CHAPTER EIGHT

Psychoanalytical visions
of reality and styles of writing

Giorgio Sacerdoti

Several years ago, Roy Schafer published an article in the International Journal of Psycho-Analysis (1970), subsequently included in his book, “A New Language for Psychoanalysis” (1976), in which he outlined four psychoanalytical “visions” of reality described, respectively, as “comic”, “romantic”, “tragic”, and “ironic”. If we were simply to ask ourselves to which of these “visions” a large number of the articles written for the Rivista di Psicoanalisi in the course of the last ten years might belong (above all, from the stylistic point of view), I believe that, more or less, the romantic vision would have first place. Consequently, it is worth while briefly outlining its main characteristics according to Schafer.

More recently, Strenger (1991) has spoken of the romantic vision in psychoanalysis (to be distinguished from the classical vision) as something that began to develop with Ferenczi. It was taken up again by Balint, developed by Winnicott and, in particular, by Kohut, whose work lends itself excellently to describing the main characteristics of the romantic approach. The tension between “romantic” and “classical” attitudes would seem to reflect a tension that is a fundamental characteristic of human life.

To return to Schafer and to his conceptualization, we are told that life, in the romantic vision, is a quest or a series of quests. The quest is a perilous, heroic, individualistic journey. The destination or goal combines some or all the characteristics of the mystery of the immense, of sacredness, of love and, we could perhaps add, of hatred and possession through—or by fusion with—some higher power or principle.

Supposing that my impression is well-founded and that behind a large proportion of today's psychoanalytical works lies a predominantly “romantic vision”, the first thing that occurs to me is to wonder why this should be true right now, and how this fits in with our picture of today's society in general: is it in tune with it or, rather, a “counter-vision in perpetuity”, as Erikson (1968) affirms?

Perhaps before attempting to answer this and other questions, it would be wise to illustrate what this impression of a predominantly “romantic” orientation is founded on. To begin with, I would emphasize the fact that in many cases we are dealing with patients who do not fit in with “classical” indications; analysis then appears as an adventurous undertaking that is also more or less heroic. Moreover, the analyst appears to be the epicentre of this undertaking—even if it is part of the bipersonal field. The analyst, in his reports on the progress of the analysis, presents the reader with a picture of what often appears to be disconcertingly heavy, psychosomatic involvement. This is very often related to mechanisms that revolve around projective identification or, sometimes, adhesive identification. If the reader feels inclined to participate in these vicissitudes, one might ask whether sometimes—in addition to the nostalgia for a primitive psychoanalytical heroism—this participation is not perhaps due, in part, to the fear that, by not participating, he might be catalogued as old-fashioned, or, at best, as an old-style Freudian.

In my opinion, it is essential to identify a continuity and a centrality that will allow the majority of readers to recognize in what they read a theoretical-clinical description that is in accordance with an image of psychoanalysis “in progress”. This may be easier with styles of writing that avoid unnecessary complications and do not shrink from the facts. The latter are perhaps feared since they risk doing away with the analyst's fantasy. In reference to this, Henry James' “The Real Thing” (1893) excellently renders my point of view. In this novel, a couple of authentic if impoverished members of the upper class visit an artist's studio; after harbouring an initial misapprehension that they had come to order a portrait, the artist accepts them as models since they are just the subjects he has been looking for. Successively he feels his inspiration to be considerably diminished. He opens his eyes to what is happening and dismisses the models only through the intervention of an artist friend who sees the portraits on his return from a journey to a distant country (possibly symbolic of the need for distancing). The protagonist becomes aware of the fact that, with those models, he had too real a picture before his eyes. Consequently he was unable to paint a portrait by drawing on his own phantasy, a painting that could be reinvented by art lovers or by anyone else capable of establishing a link between a personal fantasy (internal reality) and that of others. In this way the protagonist discovers the cruel and perverse law according to which the real thing might be less precious than the imaginary one.

In a certain sense the subjects of James' story are individuals for whom it is true to say, “le style c'était l'homme”¹, and who thus leave no room for the style of the artist. The opposite case is that of rather shapeless, presumably structureless, subjects, who ideally leave the sculptor free to follow his own style. The sculptor can, according to Freud, be compared, for certain aspects, with the analyst, in that they both work “per via di tolle”². Except, of course, that the analyst does not work on pieces of marble. However, the style, not to mention the content, of many present-day papers (I say many, because “ the analyst at work” has become an object-subject increasingly laden with voyeuristic-exhibitionistic aspects) seems, on the whole, so monotonous and repetitive, when not stereotyped, as to render it arduous to believe that these “pieces” are really the fruit of a free encounter and not a superimposition or even imposition. [Rosen (1977) defines “personal style” as being the particular method adopted by an individual in order to use the more or less conventional forms of expression in such a way that the synthesis of the subject (the content) and the form permit the right degree of ambiguity. Thus both subject and object can participate in unravelling the enigma created by this ambiguity.)

After all, we know that the language of an analysis that manages to avoid such snags is peculiar to every analytical couple, despite the fact that the analysing subject remains unchanged. Descriptions of this kind of encounter are not lacking; but I would say that one does not come across them very often when leafing through the Rivista di Psicoanalisi of recent years, and the same is true of other journals. They are even absent— though it may seem paradoxical—from the presentations given by candidates applying for membership. In this last case, the kind of writings I mentioned earlier can play an important role, inasmuch as they may heavily influence the candidates. The latter are quick to react with the enthusiasm of the neophyte to what is new or apparently new, scotomizing the fact that sometimes it is really obvious or repetitive.

Risks of the above-mentioned type are reduced in the case of applied psychoanalysis. However, the boundaries between “pure” or theoretical-clinical psychoanalysis and applied psychoanalysis have recently become less clear. This has made a finer definition of the position of the latter essential (a subject dealt with particularly by Tort, 1970, among others). While recognizing that their respective boundaries may be unclear, I think it is important that there should be a constant awareness of which of the two branches we are mainly dealing with.

Finally, the relation between writing and publishing is worth mentioning. A written text may be kept in a drawer (as, for example, Freud's study of transference neuroses)—or it may become the subject of debate in restricted circles, without therefore, becoming formalized in a publication: after all, as we know, verba volant!³

NOTES

1. Le style c'était l'homme: the style was the man.

2. Per via di tolle: by carving away.

3. Verba volant: the spoken word takes wing.