|Swinburne University of Technology|
'Before the problem of the creative artist analysis
must, alas, lay down its arms,' Freud once famously said (Freud
1928: 441). However, the work of artists and creative writers holds
a prominent position for the articulation of the psychoanalytic discourse.
The French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan indeed remarked that for Freud
'the artist always precedes him,
he does not have to play the psychologist
where the artist paves the way for him' (1965: 192-93). Nor did Lacan,
for that matter, who had the
gall to call himself a poem, and what is more, 'a poem that is being written'
(Lacan 1977-78: 81; 1979: viii).
In fact, Lacan's later teaching scandalously assimilates psychoanalysis
to poetry, i.e., to a game whose meaning is always doubled by the signifier:
literal meaning and figurative meaning, lexical meaning and contextual
meaning is what poetry exploits, says Lacan, in order to wreak violence
on language. What the later Lacan exploits is language's
excess, the part of language that 'escapes the linguist's attention' (Lecercle
1990: 5) as well as the philologist's attention, because this extreme
dimension of language hinges on what Lacan calls the real, i.e., that
which is beyond representation, by way of the letter. To a certain extent,
this insistence on the letter lifts the many contradictions, paradoxes
and flounderings that usually arise when psychoanalysis encounters the
arts because it highlights the relationship between knowledge, truth and
In my engagement with the fields of creative writing and psychoanalysis, I have asked myself a set of related questions pertaining to the potential usefulness of psychoanalysis for the creative writer. Themes inherent in these questions revolve around the following. Why do I write? What is writing? Why do I write what I write? Because I teach both writing and psychoanalysis, there is an other side to this set of related questions: it concerns pedagogy. In particular, it concerns the teaching of creative writing as a 'practice of the letter' (Lacan 1965: 193) enhanced by psychoanalytic techniques aimed specifically at MA students studying at university.
The (eaub)scene of writing - obscene or beautiful?
Why write? 'Writing is bad enough,' answers Margaret Atwood, 'but writing about writing is surely worse, in the futility department' (Atwood 2002: xvi). Still, there are many famous answers to this question, some more flippant than others. Gerald Murnane, for instance, altogether evades the question by declaring that he'd be 'a fool' if he pretended he could answer it (2005: 29).
If I were, however, to answer the question for myself, I would say:
'I write to answer incipient questions that trouble my mind'. Or 'I write
to relieve some form of anxiety, the question of anxiety being the unanswerable
question par excellence, since the object cause
of anxiety, the shadow of Das Ding, cannot be symbolized' (Hecq
2005). In this sense, I write because I must do so, exhilarating,
detestable or painful though this might be. That writing is my jouissance,
the paradoxical satisfaction that I derive from my symptom and the excesses
of an enjoyment that is closer to pain than pleasure, would hardly be
surprising. But the question then arises concerns the status of this symptom
and the place of the real - hence the vexed question of pathology. Might
my writing be a mere symptom, or does it fulfil some more fundamental
need, as Joyce's sinthome does by way of a littering of the letter?
From Freud to Lacan, psychoanalysis offers a range of viewpoints on creativity.
It is Lacan, however, who eradicates the dualism 'gifted' or 'sick' in
his work on Joyce in particular, since the question
of Joyce's madness remains a rhetorical one (Lacan 1975-76:
87). The following offers some positions on creativity with regard to
this vexed question of pathology as one would in a workshop, i.e., with
a view to further discussion.
In his Autobiographical Study, Freud speaks of 'the realm of the imagination'
as 'a "reservation" made during the painful transition from
the pleasure principle to the reality principle in
order to provide a substitute for instinctual satisfaction which had to
be given up in real life' (Freud 1925: 64). He thereby
admits that it is possible, through recreation, to escape the constraints
of reality, an escapist process that is wonderfully
detailed in Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916),
where daydreaming and fantasising gradually give way to writing. Freud,
however, does not say that writing is an escapist symptom. Nor does he
name the place in which creative or cultural experiences are to be located,
though it must be said that as early as 1908, he wrote, somewhat infantilizing
the creative writer:
The British psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott (1971)
deserves credit for deepening our understanding of this notion of creative
and cultural experience by discerning, alongside psychic reality and external
reality, a third space, a play space which he calls 'potential space'
and which he locates between the individual and the environment - originally
between the child and the mother. This space is, for him, the condition
of the truth of the subject. This is perhaps as close to Lacan as Winnicott
ever comes, i.e., the Lacan for whom truth means 'truth effects that are
not at one with his or her prejudices but which result
from what he or she has been for the Other' (Gueguin 2006:
Interestingly, while Freud thinks in terms of psychic reality and drives,
Winnicott speaks of a search for the self, with the attendant risk of
self-loss. In emphasizing the fact that the child creates the object,
just as Freud's hungry infant hallucinates the mother's breast, which
can be re-found later on, Winnicott shows the crucial significance of
the stage at which the child loses all feelings of omnipotence and he
notes the importance of the symbolization produced by these initial mechanisms
of creation and imagination.
In his study on 'The Mirror Stage as Formative of the Function of the
I' (1949), Lacan speaks of the 'crossroads' that introduces
the child to human desire. This is the child's confrontation, at around
six months, with his or her mirror image, and the ensuing jubilation
at recognizing himself or herself as distinct from the other. For, as
Francoise Dolto has remarked (Dolto 1981), the child
at first does not have the object; he or she is it: the
lost object is the self. It is only after the mirror stage that the subject
becomes a 'me for you', a 'me with you'. The 'crossroads' Lacan alludes
to is the precursor to the symbolic castration effected by the child's
entry into the world of language, the castration psychoanalysts go on
about as it is an operation that all speaking beings keep renegotiating
throughout their lives - as do creative writers in particular.
Following on from Winnicott, writing is not a formation of the unconscious,
and therefore not a symptom per se. Indeed, the ability to overcome
the separations, bereavements, aggressions and other traumas of childhood
through creativeness is not given to everyone. To overcome trauma by creating
an artefact that may have artistic value is to re-create the initial experience
of distress, and there are people who, despite their potential, never
manage to produce anything or to free themselves from what was, for them,
destructive in the first place. For some, there is no place left for fantasy,
and hallucinations break through: a process that Patrick
White brilliantly dramatizes in the central section of The Aunt's Story
(1948) where Theodora Goodman, who once longed to be
a poet, experiences a psychotic crisis and finds herself invaded by auditory
and tactile hallucinations instead.
Nevertheless, for psychoanalysis, it would seem that one often writes
to overcome some childhood trauma that may be revived by some later loss
in what might be called a restaging of castration. In some uncanny
encounter, Lacan would agree with Freud and
Winnicott. So would Melanie Klein (1934),
Freud's most vocal detractor. And so would Hélène
Cixous (1977; 1993), Luce Irigaray
(1985) and Julia Kristeva (1987), Lacan's own detractors.
They would, however, each tackle the problem from different angles; witness
for instance Kristeva's book Black Sun (1989; original 1987) and
her paper on the melancholic imaginary, where writing is a form of therapy
that enhances a healing of primitive narcissistic wounds, as opposed to
Lacan's seminar on James Joyce (1975-76) where writing is constitutive
of the ego - is, indeed, the ego. Whereas the symptom originates in a
desperate attempt to know and control oneself, the sinthome can
be said to be the locus of becoming of the ego. The term sinthome
itself is, as Lacan points out in his 1975-76 seminar on James Joyce,
an archaic way of writing what is now spelled symptome in French.
Lacan reads Joyce's writing as replacing a symptom, but uses the archaic
form of the term (punning on symptom, saint and St Tomas) to signify Joyce's
special relation to language. Indeed, Lacan's thesis is that Joyce managed
to avoid psychosis by deploying his art, i.e., as that which prevented
him from falling apart. However this replacement device is more than a
symptom, for it produces something new. Whether one pathologizes writing
or not, writing fulfils an anchoring function for some writers, i.e.,
those for whom writing is a practice of the letter. The question remains
to show how these competing viewpoints address this concept of anchoring.
In 'The Paths to Symptom Formation' Freud questions the creative endeavour
in terms of the psychical process at play. He claims that the artist is
someone 'who achieves through his fantasy what
originally the subject had achieved in his fantasy' (Freud
1901: 424). And indeed, in 'Creative Writers and Day-dreaming', he
also suggests that creative writing is a mediation between the conscious
fantasies present in daydreams and the unconscious fantasies experienced
in night-dreams (1908: 136). Thus what is more likely to be achieved for
the neurotic, when his aspirations seek fulfilment in his fantasy,
is a symptom: the symptom for which fantasies provide motivating forces
and signifying constellations. Symptoms are referred to here as 'Acts
detrimental, or at least useless, to the subject's life as a whole, often
complained of by him as unwelcome and bringing unpleasure or suffering
to him' (1901: 404).
Freud seems to suggest that artists are able to make a different use
of the unconscious; as such, we can contrast the uselessness of symptoms
with the use artists make of their fantasies in the production of socially
valued objects. This, perhaps, is the 'special' gift that writers have,
the gift that allows them to 'mould' fantasies 'into
truths of a new kind, which are valued by men as precious reflections
of reality' (Freud 1911: 216). Considering that there
remains something of what is 'useless' in relation to the fantasy, in
the work of art there is also that which is able to pass, to enter into
circulation. Freud writes:
Thus, in regard to Freud we can claim that the artist is someone who
is able at once to make use of and raise a screen to the personal. The
artist forges a different relation to what originates from 'proscribed
sources', and thereby also to his or her unconscious at work. Moreover,
for Freud the artist is also 'special' because 'he
or she is able both to give and to experience pleasure to a greater extent
than others (Kaufman 1991: 6).
Lacan affirms Freud's appreciation of the artist as preceding him, while
also articulating a response to a predominant mode of writing about literature
and authors by psychoanalysts. In 1965 Lacan writes, 'Attributing an author's
avowed technique to some neurosis: boorishness. Or again, by showing it
to be an explicit adoption of certain mechanisms which would thereby make
an unconscious edifice of it: stupidity' (1965: 192).
This statement is made in the context of his homage to Marguerite Duras,
of whom he says, she 'knows, without me, what I teach' (Lacan 1965: 193).
In his comments on her book Le ravissement de Lol V
Stein (1964) Lacan underlines her style as a 'practice of the
letter', and he states that his own bearings remain entirely 'to the letter'
drawn from the text, except where he pays homage to the writer.
Lacan refers to the workings of the unconscious and knowledge in regard
to this novel, when he suggests that Marguerite Duras herself in 'her
doesn't know where Lol has come from' (1965: 192)
This 'not knowing' of Duras pertains to the way Lol V Stein does not emerge
out of a certain obscurity: that is, Duras' practice of the letter maintains
the place of an erasure or failure in knowledge. As might be expected,
of course, this only articulates in a different way what Duras has to
say about her writing experience. Writing, she says comes from the 'inner
shadow', or from the 'black block' where the archives of the ego are:
her books have to do with 'some region that has not
been explored yet'; she wants to show the 'blank in the chain', the 'hole'
(Duras 1993: 64). Thus in The Ravishing of Lol
V Stein the end of desire that leads to madness occurs when one link
Nonetheless, Lacan's emphasis on not pursuing knowledge beyond the work
of art has implications for the status of truth in his work (and by extension
of truth for the creative writer): truth is sustainable only as fiction
and as obscured. It could be said that for him while the analysand discovers
truths in the guise of fictions, the creative writer produces truths
in the guise of fictions. In the light of some forms of psychoanalytic
literary criticism which tend to exhaust the meaning of a text
or its relation to its author's unconscious, this is quite refreshing.
As psychoanalysts, philosophers, literary theorists and critics have reiterated
over the past decades, psychoanalytic literary criticism should not uncover
the meaning of texts, but only discover specific layers of meaning.
Freud understood this well, actually: 'all genuinely creative writings
are the product of more than a single motive and more than
a single impulse in the poet's mind, and are open to more than a single
interpretation' (Freud 1900: 368).
The title of one of Lacan's later papers on psychoanalysis and writing
with psychoanalysis bordering on poetry, 'Lituraterre,' is a construction
of a neologism, combined from litura - erasure, and terre
- land, which affects a play of the letter. The practice of
the letter is articulated here in terms of an enactment of the 'erasure
of no trace that is before' (Lacan 1971: 15), an idea
Lacan finds already in evidence in avant-garde literature, the
literature that 'does not sustain itself by the semblance;
does not prove anything than the caesura' (1971: 18). Working with an
author's psychobiography, for instance, would occlude, rather than elucidate,
the elision produced by the letter, i.e., truth (1971: 4), the less of
'a less psycho biographic idea' resonates with a lack. The letter is evoked
en souffrance, in the wings, in suffering, leaving a trace of the
fundamental discordance between knowledge and being.
The import of Joyce's equivocation over the letter that becomes litter
is drawn on briefly in 'Lituraterre' in relation to Lacan's affirmation
of authors who are able to avow through their writing the consequence
of language for the speaking being - the litter or waste that the author's
being becomes. This resonates with what Duras has to say about her motivation
for writing: 'I write to replace myself with the book,' she says in an
interview with Michelle Porte, to 'relieve myself of my own importance.
So that the book can take my place. To destroy myself,
spoil, ruin myself in the book. To become vulgar, public, to lie down
in the street' (Duras & Porte 1977: 102).
In his seminar from 1975, entitled Joyce the Sinthome, Lacan suggests a reading of the relationship between Joyce and his writing in which Joyce's style is called an art-language, or know-how with language. This is a further working of Lacan's earlier acknowledgement of Joyce as a founder of the effect, whereby 'language is perfected when it knows how to play with writing' (Lacan 1972-73: 36). The return to Joyce in this seminar marks a question for Lacan about the nature of creativity in his work. He argues that Joyce's writing, as it promotes language in its breaks and turns, is an art-ifice: a device which is able to at once undo and weave something from 'what is at first presented as a symptom' (1975-76: 10) In this context, Lacan writes the symptom anew by using the old French spelling, sinthome. It is a spelling that is effected by a certain violence done to language, i.e., a violence done to the French language through an injection of Greek into French. Lacan refers this Hellenisation of language to the effect in question in Joyce's own writing: that is, the twisting and turning of the English language that culminates in its destruction in Finnegans Wake (1939). This is a sustaining of a writing which names, a naming of what is impossible to speak, i.e., the real.
'Pierre Ménard, Author of the Quixote,' by Jorge Luis Borges
(1964) is the story of a writer who painstakingly reproduces Cervantes'
Don Quixote word for word and for whom the text thus reproduced
constitutes a new work. By applying his signature to Cervantes' text,
Ménard produces a new text. This story has the force of an apologue.
Reproduced in another context, one same signifier has a different meaning.
The same text thus becomes another text. This may be applied to the fact
of teaching in a number of disciplines within the discourse of the university
whereby knowledge amounts to the transmission of information.
Teaching creative writing is a different tale altogether. This is because
'information and imaginative writing are different
forms of knowledge, demanding different skills and wholly different attitudes
to language' (Alvarez 2005: 15).
Teaching psychoanalysis while putting to use the lessons of psychoanalysis
in the creative writing workshop is yet another tale. Let us see why.
Whenever Lacan uses the term 'discourse' it is in order to stress the
intersubjective nature of language, the fact that speech always implies
another subject, an interlocutor. Thus the famous Lacanian axiom 'the
unconscious is the discourse of the other', which first appears in 1953
and later becomes 'the unconscious is the discourse of the Other', designates
the unconscious as the effects on the subject of speech that is addressed
to him or her from elsewhere, i.e., by another subject who may have been
forgotten or by another psychic reality - an Other scene.
In 1969, however, Lacan uses the term discourse in a more specific way.
From then on, 'discourse' designates 'a social bond, founded in
language' (1972-73: 21). Indeed, in his seminar on The Other Side of
Psychoanalysis (1969-70), Lacan identifies four
discourses, i.e., four possible articulations of the symbolic network
that regulates trans-individual relations. These four discourses are the
discourse of the master, the discourse of the university, the discourse
of the hysteric and the discourse of the analyst. The discourse of the
master is the basic discourse from which all other discourses are derived:
it is based on Hegel's dialectic of master and slave. The discourse of
the master hinges on the following principle: 'The truth of the matter
is I know what I'm talking about and therefore you should work for me.'
Though Lacan's theory of the four discourses is beyond the scope of this
paper, we shall retain from it that the discourse of the university in
our corporate and bureaucratic times is terribly close to the discourse
of the master, that the discourse of the hysteric is there to contest
it, and that the discourse of the analyst may be useful to get inspiration
from in creative writing workshops that draw on the techniques of psychoanalysis.
The principle of university teaching is predicated upon the following
speech act: 'the truth of the matter is I know what I'm talking about',
which is established by the rule of repression, a rule one is allowed
to transgress temporarily in research papers that critique or contest
pre-established 'truths' (in such instances the researcher is temporarily
in the position of the hysteric who contests the master's discourse).
In order to say 'I know what I'm talking about' I also assume that I have
mastered my jouissance as well as the jouissance of the
other. This means that as a university teacher I am never uncomfortable
with what is being said in my class. The object I offer my students is
immaterial. The relation I entertain with these students is cool, devoid
of any transference - questions of bullying or sexual harassment have
been erased from my lexicon
Teaching in psychoanalysis is diametrically opposed to university teaching.
Lacan said that he taught in the position of the analysand, i.e., from
a discourse deployed from the point of view of the subject-who-is-not-supposed-to-know.
This means that the teacher is here confronted with his own 'I do not
know what I am saying'. And further, this means that the teacher recognizes
that he does not master jouissance, especially the jouissance
of mastering meaning. It is a teaching that resists meaning.
Teaching creative writing while putting to use the lessons of psychoanalysis
in the creative writing workshop implies an interplay of discourses, by
which I mean that the teacher's position varies in the course of each
session. During the lectures, one might say that the teacher occupies
both the positions of subject-supposed-to-know, or repository of knowledge,
acting thus in accordance with the discourse of the university. During
the workshops, however, the position of the teacher alternates between
subject-supposed-to-know and subject-not-supposed-to-know. The subject-supposed-to-know
initiates the work and the desire to go beyond oneself while the subject-supposed-not-to
know encourages the process of going beyond oneself. The subject-supposed-to
know also occasionally steps in with her police cap on when the transference
gets out of hand.
Before speaking of the transference, however, I'd like to discuss the
framework established in the workshops to make a certain kind of writing
possible, i.e., a kind of writing that pushes its own stylistic and thematic
boundaries through a practice of the letter. Needless to say, this type
of writing practice is radically opposed to the 'Simon says' approach
to workshops we are familiar with in genre writing classes.
With MA students, the writing environment is usually safer than with
undergraduates. We are speaking of students (often published writers)
who have developed strategies to overcome the anxiety that comes from
not writing, or from writing, for that matter. Though it is crucial to
expect the unexpected and be prepared to deal with it, one does take risks.
The workshop is structured like an extended seminar on applied poetics
with creative responses to theory and imaginative writing to ease ourselves
into the topic set for the week. Then, depending on the size of the class
there is a lecture or a class presentation followed by a discussion. Next
is a writing session based on psychoanalytic concepts or situations gleaned
from the readings for the day that are deemed worthy of exploitation.
Though the protocols or emphases might vary from class to class, there
are rules that need to be abided by: taking part in a free association
round table; respect the 'write without thinking and as fast as you can'
injunction, the 'do not speak before time is up' rule and the 'please
leave the room if uncomfortable' invitation. The hardest rules are sometimes
the simplest ones: let your thoughts float when stimulated by your senses
(we use visual, auditory, tactile, olfactory and even gustatory stimuli).
I have often joked that what we might all need was a class in relaxation,
which is not as absurd as it sounds, anxiety being the crippling affect
par excellence (Hecq 2005).
The writing aimed at in these workshops proceeds from the interaction
of what is unknown and what will be revealed. It is a writing that produces
raw imaginary material (Lacan) or semiotic writing (Kristeva) that can
later be processed and harnessed in the trammels of the symbolic, should
the author wish to. And most do, for they wish to be published - a wise
wish if Borges is to be believed: 'we have to publish what we write because
if we don't, we keep changing it, trying all the possible
variations, and we don't go beyond that' (Borges 1994:
In a sense, the workshop I am speaking about, and
which I call 'an Other Scene?' is not that far from an attempt at creating
what Artaud (1967) has called in a different context:
a scene, a physical place that asks to be filled and to speak its
own concrete language. Artaud is referring to everything that can be said
independently of words, a kind of poetry that appeals to the senses. He
criticizes the notion of an art that aims only at delighting us in our
spare time for, as he says, life is not on one side, art
on the other. Similarly, in his preface to Grotowski's Towards a poor
theatre, Peter Brook (1968) warns artists to keep
on renewing themselves so as not to become rigid.
The process of putting oneself in question in relation to the other is
the context of the work of analysis. The process of putting oneself in
question in relation to the Other, however, is the context of the creative
writing workshop. The difference must not be lost sight of, for it would
be dangerous and mistaken to encourage intersubjective identifications
in a workshop environment. Therefore, students are invited, but never
expected, to read what they have just written; comments are only minimal,
and emotive adjustments to peer feedback discouraged.
The adventure that unfolds in the creative writing workshop is not an
analytic adventure. But the way in which each of the participants is engaged
in an intersubjective relation, the effects of a dialectical reworking,
are far from negligible. This is why I think that an examination of the
notion of transference is a prerequisite to pedagogical practice in the
creative writing workshop. Transference can be understood in both a narrow
and broad way, so let us see how these may be useful to us.
The term 'transference' first appeared in Freud's work with reference
to the displacement of affect from one idea to another (1900: 562). Later
on, it came to refer to the patient's (love/hate) relationship with the
analyst as it develops in the course of the treatment. This soon became
the central meaning of the term, and is the sense in which it is usually
understood in psychoanalytic circles today, though it must be said that
there are many different and opposing views of transference. Lacan, for
instance, argues that although transference often manifests itself in
the guise of strong affects such as love and hate, it
does not consist of emotions as such, but of the structure of an intersubjective
relationship (Lacan 1951).
More importantly for pedagogy, in The Four Fundamental Concepts of
Psychoanalysis Lacan articulates the concept of transference with
his concept of the Subject Supposed to Know, sometimes alternatively translated
as Supposed Subject of Knowledge. According to this view, transference
is the attribution of knowledge to the Other, the supposition that the
Other is a subject who knows: 'As soon as the subject
who is supposed to know exists somewhere
there is transference'
(Lacan 1965-66: 232). For Lacan, however, this subject
who is supposed to know need not be a physical person. This subject may
indeed be a body of work, i.e., a text. This implies that transference
can manifest itself with reference to three instances of the subject supposed
to know in the creative workshop: the teacher, the work and the peer group.
Although one might say that the existence of the transference is a necessary condition of writing in the workshop, it is not sufficient in itself. It is, as we all know, necessary that teachers deal with the transference in specific ways by using particular protocols and strategies, for instance. Moreover, because transference can be both 'positive' and negative', it is well worth reflecting on its avatars case by case (transference is positive when it develops trust and generates work; it is negative when it produces anxiety, resistance or aggressivity). In my experience of creative writing workshops, anxiety is the most volatile affect of all, even at postgraduate level.
By way of conclusion
Despite never requesting an analysis, Joyce knew about psychoanalysis.
In fact, he derided both Jung and Freud:
Freud, however, did not apply standards, techniques, or protocols, but
worked (and sometimes forged) some place of truth for each subject: a
truth that slips and slides in language. Lacan would extend this space
to what he called llanguage (a language which is unique to each
individual speaking being) in his later teaching. This is to suggest that
in this working of each individual, psychoanalysis holds a relationship
with creative writing as an art of the particular, as a practice of the
letter, even when subjected to the discourse of the university.
To some extent, psychoanalysis elucidates the nature of writing and of
the creative process for each of us, one by one. It also enriches our
understanding of writing as knowledge. Finally it enables us to conceptualize
and implement innovative pedagogical practices.
At the risk of sounding flippant, I shall leave the last word - which can only be written words - to the creative artist whose knowledge and truth emerge through the defiles of fictions: 'but I was sure he had something on with that one it takes me to find out a thing like that he said you have no proof it was her proof O yes ' (Joyce 1922: 609).
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Kristeva, Julia 1987 Soleil noir:
dépression et mélancolie, Paris: Gallimard; in English
1989 Black sun: depression and melancholia (trans Leon Roudiez),
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Lacan, Jacques 1949 'The mirror stage
as formative of the function of the I function as revealed in psychoanalytic
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75-82 return to text
Lacan, Jacques 1951 'Presentation on
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Norton, 176-89 return to text
Lacan, Jacques 1965 'Hommage fait à
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Paris: Seuil, 191-99 return to text
Lacan, Jacques 1965-66 Le Séminaire.
Livre XI. Les Quatre Concepts de la psychanalyse (ed J-A Miller),
Paris: Seuil 1971 return to text
Lacan, Jacques 1969-70 Le Séminaire. Livre XVII. L'envers de la psychanalyse (ed J-A Miller), Paris: Seuil, 1991. English translation R Grigg forthcoming return to text
Lacan, Jacques 1971 'Lituraterre', in 2001 Autres écrits (ed J-A Miller), Paris: Seuil, 7-11 return to text
Lacan, Jacques 1972-73 Le Séminaire.
Livre XX. Encore (ed J-A Miller), Paris: Seuil, 1975 return
Lacan, Jacques 1975-76 Le Séminaire. Livre XXIII. Le sinthome (ed J-A Miller), Paris: Seuil, 2005 return to text
Lacan, Jacques 1977-78 Le Séminaire.
Livre XIV. L'insu que sait de l'une bévue s'aile à mourre.
Unpublished return to text
Lacan, Jacques 1979 The four fundamental
concepts of psychoanalysis (trans A Sheridan), Harmondsworth: Penguin
return to text
Lecercle, Jean-Michel 1990 The violence
of language, New York & London: Routledge return
Murnane, Gerald 2005 Invisible yet
enduring lilacs, Artarmon: Giramondo return to text
White, Patrick 1948 The aunt's story,
Harmondsworth: Penguin return to text
Winnicott, Donald 1971 Playing and reality, Harmondsworth: Penguin return to text
Dominique Hecq is the author of The Book of Elsa (a novel), Magic, Mythfits and Noisy Blood (fiction), The Gaze of Silence, Good Grief and Couchgrass (poetry) as well as two short plays (One Eye Too Many, and Cakes & Pains performed in 2004). Out of Bounds is forthcoming. Her most recent award is The Martha Richardson Medal for poetry (2006). With Russell Grigg and Craig Smith, she co-authored Female Sexuality: The Early Psychoanalytic Controversies. She has published in the areas of literary studies, translation, creative writing and psychoanalysis. She currently is a Senior Lecturer in Writing at Swinburne University of Technology.
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Vol 12 No 2 October 2008
Editors: Nigel Krauth & Jen Webb