Posts Tagged ‘psychoanalysis’
“What is the reward for knowing the worst?”*…
The estimable Adam Phillips on the (ultimately constructive) tension between psychoanalysis and (especially American) pragmatism…
When Richard Rorty wrote, in one of his many familiar pragmatist pronouncements, that the only way you can tell if something is true is if it helps you get the life you want, it sounded either like a provocative assertion or another advertisement, masquerading as epistemology, for consumer capitalism. How one feels about Rorty’s eloquent, deliberate and subtle brashness depends on one’s education and sensibility, on one’s cultural preferences and prejudices, and indeed on one’s politics. There may be a significant difference between getting the life I want and getting the life ‘we’ might want, between a certain kind of possessive, acquisitive individualism and a collective political project (the phrase ‘the life I want’ also implies a stability and a degree of certainty in myself; the idea of the life I want fixes the flux of myself). And there are also, by the same token, interesting difficulties in using Rorty’s pragmatist definition of truth in relation to psychoanalysis, which in a quite different way claims to have an interest in truth and in the lives people claim that they want. Rorty’s description of truth here, read in a psychoanalytic context, couldn’t easily be squared with, say, Lacan’s goal for psychoanalytic treatment, which, in the useful words of Slavoj Žižek, clearly seeks a different version of truth. Lacan’s goal for psychoanalytic treatment, Žižek writes, ‘is not the patient’s wellbeing, successful social life or personal fulfilment, but to bring the patient to confront the elementary co-ordinates and deadlocks of his or her desire’. It doesn’t sound as though helping the patient get the life he wants is among Lacan’s priorities (and ‘deadlocks’, of course, aren’t Rorty’s thing). This can’t help but make us wonder whether, or in what sense, Freud’s psychoanalysis has got anything to do with getting the life you want; and if it doesn’t, what it might be to do with. Freud does, after all, put wishing at the centre of his theory, but only to radically temper it; as if to say, what you think you want is where the problems start. And yet wanting is what, for both psychoanalysis and American pragmatism, there is, in William James’s words, ‘to be going on from’. Both Freud’s psychoanalysis and Rorty’s pragmatism tell us, in their different ways, why wanting matters, and also that wanting has become the thing we most want to know about, as though now we are simply our wants.
It is easy to forget that all accounts of the goals of psychoanalysis are prescriptions presented as descriptions. In the guise of telling us what the goal of psychoanalysis is – what the concept of cure is, what a successful treatment entails – theorists are simply giving us their own account of what they take a good life to be and what they assume a person wants (a person who walks into an analyst’s office walks into a vocabulary, and a vocabulary is always a vocabulary of wants). Psychoanalysts, to their credit, have been more than willing to tell us what the good is that we should seek; though not quite so willing to open up their proposed goods for discussion, or indeed to suggest that their proposed goods might be experiments in living and not absolute values. For Freud, the goal is recovering the capacity to love and work, or, rather more grimly, to turn hysterical misery into ordinary unhappiness. For Lacan it is ‘not giving ground relative to one’s desire’; for Klein it is reaching the Depressive Position; for Winnicott it is about enabling the patient to play and to surprise themselves; for Ferenczi the patient is not cured through free association, but cured when he can free associate, and so on and on and on. All the interesting psychoanalytic theorists are telling us what, in their view, constitutes a good life. Old-fashioned psychoanalysis always had a known destination.
What the Rortyan pragmatist wants us to ask is whether and in what way, say, Lacanian psychoanalysis helps us to get the life we want, understood in terms of the good we have been encouraged to seek. It does not need us to ask whether Lacanian theory and practice is in any sense true. Pragmatism wants us to ask, what is the life we want – or think we want? Whereas psychoanalysis wants us to ask, why do we not want to know what we want? (According to Michel Serres, the only modern question is: what is it you don’t want to know about yourself?) Psychoanalysis wants us to ask – against the grain of traditional philosophy – why do we obscure the good that we seek? Pragmatism takes for granted that the good we seek is what we want and asks us how we are going to go about getting it. Indeed, pragmatism tells us that we are good at knowing what we want and good at letting our wants change. In an implicit critique of, among other things, American pragmatism, Charles Taylor, in The Ethics of Authenticity, defines his notion of a moral ideal: ‘I mean a picture of what a better or higher mode of life would be where “better” and “higher” are defined not in terms of what we happen to desire or need, but offer a standard of what we ought to desire.’ Rorty’s work always runs the risk of seeming to promote a kind of capricious, impulsive egotism.
Clearly psychoanalysis and American pragmatism are uneasy bedfellows; they fall out over the phrase ‘knowing what you want’…
Read on to Phillips’ unpacking of that tension, and for his “resolution”: “On Getting the Life You Want,” from @lrb.co.uk.
(Image above: source)
* Donald Barthelme, Snow White
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As we decipher desire, we might send experimental birthday greetings to Stanley Milgram; he was born on this date in 1933. A social psychologist, he is best known for his obedience experiment conducted at Yale University in 1961, three months after the start of the trial of German Nazi war criminal Adolf Eichmann in Jerusalem. The experiment found, unexpectedly, that a very high proportion of subjects (asked to administer painful electric shocks to “learners” they believed they were supervising) would fully obey the instructions, albeit reluctantly. Milgram first described his research in a 1963 article in the Journal of Abnormal and Social Psychology and later discussed his findings in greater depth in his 1974 book, Obedience to Authority: An Experimental View.
Among the most controversial of all psychology studies ever published, the experiment has been repeated many times around the globe, and with fairly consistent results; but its interpretations have been in dispute from the start.
“We do not see our hand in what happens, and so we call certain events melancholy accidents”*…
Mariel Goddu suggests that humans have a superpower that makes us uniquely capable of controlling the world: our ability to understand cause and effect…
Causal understanding is the cognitive capacity that enables you to think about how things affect and influence each other. It is your concept of making, doing, generating and producing – of causing – that allows you to grasp how the Moon causes the tides, how a virus makes you sick, why tariffs change international trade, the social consequences of a faux pas, and the way each event in a story leads to what happens next. Causal understanding is the foundation of all thoughts why, how, because, and what if. When you plan for tomorrow, wonder how things could have turned out differently, or imagine something impossible (What would it be like to fly?), your causal understanding is at work.
In daily life, causal understanding imbues your observations of changes in the world with a kind of generativity and necessity. If you hear a sound, you assume something made it. If there’s a dent on the car, you know that something – or someone – must have done it. You know that the downpour will make you wet, so you push the umbrella handle to open it and avoid getting soaked. You watch as an acorn falls from a tree, producing ripples in a puddle.
The human power to view cause-and-effect as part of ‘objective reality’ (a philosophically fraught idea, but for now: the mind-independent world ‘out there’) is so basic, so automatic, that it’s difficult to imagine our experience without it. Just as it’s nearly impossible to see letters and words as mere shapes on a page or a screen (try it!), it is terrifically challenging to observe changes in the world as not involving causation. We do not see: a key disappearing into a keyhole; hands moving; door swinging open. We see someone unlocking the door.We don’t see the puddle, then the puddle with ripples-plus-acorn. We see the acorn making a splash.
Most people don’t realise that any of this is a cognitive achievement. But, in fact, it is highly unusual. No other animal thinks about causation in the hyper-objective, hyper-general way that we do. Only we – adult humans – see the world suffused with causality. As a result, we have unparalleled power to change and control it. Our causal understanding is a superpower.
The scientific story of how our causal minds develop features another superpower: human sociality. It’s our unique sensitivity to other people that lets us acquire our special causal understanding. The story also raises questions about ‘other minds’. If our causal understanding is the exception, rather than the rule, then how does the world show up for other animals? If we try to suspend the causal necessity that structures so much of our experience, what’s left over?
I’m going to suggest that what remains is our experience of doing – a value-laden, first-personal and inherently interactive perspective. It is in this involved, participatory ‘point of do’ – as opposed to a detached, objective point of view – that the seeds of higher cognition take root. Appreciating that our original perspective is action-oriented and goal-directed can also help us understand our own shortcomings – and how to change them…
Fascinating– and timely: “Suffused with causality,” from @marielgoddu.bsky.social in @aeon.co. Eminently worth reading in full.
* Stanley Cavell
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As we appreciate agency, we might send carefully-analyzed birthday greetings to Erich Fromm; he was born on this date in 1900. A social psychologist, psychoanalyst, sociologist, humanistic philosopher, and democratic socialist, he was an important member of the Frankfurt School of critical theory (who fled the Nazi regime and settled in the United States).
Fromm’s overriding interest was in the he connections between psychology and society. His first seminal work, Escape from Freedom (1941; known in Britain as The Fear of Freedom) is considered one of the founding works of political psychology. He wished to see the creation of a sane society meeting human needs with harmony between men and nations in a nuclear age, and helped organize the National Committee for a Sane Nuclear Policy (SANE) in 1957.
“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”*…
… Indeed, the same might be said of life itself. David Krakauer and Chris Kempes of the Santa Fe Institute suggest that life is starting to look a lot less like an outcome of chemistry and physics, and more like a computational process…
… Today, doubts about conventional explanations of life are growing and a wave of new general theories has emerged to better define our origins. These suggest that life doesn’t only depend on amino acids, DNA, proteins and other forms of matter. Today, it can be digitally simulated, biologically synthesised or made from entirely different materials to those that allowed our evolutionary ancestors to flourish. These and other possibilities are inviting researchers to ask more fundamental questions: if the materials for life can radically change – like the materials for computation – what stays the same? Are there deeper laws or principles that make life possible?
Our planet appears to be exceptionally rare. Of the thousands that have been identified by astronomers, only one has shown any evidence of life. Earth is, in the words of Carl Sagan, a ‘lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark.’ This apparent loneliness is an ongoing puzzle faced by scientists studying the origin and evolution of life: how is it possible that only one planet has shown incontrovertible evidence of life, even though the laws of physics are shared by all known planets, and the elements in the periodic table can be found across the Universe?
The answer, for many, is to accept that Earth really is as unique as it appears: the absence of life elsewhere in the Universe can be explained by accepting that our planet is physically and chemically unlike the many other planets we have formally identified. Only Earth, so the argument goes, produced the special material conditions conducive to our rare chemistry, and it did so around 4 billion years ago, when life first emerged.
In 1952, Stanley Miller and his supervisor Harold Urey provided the first experimental evidence for this idea through a series of experiments at the University of Chicago. The Miller-Urey experiment, as it became known, sought to recreate the atmospheric conditions of early Earth through laboratory equipment, and to test whether organic compounds (amino acids) could be created in a reconstructed inorganic environment. When their experiment succeeded, the emergence of life became bound to the specific material conditions and chemistry on our planet, billions of years ago.
However, more recent research suggests there are likely countless other possibilities for how life might emerge through potential chemical combinations. As the British chemist Lee Cronin, the American theoretical physicist Sara Walker and others have recently argued, seeking near-miraculous coincidences of chemistry can narrow our ability to find other processes meaningful to life. In fact, most chemical reactions, whether they take place on Earth or elsewhere in the Universe, are not connected to life. Chemistry alone is not enough to identify whether something is alive, which is why researchers seeking the origin of life must use other methods to make accurate judgments.
Today, ‘adaptive function’ is the primary criterion for identifying the right kinds of biotic chemistry that give rise to life, as the theoretical biologist Michael Lachmann (our colleague at the Santa Fe Institute) likes to point out. In the sciences, adaptive function refers to an organism’s capacity to biologically change, evolve or, put another way, solve problems. ‘Problem-solving’ may seem more closely related to the domains of society, culture and technology than to the domain of biology. We might think of the problem of migrating to new islands, which was solved when humans learned to navigate ocean currents, or the problem of plotting trajectories, which our species solved by learning to calculate angles, or even the problem of shelter, which we solved by building homes. But genetic evolution also involves problem-solving. Insect wings solve the ‘problem’ of flight. Optical lenses that focus light solve the ‘problem’ of vision. And the kidneys solve the ‘problem’ of filtering blood. This kind of biological problem-solving – an outcome of natural selection and genetic drift – is conventionally called ‘adaptation’. Though it is crucial to the evolution of life, new research suggests it may also be crucial to the origins of life.
This problem-solving perspective is radically altering our knowledge of the Universe…
The idea of life asa kind of computational process has roots that go back to the 4th century BCE, when Aristotle introduced his philosophy of hylomorphism in which functions take precedence over forms. For Aristotle, abilities such as vision were less about the biological shape and matter of eyes and more about the function of sight. It took around 2,000 years for his idea of hylomorphic functions to evolve into the idea of adaptive traits through the work of Charles Darwin and others. In the 19th century, these naturalists stopped defining organisms by their material components and chemistry, and instead began defining traits by focusing on how organisms adapted and evolved – in other words, how they processed and solved problems. It would then take a further century for the idea of hylomorphic functions to shift into the abstract concept of computation through the work of Alan Turing [and here] and the earlier ideas of Charles Babbage [here].
In the 1930s, Turing became the first to connect the classical Greek idea of function to the modern idea of computation, but his ideas were impossible without the work of Babbage, a century before. Important for Turing was the way Babbage had marked the difference between calculating devices that follow fixed laws of operation, which Babbage called ‘Difference Engines’, and computing devices that follow programmable laws of operation, which he called ‘Analytical Engines.’
Using Babbage’s distinction, Turing developed the most general model of computation: the universal Turing Machine…
Turing did not describe any of the materials out of which such a machine would be built. He had little interest in chemistry beyond the physical requirement that a computer store, read and write bits reliably. That is why, amazingly, this simple (albeit infinite) programmable machine is an abstract model of how our powerful modern computers work. But the theory of computation Turing developed can also be understood as a theory of life. Both computation and life involve a minimal set of algorithms that support adaptive function. These ‘algorithms’ help materials process information, from the rare chemicals that build cells to the silicon semiconductors of modern computers. And so, as some research suggests, a search for life and a search for computation may not be so different. In both cases, we can be side-tracked if we focus on materials, on chemistry, physical environments and conditions.
In response to these concerns, a set of diverse ideas has emerged to explain life anew, through principles and processes shared with computation, rather than the rare chemistry and early Earth environments simulated in the Miller-Urey experiment. What drives these ideas, developed over the past 60 years by researchers working in disparate disciplines – including physics, computer science, astrobiology, synthetic biology, evolutionary science, neuroscience and philosophy – is a search for the fundamental principles that drive problem-solving matter. Though researchers have been working in disconnected fields and their ideas seem incommensurable, we believe there are broad patterns to their research on the origins of life. However, it can be difficult for outsiders to understand how these seemingly incommensurable ideas are connected to each other or why they are significant. This is why we have set out to review and organise these new ways of thinking.
Their proposals can be grouped into three distinct categories, three hypotheses, which we have named Tron, Golem and Maupertuis…
[The authors unpack all three proposals…]
… Is life problem-solving matter? When thinking about our biotic origins, it is important to remember that most chemical reactions are not connected to life, whether they take place here or elsewhere in the Universe. Chemistry alone is not enough to identify life. Instead, researchers use adaptive function – a capacity for solving problems – as the primary evidence and filter for identifying the right kinds of biotic chemistry. If life is problem-solving matter, our origins were not a miraculous or rare event governed by chemical constraints but, instead, the outcome of far more universal principles of information and computation. And if life is understood through these principles, then perhaps it has come into existence more often than we previously thought, driven by problems as big as the bang that started our abiotic universe moving 13.8 billion years ago.
The physical account of the origin and evolution of the Universe is a purely mechanical affair, explained through events such as the Big Bang, the formation of light elements, the condensation of stars and galaxies, and the formation of heavy elements. This account doesn’t involve objectives, purposes, or problems. But the physics and chemistry that gave rise to life appear to have been doing more than simply obeying the fundamental laws. At some point in the Universe’s history, matter became purposeful. It became organised in a way that allowed it to adapt to its immediate environment. It evolved from a Babbage-like Difference Engine into a Turing-like Analytical Engine. This is the threshold for the origin of life.
In the abiotic universe, physical laws, such as the law of gravitation, are like ‘calculations’ that can be performed everywhere in space and time through the same basic input-output operations. For living organisms, however, the rules of life can be modified or ‘programmed’ to solve unique biological problems – these organisms can adapt themselves and their environments. That’s why, if the abiotic universe is a Difference Engine, life is an Analytical Engine. This shift from one to the other marks the moment when matter became defined by computation and problem-solving. Certainly, specialised chemistry was required for this transition, but the fundamental revolution was not in matter but in logic.
In that moment, there emerged for the first time in the history of the Universe a big problem to give the Big Bang a run for its money. To discover this big problem – to understand how matter has been able to adapt to a seemingly endless range of environments – many new theories and abstractions for measuring, discovering, defining and synthesising life have emerged in the past century. Some researchers have synthesised life in silico. Others have experimented with new forms of matter. And others have discovered new laws that may make life as inescapable as physics…
Eminently worth reading in full: “Problem-solving matter,” from @sfiscience and @aeonmag.
Pair with “At the limits of thought” (also by Krakauer).
* Albert Einstein
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As we obsess on ontology, we might spare a thought for someone concerned with life as it is lived: Sigismund Schlomo “Sigmund” Freud; he died on this date in 1939. A neurologist, he was the founder of psychoanalysis– a clinical method for evaluating and treating pathologies seen as originating from conflicts in the psyche, through dialogue between patient and psychoanalyst, and the distinctive theory of mind and human agency derived from it.
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“But if thought corrupts language, language can also corrupt thought”*…
In an excerpt from his book A Myriad of Tongues: How Languages Reveal Differences in How We Think, Caleb Everett on the underappreciated importance of syntax and recursion in our languages…
Words are combined into phrases and sentences in a dazzling array of patterns, collectively referred to as syntax. The complexity of syntax has long confounded researchers. Consider, for example, the previous sentence. There are all sorts of patterns in the order of the words of that sentence, patterns that are familiar to you and me and other speakers of English. Those patterns are critical to the transmission of meaning and to how we think as we create sentences. It was no coincidence that I put “complexity” after “the,” or “syntax” after “of,” or “researchers” after “confounded,” to cite just three examples of many in that sentence alone. You and I know that “researchers” should follow the main verb of this particular sentence, in this case “confounded.” If I put that word somewhere else it would change the sentence’s meaning or make it confusing. And we know that articles like “the” should precede nouns, as should prepositions like “of.” These and other patterns, sometimes referred to as “rules” as though they represented inviolable edicts voted on by a committee, help to give English sentences a predictable ordering of words. It is this predictable ordering that is usually referred to when linguists talk about a language’s syntax.
Without syntax, it would seem, statements could not be understood, because they would be transferred from speaker to hearer in a jumbled mess of words. This is, it turns out, a bit of an oversimplification since a number of the world’s languages do not have rule-governed word order to the extent that English does. Still, let us stick with the oversimplification for now, because it hints at something meaningful about speech…
An illuminating read: “What Makes Language Human?” via @lithub.
* George Orwell, 1984
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As we contemplate cogitation and communication, we might spare a thought for Sigismund Schlomo “Sigmund” Freud; he died on this date in 1939. A neurologist, he was the founder of psychoanalysis– a clinical method for evaluating and treating pathologies seen as originating from conflicts in the psyche, through dialogue between patient and psychoanalyst, and the distinctive theory of mind and human agency derived from it.
Freud’s psychoanalysis further complicated our thinking about language: In his theory dreams are instigated by the daily occurrences and thoughts of everyday life. In what Freud called the “dream-work”, these “secondary process” thoughts (“word presentations”), governed by the rules of language and the reality principle, become subject to the “primary process” of unconscious thought (“thing presentations”) governed by the pleasure principle, wish gratification, and the repressed sexual scenarios of childhood.
Jacques Lacan built on Freud’s approach, emphasizing linguistics and literature. Lacan believed that most of Freud’s essential work had been done before 1905 and concerned the interpretation of dreams, neurotic symptoms, and slips, which had been based on a revolutionary way of understanding language and its relation to experience and subjectivity, and that ego psychology and object relations theory were based upon misreadings of Freud’s work. For Lacan (as, in a way, for the author above), the determinative dimension of human experience is neither the self (as in ego psychology) nor relations with others (as in object relations theory), but language.
“What I should have been, you see, is a neurologist”*…
It was in a mood of irritable skepticism that the Scottish surgeon James Braid attended a public demonstration of Animal Magnetism—in which people were said to fall into trances—on the night of November 13, 1841. From everything he had read and heard about the trances that occurred at the bidding of the operator—the person who induced the trances—he reports that he was “fully inclined to join with those who considered the whole thing to be a system of collusion and delusion, or an excited imagination, sympathy, or imitation.” After observing the demonstration, he considered that the trances were quite genuine, but at the same time he felt satisfied “that they were not dependent on any special agency or emanation passing from the body of the operator to that of the patient as animal magnetizers allege.” He returned to the demonstration when it was repeated by popular demand a week later, and on this occasion he felt that he had identified the cause of these mysteriously punctual onsets of “nervous sleep.” He was to devote the last eighteen years of his life to the topic, and under the proprietary title of Hypnotism he explained and redescribed the process in terms which would have been unrecognizable to its eighteenth-century discoverer, Franz Anton Mesmer…
With its intriguing combination of occult powers, clairvoyant trances, and invisible weightless fluids, animal magnetism seemed to guarantee the existence of a reality beyond the world of the senses, and many people saw it as an irresistible alternative to an increasingly mechanized picture of the universe.
The remarkable Jonathan Miller— remembered as a partner of Peter Cook, Dudley Moore, and Allan Bennett in Beyond the Fringe and for his later career as a distinguished stage and opera director, but trained as a doctor– explains how Mesmer’s “animal magnetism” was wrangled by doctors and scientists into “hypnotism,” and how it birthed an understanding of the Unconscious that pre-dates Freud… and that’s undergoing a renaissance, as it’s proving more useful than the psychoanalytic version that obscured it for a century: “Going Unconscious” (an unlocked essay from The New York Review of Books archive).
* Jonathan Miller
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As we go deep, we might send polymathic birthday greetings to William Whewell; he was born on this date in 1794. A scientist, Anglican priest, philosopher, theologian, and historian of science, he was Master of Trinity College, Cambridge.
At a time when specialization was increasing, Whewell was renown for the breadth of his work: he published the disciplines of mechanics, physics, geology, astronomy, and economics, while also finding the time to compose poetry, author a Bridgewater Treatise, translate the works of Goethe, and write sermons and theological tracts. In mathematics, Whewell introduced what is now called the Whewell equation, defining the shape of a curve without reference to an arbitrarily chosen coordinate system. He founded mathematical crystallography and developed a revision of Friedrich Mohs’s classification of minerals. And he organized thousands of volunteers internationally to study ocean tides, in what is now considered one of the first citizen science projects.
But some argue that Whewell’s greatest gift to science was his wordsmithing: He created the words scientist and physicist by analogy with the word artist; they soon replaced the older term natural philosopher. He also named linguistics, consilience, catastrophism, uniformitarianism, and astigmatism.
Other useful words were coined to help his friends: biometry for John Lubbock; Eocine, Miocene and Pliocene for Charles Lyell; and for Michael Faraday, electrode, anode, cathode, diamagnetic, paramagnetic, and ion (whence the sundry other particle names ending -ion).
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