narcissus on the text

Narcissus on the Text: Psychoanalysis, Exegesis, EthicsAuthor(s): Micaela JananSource: Phoenix, Vol. 61, No. 3/4 (Fall - Winter, 2007), pp. 286-295Published by: Classical Association of CanadaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20304660 .Accessed: 21/04/2014 03:40

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NARCISSUS ON THE TEXT: PSYCHOANALYSIS, EXEGESIS, ETHICS

Micaela Janan

L SYCHOANALYSIS HAS HISTORICALLY BEEN DRAWN to explicating classical texts

as paradigms for its concepts. Sophocles' Oedipus famously inspired Freud; in the discipline's post-structuraHst turn, Jacques Lacan found himself ensorcelled

by Oedipus' most famous daughter, Antigone (Lacan 1986). However, Ovid's

story of Narcissus (Metamorphoses 3.339-510) has inspired relatively little interest as a positive exemplar of deeper psychic mysteries applicable to the normal human

being.1 Small wonder: the self-absorbed Narcissus is seemingly at daggers drawn with a clinical and critical practice founded on intersubjectivity.

Yet Narcissus has much to teach us as readers and analyzers of texts. After

all, Ovid frames his tale as solving an intertextual mystery. When Narcissus'

mother, the water-nymph Liriope, asks the prophet Tiresias whether her son will

enjoy long life, Tiresias replies "if he does not know himself -(si se non noverit, 348). Though the sage's words "long seemed meaningless" (vana diu visa est vox auguris, 349), Narcissus' story revolves around uncovering just what they do mean. When Tiresias predicts that the boy's longevity will depend upon refusing self-knowledge, he obviously parodies the portal inscription of the temple of

Apollo at Delphi: "Know thyself." In the ancient world, the Delphic oracle was the premier locus of ambiguous utterances that demanded exegesis. But Tiresias also situates Narcissus' fate within the same conceptual domain as psychoanalysis: his words depict introspection as menacing to (received notions of) the self. No wonder that at either end of the twentieth century, two of Freud's "daughters" found the doomed, beautiful boy's mystery irresistible: Lou Andreas-Salom? and

Julia Kristeva. The bizarre facts of the case that sparked the two women's imaginations may

easily be summarized. In Ovid's version of Narcissus' story, the beautiful but

ultimately untouchable boy attracts and spurns a series of lovers. One rebuffed suitor finally curses his tormentor: sic amet ipse licet, sic non potiatur amato! ("May he love what he cannot enjoy!," 405). Narcissus fulfills this doom when, seeing

1 Freud's 1914 essay "On Narcissism" (Freud 1957) has inspired a number of responses from

his day to our own, but like Freud's own formulation, these have generally seen primary narcissism, the narcissism of childhood, as something to be transcended?an obstacle to full, adult human

development. From this perspective, narcissism that persists into adulthood at best affords a window onto those types of disorders that Freud did not attempt to analyze: the psychoses and schizophrenia. Notable among such responses are Kohut 1971; Rosenfeld 1982; Grunberger 1979 and 1989; Kernberg 1985. The work of Andr? Green (1983 and 1986) constitutes a partial exception. Green (1986: 167)

distinguishes a "narcissism of life" from a "narcissism of death"; the power of the former is to support "unity and identity," while only the latter aligns with the "destructive instincts."

286 PHOENIX, VOL. 61 (2007) 3-4.


NARCISSUS ON THE TEXT 287

himself in a pool, he burns for what appears to be another beautiful youth. Ovid turns the screw by having Narcissus eventually wake up from his delusion and realize his error. He gets no joy of the revelation: enlightenment does not quiet his passion, and he dies despairing.

Freud saw Narcissus' grim fate as merely logical: for him, narcissism was a

stage to be quickly traversed on the way to full socialization. But Salome's and Kristeva's perspectives differ markedly from Freud's. Salom? rescues Narcissus from Freud's deprecating characterization by focusing on inspiration. What Freud saw as a stage that must be abandoned within a zero-sum libidinal economy, Salom? views as a fundamental condition and a potential passageway. Narcissistic love sparks an ecstatic delirium; it lavishes the riches of the unconscious on the beloved object, thus eliminating "the frontiers of the ego." That overflow of self onto the object enables creativity: in poems, in paintings, and in other creative

objects of desire, artists symbolize the ineffable plenitude whence "self emerged, and with which narcissism allows periodic reconnection (Salom? 1900; 1921).2

Kristeva shares Salome's emphasis on narcissism's creative impetus, but as

a function of void rather than of plenitude. For her, Narcissus confronts the impassable gap between self and the undifferentiated All whence that self

emerges. The boy gazes at a mere mirage in the pool?an emblem of the "empty," or self-referential, sign (Kristeva 1987: 104). Like the sign, Narcissus' watery, insubstantial beloved marks the absence of any referent, any flesh-and-blood person

whom he could love. Yet by reproducing the gap between sign and referent, the

image in the pool also encapsulates the logic of language; language is the "favorite

object" with which we palliate the division between "I" and the undifferentiated semiotic continuum whence "I" first distinguished itself (a continuum figured by the maternal body, for example). Narcissus' relation to his own image delineates even more specifically the poet's dependence

on metaphorical language. Metaphor

posits a relationship between two ideas, but does not designate one or the other as essence or origin. In metaphor, self and other, subject and object, I and

you, are pleasurably confounded. The poet figures a fake Narcissan self in the

passionately-invested linguistic images of metaphor (Kristeva 1987: 267-279). Salome's and Kristeva's observations on Narcissus clarify his relation to poets.

The light they shed on what poets do can be broadened to illuminate both what

poets create, and what we, as readers, (ought to) do with it. As noted, the Narcissus tale pivots on a textual exegesis. But Ovid's tale also infuses a passionately-founded ethics into the act of unfolding meaning, of knowing a cathected (image of the) self. Here the tale intersects with the thought of a psychoanalyst who bridges the conceptual distance between Salom? and Kristeva: Jacques Lacan. Ovid's

Narcissus combines strands of the myth previously kept separate, between a

2 Karla Schultz's sensitive and learned probing of Salome's and Kristeva's writings on love and

narcissism has been indispensable in helping me formulate the following summary of the two thinkers'

points of commonality and difference (Schultz 1994).


288 PHOENIX

Narcissus who believes he loves another person, and a Narcissus who knows better. It thereby sets the stage for an act of conscious ethical choice. Ovid evokes the possibility that once undeceived, the boy will renounce his futile passion.

Yet he refuses to do so, at the certain cost of his life. The knowing Narcissus

consistently speaks of himself as death-bound (Ov. Met. 3.469-473):

iamque dolor vires adimit, nee t?mpora vitae

tonga meae superant, primoque exstinguor in aevo.

nee mihi mors gravis estposituro morte dolores,

hic, qui diligitur, vellem diuturnior esset; nunc duo concordes anima moriemur in una.

"Even now my sorrow saps my strength, nor does a lengthy span remain for my life; I am

dying in my early years. Nor is death burdensome, since I shall put aside my sorrows in

death. I do wish that my beloved could live longer. Now, two hearts in harmony are dying with one breath."

Narcissus Uves out and dies his loyalty to the beloved object, a quintessentially ethical act. In Lacanian terms, he "does not cede his desire."3 Rather than retreat back into impenetrable subjectivity, Narcissus chooses the limited, ephemeral object?the fragile image in the pool, which his falling tears regularly erase. He even refuses oblivion in death. His mortal body gone, the boy's shade still gazes at its own image in Hades. Narcissus has apparently refused to enter Lethe and to

forget his desire. Instead, he exists in limbo. In Lacanian terms, he is suspended "between two deaths":4 between the disappearance of his mortal body and the erasure of the desires rooted therein. Ovid's Narcissus keeps faith absolutely.

But more than persisting under the spell of his rapture, Narcissus also creates

his own passion's exegesis. The knowing Narcissus still alternates between

addressing his image as himself, and as another. Fifteen lines after exclaiming of the image in the water, Iste ego sum! ("That's me!," 463),5 the boy again speaks to the image as though it were a scornful lover. His tears have disturbed the

water's surface, so that he cannot see himself. He cries out to the face in the

water, "Quo refugisf remane, nee me, crudelis, amantem / desere!" ("Where are

you fleeing? Stay, cruel boy, and don't desert me, your lover!," 477-478). His

monologue oscillates between seeing the image as self, and seeing it as other. That oscillation glosses what it fully means to "know oneself?to know oneself

3 "Je propose que la seule chose dont on puisse ?tre coupable, au moins dans la perspective

analytique, c'est d'avoir c?d? sur son d?sir" (Lacan 1986: 368). The last chapter of Lacan's discussion of Sophocles' Antigone in the Ethics of Psychoanalysis is

entitled "Antigone dans l'entre-deux-morts" (Lacan 1986: 315). A more literal translation and exegesis of Iste ego sum! is needed to reflect accurately the sentence's

conflicting grammatical signals. Iste should refer to someone or something from whom the speaker distances himself?"that one of yours" (OLD s.v. iste 1). By contrast, ego points back at the speaker,

though as yet without necessarily involving logical contradiction. However, sum clinches the paradox and makes Narcissus' exclamation mirror the impossibility of his situation: "that one of yours"?that one designated as distant and distinct from the speaker?"I am."



as radically split, fragile, and bewitched by an other who ultimately inhabits one's interior. Narcissus overturns received notions of the self as fixed, autonomous,

unitary.6 Thus far I have focused on Narcissus as interpreter, but his interpretation itself

raises the problem of Narcissus as text. The way he fulfills Tiresias' prophecy creates a link like an amplifier circuit between three texts; meaning cycles and

expands among them without ever finding a resting point. The three texts are:

the portal inscription at Delphi, Tiresias' Delphic word-play, and the image in the pool that is the gloss on both. The image realizes (the meaning of) Tiresias'

prophecy and indirectly th? meaning of the Delphic inscription, but the proper

gloss on the image is not simply "That is Narcissus reflected in the pool; Narcissus has fallen in love with himself." Although the Ovidian narrator gleefully rings changes on the theme "You silly boy, you have fallen in love with yourself.," even he knows better than that. In the midst of taunting Narcissus for mistaking his own mirrored gestures for another's signs of love and coquettishness (432-436), the narrator himself puts "Narcissus" into question. The narrator says, Is ta

repercussae, quam cern?s, imaginis umbra est ("That which you see is the shadow of a reflected image," 434). The terms of this equation appear reversed, since

they make the flesh-and-blood boy clinging to the pool's edge a mere "reflected

image." The face in the pool is an even more impalpable, but oddly unreflexive, "shadow" of this image. What and where is Narcissus?

The image in the pool transforms the cold, aloof, corporeal Narcissus into

something other than what he was. For the first time in his life, he loves

passionately and even puts his beloved's interests ahead of his own: as noted, he wishes that his beloved could live longer than himself (472). On the other

hand, the image in the pool now embodies the former Narcissus. Its gestures indicate reciprocal desire, but they evade contact; it coquets with its desiring audience while remaining aloof and untouchable. Like the old Narcissus, the

image is cold?cold both figuratively and literally, because the sun never warms the impenetrable shadow surrounding the spring (412). If the cold Narcissus

image reflects the now loving Narcissus-in-the-flesh, the reverse is also true:

the corporeal Narcissus-lover could not have come into existence without the

Narcissus-image to spark his desire. So which of these two impossibly implicated existences is Narcissus? An even more puzzling question: who is Narcissus once Narcissus disappears? Ovid says of the boy's end on earth that lumina mors clausit

6The divided subject is a longstanding tenet of psychoanalysis, which partitions the self in various

ways: Freud's schema of Conscious/PreConscious/Unconscious, for example, and Ego/Superego/Id, or Lacan's larger vision of three realms (Real/Symbolic/Imaginary) that intersect the subject as a

nodal point. However, the idea is not entirely foreign to antiquity: Plato's tripartite division of the

soul into reason, spirit, and appetite corresponds to the psychoanalytic models of the mind (cf. Phdr.

253c-254e)?as does his theory of anamnesis (as laid forth in, e.g., Phaedo 73e-76e). Anamnesis, like

the psychoanalytic theory of repression, posits that knowledge crucial to one's being lies elsewhere

than in the forefront of consciousness.


290 PHOENIX

domini mirantia formam ("death closed his eyes, marvelling at the beauty of their

owner," 503). However, it is not entirely clear what that means: the boy's family can find no body for the funeral pyre, only a yellow-centered flower with white

petals (508-510). Meanwhile, Narcissus enters the Underworld?but which Narcissus? The

narrator had called the image in the pool an umbra (417, 434), a word that can also mean "dead spirit" (OLD s.v. umbra 7). The image-as-specter is appropriate on two counts. First, as noted earlier, the image-as-empty-sign marks the absence

of the referent; it metaphorically assigns the referent to death?that is, it assigns Narcissus to death. Second, the living Narcissus had complained that neither his reflection's gestures nor mouthed words of desire ever reached him. The image

was the locus of silent signs of desire that never reached their destination; it was in that sense a "dead letter."

So, as a shade in the Underworld, Narcissus has assumed the ontological status of his erstwhile reflection. But astonishingly, he still apparently casts his own

reflection, another image in yet other waters; even in Hell he continues to gaze fixedly upon the waters of the river Styx (505); untouched by Lethe, his shade still remembers and enacts his earthly desire. In contrast to the fixity of Narcissus'

loyalty, the mirror-text has now become a hall of mirrors, each reflection being multiplied in another reflection, and each leading to the same unanswerable

question: Where exactly is the mirror-text and where its necessary coordinate, Narcissus? Are they in, and by, the shaded pool up on earth?or in, and by, the

Stygian waters below? And what exactly does this text, and its multiple relays, say?

Our inability to pin down precisely where and who Narcissus is, where the

image-text is, and what it says, shows Salom? and Kristeva to have learned more from Ovid than has Freud. Whereas Freud sees narcissism as ultimately self-love, Salom? and Kristeva emphasize the ambiguity of narcissism that makes it a flow between self and other, subject and object. The narcissist projects himself onto the object, in the form of his own over-valuing fantasies; he is in turn seduced by these projections. Narcissism ultimately erases the object under the onslaught of the subject's projections.

Nonetheless, Salome's and Kristeva's assessments of narcissism do not account

for the ethical dimension of its inaugural instance. They do not account for Narcissus' unshakeable loyalty to his own peculiar reading of the watery image text as worth everything he has to trade for it, including himself. His devotion transforms reading into a game of hazard for moral stakes, a practice in which the text forces us to rethink our most fundamental assumptions about the role rational self-interest plays in ethics. But Narcissus also makes impossible a clean division between the destabilizing power of the text on one hand, and the destabilizing power of the reader on the other. Narcissus' "text" in the water commands

his loyalty with a power apparent to no other observer. His own admirers also



suffered from loving his boyish visage, the face the water returns to him?^but unlike Narcissus, none died of it.7

Lacan called Narcissus' kind of apparently idiosyncratic seduction "anamor

photic desire." Lacan borrows the term from a type of painting that represents one element in the picture from a distorted perspective. Viewed directly, the object appears to be a meaningless blob, but seen from a particular angle, the distortion

disappears and the image in the picture looks normal. In Narcissus' case, the

meanings relayed between reader and image-text also draw into their field the

meanings generated between the two other texts that control Narcissus' fate.

Apollo at Delphi and Tiresias in Boeotia together unfold a mystical perspective on the imperative to know oneself, and on its true cost. This knowledge, while

true, can produce no rational accounting for its truth. Not only does Narcissus' text shake up the reading subject so as to make him virtually unlocateable and

inconceivable, but the exact nature of the text that can do that remains perceptible only to Narcissus. The loyalty the image-text commands will submit to no

universally perceptible, rational accounting. Narcissus' text is his reading of his

text; the measure of the attention that image-text demands from us, who peer over the boy's shoulder into the pool, is not how Narcissus might justify the reflection's power, but what that power induces him to exchange for his reading: his life and his reason, in all senses of the word "reason."

There is a type of mesmeric fascination in the history of Ovidian reception that, while far less dramatic than Narcissus' obstinacy, is conceptually parallel. In a series of closely reasoned articles, Richard Tarrant has identified numerous

suspicious lines and phrases in the Ovidian corpus that he attributes to readerly intervention.8 Some verses ring false because, contrary to Ovid's habit of subtlety, they spell out in flat-footed detail what is otherwise implicit in the text. Others are vitiated by grammatical or metrical solecisms; still others employ vocabulary or

style more typical of the Silver Latin writers who succeeded Ovid. Tarrant traces the origins of these intrusions to what he calls "collaborative interpolation"?the impulse on the part of Ovid's earliest readers to engage the text actively

as writers.

The apparent aetiology and purpose of these interpolations vary. The lines that make plain what Ovid left to inference look like responses to manuscripts made obscure either by prior damage, or by the sheer unfamiliarity of their Latin in an era when full commentaries were not readily available. These emendations predictably reflect aesthetic sensibilities shaped by knowledge of later Latin writers. But the bolder contributions, inserted where no textual difficulty is attested, seem to be

7Even Echo does not die; Ovid describes her as transformed. Her bones become stones, her

voice remains (398-399) and "there is a sound that lives within her" (sonus est qui vivit in ilia,

401). Moreover, when Narcissus dies, she still has intelligence and memory that run counter to her

mechanical echoing of his grief (quamvis irata memorque / indoluit, quotiens puer miserabilis "eheu!" /

dixerat, haec resonis iterabat vocibus "eheu!, " 494-496).

8Tarrant 1987; 1989a; 1989b; 2000.


292 PHOENIX

jeux d'esprit, wherein a reader enters the flow of the text by capping a clever line of Ovid's with an original sally. Tarrant points out that all these types of

modification reveal a conceptualization of the text far different from our own: no sense of a pristine and inviolable original obtains here. Rather, the text is an open, fluid weave into which the readers' own idea of what belongs there may freely be inserted. That response to a highly rhetorical poem like the Metamorphoses would be natural for an audience trained in declamation. Rhetorical education drilled the student in inventing variations on given themes; no small part of the exercises designed to hone oratory were the elaboration of set texts, and

prosopopoeia (impersonation). Such training undermines the idea of an author and a

proprietorial text to be preserved inviolate from readers' innovations.9 You, too, can be Ovid.

But for the purposes of this essay, I pass by the more flamboyant examples of innovation fathered upon Ovid's text, and turn my attention rather to a few

words of the Metamorphoses that Tarrant identifies as out of place.10 The suspect phrase describes another Boeotian tragedy that, like Narcissus' own, pivots on fascination with the self, but of a much less attractive sort. Apollo and Diana

slaughter Niobe's children after she has boasted that her lineage, fecundity, and wealth make her worthier of veneration than the divine twins' mother Latona. In the moments just before the carnage, Ovid sketches the luxurious appointments of Niobe's sons out for the day's man?ge, innocent of their imminent doom (Met. 6.221-223):

pars ibi de septem genitis Amphione fortes conscendunt in equos Tyriosque rubentia suco

tergapremun? auro gravidis moderantur habenis.

Here some of the seven born from Amphion mount stalwart horses, and seated upon the

horses' backs on crimson saddle-cloths, they guide them with reins heavy with gold.

This is the reading handed down from the oldest manuscripts?and yet a number of modern editions have accepted the variant auroque graves

... habenas, attested no earlier than the thirteenth-century Vat. lat. 5859. Objection is raised to the paradosis on the grounds that auro gravidis produces awkward

asyndeton, but even more strongly because gr?vidas is an odd metaphor. How can reins be "pregnant," especially with gold? Tarrant notes that the metaphorical uses of gr?vidas preceding the Flavian poets almost uniformly describe situations

comparable to pregnancy. These instances entail the ideas of enclosure, generation, and eventual emergence, such as Latinus' city teeming with immanent wars (Verg.

Aen. 10. 87) or the Trojan horse, swollen with the Greeks who will emerge under the cover of darkness (Ov. Ars Am. 1.364). Unless these reins inexplicably enclose

9 The fullest articulation of all these ideas may be found in Tarrant 1989a, excepting the

interpolations' tendency toward Silver style, discussed most direcdy in Tarrant 1989b. 10Tarrant 1989b: 115-117.



a core of gold in leather, rather than being ornamented with a heavy coat of gold, the description deploys a sense of 'gravidus more characteristic of Valerius Flaccus than Ovid: "weighed down" by something external.

Assuming that Tarrant correctly censures this phrase, the intrusion of gravidus here reveals readers who see Ovid magnified by a lens he himself had helped to

shape. Ovid profoundly molded the vocabulary, usages, and protocols of Silver Latin poetry; his earliest reader-emenders threw his contribution into starker relief by revising him into the Platonic ideal of his Silver-Latin self. Like

Narcissus, these earliest fans fell in love with an idea of Ovid that reflected their own selves, their own sense of poetic language. They became the poet's refining Doppelg?ngers, cheerfully trading both the poet and the text they were given for an enchanting ideal. They find in Ovid not what is evidently there on the page, but?anamorphoticaUy?the shadow of what he "must have been" and "must have meant."

However, it is equally possible to turn the tables on this analysis, and to see an uncanny wisdom in the perhaps anachronistic use of gravidus. After all,

Niobe's tragedy pivots on her idea of pregnancy as cultural capital. When Niobe

harangues the Theban women out of offering worship to Latona, she claims for herself a superior right to be adored by persistently conflating immaterial and material wealth. Niobe speaks of her divine ancestry and fecundity as if both were other species of rich possession and of the special status that affluence confers. Her ambiguous vocabulary consistently equates her children with things {Met. 6.193-200):

sumfelix (quis enim neget hoc?) felixque manebo (hoc quoque quis dubitetf): tutam me copia fecit, maior sum, quam cuipossit Fortuna nocere,

multaque ut eripiat, multo mihiplura relinquet. excessere metum mea iam bona.fingite demi

huic aliquid populo natorum posse meorum:

non tarnen ad numerum redigar spoliata duorum, Latonae tur bam: qua quantum dis tat ab orba?

"I am fortunate/fecund (for who could deny this?) and fortunate I shall remain (who could

doubt this, too?): my abundance has made me safe. I am too great for Fortune to harm, and. if She stole much from me, She would leave behind much more that was mine. Now

my goods have eclipsed fear. Imagine that something from this multitude of children could

be taken from me: even so, once despoiled, I would not be reduced to two, like Latona's

'crowd.' How far is she from childlessness?"

Niobe is felix?both "fortunate" and "fecund"?and her copia ("abundance") ensures that she will always be so blessed. Yet the lack of a partitive genitive to delimit copia sweeps both wealth and children without distinction into her

synopsis of superfluity. When she claims that her bona ("goods") banish fear, she seems at last to refer unequivocally to things. Yet the primary example of


294 PHOENIX

her security offered is the fact that if some of her children were taken away, more would still remain. Her cold-blooded calculation poses the hypothetical case as if it were counting out coins for a tax: she speaks of aliquid ("something," 198) of her children being removed, rather than aliquem ("someone").11 Niobe's

childbearing, wealth, and ancestry fuse indistinguishably in her own mind. She sees all as supporting her right to command the fullest obedience and obeisance from her people when she peremptorily orders her subjects to honor herself over Latona. In this context, it seems not inappropriate to describe reins as "pregnant with gold." Niobe tries to turn riches, immortal forebears, and abundant scions into instruments of control, like her sons' reins. And as a description of the way these particular reins advertise the fortune of Thebes' royal house, auro gravidis is worthy of Niobe's own delusional fusion of material capital with reproductive capital.

I adduce these nuances not in order to claim that gr?vidas is what Ovid actually wrote; among other considerations, nothing that I have said above addresses the

troubling problem of the asyndeton. Rather, if Tarrant is right and gr?vidas is an early reader's contribution, then it appears this collaborator not only fell under the spell of silvering over Ovid, but also electrified a grid of meaning latent within the text. The paradosis' power to engage lies in the way its apparently extravagant metaphor of golden pregnancy casts a wider, subtler net, a net that

aptly captures Niobe's instrumentalizing view of the world. Ovid's revising reader has willingly traded any idea of attaining an "accurate," "original" text for the

possibly deeper truths of what Lacan would call m?connaissance, or misrecognition. Misrecognition reads the world through the shadow of oneself, but Narcissus and Niobe's anonymous emender together show that misrecognition is a perspective most canny where it is most uncanny.

Department of Classical Studies

Duke University

236 Allen Building, Box 90103

Durham, NC 27708-5076 U.S.A. mj anan@duke. edu

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