ of desire through which this difficult emergence is effected” (483, bracket numbers mine)
Plainly, the psychoanalytic telos we are attempting to identify is for Ricoeur connected with “the gradual emergence of self-consciousness.” In fact, the emergence of self-consciousness precisely is this telos. Our inborn “aptitude for progression,” presupposed by an analysis, moves in this direction.
Once again, we may look to Ricoeur’s early essay, “Consciousness and the Unconscious,” for intimations of this teleology. In fact, even then, Ricoeur had explicitly framed his theoretical objectives in terms of just this theme. The entire essay builds toward an answer to the question of teleology:
“Following the revision of the concept of consciousness imposed by the science of the unconscious, and after the critique of the ‘models’ of the unconscious, what is at stake is the possibility of a philosophical anthropology which can take up the dialectic between consciousness and the unconscious. What world view and vision of man will make this possible? What must man be to assume the responsibility of sound thought and yet be susceptible of falling into insanity, to be obligated by his humanity to strive for greater and greater consciousness and yet remain a product of topographic or economic models insofar as ‘the id speaks through him?’ What new vision of human fragility— and, even more radically, of the paradox of responsibility vs. fragility — is required by the sort of thought which has allowed itself to be decentered from consciousness through reflecting on the unconscious?” (100-101)
The “end” signaled in this passage — the human being qua human “strive[s] for greater and greater consciousness” — appears as “the” quintessential analytic end, a category which will encompass and supervene upon all other, particular ends. And even here it is the opposite number, so to speak, of the archê — desire — the unsurpassable foundation of this same human being, who thus “remain[s] a product of topographic or economic models insofar as ‘the id speaks through him.’” In this way, Ricoeur positions
the archê of primitive, infantile desire and
the telos of progress in self-consciousness
as together the alpha and omega of the analytic project or, alternatively, of the human being construed analytically.
Even in this passage, however, Ricoeur presents the two, not as mutually exclusive opposites, nor again as the poles of a continuum on which phenomena may plotted — closer to one or the other — but rather as inseparable, mutually-dependent “moments” of the human being überhaupt.
I will attempt to elucidate this mutual-dependence in the following entries. For the moment, though, let us recapitulate what we have learned and describe, as plainly as possible, Ricoeur’s use of these two concepts. In Freudianism, an “archaeological” explanation — alternatively, a “regressive hermeneutics” — refers the later to the earlier, the modern to the archaic, the complex to the simple, and so on. What appears “new" is in all events exposed as the old, a recurrence of the same. More specifically, and quintessentially, the analyst interprets the adult patient’s thoughts, feelings, and behaviors as “mere” manifestations of a largely unconscious core of infantile desire. The stakes here are existential. So Ricoeur refers, in his more rarefied philosophical language, to the “positing of desire through which I am posited, and find myself already posited” (439) — a “prior positing of the sum [being] at the heart of the Cogito”(439). What a human being essentially is — one’s sum — is accordingly synonymous with a “desire” that precedes every self-reflection. This desire, then, is the foundation or archê of Freudianism.
At the same time, however, Ricoeur has proposed that this same Freudianism, so closely associated with its grand archaeological gestures, also contains an implicit “teleology.” Generically, we saw, teleological reasoning pertains to ends. One “grasps” an item — say, a piece of human behavior — only by identifying that telos “for the sake of which” it is undertaken. If I do x (buy groceries), “in order to bring about” y (make and eat dinner), then y illuminates the occurrence of x. In a way that can seem relatively puzzling, then, according to teleological reason, the “later” (making and eating dinner), is somehow required to grasp the “earlier” (the act of buying groceries).
But the implicit teleological ingredient which Ricoeur discerns in Freudianism evidently has to do with a specific “end”: namely, the human “aptitude for progression” towards “the gradual emergence of self-consciousness,” or the obligation “to strive for greater and greater consciousness” and precisely “through reflecting on the unconscious.”
Let us now put Ricoeur’s theoretical proposal into the scholastic vocabulary we have been entertaining. Like any teleology, Freud’s will suppose that a later item, y, may explain an earlier item, x — provided x exists or occurs “for the sake of” y. If our interpretation of Ricoeur’s proposal is correct, he is suggesting that the same applies to Freudianism. For here, too, x — human thought, feeling, and behavior — is illuminated by that y — the enlargement of self-consciousness — “for the sake of which” it occurs. Thus it follows that one and the same item, human mentality, can be referred in explanation both to (a) the earlier, the archê of infantile desire, and (b) the later, the telos of self-consciousness.
Now, Ricoeur’s conclusion here is arguably at once obvious and rather obscure. It is obvious because no reader of Freud can overlook the latter’s enlightenment ethos: indeed, the whole point and purpose of his archaeological “excavations” can be nothing except “insight,” the self-illumination of mind. Hence the promise of an enlarged self-consciousness is scarcely an “implicit” end of Freudianism but, on the contrary, its persistently advertised centerpiece.
At the same time, logically speaking, it is hardly obvious how one can reconcile (a) Freud’s militant archaeology, in which the “archaic” always and exhaustively explains the “modern,” with (b) precisely this enlightenment commitment to the “end” of illumination — or any “end,” for that matter — running in the opposite direction. How could Freud’s totalizing archaeology contain any room at all for such a “progressive hermeneutics” — that is, for the idiom of in order tos and for the sake ofs?
In the next entry we will begin to address this question.
Paul Ricœur, Archaeology and Teleology (I)
Archaeology and Teleology
In the last series of entries I expounded the “criteria” which, for Ricoeur, constitute analytic experience. These are the marks through which we can identify something as analytic and so distinguish between analytic and non-analytic “facts.” In summary, Ricoeur’s position is that the patient’s desire — the authentic analytic focus — will invariably appear or “show up” in an analysis as
But this commentary on the fourfold analytic “contouring” of desire, and in particular our most recent reflections on Nachträglichkeit — hence the possibility of retroactively “reforming” one’s past — have brought us to the threshold of another important area of Ricoeur’s thinking. This is the “archaeo-teleological principle” that, particularly in Freud and Philosophy, Ricoeur discerns (albeit obscurely) at the core of Freudianism. In this entry and the next ones, I want to examine this principle to see what light it throws on the theory and practice of psychoanalysis.
The principle, of course, is actually compounded of two concepts. And ultimately, Ricoeur is preoccupied precisely with how these seeming antipodes mutually relate: on the one hand, “archaeology,” on the other, “teleology.” Initially, though, Ricoeur tentatively consider these concepts as separate, before raising the possibility of their essential “inseparability.” And we will follow him in this sequence.
Archaeology
Let us ask, then: what is the meaning for Ricoeur of terms like “archaeology” or “the archaeological” in the context of Freudianism? Undoubtedly, Ricoeur is first of all capitalizing on a metaphor that pervades Freud’s own writings. For Freud himself frequently likens the analyst to an archaeologist and analysis to an archaeological dig. What appealed to Freud in this metaphor? Like the archaeologist at the excavation site, the analyst with a patient attempts to uncover contents from a previous era — deeper “strata” — concealed beneath the “surface.” Both seek what is earlier in time and, it seems to follow, more basic, fundamental, primitive, and the like.
The analogy is imperfect, of course. Those traces of a past civilization uncovered by the archaeologist do not necessarily influence, shape, or “move” the contemporary civilization built upon it. By contrast, in psychoanalysis one purportedly reaches “deep,” unconscious mental strata of the mind — crystallized in the past, that is, during infancy — that continue to bear on, and disturb, the patient’s consciousness. And this is to say: not only do these more primitive mental strata antedate the adult mind; they also explain it, “in the present.”
Ricoeur’s use of “archaeology” implies each these aspects, but especially this last part. As he writes in “Consciousness and the Unconscious,” “the analyst…shows man as subject to his childhood” (109). And, speaking of the structural model’s mental agencies as mere precipitates of the past, Ricoeur continues:
“The bleak vision which he [Freud] proposes of consciousness as subject to the three masters of the Id, the Superego, and Reality defines the task of consciousness in an obverse sense and the route of epigenesis as a negative.” (109)
Hence “archaeology” in Freudianism has centrally to do with an explanatory direction, that is, a “regressive hermeneutics” (120). In the realm of mental life, at least, the past “explains” the present; the primitive “explains” the complex; the lower “explains” the higher. Ricoeur elaborates upon this “regressive procedure of Freudian analysis” (112) as follows:
“[A]n understanding of consciousness always moves backwards…The fundamental meaning of the unconscious is in fact that an understanding always comes out of preceding figures, whether one understands this priority in a purely temporal and factual or symbolic sense. Man is the only being who is subject to his childhood. He is that being whose childhood constantly draws him backwards. The unconscious is thus the principle of all regressions and all stagnations.” (113)
From this perspective, writes Ricoeur, “the unconscious is fate…the hinterside fate of childhood and of symbols already there and reiterated, the fate of the repetition of the same themes on different helices of a spiral” (118). And Ricoeur never loosens this conceptual association of archaeology, stricto sensu, with fatalism.
In Freud and Philosophy, Ricoeur will dedicate considerable attention to this idea of explanatory “reduction.” But whereas “Consciousness and the Unconscious” does not even allude to the place of “desire” in analysis, in Freud and Philosophy this concept becomes the master concept of archaeological thought. On Ricoeur’s view, Freudian archaeology centrally and overtly involves an attempt to grasp
“the emergence or positing of desire through which I am posited, and find myself already posited. This prior positing of the sum [being] at the heart of the Cogito must now be made explicit under the title of an archaeology of the subject.” (439)
According to this reading of Freud, a person’s very being — neurotic and non-neurotic alike — is explicable only as the result of an antecedent “emergence or positing of desire.” The “archaeology of the subject” therefore designates the program of tracing this “being,” regressively, to the antecedent desire in which it originates.
Hence to “regard Freudianism as a revelation of the archaic, a manifestation of the ever prior” (440) now just means attending to “our timeless, immortal, indestructible desire” (453). There is no question about the identity of that explanans underlying all human explananda:
“[P]sychoanalysis is the borderline knowledge of that which, in representation, does not pass into ideas. That which is represented in affects and which does not pass into ideas is desire qua desire.” (453, my italics)
This characterization is readily generalized:
“The genius of Freudianism is to have unmasked the strategy of the pleasure principle, the archaic form of the human, under its rationalizations, its idealizations, its sublimations. Here the function of analysis is to reduce apparent novelty by showing that it is actually a revival of the old: substitute satisfaction, restoration of the lost archaic object, derivatives from early fantasies — these are but various names to designate the restoration of the old in the features of the new.” (446)
Ricoeur perceives this same archaeological gesture across the entirety of Freud’s corpus: in accounts of dreams, narcissism, the superego and morality, the Oedipus complex, masochism, the death drive and repetition compulsion, and finally “culture” broadly speaking, i.e in art, religion, and morality. In short, and in the same language we considered above: “If one interrelates all these modalities of archaism, there is formed the complex figure of a destiny in reverse, a destiny that draws one backward” (452). Freudianism, so construed, amounts to “a strange and profound philosophy of fate” (468).
In a general way, then, Freudianism has become synonymous with a disenchanting program — the systematic effort to “expose” the lower in the higher, to identify where and how the adult remains “subject to his childhood.” This is hardly a controversial or unfamiliar reading of Freud, of course, and probably doesn’t require much in the way of clarification, illustration, or justification. After all, it is widely known that a “classical” analyst might interpret the adult patient’s conscious desires, e.g. for a mistress or a promotion at work, as more or less obscure manifestations of original, now unconscious desires, e.g. for the breast or the phallus.
And this program is thoroughly universalized in Freud’s cultural writings, wherein modern man remains stubbornly bound to ancient man. Between the primal horde and the most organized, differentiated society there is no qualitative distinction to be drawn, since the latter amounts only to the channeling, deflection, or restraint of some quantity of libido in the body politic.
Thus the archaeological direction of Freudianism is well established, and Ricoeur locates this “regressive hermeneutics” in all the corners of Freud’s writings. And yet Ricoeur nonetheless now asks: is there some path open, in Freudianism itself, to conceptualizing the obverse — the thought that childhood may also be “subject” to adulthood, that the lowest may become the highest without essentially remaining the lowest? Is there in Freud’s system, however latent, a progression that is not a “mere” repetition? In short: is there for psychoanalysis such a thing as “progress” at all, and — if so — what concepts enable us to reflect on it?
These are evidently the sorts of (hopeful) questions that motivate Ricoeur’s turn from the concept of “archaeology” to that of “teleology.” For the latter contains the promise of a non-fatalistic conceptual counterpart to archaeology:
“It seems to me that the concept of an archaeology of the subject remains very abstract so long as it has not been set in a relationship of dialectical opposition to the complementary concept of teleology. In order to have an archê a subject must have a telos.” (459)
Moreover, as I have suggested, Ricoeur will attempt to locate and elaborate this telos, not beyond Freudianism, but precisely within it. A discussion of teleology, in other words, is implicitly demanded by Freudianism itself. So Ricoeur writes:
“[I]n a direction contrary to the regressive movement psychoanalysis sets forth in theory, there must be supposed an aptitude for progression, which analytic practice puts in operation, but which the theory does not thematize.” (492)
What is Freudianism’s telos, then? — what can we say about this teleological “aptitude for progression,” presupposed but unrecognized by psychoanalysis? — and how does this aptitude relate to the more conspicuous “regressive” or “archaeological” dimension of Freudianism? I will take up these questions in the next entries.