Difference between revisions of "Seminar on The Purloined Letter"

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Und wenn es uns gluckt, <br>
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#redirect [[Seminar on 'The Purloined Letter']]
Und wenn es sich schickt, <br>
 
So sind es Gedanken.</i></div><p>
 
<a name="S1">Our inquiry has led us to the point of recognizing that the repetition
 
automatism (<i>Wiederholangszwang </i>) finds its basis in what we have called
 
the insistence of the signifying chain. We have elaborated that notion
 
itself as a correlate of the <i>ex-sistence</i> (or: eccentric place) in which we
 
must necessarily locate the subject of the unconscious if we are to take
 
Freud's discovery seriously. As is known, it is in the realm of experience
 
inaugurated by psychoanalysis that we may grasp along what imaginary
 
lines the human organism, in the most intimate recesses of its being,
 
manifests its capture in a <i>symbolic</i> dimension.</a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S1">    The lesson of this seminar is intended to maintain that these
 
imaginary incidences, far from representing the essence of our
 
experience, reveal only what in it remains inconsistent unless they are
 
related to the symbolic chain which binds and orients them.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S1">    We realize, of course, the importance of these imaginary
 
impregnations (<i>Prägung </i>) in those partializations of the symbolic
 
alternative which give the symbolic chain its appearance. But we maintain
 
that it is the specific law of that chain which governs those
 
psychoanalytic effects thar are decisive for the subject: such as
 
foreclosure (<i>Verwerfung</i>), repression (<i>Verdrängung </i>), denial (<i>Verneinung </i>)
 
itself–specifying with appropriate emphasis that these effects follow so
 
faithfully the displacement (<i>Entstellang </i>) of the signifier that imaginary
 
factors, despite their inertia, figure only as shadows and reflections in
 
the process.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S1">    But this emphasis would be lavished in vain, if it served, in your
 
opinion, only to abstract a general type from phenomena whose
 
particularity in our work would remain the essential thing for you, and
 
whose original arrangement could be broken up only artificially.</a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S1">    </a><a name="S13">Which is why we have decided to illustrate for you today </a><a name="S45">the truth
 
which may be drawn from that moment in Freud's thought under
 
study–namely, that it is the symbolic order which is constitutive for the
 
subject–by demonstrating in a story the decisive orientation which the
 
subject receives from the itinerary of a signifier.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S45">    </a><a name="S14"></a><a name="S12"></a><a name="S10">It is that truth, let us note, which makes the very existence of
 
fiction possible. And in that case, a fable is as appropriate as any other
 
narrative for bringing it to light–at the risk of having the fable's
 
coherence put to the test in the process. Aside from that reservation, a
 
fictive tale even has the advantage of manifesting symbolic necessity
 
more purely to the extent that we may believe its conception arbitrary.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S10">    </a><a name="S15">Which is why, without seeking any further, we have chosen our
 
example from the very story in which the dialectic of the game of even or
 
odd–from whose study we have but recently profited–occurs. </a><a name="S16">It is, no
 
doubt, no accident that this tale revealed itself propitious to pursuing a
 
course of inquiry which had already found support in it.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S16">    </a><a name="S18">As you know, we are talking about the tale which Baudelaire
 
translated under the title "La lettre volée." At first reading, we may
 
distinguish a drama, its narration, and the conditions of that narration.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S18">    We see quickly enough, moreover, that these components are
 
necessary and that </a><a name="S42">they could not have escaped the intentions of whoever
 
composed them.</a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S42">    The narration, in fact, doubles the drama with a commentary without
 
which no mise en scene would be possible. Let us say that the action
 
would remain, properly speaking, invisible from the pit–aside from the
 
fact that the dialogue would be expressly and by dramatic necessity
 
devoid of whatever meaning it might have for an audience: in other words,
 
nothing of the drama could be grasped, neither seen nor heard, without,
 
dare we say, the twilighting which the narration, in each scene, casts on
 
the point of view that one of the actors had while performing it.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S42">    </a><a name="S25"></a><a name="S19"></a><a name="S17">There are two scenes, the first of which we shall straightway
 
designate the primal scene, and by no means inadvertently, since the
 
second may be considered its repetition in the very sense we are
 
considering today.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S17">    The primal scene is thus performed, we are told, in the royal
 
<i>boudoir</i>, so that we suspect that the person of the highest rank, called the
 
"exalted personage," who is alone there when she receives a letter, is the
 
Queen. This feeling is confirmed by the embarrassment into which she is
 
plunged by the entry of the other exalted personage, of whom we have
 
already been told prior to this account that the knowledge he might have
 
of the letter in question would jeopardize for the lady nothing less than
 
her honor and safety. Any doubt that he is in fact the King is promptly
 
dissipated in the course of the scene which begins with the entry of the
 
Minister D–. At that moment, in fact, the Queen can do no better than to
 
play on the King's inattentiveness by leaving the letter on the table "face
 
down, address uppermost." It does not, however, escape the Minister's Iynx
 
eye, nor does he fail to notice the Queen's distress and thus to fathom her
 
secret. From then on everything transpires like clockwork. After dealing in
 
his customary manner with the business of the day, the Minister draws
 
from his pocket a letter similar in appearance to the one in his view, and,
 
having pretended to read it, he places it next to the other. A bit more
 
conversation to amuse the royal company, whereupon, without flinching
 
once, he seizes the embarrassing letter, making off with it, as the Queen,
 
on whom none of his maneuver has been lost, remains unable to intervene
 
for fear of attracting the attention of her royal spouse, close at her side
 
at that very moment.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S17">    Everything might then have transpired unseen by a hypothetical
 
spectator of an operation in which nobody falters, and whose <i>quotient</i> is
 
that the Minister has filched from the Queen her letter and that–an even
 
more important result than the first–the Queen knows that he now has it,
 
and by no means innocently.</a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S17">    </a><a name="S6">A <i>remainder</i> that no analyst will neglect, trained as he is to retain
 
whatever is significant, without always knowing what to do with it: the
 
letter, abandoned by the Minister, and which the Queen's hand is now free
 
to roll into a ball.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S6">    Second scene: in the Minister's office. It is in his hotel, and we
 
know–from the account the Prefect of Police has given Dupin, whose
 
specific genius for solving enigmas Poe introduces here for the second
 
time–that the police, returning there as soon as the Minister's habitual,
 
nightly absences allow them to, have searched the hotel and its
 
surroundings from top to bottom for the last eighteen months. In
 
vain–although everyone can deduce from the situation that the Minister
 
keeps the letter within reach.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S6">    Dupin calls on the Minister. The latter receives him with studied
 
nonchalance, affecting in his conversation romantic ennui. Meanwhile
 
Dupin, whom this pretense does not deceive, his eyes protected by green
 
glasses, proceeds to inspect the premises. When his glance catches a
 
rather crumpled piece of paper–apparently thrust carelessly into a
 
division of an ugly pasteboard card rack, hanging gaudily from the middle
 
of the mantelpiece–he already knows that he's found what he's looking for.
 
His conviction is reinforced by the very details which seem to contradict
 
the description he has of the stolen letter, with the exception of the
 
format, which remains the same.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S6">    Whereupon he has but to withdraw, after "forgetting" his snuffbox on
 
the table, in order to return the following day to reclaim it–armed with a
 
facsimile of the letter in its present state. As an incident in the street,
 
prepared for the proper moment, draws the Minister to the window, Dupin
 
in turn seizes the opportunity to snatch the letter while substituting the
 
imitation and has only to maintain the appearances of a normal exit.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S6">    Here as well all has transpired, if not without noise, at least
 
without any commotion. The quotient of the operation is that the Minister
 
no longer has the letter, but far from suspecting that Dupin is the culprit
 
who has ravished it from him, knows nothing of it. Moreover, what he is
 
left with is far from insignificant for what follows. We shall return to
 
what brought Dupin to inscribe a message on his counterfeit letter.
 
 
 
</a><a name="S51">Whatever the case, the Minister, when he tries to make use of it, will be
 
able to read these words, written so that he may recognize Dupin's hand: ".
 
. . <i>Un dessein si funeste / S'il n'est digne d'Atrée est digne de Thyeste</i>, "
 
whose source, Dupin tells us, is Crebillon's <i>Atrée</i>.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S51">    Need we emphasize the similarity of these two sequences? Yes, for
 
the resemblance we have in mind is not a simple collection of traits
 
chosen only in order to delete their difference. And it would not be enough
 
to retain those common traits at the expense of the others for the
 
slightest truth to result. It is rather the intersubjectivity in which the
 
two actions are motivated that we wish to bring into relief, as well as
 
the three terms through which it structures them.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S51">    The special status of these terms results from their corresponding
 
simultaneously to the three logical moments through which the decision is
 
precipitated and the three places it assigns to the subjects among whom
 
it constitutes a choice.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S51">    That decision is reached in a glance's time.</a><a name="1"><sup></sup></a><sup><a href="lacan_notes.html#1">1</a></sup> For the maneuvers
 
which follow, however stealthily they prolong it, add nothing to that
 
glance, nor does the deferring of the deed in the second scene break the
 
unity of that moment.</p><p>
 
 
 
    This glance presupposes two others, which it embraces in its vision
 
of the breach left in their fallacious complementarity, anticipating in it
 
the occasion for larceny afforded by that exposure. Thus three moments,
 
structuring three glances, borne by three subjects, incarnated each time
 
by different characters.</p><p>
 
The first is a glance that sees nothing: the King and the police.</p><p>
 
The second, a glance which sees that the first sees nothing and deludes
 
itself as to the secrecy of what it hides: the Queen, then the Minister. </p><p>
 
<a name="S34">The third sees that the first two glances leave what should be hidden
 
exposed to whoever would seize it: the Minister, and finally Dupin.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S34">    In order to grasp in its unity the intersubjective complex thus
 
described, we would willingly seek a model in the technique legendarily
 
attributed to the oserich attempting to shield itself from danger; for that
 
technique might ultimately be qualified as political, divided as it here is
 
among three partners: the second believing itself invisible because the
 
first has its head stuck in the ground, and all the while letting the third
 
calmly pluck its rear; we need only enrich its proverbial denomination by a
 
letter, producing <i>la politique de l'autruiche</i>, for the ostrich itself to take
 
on forever a new meaning.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S34">    Given the intersubjective modulus of the repetitive action, it
 
remains to recognize in it a <i>repetition automatism</i>  in the sense that
 
interests us in Freud's text.</a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S34">    The plurality of subjects, of course, can be no objection for those
 
who are long accustomed to the perspectives summarized by our formula:
 
<i>the unconscious is the discourse of the Other</i>. And we will not recall now
 
what the notion of the <i>immixture of subjects</i>, recently introduced in our
 
reanalysis of the dream of Irma's injection, adds to the discussion.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S34">    What interests us today is the manner in which the subjects relay
 
each other in their displacement during the intersubjective repetition.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S34">    We shall see that their displacement is determined by the place
 
which a pure signifier–the purloined letter–comes to occupy in their trio.
 
And that is what will confirm for us its status as repetition automatism.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S34">    It does not, however, seem excessive, before pursuing this line of
 
inquiry, to ask whether the thrust of the tale and the interest we bring to
 
it–to the extent that they coincide–do not lie elsewhere.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S34">    May we view as simply a rationalization (in our gruff jargon) the
 
fact that the story is told to us as a police mystery?</a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S34">    In truth, we should be right in judging that fact highly dubious as
 
soon as we note that everything which warrants such mystery concerning
 
a crime or offense–its nature and motives, instruments and execution, the
 
procedure used to discover the author, and the means employed to convict
 
him–is carefully eliminated here at the start of each episode.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S34">    The act of deceit is, in fact, from the beginning as clearly known as
 
the intrigues of the culprit and their effects on his victim. The problem,
 
as exposed to us, is limited to </a><a name="S28">the search for and restitution of the object
 
of that deceit, and it seems rather intentional that the solution is already
 
obtained when it is explained to us. Is <i>that</i> how we are kept in suspense?
 
Whatever credit we may accord the conventions of a genre for provoking a
 
specific interest in the reader, we should not forget that "the Dupin
 
tale"–this the second to appear–is a prototype, and that even if the genre
 
were established in the first, it is still a little early for the author to
 
play on a convention.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S28">    It would, however, be equally excessive to reduce the whole thing to
 
a fable whose moral would be that in order to shield from inquisitive eyes
 
one of those correspondences whose secrecy is sometimes necessary to
 
conjugal peace, it suffices to leave the crucial letters Iying about on one's
 
table, even though the meaningful side be turned face down. For that would
 
be a hoax which, for our part, we would never recommend anyone try, lest
 
he be gravely disappointed in his hopes.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S28">    Might there then be no mystery other than, concerning the Prefect,
 
an incompetence issuing in failure–were it not perhaps, concerning Dupin,
 
a certain dissonance we hesitate to acknowledge between, on the one
 
hand, the admittedly penetrating though, in their generality, not always
 
quite relevant remarks with which he introduces us to his method and, on
 
the other, the manner in which he in fact intervenes.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S28">    Were we to pursue this sense of mystification a bit further we
 
might soon begin to wonder whether, from that initial scene which only
 
the rank of the protagonists saves from vaudeville, to the fall into
 
ridicule which seems to await the Minister at the end, it is not this
 
impression that everyone is being duped which makes for our pleasure.</a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S28">    And we would be all the more inclined to think so in that we would
 
recognize in that surmise, along with those of you who read us, the
 
definition we once gave in passing of the modern hero, "whom ludicrous
 
exploits exalt in circumstances of utter confusion."</a><a name="2"><sup></sup></a><sup><a href="lacan_notes.html#2">2</a></sup></p><p>
 
    But are we ourselves not taken in by the imposing presence of the
 
amateur detective, prototype of a latter-day swashbuckler, as yet safe
 
from the insipidity of our contemporary <i>superman?</i></p><p>
 
    A trick . . . sufficient for us to discern in this tale, on the contrary,
 
so perfect a verisimilitude that it may be said that truth here reveals its
 
fictive arrangement.</p><p>
 
    For such indeed is the direction in which the principles of that
 
verisimilitude lead us. Entering into its strategy, we indeed perceive a
 
new drama we may call complementary to the first, insofar as the latter
 
was what is termed a play without words whereas the interest of the
 
second plays on the properties of speech. <a name="3"><sup></sup></a><sup><a href="lacan_notes.html#3">3</a></sup></p><p>
 
    If it is indeed clear that <a name="S20">each of the two scenes of the real drama is
 
narrated in the course of a different dialogue, it is only through access to
 
those notions set forth in our teaching that one may recognize that it is
 
not thus simply to augment the charm of the exposition, but that the
 
dialogues themselves, in the opposite use they make of the powers of
 
speech, take on a tension which makes of them a different drama, one
 
which our vocabulary will distinguish from the first as persisting in the
 
symbolic order.</a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S20">    The first dialogue–between the Prefect of Police and Dupin–is
 
played as between a deaf man and one who hears. That is, it presents the
 
real complexity of what is ordinarily simplified, with the most confused
 
results, in the notion of communication.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S20">    This example demonstrates indeed how an act of communication may
 
give the impression at which theorists too often stop: of allowing in its
 
transmission but a single meaning, as though the highly significant
 
commentary into which he who understands integrates it, could, because
 
unperceived by him who does not understand, be considered null.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S20">    It remains that if only the dialogue's meaning as a report is
 
retained, its verisimilitude may appear to depend on a guarantee of
 
exactitude. But here dialogue may be more fertile than it seems, if we
 
demonstrate its tactics: as shall be seen by focusing on the recounting of
 
our first scene.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S20">    For the double and even triple subjective filter through which that
 
scene comes to us: a narration by Dupin's friend and associate (henceforth
 
to be called the general narrator of the story) of the account by which the
 
Prefect reveals to Dupin the report the Queen gave him of it, is not merely
 
the consequence of a fortuitous arrangement.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S20">    If indeed the extremity to which the original narrator is reduced
 
precludes her altering any of the events, it would be wrong to believe that
 
the Prefect is empowered to lend her his voice in this case only by that
 
lack of imagination on which he has, dare we say, the patent.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S20">    The fact that the message is thus retransmitted assures us of what
 
may by no means be taken for granted: that it belongs to the dimension of
 
language.</a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S20">    Those who are here know our remarks on the subject, specifically
 
those illustrated by the countercase of the so-called language of bees: in
 
which a linguist</a><a name="4"><sup></sup></a><sup><a href="lacan_notes.html#4">4</a></sup> can see only a simple signaling of the location of
 
objects, in other words: only an imaginary function more differentiated
 
than others.</p><p>
 
    We emphasize that such a form of communication is not absent in
 
man, however evanescent a naturally given object may be for him, split as
 
it is in its submission to symbols.</p><p>
 
    Something equivalent may no doubt be grasped in the communion
 
established between two persons in their hatred of a common object:
 
except that the meeting is possible only over a single object, defined by
 
those traits in the individual each of the two resists.</p><p>
 
    But such communication is not transmissible in symbolic form. It
 
may be maintained only in the relation with the object. In such a manner it
 
may bring together an indefinite number of subjects in a common "ideal":
 
the communication of one subject with another within the crowd thus
 
constituted will nonetheless remain irreducibly mediated by an ineffable
 
relation.</p><p>
 
    This digression is not only a recollection of principles distantly
 
addressed to those who impute to us a neglect of nonverbal
 
communication: in determining the scope of what speech repeats, it
 
prepares the question of what symptoms repeat.</p><p>
 
 
 
    <a name="S23">Thus the indirect telling sifts out the linguistic dimension, and the
 
general narrator, by duplicating it, "hypothetically" </a><a name="S21">adds nothing to it. But
 
its role in the second dialogue is entirely different.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S21">    For the latter will be opposed to the first like those poles we have
 
distinguished elsewhere in language and which are opposed like word to
 
speech.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S21">    Which is to say that a transition is made here from the domain of
 
exactitude to the </a><a name="S46">register of truth. Now that register–we dare think we
 
needn't come back to this–is situated entirely elsewhere, </a><a name="S22">strictly
 
speaking at the very foundation of intersubjectivity. It is located there
 
where the subject can grasp nothing but the very subjectivity which
 
constitutes an Other as absolute. We shall be satisfied here to indicate its
 
place by evoking the dialogue which seems to us to merit its attribution
 
as a Jewish joke by that state of privation through which the relation of
 
signifier to speech appears in the entreaty which brings the dialogue to a
 
close: "Why are you Iying to me?" one character shouts breathlessly. "Yes,
 
why do you lie to me saying you're going to Cracow so I should believe
 
you're going to Lemberg, when in reality you <i>are</i>  going to Cracow?"</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S22">    We might be prompted to ask a similar question by the torrent of
 
logical impasses, eristic enigmas, paradoxes, and even jests presented to
 
us as an introduction to Dupin's method if the fact that they were confided
 
to us by a would-be disciple did not endow them with a new dimension
 
through that act of delegation. Such is the unmistakable magic of legacies:
 
the witness's fidelity is the cowl which blinds and lays to rest all
 
criticism of his testimony.</a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S22">    </a><a name="S24">What could be more convincing, moreover, than the gesture of laying
 
one's cards face up on the table? So much so that we are momentarily
 
persuaded that the magician has in fact demonstrated, as he promised,
 
how his trick was performed, whereas he has only renewed it in still
 
purer form: at which point we fathom the measure of the supremacy of the
 
signifier in the subject.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S24">    Such is Dupin's maneuver when he starts with the story of the child
 
prodigy who takes in all his friends at the game of even and odd with his
 
trick of identifying with the opponent, concerning which we have
 
nevertheless shown that it cannot reach the first level of theoretical
 
elaboration; namely, intersubjective alternation, without immediately
 
stumbling on the buttress of its recurrence.</a><a name="5"><sup></sup></a><sup><a href="lacan_notes.html#5">5</a></sup></p><p>
 
    We are all the same treated–so much smoke in our eyes–to the
 
names of La Rochefoucauld, La Bruyère, Machiavelli, and Campanella,
 
whose renown, by this time, would seem but futile when confronted with
 
the child's prowess.</p><p>
 
    Followed by Chamfort, whose maxim that "it is a safe wager that
 
every      public idea, every accepted convention is foolish, since it suits the
 
greatest number" will no doubt satisfy all who think they escape its law,
 
thatis, precisely, the greatest number. That Dupin accuses the French of<br>
 
deception for applying the word <i>analylis</i> to algebra will hardly threaten<br>
 
 
 
our pride since, moreover, the freeing of that term for other uses ought by<br>
 
no means to provoke a psychoanalyst to intervene and claim his rights.<br>
 
And there he goes making philological remarks which should positively
 
delight any lovers of Latin: when he recalls without deigning to say
 
anymore that "<i>ambitus</i> doesn't mean ambition, <i>religio</i>, religion, <i>homines
 
honesti</i>, honest men," who among you would not take pleasure in remember
 
ing . . . what those words mean to anyone familiar with Cicero and
 
Lucretius. No doubt Poe is having a good time....</p><p>
 
    <a name="S50">But a suspicion occurs to us: Might not this parade of erudition be
 
destined to reveal to us the key words of our drama? Is not the magician
 
repeating his trick before our eyes, without deceiving us this time about
 
divulging his secret, but pressing his wager to the point of really
 
explaining it to us without us seeing a thing? <i>That</i> would be the summit of
 
the illusionist's art: through one of his fictive creations to <i>truly delude
 
us</i>.</a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S50">    And is it not such effects which justify our referring, without
 
malice, to a number of imaginary heroes as real characters?</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S50">    As well, when we are open to hearing the way in which Martin
 
Heidegger discloses to us in the word <i>aletheia </i>the play of truth, we
 
rediscover a secret to which truth has always initiated her lovers, and
 
through which they learn that it is in hiding that she offers herself to
 
them <i>most truly</i>.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S50">    Thus even if Dupin's comments did not defy us so blatantly to believe
 
in them, we should still have to make that attempt against the opposite
 
temptation.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S50">    Let us track down [<i>dépistons </i>] his footprints there where they elude
 
[<i>dépiste </i>] us.</a><a name="6"><sup></sup></a><sup><a href="lacan_notes.html#6">6</a></sup> And first of all in the criticism by which he explains the
 
Prefect's lack of success. We already saw it surface in those furtive gibes
 
the Prefect, in the first conversation, failed to heed, seeing in them only a
 
pretext for hilarity. That it is, as Dupin insinuates, because a problem is
 
too simple, indeed too evident, that it may appear obscure, will never have
 
any more bearing for him than a vigorous rub of the ribcage.</p><p>
 
 
 
    Everything is arranged to induce in us a sense of the character's
 
imbecility. Which is powerfully articulated by the fact that he and his
 
confederates never conceive of anything beyond what an ordinary rogue
 
might imagine for hiding an object–that is, precisely the all too well
 
known series of extraordinary hiding places: which are promptly cataloged
 
for us, from hidden desk drawers to removable tabletops, from the
 
detachable cushions of chairs to their hollowed-out legs, from the reverse
 
side of mirrors to the "thickness" of book bindings.</p><p>
 
    After which, a moment of derision at the Prefect's error in deducing
 
that because the Minister is a poet, he is not far from being mad, an error,
 
it is argued, which would consist, but this is hardly negligible, simply in a
 
false distribution of the middle term, since it is far from following from
 
the fact that all madmen are poets.</p><p>
 
    Yes indeed. But we ourselves are left in the dark as to the poet's
 
superiority in the art of concealment–even if he be a mathematician to
 
boot–since our pursuit is suddenly thwarted, dragged as we are into a
 
thicket of bad arguments directed against the reasoning of
 
mathematicians, who never, so far as I know, showed such devotion to
 
their formulae as to identify them with reason itself. At least, let us
 
testify that unlike what seems to be Poe's experience, it occasionally
 
befalls us–with our friend Riguet, whose presence here is a guarantee
 
that our incursions into combinatory analysis are not leading us astray–to
 
hazard such serious deviations (virtual blasphemies, according to Poe) as
 
to cast into doubt that <i>x2 </i>+ <i>px </i>is perhaps not absolutely equal to <i>q</i>,"
 
without ever–here we give the lie to Poe–having had to fend off any
 
unexpected attack.</p><p>
 
    Is not so much intelligence being exercised then simply to divert our
 
own from what had been indicated earlier as given, namely, that the police
 
have looked everywhere: which we were to understand–vis-à-vis the area
 
in which the police, not without reason, assumed the letter might be
 
found–in terms of a (no doubt theoretical) exhaustion of space, but
 
concerning which the tale's piquancy depends on our accepting it literally?
 
The division of the entire volume into numbered "compartments," which
 
was the principle governing the operation, being presented to us as so
 
precise that "the fiftieth part of a line," it is said, could not escape the
 
probing of the investigators. Have we not then the right to ask how it
 
happened that the letter was not found <i>anywhere</i>, or rather to observe that
 
all we have been told of a more far-ranging conception of concealment
 
does not explain, in all rigor, that the letter escaped detection, since the
 
area combed did in fact contain it, as Dupin's discovery eventually proves?</p><p>
 
 
 
    Must a letter then, of all objects, be endowed with the property of
 
nullibiety: to use a term which the thesaurus known as <i>Roget</i> picks up
 
from the semiotic utopia of Bishop Wilkins?<a name="7"><sup></sup></a><sup><a href="lacan_notes.html#7">7</a></sup></p><p>
 
    It is evident ("a little <i>too </i>self-evident")<a name="8"><sup></sup></a><sup><a href="lacan_notes.html#8">8</a></sup> that between <i>letter </i>and
 
<i>place</i> exist relations for which no French word has quite the extension of
 
the English adjective <i>odd</i>. <i>Bizarre</i>, by which Baudelaire regularly
 
translates it, is only approximate. Let us say that these relations are . . .
 
 
 
<i>singuliers</i>, for they are the very ones maintained with place by the
 
<i>signifer</i>.<br>
 
<br>
 
    You realize, of course, that our intention is not to turn them into
 
"subtle" relations, nor is our aim to confuse letter with spirit, even if we
 
receive the former by pneumatic dispatch, and that we readily admit that
 
one kills whereas the other quickens, insofar as the signifier–you perhaps
 
begin to understand–materializes the agency of death. <a name="S9">But if it is first of
 
all on the materiality of the signifier that we have insisted, </a><a name="S8">that
 
materiality is<i> odd </i>[<i>singulière</i>] in many ways, the first of which is not to
 
admit </a><a name="S47">partition. </a><a name="S48">Cut a letter in small pieces, and it remains the letter it
 
is–and this in a completely different sense than <i>Gestalttheorie </i>would
 
account for with the dormant vitalism informing its notion of the whole.</a><a name="9"><sup></sup></a><sup><a href="lacan_notes.html#9">9</a></sup></p><p>
 
 
 
    Language delivers its judgment to whoever knows how to hear it:
 
through the usage of the article as parritive particle. It is there that
 
spirit–if spirit be living meaning–appears, no less oddly, as more
 
available for quantification than its letter. To begin with meaning itself,
 
which bears our saying: a speech rich with meaning ["plein <i><b>de</b></i>
 
signification"], just as we recognize a measure of intention ["<i><b>de</b></i>
 
l'intention"] in an act, or deplore that there is no more love {"plus
 
<i><b>d'amour</b></i>"]; or store up hatred {"<i><b>de la</b></i> haine"] and expend devotion ["<i><b>du</b></i>
 
devouement"], and so much infatuation ["tant <i><b>d'</b></i>infatuation"] is easily
 
reconciled to the fact that there will always be ass ["<i><b>de la </b></i>cuisse"] for
 
sale and brawling ["<i><b>du</b></i> rififi"] among men.</p><p>
 
 
 
    But as for the letter–be it taken as typographical character, epistle,
 
or what makes a man of letters–we will say that what is said is to be
 
understood <i>to the letter</i> [<i>è la lettre</i>], that <i>a letter</i> [<i>une lettre</i>] awaits you
 
at the post office, or even that you are acquainted with <i>letters</i> [<i>que vous
 
avez des lettres</i>]–never that there is <i>letter </i>[<i>de la lettre</i>] anywhere,
 
whatever the context, even to designate overdue mail.</p><p>
 
 
 
    For the signifier is a unit in its very uniqueness, being by nature
 
symbol only of an absence. Which is why we cannot say of the purloined
 
letter that, like other objects, it must be <i>or</i> not be in a particular place
 
but that unlike them it will be <i>and</i> not be where it is, wherever it goes.</p><p>
 
    Let us, in fact, look more closely at what happens to the police. We
 
are spared nothing concerning the procedures used in searching the area
 
submitted to their investigation: from the division of that space into
 
compartments from which the slightest bulk could not escape detection,
 
to needles probing upholstery, and, in the impossibility of sounding wood
 
with a tap, to a microscope exposing the waste of any drilling at the
 
surface of its hollow, indeed the infinitesimal gaping of the slightest
 
abyss. As the network tightens to the point that, not satisfied with
 
shaking the pages of books, the police take to counting them, do we not
 
see space itself shed its leaves like a letter?</p><p>
 
    But the detectives have so immutable a notion of the real that they
 
fail to notice that their search tends to transform it into its object. A
 
trait by which they would be able to distinguish that object from all
 
others.</p><p>
 
    This would no doubt be too much to ask them, not because of their
 
lack of insight but rather because of ours. For their imbecility is neither
 
of the individual nor the corporative variety; its source is subjective. It is
 
the realist's imbecility, which does not pause to observe that nothing,
 
however deep in the bowels of the earth a hand may seek to ensconce it,
 
will ever be hidden there, since another hand can always retrieve it, and
 
that what is hidden is never but what is <i>missing from its place</i>, as the
 
call slip puts it when speaking of a volume lose in a library. And even if
 
the book be on an adjacent shelf or in the next slot, it would be hidden
 
there, however visibly it may appear. For it can <i>literally</i> be said that
 
something is missing from its place only of what can change it: the
 
symbolic. For the real, whatever upheaval we subject it to, is always in
 
its place; it carries it glued to its heel, ignorant of what might exile it
 
from it.</p><p>
 
 
 
    And to return to our cops, who took the letter from the place where
 
it was hidden, how could they have seized the letter? In what they turned
 
between their fingers what did they hold but what <i>did not answer</i> to their
 
description. "A letter, a litter": in Joyce's circle, they played on the
 
homophony of the two words in English.<a name="10"><sup></sup></a><sup><a href="lacan_notes.html#10">10</a></sup> Nor does the seeming bit of
 
refuse the police are now handling reveal its other nature for being but
 
half torn. A different seal on a scamp of another color, the mark of a
 
different handwriting in the superscription are here the most inviolable
 
modes of concealment. And if they stop at the reverse side of the letter,
 
on which, as is known, the recipient's address was written in that period,
 
it is because the letter has for them no other side but its reverse.</p><p>
 
    What indeed might they find on its obverse? Its message, as is often
 
said to our cybernetic joy? . . . But does it not occur to us that this
 
message has already reached its recipient and has even been left with her,
 
since the insignificant scrap of paper now represents it no less well than
 
the original note.</p><p>
 
    If we could admit that a letter has completed its destiny after
 
fulfilling its function, the ceremony of returning letters would be a less
 
common close to the extinction of the fires of love's feasts. The signifier
 
is not functional. <a name="S4">And the mobilization of the elegant society whose
 
frolics we are following would as well have no meaning if the letter
 
itself were content with having one. For it would hardly be an adequate
 
means of keeping it secret to inform a squad of cops of its existence.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S4">    We might even admit that the letter has an entirely different (if no
 
more urgent) meaning for the Queen from the one understood by the
 
Minister. The sequence of events would not be noticeably affected, not
 
even if it were strictly incomprehensible to an uninformed reader.</a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S4">    For it is certainly not so for everybody, since, as the Prefect
 
pompously assures us, to everyone's derision, "the disclosure of the
 
document to a third person, who shall be nameless" (that name which
 
leaps to the eye like the pig's tail twixt the teeth of old Ubu) "would bring
 
in question the honor of a personage of most exalted station, indeed that
 
the honor and peace of the illustrious personage are so jeopardized."</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S4">    In that case, it is not only the meaning but the text of the message
 
which it would be dangerous to place in circulation, and all the more so to
 
the extent that it might appear harmless, since the risks of an
 
indiscretion unintentionally committed by one of the letter's holders
 
would thus be increased.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S4">    Nothing then can redeem the police's position, and nothing would be
 
changed by improving their "culture." <i>Scripta manent</i>: in vain would they
 
learn from a deluxe-edition humanism the proverbial lesson which <i>verba
 
volant</i> concludes. </a><a name="S49">May it but please heaven that writings remain, as is
 
rather the case with spoken words: for the indelible debt of the latter
 
impregnates our acts with its transferences.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S49">    Writings scatter to the winds blank checks in an insane charge. And
 
were they not such flying leaves, there would be no purloined letters.</a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S49">    But what of it? For a purloined letter to exist, we may ask, to whom
 
does a letter belong? We stressed a moment ago the oddity implicit in
 
returning a letter to him who had but recently given wing to its burning
 
pledge. And we generally deem unbecoming such premature publications as
 
the one by which the Chevalier d'Eon put several of his correspondents in a
 
rather pitiful position.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S49">    Might a letter on which the sender retains certain rights then not
 
quite belong to the person to whom it is addressed? Or might it be that
 
the latter was never the real receiver?</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S49">    Let's take a look: we shall find illumination in what at first seems
 
to obscure matters: the fact that the tale leaves us in virtually total
 
ignorance of the sender, no less than of the contents, of the letter. We are
 
told only that the Minister immediately recognized the handwriting of the
 
address and only incidentally, in a discussion of the Minister's
 
camouflage, is it said that the original seal bore the ducal arms of the S
 
family. As for the letter's bearing, we know only the dangers it entails
 
should it come into the hands of a specific third party, and that its
 
possession has allowed the Minister to "wield, to a very dangerous extent,
 
for political purposes," the power it assures him over the interested
 
party. But all this tells us nothing of the message it conveys.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S49">    </a><a name="S27">Love letter or conspiratorial letter, letter of betrayal or letter of
 
mission, letter of summons or letter of distress, we are assured of but
 
one thing: the Queen muse not bring it to the knowledge of her lord and
 
master.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S27">    Now these terms, far from bearing the nuance of discredit they have
 
in bourgeois comedy, take on a certain prominence through allusion to her
 
sovereign, to whom she is bound by pledge of faith, and doubly so, since
 
her role as spouse does not relieve her of her duties as subject, but rather
 
elevates her to the guardianship of what royalty according to law
 
incarnates of power: and which is called legitimacy.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S27">    From then on, to whatever vicissitudes the Queen may choose to
 
subject the letter, it remains that the letter is the symbol of a pact and
 
that, even should the recipient not assume the pact, the existence of the
 
letter situates her in a symbolic chain foreign to the one which
 
constitutes her faith. This incompatibility is proven by the fact that the
 
possession of the letter is impossible to bring forward publicly as
 
legitimate, and that in order to have that possession respected, the Queen
 
can invoke but her right to privacy, whose privilege is based on the honor
 
that possession violates.</a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S27">    For she who incarnates the figure of grace and sovereignty cannot
 
welcome even a private communication without power being concerned,
 
and she cannot avail herself of secrecy in relation to the sovereign
 
without becoming clandestine.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S27">    </a><a name="S2">From then on, the responsibility of the author of the letter takes
 
second place to that of its holder: for the offense to majesty is
 
compounded by <i>high treason</i>.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S2">    </a><a name="S3">We say the <i>holder </i>and not the <i>possessor</i>. For it becomes clear that
 
the addressee's proprietorship of the letter may be no less debatable than
 
that of anyone else into whose hands it comes, for nothing concerning the
 
existence of the letter can return to good order without the person whose
 
prerogatives it infringes upon having to pronounce judgment on it.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S3">    All of this, however, does not imply that because the letter's
 
secrecy is indefensible, the betrayal of that secret would in any sense be
 
honorable. The<i> honesti homines</i>, decent people, will not get off easily.
 
There is more than one <i>religio,</i> and it is not slated for tomorrow that
 
sacred ties shall cease to rend us in two. As for <i>ambitus</i>: a detour, we see,
 
is not always inspired by ambition. For if we are taking one here, by no
 
means is it stolen (the word is apt), since, to lay our cards on the table,
 
we have borrowed Baudelaire's title in order to stress not, as is
 
incorrectly claimed, the conventional nature of the signifier, but rather
 
its priority in relation to the signified. It remains, nevertheless, that
 
Baudelaire, de spite his devotion, betrayed Poe by translating as "la lettre
 
volee" (the stolen letter) his title: the purloined letter, a title containing
 
a word rare enough for us to find it easier to define its etymology than its
 
usage.</a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S3">    To<i> purloin,</i> says the Oxford dictionary, is an Anglo-French word, that
 
is: composed of the prefix<i> pur-,</i> found in <i>purpose, purchase, purport,</i> and of
 
the Old French word: <i>loing, loigner, longé</i>. We recognize in the first
 
element the Latin <i>pro-</i>, as opposed to <i>ante</i>, insofar as it presupposes a
 
rear in front of which it is borne, possibly as its warrant, indeed even as
 
its pledge (whereas ante goes forth to confront what it encounters). As
 
for the second, an Old French word: <i>loigner</i>, a verb attributing place <i>au
 
loing </i>(or, still in use, <i>longé</i>), it does not mean <i>au loin</i> (far off), but <i>au long
 
de </i>(alongside); it is a question then of <i>putting aside</i>, or, to invoke a
 
familiar expression which plays on the two meanings: <i>mettre à gauche</i> (to
 
put to the left; to put amiss).</a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S3">    Thus we are confirmed in our detour by the very object which draws
 
us on into it: for we are quite simply dealing with a letter which has been
 
diverted from its path; one whose course has been <i>prolonged</i>
 
(etymologically, the word of the title), or, to revert to the language of the
 
post office, a <i>letter in sufferance.</i></a></p><p>
 
<a name="S3">    </a><a name="S26">Here then, <i>simple and odd</i>, as we are told on the very first page,
 
reduced to its simplest expression, is the singularity of the letter, which
 
as the title indicates, is the <i>true subject</i> of the tale: since it can be
 
diverted, it must have a course <i>which is proper to it</i>. the trait by which
 
its incidence as signifier is affirmed. For we have learned to conceive of
 
the signifier as sustaining itself only in a displacement comparable to
 
that found in electric news strips or in the rotating memories of our
 
machines-that-think-like-men, this because of the alternating operation
 
which is its principle, requiring it to leave its place, even though it
 
returns to it by a circular path.</a><a name="11"><sup></sup></a><sup><a href="lacan_notes.html#11">11</a></sup></p><p>
 
 
 
    This is indeed what happens in the repetition automatism. <a name="S11">What
 
Freud teaches us in the text we are commenting on is that the subject
 
must pass through the channels of the symbolic, but what is illustrated
 
here is more gripping still: it is not only the subject, but the subjects,
 
grasped in their intersubjectivity, who line up, in other words our
 
ostriches, to whom we here return, and who, more docile than sheep,
 
model their very being on the moment of the signifying chain which
 
traverses them.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S11">    If what Freud discovered and rediscovers with a perpetually
 
increasing sense of shock has a meaning, it is that </a><a name="S5">the displacement of the
 
signifier determines the subjects in their acts, in their destiny, in their
 
refusals, in their blindness, in their end and in their fate, their innate
 
gifts and social acquisitions notwithstanding, without regard for
 
character or sex, and that, willingly or not, everything that might be
 
considered the stuff of psychology, kit and caboodle, will follow the path
 
of the signifier.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S5">    </a><a name="S32">Here we are, in fact, yet again at the crossroads at which we had
 
left our drama and its round with the question of the way in which the
 
subjects replace each other in it. Our fable is so constructed as to show
 
that it is the letter and its diversion which governs their entries and
 
roles. If <i>it</i> be "in sufferance," <i>they </i>shall endure the pain. Should they pass
 
beneath its shadow, they become its reflection. Falling in possession of
 
the letter–admirable ambiguity of language–its meaning possesses them.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S32">    So we are shown by the hero of the drama in the repetition of the
 
very situation which his daring brought to a head, a first time, to his
 
triumph. If he now succumbs to it, it is because he has shifted to the
 
second position in the triad in which he was initially third, as well as the
 
thief– and this by virtue of the object of his theft.</a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S32">    For if it is, now as before, a question of protecting the letter from
 
inquisitive eyes, he can do nothing but employ the same technique he
 
himself has already foiled: Leave it in the open? And we may properly
 
doubt that he knows what he is thus doing, when we see him immediately
 
captivated by a dual relationship in which we find all the traits of a
 
mimetic lure or of an animal feigning death, and, trapped in the typically
 
imaginary situation of seeing that he is not seen, misconstrue the real
 
situation in which he is seen not seeing.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S32">    And what does he fail to see? Precisely the symbolic situation
 
which he himself was so well able to see, and in which he is now seen
 
seeing himself not being seen.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S32">    The Minister acts as a man who realizes that the police's search is
 
his own defense, since we are told he allows them total access by his
 
absences: he nonetheless fails to recognize that outside of that search he
 
is no longer defended.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S32">    This is the very <i>autruicherie</i> whose artisan he was, if we may allow
 
our monster to proliferate, but it cannot be by sheer stupidity that he now
 
comes to be its dupe.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S32">    For in playing the part of the one who hides, he is obliged to don the
 
role of the Queen, and even the attributes of femininity and shadow, so
 
propitious to the act of concealing.</a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S32">    Not that we are reducing the hoary couple of <i>Yin</i> and <i>Yang </i>to the
 
elementary opposition of dark and light. For its precise use involves what
 
is blinding in a flash of light, no less than the shimmering shadows
 
exploit in order not to lose their prey.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S32">    Here sign and being, marvelously asunder, reveal which is victorious
 
when they come into conflict. A man man enough to defy to the point of
 
scorn a lady's fearsome ire undergoes to the point of metamorphosis the
 
curse of the sign he has dispossessed her of.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S32">    For this sign is indeed that of woman, insofar as she invests her
 
very being therein, founding it outside the law, which subsumes her
 
nevertheless, originarily, in a position of signifier, nay, of fetish. In order
 
to be worthy of the power of that sign she has but to remain immobile in
 
its shadow, thus finding, moreover, like the Queen, that simulation of
 
mastery in inactivity that the Minister's "Iynx eye" alone was able to
 
penetrate.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S32">    This stolen sign–here then is man in its possession: sinister in that
 
such possession may be sustained only through the honor it defies, cursed
 
in calling him who sustains it to punishment or crime, each of which
 
shatters his vassalage to the Law.</a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S32">    There must be in this sign a singular <i>noli me tangere</i> for its
 
possession, like the Socratic sting ray, to benumb its man to the point of
 
making him fall into what appears clearly in his case to be a state of
 
idleness.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S32">    For in noting, as the narrator does as early as the first dialogue,
 
that with the letter's use its power disappears, we perceive that this
 
remark, strictly speaking, concerns precisely its use for ends of
 
power–and at the same time that such a use is obligatory for the Minister.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S32">    To be unable to rid himself of it, the Minister indeed must not know
 
what else to do with the letter. For that use places him in so total a
 
dependence on the letter as such, that in the long run it no longer involves
 
the letter at all.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S32">    We mean that for that use truly to involve the letter, the Minister,
 
who, after all, would be so authorized by his service to his master the
 
King, might present to the Queen respectful admonitions, even were he to
 
assure their sequel by appropriate precautions–or initiate an action
 
against the author of the letter, concerning whom, the fact that he
 
remains outside the story's focus reveals the extent to which it is not
 
guilt and blame which are in question here, but rather that sign of
 
contradiction and scandal constituted by the letter, in the sense in which
 
the Gospel says that it must come regardless of the anguish of whoever
 
serves as its bearer,–or even submit the letter as document in a dossier
 
to a 'third person' qualified to know whether it will issue in a Star
 
Chamber for the Queen or the Minister's disgrace.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S32">    We will not know why the Minister does not resort to any of these
 
uses, and it is fitting that we don't, since the effect of this non-use alone
 
concerns us; it suffices for us to know that the way in which the letter
 
was acquired would pose no obstacle to any of them.</a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S32">    For it is clear that if the use of the letter, independent of its
 
meaning, is obligatory for the Minister, its use for ends of power can only
 
be potential, since it cannot become actual without vanishing in the
 
process– but in that case the letter exists as a means of power only
 
through the final assignations of the pure signifier, namely: by prolonging
 
its diversion, making it reach whomever it may concern through a
 
supplementary transfer, that is, by an additional act of treason whose
 
effects the letter's gravity makes it difficult to predict–or indeed by
 
destroying the letter, the only sure means, as Dupin divulges at the start,
 
of being rid of what is destined by nature to signify the annulment of what
 
it signifies.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S32">    The ascendancy which the Minister derives from the situation is
 
thus not a function of the letter, but, whether he knows it or not, of the
 
role it constitutes for him. And the Prefect's remarks indeed present him
 
as someone "who dares all things," which is commented upon significantly:
 
"those unbecoming as well as those becoming a man," words whose
 
pungency escapes Baudelaire when he translates: "ce qui est indigne d'un
 
homme aussi bien que ce qui est digne de lui" (those unbecoming a man as
 
well as those becoming him). For in its original form, the appraisal is far
 
more appropriate to what might concern a woman.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S32">    This allows us to see the imaginary import of the character, that is,
 
the narcissistic relation in which the Minister is engaged, this time, no
 
doubt, without knowing it. It is indicated, as well, as early as the second
 
page of the English text by one of the narrator's remarks, whose form is
 
worth savoring: the Minister's ascendancy, we are told, "would depend upon
 
the robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber." Words
 
whose importance the author underscores by having Dupin repeat them
 
literally after the narration of the scene of the theft of the letter. Here
 
again we may say that Baudelaire is imprecise in his language in having
 
one ask, the other confirm, in these words: "Le voleur saitil? . . ." (Does the
 
robber know?), then: "Le voleur salt . . ." (the robber knows). What? "que la
 
personne volée connâit son voleur" (that the loser knows his robber).</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S32">    For what matters to the robber is not only that the said person
 
knows who robbed her, but rather with what kind of a robber she is
 
dealing; for she believes him capable of anything, which should be
 
understood as her having conferred upon him the position that no one is in
 
fact capable of assuming, since it is imaginary, that of absolute master.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S32">    In truth, it is a position of absolute weakness, but not for the person
 
of whom we are expected to believe so. The proof is not only that the
 
Queen dares to call the police. For she is only conforming to her
 
displacement to the next slot in the arrangement of the initial triad in
 
trusting to the very blindness required to occupy that place: "No more
 
sagacious agent could, I suppose," Dupin notes ironically, "be desired or
 
even imagined." No, if she has taken that step, it is less out of being
 
"driven to despair," as we are told, than in assuming the charge of an
 
impatience best imputed to a specular mirage.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S32">    For the Minister is kept quite busy confining himself to the idleness
 
which is presently his lot. The Minister, in point of fact, is not altogether
 
mad. That's a remark made by the Prefect, whose every word is gold: it is
 
true that the gold of his words flows only for Dupin and will continue to
 
flow to the amount of the fifty thousand francs worth it will cost him by
 
the metal standard of the day, though not without leaving him a margin of
 
profit. The Minister then is not <i>altogether</i> mad in his insane stagnation,
 
and that is why he will behave according to the mode of neurosis. Like the
 
man who withdrew to an island to forget, what? he forgot–so the
 
Minister, through not making use of the letter, comes to forget it. As is
 
expressed by the persistence of his conduct. But the letter, no more than
 
the neurotic's unconscious, does not forget him. It forgets him so little
 
that it transforms him more and more in the image of her who offered it
 
to his capture, so that he now will surrender it, following her example, to
 
a similar capture.</a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S32">    </a><a name="S7">The features of that transformation are noted, and in a form so
 
characteristic in their apparent gratuitousness that they might validly be
 
compared to the return of the repressed.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S7">    Thus we first learn that the Minister in turn has <i>turned the letter
 
over,</i> not, of course, as in the Queen's hasty gesture, but, more
 
assiduously, as one turns a garment inside out. So he must proceed,
 
according to the methods of the day for folding and sealing a letter, in
 
order to free the virgin space on which to inscribe a new address.</a><a name="12"><sup></sup></a><sup><a href="lacan_notes.html#12">12</a></sup></p><p>
 
    That address becomes his own. Whether it be in his hand or another,
 
it will appear in an extremely delicate feminine script, and, the seal
 
changing from the red of passion to the black of its mirrors, he will
 
imprint his stamp upon it. This oddity of a letter marked with the
 
recipient's stamp is all the more striking in its conception, since, though
 
forcefully articulated in the text, it is not even mentioned by Dupin in the
 
discussion he devotes to the identification of the letter.</p><p>
 
    Whether that omission be intentional or involuntary, it will surprise
 
in the economy of a work whose meticulous rigor is evident. But in either
 
case it is significant that the letter which the Minister, in point of fact,
 
addresses to himself is a letter from a woman: as though this were a
 
phase he had to pass through out of a natural affinity of the signifier.</p><p>
 
    Thus the aura of apathy, verging at times on an affectation of
 
effeminacy; the display of an ennui bordering on disgust in his
 
conversation; the mood the author of the philosophy of furniture<a name="13"><sup></sup></a><sup><a href="lacan_notes.html#13">13</a></sup> can
 
elicit from virtually impalpable details (like that of the musical
 
instrument on the table), everything seems intended for a character, all of
 
whose utterances have revealed the most virile traits, to exude the oddest
 
 
 
<i>odor di femina </i>when he appears.</p><p>
 
    Dupin does not fail to stress that this is an artifice, describing
 
behind the bogus finery the vigilance of a beast of prey ready to spring.
 
But that this is the very effect of the unconscious in the precise sense
 
that we teach that the unconscious means that man is inhabited by the
 
signifier: Could we find a more beautiful image of it than the one Poe
 
himself forges to help us appreciate Dupin's exploit? For with this aim in
 
mind, he refers to those toponymical inscriptions which a geographical
 
map, lest it remain mute, superimposes on its design, and which may
 
become the object of a guessing game: Who can find the name chosen by a
 
partner?–noting immediately that the name most likely to foil a beginner
 
will be one which, in large letters spaced out widely across the map,
 
discloses, often without an eye pausing to notice it, the name of an entire
 
country....</p><p>
 
    <a name="S29">Just so does the purloined letter, like an immense female body,
 
screech out across the Minister's office when Dupin enters. But just so
 
does he already expect to find it, and has only, with his eyes veiled by
 
green lenses, to undress that huge body.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S29">    And that is why without needing any more than being able to listen
 
in at the door of Professor Freud, he will go straight to the spot in which
 
lies and lives what that body is designed to hide, in a gorgeous center
 
caught in a glimpse, nay, to the very place seducers name Sant' Angelo's
 
Castle in their innocent illusion of controlling the City from within it.
 
Look! between the cheeks of the fireplace, there's the object already in
 
reach of a hand the ravisher has but to extend.... The question of deciding
 
whether he seizes it above the mantelpiece as Baudelaire translates, or<br>
 
beneath it, as in the original text, may be abandoned without harm to the
 
inferences of those whose profession is grilling.</a><a name="S33"></a><a name="14"><sup></sup></a><sup><a href="lacan_notes.html#14">14</a></sup></p><p>
 
    Were the effectiveness of symbols to cease there, would it mean
 
that the symbolic debt would as well be extinguished? Even if we could
 
believe so, we would be advised of the contrary by two episodes which we
 
may all the less dismiss as secondary in that they seem, at first sight, to
 
clash with the rest of the work.</p><p>
 
 
 
    First of all, there's the business of Dupin's remuneration, which, far
 
from being a closing pirouette, has been present from the beginning in the
 
rather unselfconscious question he asks the Prefect about the amount of
 
the reward promised him, and whose enormousness, the Prefect, however
 
reticent he may be about the precise figure, does not dream of hiding from
 
him, even returning later on to refer to its increase.</p><p>
 
    The fact that Dupin had been previously presented to us as a virtual
 
pauper in his ethereal shelter ought rather to lead us to reflect on the deal
 
he makes out of delivering the letter, promptly assured as it is by the
 
checkbook he produces. We do not regard it as negligible that the
 
unequivocal hint through which he introduces the matter is a "story
 
attributed to the character, as famous as it was eccentric," Baudelaire
 
tells us, of an English doctor named Abernethy, in which a rich miser,
 
hoping to sponge upon him for a medical opinion, is sharply told not to
 
take medicine, but to take advice.</p><p>
 
    <a name="S35">Do we not in fact feel concerned with good reason when for Dupin
 
what is perhaps at stake is his withdrawal from the symbolic circuit of
 
the letter–we who become the emissaries of all the purloined letters
 
which at least for a time remain in sufferance with us in the
 
transference. And is it not the responsibility their transference entails
 
which we neutralize by equating it with the signifier most destructive of
 
all signification; namely money.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S35">    </a><a name="S36">But that's not </a><a name="S38">all. The profit Dupin so nimbly extracts from his
 
exploit, if its purpose is to allow him to withdraw his stakes from the
 
game, makes all the more paradoxical, even shocking, the partisan attack,
 
the underhanded blow, he suddenly permits himself to launch against the
 
Minister, whose insolent prestige, after all, would seem to have been
 
auflficiently deflated by the trick Dupin has just played on him.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S38">    We have already quoted the atrocious lines Dupin claims he could not
 
help dedicating, in his counterfeit letter, to the moment in which the
 
Minister, enraged by the inevitable defiance of the Queen, will think he is
 
demolishing her and will plunge into the abyss: <i>facilis descensus Averni,</i></a><a name="15"><sup></sup></a><sup><a href="lacan_notes.html#15">15</a></sup>
 
 
 
he waxes sententious, adding that the Minister cannot fail to recognize his
 
handwriting, all of which, since depriving of any danger a merciless act of
 
infamy, would seem, concerning a figure who is not without merit, a
 
triumph without glory, and the rancor he invokes, seemming from an evil
 
turn done him at Vienna (at the Congress?) only adds an additional bit of
 
blackness to the whole.</p><p>
 
    Lee us consider, however, more closely <a name="S39">this explosion of feeling, and
 
more specifically the moment it occurs in a sequence of acts whose
 
success depends on so cool a head.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S39">    It comes just after the moment in which the decisive ace of
 
identifying the letter having been accomplished, it may be said that Dupin
 
already has the letter as much as if he had seized it, without, however, as
 
yet being in a position to rid himself of it.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S39">    He is thus, in fact, fully participant in the intersubjective triad,
 
and, as such, in the median position previously occupied by the Queen and
 
the Minister. Will he, in showing himself to be above it, reveal to us at the
 
same time the auchor's intentions?</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S39">    </a><a name="S30">If he has succeeded in returning the letter to its proper course, it
 
remains for him to make it arrive at its address. And that address is in
 
the place previously occupied by the King, since it is there that it would
 
reenter the order of the Law.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S30">    </a><a name="S41">As we have seen, neither the King nor the police who replaced him in
 
that position were able to read the letter because that <i>place entailed
 
blindness.</i></a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S41">    <i>Rex et augur</i>, the legendary, archaic quality of the words seems to
 
resound only to impress us with the absurdity of applying them to a man.
 
And the figures of history, for some time now, hardly encourage us to do
 
so. It is not natural for man to bear alone the weight of the highest of
 
signifiers. And the place he occupies as soon as he dons it may be equally
 
apt to become the symbol of the mose outrageous imbecility.</a><a name="16"><sup></sup></a><sup><a href="lacan_notes.html#16">16</a></sup></p><p>
 
    Let us say that the King here is invested with the equivocation
 
natural to the sacred, with the imbecility which prizes none other than
 
the Subject.</p><p>
 
    That is what will give their meaning to the characters who will
 
follow him in his place. Not that the police should be regarded as
 
constitutionally illiterate, and we know the role of pikes planted on the
 
<i>campus </i>in the birth of the State. Bue the police who exercise their
 
functions here are plainly marked by the forms of liberalism, that is, by
 
those imposed on them by masters on the whole indifferent to eliminating
 
their indiscreet tendencits. Which is why on occasion words are not
 
minced as to what is expected of them: "<i>Sutor ne uItra crepidam</i>, just take
 
care of your crooks. We'll even give you scientific means to do it with.
 
That will help you not to think of truths you'd be better off leaving in the
 
dark."<a name="17"><sup></sup></a><sup><a href="lacan_notes.html#17">17</a></sup></p><p>
 
    We know that the relief which results from such prudent principles
 
shall have lasted in history but a morning's time, that already the march
 
of destiny is everywhere bringing back–a sequel to a just aspiration to
 
freedom's reign–an interest in those who trouble it with their crimes,
 
which occasionally goes so far as to forge its proofs. It may even be
 
observed that this practice, which was always well received to the extent
 
that it was exercised only in favor of the greatest number, comes to be
 
authenticated in public confessions of forgery by the very ones who might
 
very well object to it: the most recent manifestation of the preeminence
 
of the signifier over the subject.</p><p>
 
 
 
    It remains, nevertheless, that a police record has always been the
 
object of a certain reserve, of which we have difficulty understanding
 
that it amply transcends the guild of historians.</p><p>
 
    It is by dint of this vanishing credit that Dupin's intended delivery of
 
the letter to the Prefect of Police will diminish its import. What now
 
remains of the signifier when, already relieved of its message for the
 
Queen, it is now invalidated in its text as soon as it leaves the Minister's
 
hands?</p><p>
 
    It remains for it now only to answer that very question, of what
 
remains of a signifier when it has no more signification. But this is the
 
same question asked of it by the person Dupin now finds in the spot
 
marked by blindness.</p><p>
 
    For that is indeed the question which has led the Minister there, if
 
he be the gambler we are told and which his act sufficiently indicates. For
 
the gambler's passion is nothing but that question asked of the signifier,
 
figured by the <i>automaton</i> of chance.</p><p>
 
    "What are you, figure of the die I turn over in your encounter (<i>tyche</i>)
 
with my fortune?<a name="18"><sup></sup></a><sup><a href="lacan_notes.html#18">18</a></sup> Nothing, if not that presence of death which makes of
 
human life a reprieve obtained from morning to morning in the name of
 
meanings whose sign is your crook. Thus did Schcherazade for a thousand
 
and one nights, and thus have I done for eighteen months, suffering the
 
ascendancy of this sign at the cost of a dizzying series of fraudulent turns
 
at the game of even or odd."</p><p>
 
 
 
    So it is that Dupin, <i>from the place he now occupies</i>, cannot help
 
feeling <a name="S40">a rage of manifestly feminine nature against him who poses such a
 
question. The prestigious image in which the poet's inventiveness and the
 
mathematician's rigor joined up with the serenity of the dandy and the
 
elegance of the cheat suddenly becomes, for the very person who invited
 
us to savor it, the true <i>monstrum horrendum</i>, for such are his words, "an
 
unprincipled man of genius."</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S40">      It is here that the origin of that horror betrays itself, and he who
 
experiences it has no need to declare himself (in a most unexpected
 
manner) "a partisan of the lady" in order to reveal it to us: it is known that
 
ladies detest calling principles into question, for their charms owe much
 
to the mystery of the signifier.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S40">    Which is why Dupin will at last turn toward us the medusoid face of
 
the signifier nothing but whose obverse anyone except the Queen has been
 
able to read. The commonplace of the quotation is fitting for the oracle
 
that face bears in its grimace, as is also its source in tragedy: </a><a name="S52">". . . Un
 
destin si funeste, / S'il n'est digne d'Atrée, est digne de Thyeste. "</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S52">    So runs the signifier's answer, above and beyond all significations:
 
"You think you act when I stir you at the mercy of the bonds through which
 
I knot your desires. Thus do they grow in force and multiply in objects,
 
bringing you back to the fragmentation of your shattered childhood. So be
 
it: such will be your feast until the return of the stone guest I shall be for
 
you since you call me forth."</a></p><p>
 
 
 
<a name="S52">    Or, to return to a more moderate tone, let us say, as in the quip with
 
which–along with some of you who had followed us to the Zurich Congress
 
last year–we rendered homage to the local password, the signifier's
 
answer to whoever interrogates it is: "Eat your Dasein."</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S52">    Is that then what awaits the Minister at a rendezvous with destiny?
 
Dupin assures us of it, but we have already learned not to be too credulous
 
of his diversions.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S52">    No doubt the brazen creature is here reduced to the state of
 
blindness which is man's in relation to the letters on the wall that dictate
 
his destiny. But what effect, in calling him to confront them, may we
 
expect from the sole provocations of the Queen, on a man like him? Love or
 
hatred. The former is blind and will make him lay down his arms. The
 
latter is lucid, but will awaken his suspicions. </a><a name="S43">But if he is truly the
 
gambler we are told he is, he will consult his cards a final time before
 
laying them down and, upon reading his hand, will leave the cable in time
 
to avoid disgrace.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S43">    </a><a name="S37">Is that all, and shall we believe we have deciphered Dupin's real
 
strategy above and beyond the imaginary tricks with which he was obliged
 
to deceive us? No doubt, yes, for if "any poin requiring reflection," as
 
Dupin states at the start, is "examined to best purpose in the dark," we
 
may now easily read its solution in broad daylight. It was already implicit
 
and easy to derive from the title of our tale, according to the very formula
 
we have long submitted to your discretion: in which the sender, we tell
 
you, receives from the receiver his own message in reverse form. </a><a name="S31"></a><a name="S44">Thus it
 
is that what the "purloined letter" nay, the "letter in sufferance," means
 
is that a letter always arrives at its destination.</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S44"><br>
 
</a></p><p>
 
<a name="S44">
 
 
 
 
 
[[Category:Works by Jacques Lacan]]
 
[[Category:Essays by Jacques Lacan]]
 
[[Category:Jacques Lacan]]
 

Latest revision as of 23:26, 30 August 2006