Monday, 14 August 2017

cognition versus recognition

(Below, first draft of a section of my chapter for the Oxford Handbook of Philosophy and Psychoanalysis which edited volume is currently being compiled by Michael Lacewing and myself.)

Psychoanalytic psychotherapists are sometimes criticised for offering patients nothing but new just-so stories in the guise of applied science. These supposedly explain the origins of troubles in a manner which is either relieving because spuriously absolving (“it wasn’t you, it was your unconscious / your mum and dad / your past traumas…”, etc.) or because spuriously hope-engendering (the hope being that reflection on your unconscious motivation can somehow help change your mind’s functioning). The criticism continues that such a practice is: deluded since the alleged psychological causal stories we learn to tell about our symptoms are nothing but post-hoc fabrications; dependency-promoting; and largely ineffectual since it’s concerned with introspection rather than change. Psychotherapists’ responses to such critique vary from the bite-the-bullet it’s-all-just-a-story-anyway postmodernist option, to that of the scientist-practitioner who draws as far as possible on objective psychological knowledge whilst modestly refraining from offering anything other than flexible revisable hypotheses in a pragmatic fashion in his clinic.

A striking shared assumption of both the critic and the pundit is that the psychotherapeutic work of ‘making the unconscious conscious’ involves aiding a patient's arrival at new psychological knowledge of the history and current operations of his psyche. In what follows I suggest that this ‘applied science’ conception locates the therapeutic endeavour in the wrong conceptual context. In short it locates it within what we could call a descriptive psychology that treats of cognition, rather than a moral psychology that treats of ethical recognition. What follows provides the substance to my contrast.

By way of an example of a descriptive psychological treatment of cognition consider the following from a pundit and a critic of what the authors call ‘psychodynamic psychotherapy’. First the pundit (Cabaniss et al, 2013, pp. **-**):
A psychodynamic formulation ... is an hypothesis about the way a person thinks, feels, and behaves, which considers the impact and development of … thoughts and feelings that are out of awareness – that is, that are unconscious. … Thus, a psychodynamic formulation is an hypothesis about the way a person’s unconscious thoughts and feelings may be causing the difficulties that have led him/her to treatment. …. [H]elping people to become aware of their unconscious thoughts and feelings is an important psychodynamic technique. … Once we have a good sense of the problems and patterns, the next step in creating a psychodynamic formulation is to review the developmental history. … Having described and reviewed the patients problems and history the third step is to 'link' them together. [This provides the psychological 'hypotheses' which help the therapist to] construct meaningful interventions. …. These might include: … creating a life narrative … offering explanation and perspective throughout the therapy … consolidating insights…
Now the critic (Watters & Ofshe 1999, p. 204):
Psychodynamic therapists claim the ability to help clients connect current behaviors to long-past traumas in childhood, for instance, or to repressed fantasies decades in the patients’ past. … But … if [as they argue] we can’t trace the influence of simple actions and decisions to their correct sources, can we be expected to do better making etiological connections between complex current life and events or fantasies from our childhood? …[T]he vast number of psychodynamic schools of talk therapy appears as nothing more than a testing and breeding ground for these shared cultural narratives. Psychodynamic therapy offers a new and interesting world of possible narratives by which patients can come to believe they understand the origin of their thoughts and behaviors. These narratives become plausible in the patient’s eyes through the process of influence embedded in therapy.
 In both these cases the authors assume that making the unconscious conscious involves becoming cognisant of your own hitherto unconscious mental processes, rather as if the purpose of therapy were to learn to be a better psychologist at least regarding one’s own mental operations. In all this talk of becoming aware of - or developing bona fide knowledge or spurious belief about - one’s own mind, however, we meet with nothing in the patient that could itself be considered the existential shift of owning or appropriating one’s previously repressed attitudes. Furthermore in all this talk of a therapist learning to recognise (or at least develop ‘hypotheses’ about) a patient’s struggles we meet with nothing that could itself be considered an ethical attitude of her offering recognition to a patient in her difficulties. We are invited, that is, to see the task of therapy as the cognitively demanding but ethically null task of providing and enjoying a new reflexive transitive consciousness of our own attitudes. The task of offering recognition to a patient in her distress and his thereby recovering - not objective knowledge about his psychological performance, but rather, in his capacity to now enjoy intransitively conscious attitudes - his humanity, is not in view.[1]

The conception of making the unconscious conscious, or transforming id into ego, which has to do with ethical rather than scientific recognition starts by noticing the difference between a symptom being causally explained and a symptom dissolving into a living moment of a patient’s will and emotional expression. A patient presents as suffering from an affliction. They are having mental or bodily experiences which they do not recognise as part of who they are. For example they may experience compulsions, or have irrational fears, or hear voices, or feel demotivated and sluggish and weak despite not being poorly, or be enduringly sad and hopeless despite not being in mourning. They may wish for the psychotherapist to somehow ‘take these problems away from them’.

Needless to say, excision is not how psychotherapy works. Instead the psychoanalytic psychotherapist considers the patient’s difficulties under a different aspect. He considers them under the aspect of meaningful expression, emotional experience and the will, and responds to them as under-developed articulations of such functions. The point I wish to stress is not that he may (although he may not) have a psychological theory as to how such symptoms arose or are maintained. Instead I wish to point out that the therapist does not, in his therapeutic engagement, see the symptoms either (like the patient) as humanly unintelligible undergoings or (like the psychologist) as psychologically intelligible reactions; he sees them instead as incipient humanly intelligible actions and expressions. In a sense they are no longer symptoms, for what was previously seen as something undergone now becomes seen as an undertaking; a patient starts to become an agent; an event an action; a symptom suffered now itself becomes the suffering of something beyond itself.

Such recognition is not primarily of facts about the patient but rather a humane recognition of the patient herself in her suffering. If your friend dies and you are sad, I do not treat your sadness, your tears, your withdrawal, your pain, as symptoms. This is because they are instead the intelligible form of your humanity. I show you understanding, and offer you recognition, when I recognise your experience as a humanly apt mode of relating to the loss of your friend. I encounter you in your sadness; I do not see it as an affliction of you. You are not suffering from your sadness, but suffering from the loss of your friend: it is her death that afflicts you, not your feelings. Similarly, when a psychoanalytic psychotherapist shows her patient recognition his erstwhile presenting problems now become not symptoms or afflictions but intelligible actions and sufferings - not causally intelligible given his past or given his defence mechanisms, but the humanly intelligible anger or sadness or guilt or fear of a man in meaningful relationship with those who inspire such emotion in him.

The correlative of the therapist’s offering of recognition to the patient is, then, the patient appropriating his symptom and, in so doing, no longer having a symptom (and no longer being a ‘patient’) but rather having and expressing a human experience. It is not as I first thought that I love my child but have compulsive foreign symptomatic wishes to hurt her; rather I grasp that I have a humanly natural (if morally culpable) ambivalence towards her. (Perhaps I am envious of the comfort of her own childhood relative to my own. Perhaps I regressively blame her for the lack of time I now have to spend with my own friends.) The hallucinated voices I seem to hear can, post-appropriation, be acknowledged as my own thoughts. The depression that seemed to befall me was in truth me suppressing myself in my scarcely bearable feelings of sadness and/or anger on my friend’s death. And so on. After a helpful therapy the patient is now less ‘possessed by’ unintelligible afflictions; instead he is now achieves what we call ‘self-possession’. As such he needs rather less than before to have psychological knowledge about, or to be in some kind of comprehending relation to, himself. Being self-possessed means that he may now simply be in his emotional relations to the world – be in such relations as themselves provide the fundamental form of his comprehending encounter with it. In the popular terms bequeathed us by Martin Buber (****REF), the psychotherapist offers her patient not the ‘I-It’ relation of psychological cognition, but the ‘I-Thou’ relation of humane recognition. As a result he may now appropriate his symptoms into his self so that he no longer inhabits the self-estranged position intrinsic to being a psychological patient.

[1] Finkelstein (this volume) outlines the contrast between what I here mark as the transitive and intransitive senses of consciousness. Lear (this volume) outlines what I am here calling a broadly ethical reading of what it is for id to be supplanted by ego or for the unconscious to be made conscious.

Tuesday, 1 August 2017

formulation vs recognition

The rhetoric of the 'scientist practitioner model' we meet with in clinical psychology has for some time now found its way into psychodynamic psychotherapy. I'd like to reflect on some of its language and ask if it's really apt to the therapeutic task. I choose the following textbook at random. Cabaniss et al (2013) offer us their 'describe, review, link' model for creating a psychodynamic formulation: describe 'the patient's problems and patterns', review 'the patient's developmental history', and link 'the problems and patterns to the history using organizing ideas about development': 
'A psychodynamic formulation ... is an hypothesis about the way a person thinks, feels, and behaves, which considers the impact and development of unconscious thoughts and feelings.... Psychodynamic formulations do not offer definitive explanations; rather, they are hypotheses that we can change over time.' 
'One way of thinking about this postulates that these problems are often caused by thoughts and feelings that are out of awareness – that is, that are unconscious. This is called a psychodynamic frame of reference. Thus, a psychodynamic formulation is an hypothesis about the way a person’s unconscious thoughts and feelings may be causing the difficulties that have led him/her to treatment. This is important to understand, as helping people to become aware of their unconscious thoughts and feelings is an important psychodynamic technique.'

'When we formulate cases psychodynamically, we make hypotheses about how people develop their characteristic ways of thinking, feeling, and behaving. Thus, once we have a good sense of the problems and patterns, the next step in creating a psychodynamic formulation is to review the developmental history. The developmental history includes everything that happens during peoples’ lives that help shape their dominant patterns of functioning; that is, the way they think about themselves, have relationships with others, adapt to stress, think, and work and play.' 
'When we take a developmental history, we are guided by these principles:
  • include nature and nurture
  • relationships are key
  • trauma is critical
  • chronology is relevant
  • development is lifelong'
Having described and reviewed the patients problems and history the third step is to 'link' them together. This linkage provides the provisional understanding or 'hypotheses' which is to guide and inform the therapy. Here's an example: 
'How did Dr Z form this hypothesis? It was not magic. Rather, as she learned about Ms A’s problems and patterns, she asked herself a question: 
                  Why does this talented woman have such a low opinion of herself? 
Because she was thinking psychodynamically, she DESCRIBED Ms A as having difficulties with self-esteem regulation that likely reflected unconscious, overly critical perceptions about herself and her abilities. This gave Dr Z a partial answer to her question, but she knew that in order to develop a strategy for helping Ms A with her low self-esteem, she would need to understand how and why these unconscious, maladaptive self-perceptions had developed. To answer that, Dr Z REVIEWED Ms A’s developmental history and, among other things, learned that she had had a difficult relationship with her critical, dismissive mother. She then used an organizing idea about development – that maladaptive self-perceptions are often related to a person’s early relationship with a dismissing, critical parent – to LINK the pattern to the history. By describing, reviewing, and linking, she had formed an hypothesis about why Ms A had such a low opinion of herself – a psychodynamic formulation.'
Once we've got them 'Formulations help the therapist to 'construct meaningful interventions'. These might include: 
  • 'recommending treatment and setting early goals
  • creating a life narrative
  • offering explanation and perspective throughout the therapy
  • consolidating insights as a preparation for termination'

There is much we could take issue with in this. Even if it were clinically intelligible and possible it's hard for me to imagine it being therapeutically desirable. In particular I doubt that bringing such thought to bear on the patient in his presence is either of much therapeutic use or in line with the core values underpinning meaningful therapeutic - or for that matter meaningful human - encounters.

The word which comes to my mind is 'external': the authors' description of the relation of the patient's unconscious thought and feeling to her behaviour, and of the character of the therapist's appreciation of this, strips unconsciousness of its immanence in behaviour (inner causes, posits, etc). The requisite tentativeness of the therapist's suggestions is automatically equated with the therapist not losing sight of the thought that his or her suggestions about unconscious thoughts and feelings are hypotheses. The understanding which the clinician develops is construed as instrumental for his or her clinical activity. Finally the relation of the past to the present is also seen as an external relation between two different phenomena: a childhood trauma, an adult symptom; the clinician's hypothesising about this relation is facilitated by his knowledge of developmental and longitudinal studies.

But what might it mean to say - as I want to say - that a therapist and patient are, in potent analytic therapy, in some sense internally rather than externally related? What might it mean to say too - as I also want offer - that a patient's trajectory towards health is one from an external to an internal relation between himself and his own experience? Isn't all that a crazy mishmash of matters philosophical and matters psychotherapeutic? After all, in therapy we have two separate individuals in the room, etc etc...!

(That, I also want to say, is one of those philosophical reactions which is far too quick for its own good! Be patient!)

In therapy - and in much of interpersonal, moral, life - we have an essential need for recognition. The patient needs the therapist to be able to offer her recognition. Recognition in (and not just of) her distress. Recognition that ways of feeling and forms of behaviour which appear to the patient to be untoward, symptomatic, undesirable, foreign, forms which merely assail, are in fact intelligible moments in the living of a human life. To be honest the patient doesn't need to know that they are causally intelligible in terms of their traumata or what-have-you, although that may be interesting (perhaps too interesting...) or helpful. Such a form of explanation, in fact, still leaves the patient in an external, unassimilated, relation to her symptoms.

When I show you recognition, that is when my relation to you comes aptly under the concept of ethical recognition, then I take you and your experience and your action as humanly intelligible. Where by 'humanly intelligible' I mean: intelligible as such, being experiences that we 'get', that we can 'relate to' as meaningful in themselves. We can understand this immanent intelligibility best through examples. For example: you cut your finger and it hurts; your girlfriend leaves you and you are distraught; someone calumniates you and you are angry; someone praises you justly for what you and you are delighted. To react thus is to be living what we take to be a human life.

The patient however comes along with suffering which she does not understand. She perhaps hopes that the therapist will somehow help her get rid of it. The depressed person feels flat, unmotivated, suicidal, etc. The obsessional feels assailed by impulses that are not experienced as his own, ones he cannot endorse. The phobic feels scared of what she knows ought not to be scary to her (because it is not dangerous). And so on. The clinician may be able to understand how these developed - they may be able to understand the patient's symptoms - but in the sense I'm interested in here this does not mean yet an understanding of the patient. In the sense I reserve for it here, to understand the person is rather to offer an understanding of her symptom which restores human intelligibility to it. Not, for example, that we can understand the causal development of your obsession, but that it becomes once again something you understand as an expression of your will. This is what we call integration, and such integration (where id was there ego shall be - in Jonathan Lear's helpful take on Freud's dictum) is the correlative of another's recognition - recognising in the sense of acknowledging rather than identifying someone.

So this is one thing which it means to say that a patient's relation with her symptom is external whereas that with her emotional experience is internal. In the latter case the experience is her own not in the sense that it happens to her but that it is a moment of her agency. Therapy restores this internal of-a-piece-ness of the symptom with the patient's will; in this way they turn from patient to agent.

What about the apt relation between therapist and patient being, as I unperspicuously claimed, internal rather than external? Here my claim is that when we offer another recognition, when we encounter them as (we might say as) subject rather than object, our response to the other is an intimate corollary of them in their meaningful experience. The comparison here is between i) two independently crafted shapes that happen to fit together and (to borrow an example from Wittgenstein) ii) the inside of the black circle and the outside of this disk: O. If my will is internally related to my experiences in a way in which it is not related to that which befalls me, and if the therapist's recognition offers me a reacquaintance with what of myself is in truth immanent within my symptoms (where id was there ego shall be), then when the therapist offers an 'interpretation' what is happening is they have offered me an avowal. Offered something which can become a living moment of my will. When this happens the therapist and the patient are 'of one mind'. The therapist helps 'restore the patient to himself'. Le mot juste is offered to which the patient may say 'yes that's it!', pick it up, use it, and so on.

The clinical psychologist tends to portray the tentativeness of the apt therapeutic suggestion as making a statement in the form of an hypothesis rather than of a fact. I think this mischaracterises the relation between the imposing versus the respectful therapeutic word. (For example, sometimes the therapist might have to take a strong stand against the patient's defences, offering the mot juste in rather forceful terms. To do any less may be to fail to respect the patient as a locus of potential agency.) What is more to the point is the need to not impose one's will if one is to do anything that could even count as offering recognition. Thus if I tell you what you think I am not doing you justice. Since in telling I am claiming to speak from the phenomenon. Yet here I am making it part of my will, rather than allowing for you to own it within your own.

Finally, consider the difference between an understanding of a symptom as a present day causal product of a trauma (or what have you), something concatenated down and an understanding of it as the (until now disavowed) voicing of (say) a trauma. In the former case the two are related externally: one explains the other. In the latter it is internally related: one is of a piece with the other. We come to see what before was a mere symptom as the ongoing expression (in the sense of the pressing outwards, the very living enactment) of a humanly (not: of a psychologically) intelligible moment in someone's life.

Thursday, 27 July 2017

on psychotherapy

Psychotherapy is sometimes taught and conducted as an I-It relationship between a therapist and a patient's problems. It goes like this:
Patient presents with some problems.

Therapist inquires into the presenting problems, uses history-taking, and his or her psychological knowledge, to develop a linking formulation.

The formulation is applied by the therapist to the patient's problems by way of explanation of them or by way of a guide to something called an 'intervention'.
Now, if someone did that to me I'd be furious with them! There I was, hoping that I would be understood, and all we get is someone offering me a causal explanation of my problems. Jeez - thanks!

What do we really want from therapy? We want a relationship in which someone will treat us seriously as a person. They will be able to call us out on our unwitting bullshit, show us love, show us understanding when we lose perspective, help extricate themselves and us from the unwitting internal and relational habits we fall into, and offer us a few words to help us put ourselves back on a trusting open self-possessed footing. Sure, sometimes they may rely a little on hypothetically handled objective psychological knowledge of human subjects. But really what we want is someone who 'knows people', not someone who 'knows facts and theories, or who develops hypotheses, about people'.

What is it for someone to 'know people'? It's to know how to relate to the patient aptly and spontaneously, to listen and make room for the patient in his sui generic nature rather than project oneself into the patient's shoes, to oneself be geared up and fortified in the requisite ethical and emotional and humane resources, to be able to receive and not be closed to the patient in his distress.

Someone whose interaction is mediated by knowledge about people is, one imagines, perhaps not someone who really knows people at all!

(Just imagine if someone were to respond to what I've written by saying 'Well, perhaps that shows that this kind of (clinical psychological) psychotherapy is not for you?'! ... 'Richard: I don't like it when you punch me in the face.' 'Psychologist: Perhaps being punched in the face is just not for you'.)

Tuesday, 25 July 2017

explanation and understanding

Richard Bentall and David Bell have rather different psychodynamic theories of paranoia. Not just different theories of what causes paranoia, but different forms of theory - different ways of relating causes to effects - differences which, perhaps, could not unnaturally be said to spread into what is meant here by talk of a 'causal explanation'. I mark these differences with the terms 'empirical' and 'phenomenological'. In calling them that I'm not trying to categorise them in already understood categories, but just to advertise (prior to explicating) a conceptual difference that needs after all to be marked out by using some or other terms.

Thus Bentall the scientific psychologist wants to develop psychological hypotheses and test them. He wants to show us that paranoid people really do process information in the way that his theory suggests. By contrast it never seems to occur to Bell the psychoanalyst to derive general testable hypotheses about paranoia from his Kleinian theory. He proceeds instead by giving us formulations and examples. That is 'all' we get, and it seems reasonable to assume that it is all he takes himself to be required to provide. Why - the psychologist asks - is this? Is Bell a scientific failure - is he not schooled in actually substantiating his claims with empirical evidence? Not schooled in putting a question to nature so that she can as it were now answer all by herself? ... Well, I think not! Below I explain why.

Here is the general empirical method by which, as far as I understand it, Bentall the psychologist proceeds. Take a state: paranoia. Develop a measure of it. This state is our explanandum: it is what we want to explain. The kind of explanation we seek is: what in the individual's psychology makes her likely to experience paranoia? Next identify some external triggers, internal states and internal traits which may conceivably give rise to the paranoia. The latter two - the inner states and traits - are our psychological explanantia. Develop measures of these inner states (degree of implicit low self-esteem - how the person deep-down feels about herself; the quality of her underlying 'self-representations'; degree of explicit self-esteem - how the paranoid person consciously and explicitly represents herself to herself) and inner traits (habits of information processing such as having a bias toward making external and personal attributions for why the triggers obtained). Finally correlate the measures. If there is a positive relation between the measures of the explanantia (the degree of low self-esteem, the attribution bias) and the measures of the explanandum (the paranoia) then this constitutes evidence for the truth of the psychological model. The character of the theory might be summed up like this: paranoid people are people like this; it is in part because they are like this that they are now paranoid; the data we collect are empirical evidence for the truth of the theory.

By contrast with Bentall, Bell the psychoanalyst proceeds according to what I am calling a 'phenomenological' method. He too has an explanans (A = projection) for the explanandum ( B = paranoia), but he doesn't try to collect evidence of an increased level of projection leading to an increased amount of paranoia. A is not by him conceived of as a psychological trait; it isn't an independent phenomenon which throws up paranoia when triggered. It is rather a psychological process - a defence mechanism. Bell isn't saying that the paranoid person always deals with their distress through projection. He is saying that projection characterises the paranoid reaction to experienced threats to selfhood. (If we wanted we could say that the reference to projection is a way of understanding, rather than explaining, paranoia. What would be important, in saying this, is that we don't take ourselves to have done more than index the phenomenon - we haven't, simply by using this terminology, thereby either explained or understood it better.) What Bell offers us is a way of seeing paranoia: paranoia is, he suggests, the relocating of disturbing feelings from oneself into others-as-one-sees-them. Now, I'm not suggesting that it would be wrong to say that he sees paranoia as caused by projection, but it would be wrong to think of 'caused by' here as meaning 'precipitated by', and wrong to contrast it with 'characterised by'. Yet we might here still describe B as 'a function of' A. We could also, if we wished, describe the differences in terms such as: Bentall is on the whole trying to tell us more about what makes paranoid people vulnerable to paranoia; Bell is trying to deepen our understanding of what it means to be paranoid.

Now, Bentall's method runs into various self-confessed difficulties around testability (p. 339) - perhaps because it is (I suggest) hard to convincingly operationalise, or because it is (he suggests) hard to accurately test for, underlying as opposed to explicitly expressed low self-esteem. But I don't want to go into this here; instead I want to focus on another feature of his theory. This is that whilst his hypothesis-testing is geared up to assess whether paranoia may be an upshot of making external personal attributions when something triggers painful low self-esteem, nothing in his method allows him to test whether paranoia is motivated by the avoidance of painful low self-esteem. (NB I'm not saying that Bentall even thinks he's testing this aspect of his theory.) The method of taking measurements and making correlations does nothing by itself to establish the psychodynamic aspect of either his or Bell's understanding of paranoia, which understanding is of the motivation for the attribution bias / projection. And this is my central point: that the psychoanalytic model helps us understand paranoia - or at least certain forms of it - by seeing how it is motivated.

To see human behaviour (including inner behaviour - i.e. thought) as motivated is to see it as expressing intelligible desire. When we see it as such we do not do so by separately identifying the behaviour and the desire and then correlating or otherwise conjoining the two in thought. Instead the desire has its life within the action; it is not somehow stored up behind it; it is there in the action that we encounter it. The desire characterises the action, we could say, rather than having the action as its upshot. Imagine: you see someone withdraw her burning hand from a hot stove. You don't here separately identify her action and her desire to relieve pain, and then bring them together in your thought.

Naturally we may imagine strange cases (someone wants to burn his hand to win a dare, but he mindlessly withdraws it from the flame to scratch his itchy nose) but these do nothing to remove the default presumption that a hand withdrawn from the flame is, absent requisite strange defeating conditions, a hand withdrawn because of the burning or pain. And note, too, that we say all of this even if it so happens (Rundle) that the pain and the hand withdrawal are both effects of a common physiological cause (the burning), rather than the latter the upshot of the former. Our understanding that we are motivated to avoid pain is, then, not the understanding that avoidance is caused by pain. That we avoid pain and seek pleasure, rather than vice versa, is one could say not a contingent fact about our lives, and masochism must remain a special case on pain of unintelligibility. We are not to answer why we are motivated to avoid pain! Whilst we must be careful to avoid over-theorising the fact (a la 'simulation theory' etc), we understand the withdrawal of a burning hand from a flame in and by relating to the predicament: it makes immediate sense to us as such, and we are not left trying to make sense of one thing in terms of some other thing already understood. (The concept of 'immediacy' here is not temporal but instead has to do with the non-mediated nature of the understanding: we have here to do with something intrinsically intelligible (because it itself defines a form of intelligibility) rather than to something intelligible in terms of something else, or something made intelligible by doing something else. If it be insisted that we do it 'by empathic projection' (putting oneself in the shoes of another) then all that can be said is that this is: 'ok so long as our immediate grasp and our empathic projection are not to be thought of as two separate things, one done by means of the other'. No: 'empathic projection' is at best the form taken of this immediate grasp of motivational meaning.)

To return to paranoia: Bell aims at what I am calling understanding, whereas Bentall aims at what I've indexed with 'explanation'. But given that Bentall too clearly trades on our understanding what it is he is proposing but not demonstrating - that paranoia is motivationally explicable - then we do better to note that both Bell and Bentall aim at understanding, whereas Bentall aims in addition at explanation. If scientificity comes along with explanation then we may say that Bentall's account is the scientific one. But we cannot judge on that basis that Bell's account is un-scientific. All we may infer is that it is, on this rather limited criterion, non-scientific. And it is, in its reliance on our grasp of the intrinsic intelligibility of motivation, no less or more so than Bentall's. Bell isn't interested in noting how often paranoia is motivated, or in independently identifying features of paranoid people which appear to increases their likelihood of becoming paranoid. That just isn't his project. His project is instead to make the motivational forms of paranoia intelligible to us by providing us with a rich exemplary phenomenology - and what better method do we have for that than the case study? Bell's theory is not a scientific failure, but (I would argue) a successful attempt at providing the pre-scientific foundations for any meaningful understanding of paranoia whatsoever.

Wednesday, 14 June 2017

hallucination as unrelinquished anticipation

summary notes for talk this week: a phenomenological theory of hallucination 

Posted here to supersede and collate previous musings on hallucination.

1. ontological question of hallucination

What is it to hallucinate? What is the being of hallucination? This not an empirical question about psychological precipitants or associated neurological events.

2. against dualistic answers to the ontological question

If you espouse dualism of inner (mind/brain) and outer (world/body), then you hardly need a theory of the being of hallucination. Your conception of perception will likely already reference an inner mental item of some sort ('inner representation'/'percept'/'sense datum'/'idea'), so: hallucination becomes simply the inner item in absence of outer stimulus. (You'll also be likely to: take seriously the problem of constancy, be drawn to Helmholtzian theorising, talk of unconscious inferences etc; Gibson won't speak to you.)

But perception and experience are not just caused by their worldly objects; they take them in. Not hybrids of i) non-mental causal outer interactions with a world (the mechanics of vision and audition etc) plus ii) mental upshots of 'loud and glowing sense data' in an internal world. Instead perceptual experience is our openness to the world; it is 'originary transcendence'. In this sense of 'perceptual experience' a hallucination is precisely not a perception or experience; paradoxical/meaningless to talk here of 'an experience of a horse in the absence of a horse'.

'Inner representation', 'sense datum', 'inner image' etc are simply philosophical inventions which themselves cry out for explication before they themselves can feature in explanations. What use is a visual representation if one can't see it? Doesn't the concept of a 'representation' - e.g. of a picture - presuppose rather than explain the capacity to see what is thereby pictured? Such notions need explaining before being put to use to 'explain' perception. But why do we even need an explanation? The felt need had better not be a result of a theoretically contrived dualism between mind and world (the unnecessary explanation being of how it is possible for such an alienated subject to reach the world; ... dude, we're not world-alienated subjects, it's ok).

Non-disjunctivism says: the visual perception of a horse, and a hallucination of a horse, have something psychological/inner in common. 'Psychological': not just that they have in common the atemporal fact that the right way to describe their content is 'a horse'. Instead: they (allegedly) have in common something experiential and episodic. They are not just both experiences of horses; they are both - in some or other allegedly illuminating sense - experiences of horses. 

Disjunctivism says: it is no more illuminating to say this than to say that a real horse and a plastic horse are both horses, or that a standing bridge and a bombed out bridge are both bridges. We can say that a hallucination is a perceptual experience, just as we can also say that a bombed-out bridge is yet a bridge. But in both cases what is essential to the being of the perceptual experience (openness to the world) and the bridge (forging a connection between two sides of a river) has been lost. The reason why we identify the broken bridge as a bridge, the plastic horse as a horse, the hallucination as an experience, has to do with their ontological dependence on real bridges, horses, perceptions. We can call both veridical perceptions and hallucinations 'experiences', but this is not because they share something episodic in common, but instead merely because additive mention of all such phenomena gives us the extension of our broadest concept of 'experience'. 

3. differences to hallucinators of hallucinations and perceptions

Not elucidatory to say that in both real and hallucinatory cases it seems to us that there is a horse in front of us. For it may not seem to the hallucinator that there's a horse in front of her. Perhaps it seems to her that she's hallucinating a horse. 

Merleau-Ponty: examples of hallucinators being able to tell the difference between hallucinations and his perceptions. Early 20thC French and German psychiatrists playing tricks on psychotic patients with mock-ups of hallucinations, and reporting how taken aback the patients were, and how differently they related to their real and hallucinatory experiences with the same object.

Also: unclear what it means to say of someone who clearly sees a horse that it seems to him that he sees a horse. (And it may be true of someone who doesn't clearly see a horse that it seems to them that they see a cow.) This because part of the work that the concept of 'seeming' does is to distinguish between, for example, when something 'really is' the case and when something 'just seems' to be the case. To say that there is a 'seeming' alive in both cases sublimes the logic of 'seems'.

4. existential phenomenology - thinking form and content together

Value of existential-phenomenological theory is that it thinks hallucinatory form and content together. Dualistic theories, by contrast, typically chalk up form to neurological factors alone, and view content as epiphenomenal or to do with psychologically intelligible preoccupations, traumas, complexes, self-esteem, etc.

In thinking form and content together we also aid rapprochement of psychiatric understanding of form with psychoanalytic understanding of content.  (Thinking them together: we can ask: why would that be the content of a hallucination? The form of our embodiment is central to answering this.)

I will call hallucination: an embodied expectation of hearing (or seeing, being touched, etc.) uncancelled by (unrelinquished despite) the absence of a stimulus; a 'negative' (quasi-photographic) or 'anti-'experience, an ungraspable absence registered as a presence. This an existential-phenomenological characterisation, not a reductive explanation. Merleau-Ponty: We need to understand - to 'live' - hallucination without reductively 'explaining' or psychologically reducing it. 

Talk of 'embodied and cancelled expectations' is not straightforwardly perspicuous. We instead arrive at sense through analogies, disanalogies and examples. (Similarly for perception - to say it is our 'openness to the world', that it 'takes us out to the objects', that it involves an 'originary transcendence', hardly conveys positive information. Instead: what we have here are reminders not to make a travesty of our concept of perception by espousing dualism of inner mental domain enjoying merely external relation to an external world.) Of course one can have unrelinquished anticipations which do not constitute or coincide with hallucinations! I am truly aiming at an identity claim, but the particular meaning of 'unrelinquished' and 'anticipation' will emerge as we proceed.

5. hallucination as uncancelled anticipation

Hallucination: an embodied expectation of hearing, seeing, being touched, etc., uncancelled by the absence of a stimulus; a (quasi-photographic) 'negative' or 'anti-' experience; an ungraspable absence registered as a presence.

Anticipation: Merleau-Ponty follows Husserl in describing how perception has built into its structure a large array of 'promises' - if I move over there, and my vantage changes, or if I pick this up and turn it over, that I will encounter this or that. An interconnected protentive structure of experience constituting our normal perceptual world. Objects offer what Gibson calls sensori-motor affordances. M-P: 'I can feel swarming beneath my gaze, the countless mass of more detailed perceptions that I anticipate, and upon which I already have a hold'.

Merleau-Ponty on hallucination: 'The illusion of seeing is ... much less the presentation of an illusory object than the spread and, so to speak, running wild of a visual power which has lost any sensory counterpart. There are hallucinations because through the phenomenal body we are in constant relationship with an environment into which that body is projected, and because, when divorced from its actual environment, the body remains able to summon up, by means of its own settings, the pseudo-presence of that environment.'

Walk along - expect the floor to stay still. Get onto an escalator, expect it to move thus and so. Turn an object over in your hand: expect it to appear thus and so. Self usually rapidly and automatically adjust to various environmental changes. 

Selfhood and perceived object are two correlative moments in perception. What belongs to whom - this is what must be divvied up by the intentional arc which subtends and (at the 'chiasm') divides the two subject and object poles: e.g. is it that I've moved further away? Or that: it's got smaller / moved away?

Spinning: spin around a lot - then stop - the world appears to spin. You've set up certain expectations of self/world movement in your lived body. These expectations are not visually met with (because you stopped spinning). They're not immediately relinquished/cancelled. So then, instead, the world appears to move in opposite direction. In intoxication we have the same difficulty. Expectation and world are not so tightly coupled. Maximal grip is degraded.

Broken escalator: your body carries expectations of movement even if you can see escalator is static. Get on the escalator - it appears to lurch in the opposite direction. Your body stumbles. Why isn't it like getting on a normal staircase?!

Jewellery removed: take off a watch or bracelet before swimming or before doing the washing up. Normally you don't feel it there. But now you feel an anti-bracelet around your wrist!

Sensory deprivation: nothing to entrain the web of anticipations; nothing to cancel them (no staircase fully visible where a person would otherwise occlude it). Hallucinations spring up from fleeting unrelinquished sensory anticipations.

Phantom limb: the expectations that constitute the body schema can't be readily relinquished. 'Knowing that your limb is gone' is not a neurological unity - various disjunctive criteria for that, some of them verbal and some motor-habitual. (Harder to adjust if unconscious when amputation happened.) 

Rubber hand illusion: disturbance of sensory integration. Tickling of feather is not where body expects it when body takes rubber hand for own hand. So position of hand in body schema is adjusted. (Can cause OBEs in schizophrenics.)

Hallucinatory palinopsia: Wikipedia: "persistent recurrence of a visual image after the stimulus has been removed." The expectation is formed, yet not relinquished after the 'stimulus has been removed'  - so one has a 'recurring visual image'.

Ghosts: my beloved has died but this understanding has not propagated through my set of reactive dispositions. That is: I still expect her to come through the door. She does not. Yet the expectation does not immediately relinquish: instead I 'see' a 'negative' of her - I 'see' her 'ghost'.

Succubi, incubi, old hags, alien visitors: sleep paralysis undermines ability to update the body schema. Corollary discharge of the motor intention plus no change of retinal stimulation due to paralysis naturally gives rise to hallucinatory experience - projection of body image. Sense of evil - self-disintegration (terror - see below) and hallucinated body shape combine in the night terror. 

AVHs: perhaps not so easy to generalise to 'hearing voices'? The model would be: I have a latent anticipation of hearing my name being called. And in cases of mental illness, a latent anticipation (in the complexes) of receiving hostile criticism, of being talked about, etc. I do not manage to experience silence - in other words my latent anticipation is not relinquished. I then 'hear' an 'anti-voice' saying what I expect to hear. AVHs are auditory ghosts. Why expect criticism? This is the 'introjection of the bad object' to form persecutory superego.

Charles Bonnet Syndrome - visual hallucinations - in some of those with significant retinal damage - i.e. with partial blindness. Standard theory: impairment of normal visual stimulation unconstrains the brain from producing 'images' (of little people, of objects, landscapes, and repeating visual patterns). Alternative: hallucination here too is result of 'anticipations' uncancelled by normal sensory input. Question remains: why does person have such anticipations - of encountering people etc.? Well: of course we have expectations of encountering people, objects, landscapes, etc. And if we experience a little bit of a pattern it may be natural to expect this to continue as well (in the absence of the cancelling effect of regular visual input). Elaboration of a partial visual stimulus into a face, person, object, pattern ought to happen, and is what subtends normal protentive dimension of visual experience.

6. hallucination as failed grieving 

Failing to smoothly update body schema: caused by identificatory failures of mourning, by intoxication, by tricking the body (psychologist's rubber hand illusion etc), by schizophrenic fragility.

Easy to update, to 'grieve', when the lost phenomenon not really a part of who one is. 

Grieving: not an emotional experience that sits on top of the letting go of reactive dispositions to encounter the departed other / the amputated limb. Grieving is the embodied relinquishing of these expectations. Grieving tears at the fabric of our self, allowing it to adjust to new situation without the lost object. (You can't ask: 'why does mourning (letting go) involve feelings like that (grief)?' because the feeling is the experience of the adjustments within the mourning process.) 

Ghosts: intrinsically mournful phenomena. Beckon to the living from 'another world'. They still have something they want to say. They can 'haunt' - won't leave you or this world alone, trapped between the worlds. All of these properties in fact belong to the bereaved: it is we who can't let go of the beloved, we who want to say something to her, we who can't relinquish our expectations. The ghost is the reverse of these - rather than grieve we hallucinate. Ghosts - so-called presences - are, in fact, unmanageable absences.

This is not wish-fulfilment. It is a direct product of the non-relinquishment of the anticipations. It is no more wish-fulfilment than our lurch on the static escalator. 'Ghosts' are visual lurches on the static escalators of our animal souls.

7. the identity of hallucination

If one is reluctant or unable to relinquish the expectation of theorising hallucination in terms of 'inner images occurring in the absence of their normal cause' - if one is reluctant or unable to relinquish a conception of consciousness as an inner realm of inner representations - then the theory of hallucination as a failure of expectation will look unpersuasive.

One will be likely to think that a theory based on anticipation is either insufficiently sensory or is at best not an ontological account but instead merely a theory of what causes hallucination. The hallucination itself, one might think, will be an inner image upshot of the failure to relinquish the anticipation.

This is not our theory. It is one of the being of hallucination. If we have to think of hallucination in terms of 'images', then the claim is that the inner image is the anticipation unrelinquished despite the unencountered stimulus. However why think in terms of images at all? We have to see images (e.g. oil paintings or photos), and hallucination is not seeing. 

This talk of 'inner images' is a metaphor; one might as well say that auditory hallucination involves 'inner recordings', or that olfactory hallucination involves 'inner scratch-n-sniff cards'. Images, recordings, and smelly cards can all obtain in the absence of what the images depict, tapes record, and cards smell like - and hallucinations also obtain, of course, in the absence of that of which they are hallucinations! The theory of 'inner images' seems to suppose that because there is no outer stimulus in hallucination there must be an 'inner' one! (Error theory regarding 'inner image' talk proclivity.)

Someone might insist 'But at least the psychologist - i.e. the heir of the 18th century 'theory of ideas' pundit - has a theory of hallucination. It is a mental image. But what do you have? You talk of unrelinquished anticipations - but surely one can have an anticipation, including an unrelinquished one, without hallucinating anything?'

First of all I would like to question that it is all that obvious what a mental image is. I don't myself feel confident that I know this genus well enough in its own terms to then be able to allocate hallucination to it as a species. As I said above, it seems to me to be a mere metaphor.

Next I want to ask whether we always know what we are doing when we ask 'But what is X?' or 'But what is it to X?' The questions are so simple that it feels like we ought always be able to ask them. But my thought here is that it's not really so clear that the question has a proper place. For might we not just reply 'But don't you know? Surely you know what it is?' Imagine someone saying 'You keep talking about matter. But what is that, really?' One way of thinking about this riposte of mine is to question the idea that everything must be a species of some or other genus (rather than being a genus with only one species in, if you like). I should like to suggest that sometimes the 'But what is X?' question arises in a compelling way only because the questioner has herself already bought into a particular way of thinking about our mental life - perhaps in terms of a rather restricted set of categories like 'mental state, mental process, sensation, mental image' etc. Their 'But at least I've got a theory of X' comment now hardly looks so innocent. For it turns out that 'having a theory of what X is' presupposes what we might rather want to investigate - whether hallucination is, categorically speaking, sui generis, or whether it may be decomposed into or allocated to some other psychological phenomenon.

At this point, finally, I can imagine someone wanting to defend my position in the following way: 'But Richard you protest too much, since you do have a theory of what a hallucination is. It is, you said, an unrelinquished sensory anticipation obtaining even in the absence of sensory stimulation.' Well, that's very kind of you. However I don't think my 'account' is really in the same ballpark as the empiricist psychologist's account. I don't for a moment think that one could understand what it is to hallucinate simply through a grasp of how the terms 'anticipation' and 'relinquish' work in other contexts. For these anticipations are not any old anticipations - they have their being in the midst of our unreflective animate life. We have thousands of them every minute - if it even really makes sense to count them - and they are constantly relinquished by our sensorimotor contact with reality. I think there is a kind of 'leap' needed, a moment of sheer intuition, when one grasps how it is that a sensory anticipation that is unrelinquished despite not showing up in experience can constitute hallucination. This is why I used plenty of examples in section 5 above - my hope is that you will be able to just 'get' my thesis if you dwell on the examples and the theoretical claim in the midst of one another.

8. hallucination, terror and self-dissolution in schizophrenia

Self and perceptual object are correlatively enacted structures.

If we can't achieve self-world stability - grip (as in maximal grip) - then disintegrative terror looms. Not being able to attain object-stability is also disturbing. Because of their correlative enactment, not two alternative scenarios.

Schizophrenia - especially coenaesthopathic schizophrenia - involves a fragility to slippage of body schema - and by implication a vulnerability to disturbed self-world enactments (hallucinations, autoscopies, passivity experiences, coenaesthopathies, OBEs).

Parts of body schema become sheared off. Transitivism, appersonation, passivity experiences, alien hand, coenaesthopathies develop as body is no longer 'lived', alien invasions, electrical experiences, kundalini, etc.  Or displacement of point of perception - autoscopies, OBEs.

Terror is the experience (the undergoing - i.e. non-transitive experience) of self-dissolution. (The identity claim matters - now you can't say 'but Richard why is that so scary?') 

Delusionality: the relinquishing of the attempt to solve for self-world discrepancies, the retreat into autism / detachment from reality / disconnection of sensori-motor feedback cycles / diminished fonction du reél. Delusion is a way to not experience terror of self-dissolution (persecution is better than disintegration).

9. hallucination and therapy: between identification and grief

Compared to perception (reality contact) and self-world adjustment, hallucination is failure.

Compared to introjective identification with bad object, hallucination is a success!

That is: the hallucinator who 'hears' a persecutory voice is at least now not completely identified with it.

Hallucination can be seen like psychoanalytic symbolism (in dreams, images, preoccupations, obsessions, delusion-like ideas, etc): as a stage between illness and health. Both regressive and progressive moments possible. Recognition and encouragement of it's progressive dimension is the therapeutic task.

Therapeutic task is: relinquishing the anticipation! This may be updating the body schema with mirror boxes etc for phantom limb sufferer. It may be grieving the beloved, realising what one oneself wants to say to him or her, in those who see ghosts. It may be taking care to stabilise body schema, and sharing understanding about this, in schizophrenia.  

This contrasts with a conception of hallucinations as 'inner images'. On that conception we're likely to see them as psychologically unmotivated brain events, or as wishfully motivated (since imagination is often under control of the will). By contrast the anticipation account provides a clearer therapeutic direction.

Sunday, 11 June 2017

a ghost is a failed goodbye

Ghosts, I want to say, are intrinsically mournful phenomena. Their very form speaks essentially of loss. They seem to beckon to us from another world. They might reach out to touch us, but are yet pulled back into their spirit realm. A realm that is out of the reach of the quick. (They always come to us.)

I offer such thoughts not because I or you 'believe in' ghosts. Of course we don't. Instead I'm trying to find some words which attach themselves naturally to the very idea of the ghost. I go on below to ask into the significance of such natural attachments.

Another important concept here is that of 'haunting'. The ghost is a departed spirit who won't leave the living alone.

I wrote before that a ghost is a failed goodbye. A phantom limb is another example of this: this leg or arm that the brain can't mourn, this body schema that can't be updated despite the patient's best conscious efforts. (Two other examples already given: the habitually worn bracelet taken off, or the broken escalator mounted: we feel a phantom bracelet on our arm; we feel a disconcerting lurch on embarking the static escalator.)

In certain conditions absence is experienced as haunting presence. Which conditions? Conditions when the expectations which structured our relationship with the departed are not extinguished, not worked through. Conditions of failed mourning. These expectations are scattered across the gamut of our bodily anticipations, and do not belong properly simply to what we can verbally express. The criteria for mourning are diverse and dissociable.

So a ghost is generated by the clash between latent expectation and the reality of absence. They speak essentially of loss because of this. We have a folklore and the folklore has ontological significance. The folklore is that ghosts aren't, say, simply beings from 'another realm', nor gaseous beings from this 'realm'. Instead they are most definitely the spirits of the departed. The spirits have not managed to let go of this world. Perhaps they still have something to tell us. Perhaps they still have a grievance against us. Perhaps they beckon to us from beyond the grave.

The question is what all this means. Freud had a thought about melancholia which we can adapt here. The thought was that the depressed bereaved may find it hard to mourn when they had unresolved (unconscious) ambivalent feelings toward the departed. There is something that we have or need to say to the departed, something which our relationship (in its positive elements, say) and their demise have thwarted. We want to call out to them. We want to summon them.

The ghost is the inverse of our unconscious desires. It is easy to say something lazy like: 'it is the projection into the world of our unconscious desires (to see, to harangue, the person again)'. But it just isn't a 'projection' in any meaningful sense. (This is to think like the cognitivist who says that we 'project' the 'colourful visual image' into the world where we then 'see' it.) What it is, I claim, is the admixture of uncancelled anticipation with null sensory fulfilment. And the ghost's 'negative' character - in the sense of a photographic negative - is manifest in all these ways: the ghost is lighter than its surroundings whereas the quick would be darker; it calls to us when we want to call to it; it beckons when we wish to beckon; it won't leave us alone when we can't let it go; it can't leave the world of the quick when it is really we who can't let it depart; it beckons to us from its 'other world' when we impossibly want to beckon to it from within this world. It is an intrinsically mournful phenomenon - whilst we are struggling to mourn.

Sunday, 4 June 2017

ontology of hallucination

When thinking of hallucination I'm drawn to a set of questions which we might summarise with 'What is the being of hallucination?' The question itself naturally invites another question, which is: 'What is it to ask into the being of a thing?' And: how does this differ from an empirical-psychological inquiry?

An empirical theory of hallucination might have it that hallucinations are caused by stress, have a symbolic content related to the hallucinator's complexes, involve abnormal activity in the superior temporal gyrus, etc. Such theories are all well and good, but here I note them only to provide a contrast to the kind of enquiry I'm instead inclined to pursue. They are answers to a different question (to a question individuated differently at the level of sense if not at the level of surface expression). They tell us, one might say, what happens when you hallucinate, but not what it is to hallucinate.

An empiricist might show impatience with the question of the being of hallucination, and propose a definition, after which we can (it is suggested) move swiftly on to the more important empirical matters at hand. You know the kind of thing: 'A hallucination is a perception / sense datum / inner experience / inner representation - in the absence of / not caused by - an outer object'.

Yet our question has its place precisely because of the futility of those kinds of answers, because of how wedded they are to a bankrupt inner/outer picture which reifies the inner and correlatively constitutively divorces experience as such from our world-involvement. For perception and experience are not just caused by their worldly objects; they take them in. They are not hybrids of i) non-mental causal outer interactions with a world (the mechanics of vision and audition etc) plus ii) mental upshots of 'loud and glowing sense data' in an internal world. Instead perceptual experience is our openness to the world; it is the originary form of intentionality. In this sense a hallucination is precisely not a perception or an experience of anything. For there is, one could say, something simply paradoxical in talking of 'an experience of a horse in the absence of a horse'.

Furthermore the concepts of 'inner representation', 'sense datum' etc are simply philosophical inventions which themselves cry out for explication before they themselves can feature in explanations. After all, one could say, what use is a visual representation if we can't actually see it? Doesn't the concept of a 'visual representation' - e.g. of a picture - presuppose rather than explain the capacity to see what is thereby pictured? (Consider our ability to see the pictures hanging on the wall, and how derivative this ability is of our ability to first see, directly, the kinds of things the pictures picture.) So we can't just help ourselves to such notions to explain perception. We need first to explain them. It won't do to say that an inner representation is self-perceiving or self-interpreting, since to say such things is far less perspicuous than talk of perceptual experience itself.

Consider too the arguments for disjunctivism in the philosophy of perception. The non-disjunctivist, to rehearse, has it that the visual perception of a horse, and a hallucination of a horse, have something psychological in common. The term 'psychological' there is doing the work of: they don't just have in common the atemporal fact that the right way to describe their content is 'a horse'. It is saying: they have in common something experiential and episodic. They are not just both experiences of horses; they are both - some or other allegedly illuminating sense - experiences of horses. Yet the disjunctivist will demur that it is no more illuminating to say this than to say that a real horse and a plastic horse are both horses, or that a standing bridge and a bombed out bridge are both bridges. We can of course say that a hallucination is a perceptual experience, just as we can also say that a bombed out bridge is a bridge. Yet in both cases, the disjunctivist insists, what is essential to the being of the perceptual experience (openness to the world) and the bridge (forging a connection between two sides of a river) has been lost. The reason why we identify the broken bridge as a bridge, the plastic horse as a horse, the hallucination as an experience, has to do with their ontological dependence on real bridges, horses, perceptions.

A hallucination, on this natural understanding, is a particular kind of disturbance in a perceptual modality. There is no more an experience left to it than there is a bridge left in the case of the bombed out bridge, or a horse in the plastic horse. We can call both veridical perceptions and hallucinations 'experiences', but this is not because they share something episodic in common, but instead because reference to all such phenomena gives us the extension of the concept of 'experience'. It wouldn't be elucidatory to say, for example, that in both real and hallucinatory cases it seems to us that there is a horse in front of us. For first of all it may not seem to the hallucinator that there is a horse in front of her. It may instead seem to her just that she is hallucinating a horse. (Merleau-Ponty is very clear on this.) And second it isn't clear what it means to say of someone who clearly sees a horse that it seems to him that he sees a horse. And this is because part of the work that the concept of 'seeming' does is to distinguish between, for example, when something 'really is' the case and when something 'just' seems to be the case. To say that there is a 'seeming' alive in both cases sublimes the logic of 'seems'.

It is for reasons such as these that I consider it important to ask 'what is being of hallucination?' In spelling this out it will naturally be fine to say things like 'It's kind of like seeing something but that something isn't actually seen'. In such cases we often talk about 'hearing things' and 'seeing things'; more specifically we talk of 'hearing voices' and 'seeing visions'. In doing this we indicate that other sensory modalities are not involved. That is the force of talk of 'hearing voices'. After all it could be said that in one sense we all hear voices everyday; or, at least, we listen to what people are saying. But the talk of hearing voices indicates that the talker is not visually or otherwise present to us. It is in the spirit of this question that I propose my answer: to hallucinate is to have an embodied expectation of hearing (or seeing, being touched, etc.) uncancelled by the absence of a stimulus. I do not offer that as an empirical theory but as a phenomenological characterisation. I do not imagine for a moment that such talk of 'embodied and cancelled expectations' is straightforwardly perspicuous. Instead I illustrate it with examples (such as the static escalator appearing to lurch when we embark it, or the world appearing to still spin around after you've stopped spinning around).

What I am not doing is providing necessary and/or sufficient conditions for 'hallucinate'. Such an analytic approach would, I believe, radically underestimate the fundamental nature of hallucination as a disturbance of experiential world engagement. As for perception itself, to take the question of the being of perception as a request for necessary and sufficient conditions for perception is to tacitly imagine that there are floating about some more fundamental concepts which we can independently grasp and then put to use in our characterisation of what it is to perceive. That, I submit, is self-evidently absurd. If one says that 'perception is our originary openness to the world', that it 'takes us out to the objects', that it involves an 'originary transcendence', I hope it is clear how these can hardly be taken as statements conveying positive information. Instead they are reminders not to make a travesty of our concept of perception by closing us in to an inner mental domain in a merely external relation with the world about us.

No, we mustn't here try to achieve an illuminating definition, but instead accommodate to, find our way about with, the concept of 'perception' in practice. The same goes for 'hallucination'.

risky dreams

Telling and listening to a dream is a curiously intimate business. On the one hand it's part even of our pre-Freudian understanding of dreams that they can reveal more about us than we realise. Still, as it were, dreaming the dream, still caught up within its interiority, we tell it to someone, only to realise that we might have well have just blurted out our most intimate wishful fantasies, might have well have called a current lover by the name of a lost but unrelinquished love. Caught up still within the dream we don't notice until too late the latent meaning which then bangs us on the forehead as we clothe it in words which are not under our omnipotent control, as we are forced now to mean - to acknowledge the previously unevident implications in - what we say. A meaning which bangs us on the forehead in the same way in which a fish finally comes to understand it has been swimming in water only when for a moment it jumps out of the pool. Here the intimacy is part function of the inherent riskiness of the dream.

Yet telling a dream is also intimate just because it truly does speak to our ownmost preoccupations. And the risk we take here in telling the dream is not the negative one of exposing our shameful fantasies, but the positive one of someone welcoming us, accepting us, in our anxieties and longings.  This, I think, is the most powerful dimension of psychoanalysis or person-centred psychotherapy: a therapist listens to the patient's productions without judgement, accepting them as moments in the evolution of their soul. This loving attitude then becomes internalised in the patient's mind's fabric. Then they can allow themselves to be at the developmental level, or to have the preoccupations, they really are at and do have. And so, because of that, sequestered regions of the psyche start to rejoin the gang, and become once more live components of its self-becoming.

fifty quid, pfff

Catching up with an old friend after a conference this week I was struck by the different ways we were disposed to understand dreams - and other phenomena which I naturally take to manifest the dynamic unconscious. Where I saw a domain of personal meaning he saw largely an epiphenomenon; where I saw self-evident truth he saw interesting but generally unlikely hypothesis. "If I were entering the pearly gates and about to hear the truth of the matter from the Almighty, I'd lay fifty quid on it", he said of the psychoanalytic theory of dream symbolism, "but nothing more".

I found myself trying to argue the case but quickly got trapped between two unappealing alternatives. On the one hand I wanted to offer evidence for the theory, but it became clear that this wasn't really going to help. For, in relation to the theory, it would always be natural - from within such an epistemological framework - to take the psychoanalytic explanation as something reaching beyond the facts in an hypothetical way. As positing a hidden mechanism behind them. Thus when I started talking about the primary processes which (as I see it) underlie the formation of what I see as dream symbols, the question quickly became "And what's the evidence for that being true?" "What's the evidence for that mechanism actually being instantiated". On the other hand I was honestly tempted to pull the Freudian fast one - of saying that my friend was unwilling to grasp the theory because he was defended against an acknowledgement of the dynamic unconscious itself. (I somewhat embarrassedly admit that I actually think there's often something right about this latter option, appalling as it is as a dialectical move!)

It strikes me now that when I normally think about dream symbolism, about the operation of defence mechanisms, about the transference, I don't for one moment think of these as consisting in posits or scientific claims. Sure, in individual cases we may have to do with hypotheses and guesses. For example I may not know you well enough to know that your tense relationship with your boss is a function of your expectation of him to act erratically or capriciously - as you tend to discern in your relationships more generally with the men in your life from your father onwards. I get some kind of a feel for that, but more observation is required! But in general I would tend to view my thinking in terms of the dynamic unconscious as on pretty much the same footing as (or, if you like, no more the kind of thing that requires footing than) my thinking about our conscious lives. I no more take it that my general thinking about the dynamic unconscious involves hypothesis than I do my conscious life. I no more take it that, on entering the pearly gates it would seem natural to me to ask if dreams really do manifest a range of defence mechanisms, psychoanalytic symbolisms, repressed emotions, etc, than it would to enter the pearly gates and ask God whether beliefs and thoughts really exist. The latter question is, I take it, simply a bad question. You'd have to subscribe to some kind of metaphysical Realism to get it off the ground, which is to say that you'd have to sublime the logic of the 'real' before you can generate the illusion that such an inquiry makes sense. It's a bad question because once you know how to ascribe beliefs then you know what the reality of believing amounts to, and there's no more question about whether believing itself is real than that.

This was the point I didn't appreciate at the time in what my friend was saying. For what the little celestial gambling parable was clearly designed to do was to indicate that the dynamic unconscious is here being taken as a posit. In effect it amounts to a kind of cognitive over-reach - a positing something which seems beyond our ken. Something which God can know about but not us.

This is where I should have demurred. For it seems to me that there are no less ascription conditions for unconscious beliefs, for condensation, for displacement, for phantasy, for psychoanalytic symbolism, than there are for conscious beliefs! "Look!", I should have said, "this is what is called displacement", "this is what it is for one thing to 'symbolise' another in the mind", etc. Psychoanalysis is phenomenology, not speculative psycho-mechanics. But here's the rub: you can't just do this phenomenological inspection by way of simple examples talked about over dinner. You certainly can't dispose of it through definition either ("an unconscious desire is a disposition with features xyz" etc). Grasping the ascription conditions for unconscious mentality involves a deepening immersion in a set of phenomena, a deepening development of a sensibility for the affective undertow of our lives. (This is why I think that Freud's "you're just defended against my theory!" canard is kinda right. Except it's not Freud or the theory that the sceptic here is defended against, but the unconscious itself. And, well: of course!) An enhanced memory for all one's: evasions, moments of humbling acknowledgement, collapses of defences into honesty, social anxieties that hardly show their face for all one's accomplished pseudo-maturity, yet which still show something of their coat tails. A live experience of the transference and countertransference - not, I hasten to add, some kind of over-familiarity with a psychological explanatory system which familiarity just churns out sentences concerning some putative background mechanism underlying the more straightforwardly observable phenomena of our lives; that kind of positing is religious cultishness (again, another reason, I suspect, for my friend's paltry celestial wager) - but instead noticing how one is pulled to believe and feel things of oneself and of the other in emotionally intense relationships (such as therapeutic relationships).

No, in fact if such ascription conditions were not available to us then they'd hardly be available to God either - for what we would have, instead of a genuine discourse regarding the dynamic unconscious, would simply be the illusion of such a discourse. All God could say, in such a circumstance, is not whether there really is or isn't a dynamic unconscious or a symbolic content to dreams, but rather "I'm sorry chum, we'll let you in, but you really gotta acknowledge that you don't even know what you're asking about when you put that wager down."

Now how about this idea that dreaming is an epiphenomenon? Surely, I want to say, we just know that this is largely correct! For what gives it its sense here is something which is evident to waking reflection on our dreaming alone: in our dreams we arrive at various predicaments, we can't think properly about them (because we're asleep!), yet we are to some degree anxious, so we anxiously try out various of the options that seem to present themselves, and the dream unfolds thereby out of our ongoing anxiously clumsy attempts to manage the dream predicament. There is a narrator function, a visual (and sometimes auditory) imagination function, and an anxiety response which are somewhat switched on in dreams, despite a shutdown of many other parts of brain function. In fact, unconstrained by reality contact, and utterly lost within the first-person narrator's perspective, the visual imagination function in dreaming can quite outstrip what it can achieve during the day, and this is surely one of the reasons that our dreams can seem wonderful and numinous to us.

Yet so far as I can tell none of this detracts from the psychoanalytic theory. Our personal anxieties and wishes have particular shapes, and the ongoing reactive dream landscape is a perfect one for them to automatically show themselves in. Some of these anxieties and wishes will be unconscious. Yet because of the dreaming state - because of the absence of imagination-constraining reality-contact - they still find some kind of expression in the dream (which is why the dream is the royal road to the unconscious). My wishes and counter-wishes are no longer simply blocked, but tend to play out, and the playing out may even contribute some of the creative energy of the dream itself.

Here, I believe, is a place where the epiphenomenal and the dynamic understandings don't clash: in the idea of dream genesis. You can imagine someone trying to stage a clash using the word 'just', as in: 'But what supplies the dream content is not my day residue plus longer-term unresolved issues - it is just a matter of random neurons firing off in your head.' This might look like competing hypotheses, but nobody wants to subscribe to dualism. Psychoanalysis is the name we give to one of the forms that the rejection of such dualism takes. 'Look', it says 'you really are all that too'. 'You are your id and not just your ego'. 'You are the dreamer of the dream. This is your mental life. These images and feelings and preoccupations are moments of your biography'.

can't bear very much (more talk of) reality

The enigmatic and subtle Oskari Kuusela came to talk to the Jowett Society this week. His theme: how to explain that peculiar feature of philosophical statements which is their intention of exceptionlness generality. Philosophical pronouncements typically tend to an explanation of what things are in their essence, what they necessarily are. But what is the status of these statements? What is it that makes for this necessity? (The cleverest part of Oskari's talk was its very raising of this question. He thereby already pricked philosophical pretension using nothing beyond its own form of enquiry, inviting metaphysics to answer for itself and to us in a way in which it is not accustomed to do but which, if it is really fearless, it can hardly just shirk. ... I remember Galen Strawson once arguing that individual consciousness has a 'pfff' factor which is its unique intrinsic unexplainability. I asked why he was prepared to allow this sui generis unanalysability to consciousness but not, as Wittgenstein and Heidegger did, to, say, the multiform manifestations of motor intentionality, language, our relational lives, etc. What principle, I asked, could we appeal to to decide which of these philosophies was the right one? The question did not go down well - it's the one you're not supposed to ask. Oskari was, precisely, asking, in the largest possible way, the question you're not supposed to ask the metaphysician.)

One answer to Oskari's question has it that what we have to understand is that they are not empirical statements about what happens to be the case, but metaphysical statements about the non-contingent nature of reality. But as he pointed out, this really just restates the problem by giving it a name. Or perhaps we aim to delineate the essential structure of reality a la Plato (forms), Aristotle (form), Kant (transcendental structures), Husserl (pure essences), Russell (logical forms), Heidegger' (existentialia). Well, ok, but how do we know that these exist? Sure, they in their turn seem to explain these necessities allegedly to be found in the superstructure of reality or in the substructure of intelligible thought. But it is not enough to give content to a notion that it seem to explain something, for something can itself be an explanation if we already have some idea of what that something is. Otherwise one might as well, say, substitute a mere variable. As with the notion that here we meet with 'metaphysical' pronouncements, here in truth we are doing nothing more than naming the phenomenon that still wants explaining. 'That sounds like an explanation, sure', the thought goes, 'but now show me why it is not simply a set of words aping an empirical generalisation with an alleged non-empirical property the justification for which is yet unforthcoming'.

Oskari took us through the early Wittgenstein's failed attempt to explicate what a philosopher might be saying in saying that reality itself enjoys exceptionalness generality, to arrive at the later Wittgenstein's turnaround. In short this later view has it that statements of exceptionlness generality do not so much articulate a special and mysterious property of reality or of the cognising mind as express an unmysterious property of a mode of representation. (The same can be said of Wittgenstein on logical necessity quite generally. Logically necessary propositions are not true in virtue of correctly articulating the structure of reality or in virtue of correctly describing he structure of our thought or language. Instead they are a form of language. They are not, for example, true in virtue of 'how we go on' in language, for they are one of the ways we go on.) Whether we are talking of conceptual models, or grammatical rules, or simple language games, the necessity invoked is internal to the discourse. 'If you want to count as a good person, you must try to maximise human happiness.' That is what the utilitarian might say, as if it were a statement concerning the nature of morality, a statement intended to enjoy an exceptionlness generality in virtue of tracking an essential feature of morality per se. What Oskari offered was that, given the fact that utilitarian ethics appears to only capture some of our understanding of what it means to be ethical, leaving aside matters of intention for example, and so simply cannot achieve the kind of descriptive universality or descriptive exceptionalness generality it proposes, we do better to think of the utilitarian proposition as what he called a 'model'. In the model to be good is to aim at maximal happiness for all. The model's necessity does not derive from it accurately depicting a mysterious necessity encountered in the structure of moral reality (whatever that is). It derives from the fact that the model is providing a rule for the use of 'moral'. The exceptionless generality of the utilitarian claim thereby resolves into the unproblematic exceptionlessness belonging to principles.

Some confusion arrived in the questions concerning what being a 'model' amounts to, confusion later helpfully sorted out by Sebastian Grève. For it is natural to ask, of a model, whether it is accurate or not: does it correctly model the nature of (e.g. moral) reality? Is it true? And, if so, in virtue of what is it true? And when we ask that, we are right back with our old question which we were trying so hard to avoid! But the problem here arises from the use of the word 'model' rather than the more perspicuous phrase 'simple object of comparison'. Once we stick with the latter we also get clear what the point of deploying models in philosophy is: that we propose an artificially simple rule for the use of 'moral' and then gain clarity about the nature of our actual moral thought by comparing and contrasting the ways in which moral discourse and moral practice does and does not tally with such a prototype. In short, the point of the model isn't to 'fit reality', whatever that would mean (I come to this below). It's rather to provide a simple notion about which we feel utterly clear to use as a comparator - one we can hold up next to our actual practice about which we have become unclear, so that we can at least say 'Well, in these ways our actual practice, in all its depth and complexity, does, and in these ways does not, accord with our model. And in these ways it accords and contrasts with this other model as well'.

What interests me this morning is this very idea of 'fitting reality'. When we ask whether a model correctly corresponds to reality we are, I believe, subliming our concept of 'real'. I would like here to say something of what I mean by that.

If we think that the task of the model is here to try to correctly represent reality, or the nature of the cognising mind, then we will naturally wonder if it represents it correctly or incorrectly.  But this misses the way in which the model here is not itself a simple representation but a simple rule of representation; it misses the way in which the exceptionless generality it enjoys is not a feature of something it represents but rather an internal feature of a rule as such. 

One may as well ask whether our concepts - our moral concepts, for example - themselves conform to the nature of morality itself. Or whether our colour concepts correspond to anything real in some place we call 'the world'. Or whether there 'really are' animals or atoms 'out there', wherever that is. Talk like this and we'll soon also start talking about whether we're cutting something called 'nature' at its joints. And so on. And if we start to take such ways of talking seriously, and yet feel uncomfortable with the gulf that such a vantage point seems to open up between our basic understanding of things and how things really are, then we may be tempted by some form of idealism. 'No', we might say,  trying to stop the rot but mindless of the ensuing narcissism, 'that there are colours, animals, atoms, goodness, love, forgiveness, in the world is a function not of the world itself but rather of how we represent matters. Perhaps it's even a matter of how we can but represent matters.' Thus the debate descends into portentousness. The words 'reality', 'world', 'out there', 'nature' have taken on a life of their own beyond their natural conditions of application. 

Thus we normally take 'nature' to be the domain of plants, animals, fungi etc. But now we are pretending to seriously ask whether something called 'nature' really does contain plants, animals, fungi, etc., or whether this is just a 'projection' on our part into nature. What is lost here is any sense of what is meant by the 'nature' which is not to be already understood in terms of plants and fungi etc. Or similarly with the word 'real': we know perfectly well what it is for banknotes, smiles, Manet paintings, guns, gold, etc to be real rather than fake or pretend or forged or imitation or replicas. 'But no', the metaphysical realist says, 'I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about whether we are right in thinking that there really are even real guns or real smiles or real Monet paintings or real gold in reality itself'. But the problem is that we just don't know what is now meant by this word 'reality'. We have, as Wittgenstein put it, here sublimed the logic of our language - i.e. taken a term ('real') outside of its embedding context of application, and now try and apply it in a void over and above these contexts, inviting us to pretend to ourselves that we know what we are doing when we ask whether those contexts themselves enjoy 'instantiation'. In this way concepts are endlessly treated as if they were judgements.

I want to stress again that, as it seems to me, the problem is not at all best addressed by trying to stop the remove from us of the world/reality/nature by bringing it closer to home, by giving it a 'human face'. Such an idealist/conceptualist response still takes too seriously the underlying problematic and ignores the way in which an object of comparison, a rule, a norm, is itself no kind of description of anything. The only way I can see to get the metaphysical projects of Idealism and Realism going is to start by subliming the logic of the 'real', by ignoring the way the term gets its content in its sundry contexts of application, and then to imagine that it can lord it over such contexts. 

In his responses to questions Oskari aligned himself with realism - with the Wittgenstein who would say 'not empiricism but yet realism in philosophy, that is the hardest thing'. But we need to be clear how far this is from that metaphysical realism ('Realism') which would take it as coherent to ask whether our concepts actually find instantiation 'in reality'.  (The questioner suggested that realism involves a reality that transcends the models - that is something to which they and our concepts must answer.) What Wittgenstein is encouraging is rather thought that is realistic - that pays attention to what it really does mean to talk of, say, goodness or love or natural life. And nothing in that project supposes that it makes sense to ask whether either our concepts or our models of the phenomena correspond to something called reality or not. Again, this is not because, a la idealist, reality is mysteriously infused with our concepts. We don't here have to do with an occult penetration of nature by our mental or linguistic life. Instead we have to do with the difference between representations and simple (like grammatical objects of comparison) or complex (like the rich multiplicity of our moral life) normative structures. Oskari's 'models' do not correspond to reality as opposed to our concepts. When we use them as simple objects of comparison, for the purpose of becoming clearer about how our actual concepts work - noting the similarities and differences - it makes no difference whether we say, as I just did, that what we meet with here are 'concepts', or instead with phenomena.