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Continental
Philosophy of
Psychiatry
The Lure of Madness
Alastair Morgan
Continental Philosophy of Psychiatry
Alastair Morgan
Continental
Philosophy of
Psychiatry
The Lure of Madness
Alastair Morgan
University of Manchester
Manchester, UK
© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature
Switzerland AG 2022
This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether
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The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication
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For Marion, with all my love
Preface
vii
viii Preface
Above all, thanks to my wife Marion for all her love, intellectual advice,
support and encouragement with this project and with so much more.
This book would not have been produced without her help and is dedi-
cated to her.
Alastair Morgan
Contents
1 Introduction 1
5 Vital Contact 71
6 Ipseity 91
xi
xii Contents
7 The Body107
8 Being-in-the-World131
11 “Beware, Marcuse”!201
Index415
1
Introduction
life. In the same year, 1911, Freud turned his attention to psychosis by
writing his text on the Schreber case. He argued that psychoanalysis could
only focus on neurosis because transference is impossible with people
experiencing psychosis. The new hermeneutic of psychoanalysis, based
on a deep attention and attentiveness to unconscious and irrational ele-
ments within the psyche, could not communicate with madness.
I emphasise this as an experience of philosophical failure. One could say
that it became a kind of neurotic experience for philosophy; something
that lingered and could not be extinguished from thought. It is a failure
that inaugurates a tradition not by resolving the problem but by dwelling
within the paradox; how can reason understand that which is beyond
reason? This failure launched a tradition that continued for much of the
twentieth century yet fades by the turn of the century; a tradition that
attempted to understand madness as another world.
Continental Philosophy
Simon Glendinning, in his argument against the idea of continental phi-
losophy lays down a gauntlet for any writer engaging in a project such as
this. Glendinning (2006: 13) writes that, “… there is no such thing as the
tradition of continental philosophy”. He argues that continental philoso-
phy should be considered as the construction of its other by analytic
philosophy. The only thing that unifies the so-called tradition of conti-
nental philosophy is that it contains everything that analytic philosophy
wants to disavow as not properly philosophical. Those writing in the
“continental” tradition should have the courage of their convictions and
stop applying labels that have little or no meaning.
Despite this anxiety, I think there is a specific tradition of continental
philosophy of psychiatry in the twentieth century and I hope to articulate
this tradition in the pages that follow. As Kearney (1994: 1) writes, this
tradition may be more a “patchwork of diverse strands” than a “seamless
fabric”, but I demonstrate a series of overlapping themes that do cohere
across a range of philosophers and psychiatrists working in the continen-
tal tradition.
1 Introduction 3
—He stays!
—He has listened to my words. He has heard my will.
Carnally he came.
That is swept away.
My will has cleaned him unto me. He stays.
She watched him. Blond warm boy, with eyes tender and virgin: afraid
of the brusque world. Boy with heart beating a measure beyond the reach of
your eyes!
—Shall I learn now?
What Leon promised? what the dolorous years
Failed to fulfill?
Shall I learn now from you?...
He has stayed and been kind. Soon he will go away,
Forgetting Thelma. Will you leave me knowledge?
—O I do not understand ...
Why I have wanted, why I have wanted ...
Why I have fallen and fallen, looking for God!
You, Boy, won’t you go away
And leave me Knowledge?...
Her hands were upon the table. His hands were near her hands upon the
table. Their eyes joined. He rested upon the yearning of her eyes. His mind
was empty.
He did not stir. His eyes lay within her own as in a womb, resting
omnipotent, knowing no act. She held him.
—Go. Reveal to me!
The bell rang.
—Go!
The bell rang.
The bell drove an iron finger between his eyes and her own. His eyes
stirred. The bell rang.
—Go! By the will of God, go!
Leave me what my life has bled away
To find at the Bottom ...
The bell rang. His eyes were quickened, for his senses knew not her but
that the bell rang.
Fanny got up. He was fixed.... She felt a stirring under her heart.
“Hush, Edith my child,” she murmured, getting up.
Her body was stiff and leaden. But she felt with all her body how his
eyes were quickened. Her own eyes turned her about.
Fanny moved with her eyes. His eyes, stirring to life beyond her, were
within her womb like a child unborn.... “Hush Edith!”
She moved through the tunnelling hall, a shadow darker than it, about
eyes that were wells of fire. She had put back the chain upon the door.
Groping she loosed it. Thelma burst in....
Thelma Clark was there: exhilerant, laughing, savage.
“O you dear ... waiting all this time for me.” She swayed. “In the dark!
Waiting, you sillies, with a candle between you. What’s the matter with the
gas?”
The room flared bright.
—Give me your eyes. Not to her! Let me hold your eyes.
Thelma flung herself on Samson’s lap. She kissed him.
Fanny saw his eyes draw in, swerve to another orbit, flame away.... The
line of Thelma’s thigh lashed in blue silk, the crumple of her little breasts
bursting within the lowcut waist ... there, there.
The eyes of Samson died from the eyes of Fanny.
He stood. He touched Thelma’s lips with his hand.
“Come.”
They were gone....
Fanny heard the door shut. She was alone. She sat down where she had
sat before at the table. She arose. She shut out the gas. A peal of Thelma’s
laughter pierced the door. The room clapped close about the fainting flame
of the one candle.
Fanny sat down where she had sat before. Beyond her rigid gaze was an
empty place. Beyond the empty place was the Night. Within her gaze was
the Night. Her eyes held nothing.
“And a Jew,” she murmured “a Jew was to bring me Light.”
She faced the Emptiness about her. She met it. Emptiness? The little
candle stilly laid it whole, perfect, before her. Behind her a shut door. About
her Emptiness.
“—and God?”
Sudden her eyes were hard. “Think of him,” she spoke. Her mouth full
of tears made her voice liquid. “Think of him. Think of him, Fanny. No one
else!... Your Light-bearer, your Prophet, your Voice in the Wilderness—
there he is, out there, in the arms of Thelma.... Fanny, dare to think.”
She was still. She was a little woman huddled in the Dark with hard
eyes, daring to think.
Daring to see!
Her mouth tremored. Her hands reached open before her. They clasped.
She drew her hands in upon her breasts: and as they pressed, her eyes
blazed with anguish as if she held flame to her flesh. She pressed ... she
pressed. Her face broke.... Then, from the wreckage of her features there
was born a smile making them clear and sharp, making them fair and high.
A Light shone in them.
1916-1921
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