Madness, the Absence of Work

Author(s): Michel Foucault, Peter Stastny, Deniz Şengel

Source: Critical Inquiry, Vol. 21, No. 2 (Winter, 1995), pp. 290-298
Published by: The University of Chicago Press
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Madness, the Absence of Work

Michel Foucault

Translated by Peter Stastny and Deniz ?engel

Perhaps some day we will no longer really know what madness was. Its
face will have closed upon itself, no longer allowing us to decipher the
traces it may have left behind. Will these traces themselves have become
anything to the unknowing gaze but simple black marks? Or will they at
the most have become part of the configurations that we others now can-
not sketch but that in the future would constitute the indispensable grids
through which we and our culture become legible? Artaud will belong
to the foundation of our language, not to its rupture; the neuroses will
belong among the constitutive forms (and not the deviations) of our soci-
ety. Everything we experience today in the mode of a limit, or as foreign,
or as intolerable will have returned to the serenity of the positive. And
whatever currently designates this exteriority to us may well one day des-
ignate us.
Only the enigma of this exteriority will remain. What was, then, this
strange demarcation, one will ask, that was at work from the heart of the
Middle Ages until the twentieth century and possibly beyond? Why did
Western culture cast from its field that in which it might just as well have
recognized itself, where in fact it had recognized itself obliquely? Why
has it formulated so clearly since the nineteenth century, but in a way
already since the classical age, that madness was the truth of the human
laid bare while nevertheless placing it in a space, neutralized and pale,
where it was as it were canceled? What was the point of collecting the

This translation is published with the permission of Editions Gallimard.

CriticalInquiry21 (Winter 1995)

English translation ? 1995 by The University of Chicago. 0093-1896/95/2102-0005$01.00. All rights reserved.

290
CriticalInquiry Winter1995 291

texts of Nerval or Artaud? Why discover oneself in their utterances and

not in themselves?
So the sharp image of reason will wither in flames. The familiar game
of mirroring the other side of ourselves in madness and of eavesdropping
from our listening posts on voices that, coming from very far, tell us more
nearly what we are-this game with its rules, its strategies, its contriv-
ances, its tricks, its tolerated illegalities will once and for all have become
nothing but a complex ritual whose significations will have been reduced
to ashes. Something like the great ceremonies of barter and combat in
archaic societies. Something like the ambiguous attention Greek reason
paid to its oracles. Or like the latter's twin institution, starting with the
fourteenth century A.D., of the practices and trials of witchcraft. Nothing
will remain in the hands of cultural historians except the codified meth-
ods of confinement, the techniques of medicine, and, on the other hand,
the sudden, irruptive inclusion in our language of the speech of the ex-
cluded.

What will the technical support for this radical change be? The possi-
bility that medicine may master mental illness just like other organic ail-
ments? Precise pharmacological control of all mental symptoms? Or a
more or less rigorous definition of behavioral deviations for each of which
society might be at leisure to anticipate the most convenient method of
neutralization? Or still other modes of intervention, perhaps none of
which will in fact suppress mental illness but which will all have the pur-
pose of eliminating the very face of madness from our culture?
I know well that by proposing this latter hypothesis I am contesting
something that is ordinarily accepted: that the advances of medicine
could indeed succeed in eradicating mental illness just as they have done
away with leprosy and tuberculosis but that the one thing to remain is
the relationship of humankind to its ghosts, to its impossible, to its bodi-
less pain, to its carcass of the night; that once pathology is removed from
circulation, the dark link of the human to madness will become the age-
less memory of an evil that has been effaced as a form of illness but per-
sists as misfortune. To tell the truth, this idea assumes as inalterable what
is undoubtedly most precarious, even more precarious than the constants

Michel Foucault (1926-1984) held the chair of the History of Sys-

tems of Thought at the College de France. Four volumes of his writings,
entitled Dits et ecrits, have recently been published. Peter Stastny is an
associate professor of psychiatry at Albert Einstein College of Medicine.
He is currently editing a book on social relationships and recovery. Deniz
*engel is a Ph.D. candidate in comparative literature at New York Uni-
versity and reader in cultural studies at Bosphorus University.
292 MichelFoucault Madness,theAbsenceof Work

of pathology: the relationship of a culture to the very thing it excludes

or, more precisely, the relationship of our culture to this truth about itself,
far away and inverted, which it discovers over and over in madness.
That which will not take long to die, that which is already dying in
us (and whose very death bears our current language) is homodialecticus-
the being of departure, of return, and of time; the animal that loses its
truth only in order to find it again, illuminated; the self-estranged who
once again recovers the unity of the self-same. This figure has been the
master subject and the object slave of all the discourses concerning the
human, in particular human alienation, which have persisted for quite
some time. And fortunately it is dying beneath the babble of these dis-
courses.
So that it will no longer be known how humanity had been able to
place this figure of itself at a distance; how it could have let pass from the
other side of the limit even that which belonged to it and which it resem-
bled? No thought will be able to contemplate this movement from which
until all too recently the West took its liberties. It is this relationship to
madness (and not some knowledge about mental illness or some position
taken on human alienation) that will be lost forever. The only thing that
will be known is that we others, five-century-old Westerners, had been
those people upon the face of the earth who, among many other funda-
mental traits, had borne the strangest trait of them all: we maintained a
profound, passionate relationship to mental illness, perhaps difficult to
formulate for ourselves but impenetrable to anyone else, in which we
confronted dangers most vivid to us as well as what was perhaps the truth
closest to us. It will not be said that we were at a distance from madness
but within distance of it. The Greeks, similarly, were not distanced from
iUppto[hubris] because they condemned it; they were rather within reach
of this excess located at the heart of the distance where they kept it.
Those who will no longer be what we are will face the task of con-
templating this enigma (somewhat as we do today when we try to grasp
how Athena could have fallen in love with and detached herself from the
irrationality of Alcibiades). How could humans search for their truth,
their essential speech, and their signs in the face of a peril that made
them tremble and from which they were compelled to avert their eyes
once they had caught sight of it? And this will appear even more strange
to them than asking death the truth of humanity, for death says what will
happen to everyone. Madness, in turn, is the rarer danger, a chance that
weighs little compared to the obsessions it has engendered and the ques-
tions it has been asked. How could it be, in a culture, that such a slight
contingency held such great power of revelation and terror?
Those who will be looking at us over their shoulder will certainly not
have many clues at their disposal to answer this question. Only a few
charred signs: the endlessly examined, centuries-old fear of seeing the
level of madness rise and submerge the world; the rituals of excluding
CriticalInquiry Winter1995 293

and including the mad; and, since the nineteenth century, the alert ear
bent on overhearing something in madness that could tell the truth about
the human; the same impatience with which the utterances of madness
are rejected and collected, the hesitation in recognizing their emptiness
or their meaningfulness.
And all the rest-this unique movement by which we come to meet
madness while distancing ourselves from it; this terrifying recognition;
this desire to establish the limit yet at once to compensate for it through
the framework of a unitary meaning-all this will be reduced to silence,
just as the Greek trilogy gcavia, i3ptoa, adoyta [mania, hubris, alogia] or
the posture of shamanic deviation in some primitive societies are mute to
us today.
We are now at that point in time, in that fold of time, where a certain
technical control of illness conceals rather than points to the movement
that closes the experience of madness upon itself. But it is precisely this
fold, too, that allows us to disentangle two different configurations that
remained bound up with one another for centuries. Mental illness and
madness, merged with and mistaken for each other from the seventeenth
century on, are now becoming separated under our very eyes or, rather,
in our language.

To say that madness is disappearing today means that its implication

both in psychiatric knowledge and thought of an anthropological kind is
coming undone. But this is not to say that the general form of transgres-
sion, whose visible face madness has been for centuries, is also disap-
pearing. Nor does it mean that this transgression is not giving rise to a
new experience even as we are asking ourselves what madness is.
There is not a single culture in the world where everything is permit-
ted. And we have known for a long time that humanity does not start out
from freedom but from limitation and the line not to be crossed. We
know the systems of rules with which forbidden acts are to comply; we
have been able to discern the rules of the incest taboo in every culture.
But we still do not know much about the organization of the prohibitions
in language. It seems that these two systems of restriction do not overlap
as if one were nothing but the verbal version of the other; what is not
allowed to appear at the level of the word is not necessarily what is forbid-
den in the realm of deed. The Zuni narrate incest between brother and
sister, which they outlaw, and the Greeks tell the legend of Oedipus. On
the other hand, the Code of 1808 abolished extant criminal laws against
sodomy, but the language of the nineteenth century was much more in-
tolerant of homosexuality, at least of its male manifestation, than had
been that of preceding eras. And it is likely that the psychological con-
cepts of compensation and symbolic expression cannot in the least ex-
plain such phenomena.
The domain of the prohibitions in language should in itself be stud-
294 MichelFoucault Madness,theAbsenceof Work

ied some day. It is today undoubtedly too early to know just how to carry
out such an analysis. Should we employ the categories that are presently
admitted into language? Should we first identify, regarding the limits of
the forbidden and the impossible, the laws that are relevant to the linguis-
tic code (what we so clearly refer to as linguisticerrors);and then, within
this code and among extant words or expressions, locate those that are
affected by the rule forbidding the utterance of certain words or expres-
sions (the entire religious, sexual, magical series of blasphemouswords);and
then, among those words and expressions that may be uttered, identify
which ones are permitted by the code, permitted in the act of speech, but
whose meaning is not tolerated by the culture in question at a given time.
At this point, the metaphoric detour would no longer be possible, since
it is the meaning itself that is the object of censorship.Finally, there is a
fourth form of language that is excluded; it consists of subjecting an ut-
terance, which appears to conform to the accepted code, to another code
whose key is contained within that same utterance so that this utterance
becomes divided within itself. It says what it says, but it adds a silent sur-
plus that quietly enunciates what it says and according to which code it
says what it says. This is not the case of an encoded language but of one
that is structurally esoteric. That is to say, it does not communicate a for-
bidden meaning by concealing its meaning; it positions itself from the
start in an essential fold of the utterance. A fold that hollows it out from
within and perhaps to infinity. Therefore it matters little what is said in
such a language and what meaning is being delivered there. It is this
obscure and central liberation at the very heart of the utterance, its un-
controllable flight toward a source that is always without light, that no
culture can readily accept. Such utterance is transgressive not in its mean-
ing, not in its verbal property, but in its play.
It is quite likely that any culture, whatever it may be, knows, prac-
tices, and tolerates (to a certain extent) but equally represses and ex-
cludes these four types of forbidden language.
In Western history, the experience of madness has been displaced
along this vector. In fact, it has long occupied an indeterminate area,
difficult for us to specify, between the prohibition directed at action and
that directed at language. Hence the exemplary importance of the pair
furor-inanitas,which had practically organized the world of madness along
the registers of deed and word up to the end of the Renaissance. The
period of confinement (the general hospitals, Charenton, Saint-Lazare,
established in the seventeenth century) marks a displacement of madness
toward the realm of the insane; with forbidden acts, madness now main-
tains hardly more than a moral kinship (primarily, it stays attached to
sexual prohibitions), but it is included in the universe of the prohibitions
of language. Classical confinement envelopes, along with madness, the
libertinism of thought and of speech, the obstinacy within impiety or het-
erodoxy, blasphemy, sorcery, alchemy-in short, everything that charac-
CriticalInquiry Winter1995 295

terizes the spokenand forbidden world of unreason; madness is language

that is excluded-those who, against the code of language, pronounce
words without meaning (the "insane," the "imbeciles," the "demented"),
or those who utter sanctified words (the "violent ones," the "furious"), or
yet still, those who bring forth forbidden meanings (the "libertines," the
"headstrong"). Pinel's reform is a conspicuous completion rather than a
modification of this repression of madness as forbidden language.
The latter does not actually occur until Freud, when the experience
of madness becomes displaced toward the last type of language prohibi-
tion of which we spoke earlier. Madness, then, ceases to be a linguistic
error, a spoken blasphemy, or an intolerable meaning (and in that sense
psychoanalysis actually constitutes the great catalogue of prohibitions as
defined by Freud himself). Madness appears as an utterance wrapped up
in itself, articulating something else beneath what it says, of which it is at
the same time the only possible code-an esoteric language, if you will,
since it confines its linguistic code within an utterance that ultimately does
not articulate anything other than this implication.
Therefore Freud's work ought to be taken for what it is; it does not
discover that madness is apprehended in a web of significations it shares
with everyday language, thereby granting the license to speak of it in the
common platitudes of a psychological vocabulary. It dislodges the Euro-
pean experience of madness in order to situate it in this perilous region,
still transgressive (therefore still forbidden but in a rather peculiar fash-
ion), which is the region of languages that implicate themselves; that is to
say, they enunciate in their utterances the linguistic code in which they
enunciate those utterances. Freud did not discover the lost identity of a
meaning; he carved out the disruptive image of a signifier that is absolutely
not like the others. This should have sufficed to shield his work from all
psychologizing interpretations wherein our half of the century has buried
it in the (derisive) name of the "human sciences" and their asexual union.
And, for the same reason, madness has appeared not like the ruse of
a hidden signification but like a prodigious reserveof meaning. We still
have to grasp how fitting this word reserveis. Much more than a mere
supply, it is a figure that retains and suspends meaning, laying out an
emptiness where nothing is proposed but the yet-incomplete possibility
that some meaning or another may come to lodge there, or still a third,
and this may perhaps continue to infinity. Madness opens up a lacunar
reserve that designates and exposes that chasm where linguistic code and
utterance become entangled, shaping each other and speaking of noth-
ing but their still silent rapport. Since Freud, Western madness has be-
come a nonlanguage as it turned into a double language (a linguistic code
that does not exist except in this utterance, an utterance that does not
say anything other than its linguistic code)-that is to say, a matrix of a
language that, in a strict sense, does not say anything. A fold of the spo-
ken that is an absence of work.
296 MichelFoucault Madness,theAbsenceof Work

One day we ought to do the justice to Freud of acknowledging that

he did not make a madness speak that had been for centuries precisely a
language (excluded language, babbling inanity, speech circulating inde-
terminately outside of the pondered silence of reason); to the contrary,
he exhausted its meaningless logos; he dried it out; he returned its words
to their source-to that blank region of self-implication where nothing
is said.

What is occurring today still appears to us in an uncertain light, yet

we are able to take note of a strange movement in our language. Litera-
ture itself (undoubtedly since Mallarme) is in the midst of becoming in its
turn, step by step, a language of which the utterance enunciates-at the
same time and in the same movement that it says whatever it says-the
linguistic code that renders it intelligible as utterance. Before Mallarme,
writing consisted of establishing one's utterance within a given linguistic
code, as if the work of that language were of the same nature as that of
the rest of language, close to the familiar signs (and they were certainly
majestic) of rhetoric, of the subject, or of images. By the end of the nine-
teenth century (around the time of the discovery of psychoanalysis, when
there was certainly no dearth of discoveries), literature had become utter-
ance that inscribed in itself its own principle of decipherment. Or, in any
case, it implied, in every sentence and in every word, the power to modify
in sovereign fashion the values and significations of the linguistic code to
which in spite of everything (and in fact) it belonged; it suspended the
reign of that code in one actual gesture of writing.
Hence the necessity of secondary languages (what is called, in brief,
criticism). Today, they no longer function as external supplements to lit-
erature (judgments, mediations, stepping-stones that were deemed use-
ful links between a work indexed to the psychological enigma of its
creation and the act of its consumption in reading). At the heart of litera-
ture, they now partake of the void that literature installs within its own
language; they constitute the necessary movement-albeit one that by
necessity will remain incomplete-by which the utterance is returned to
its linguistic code, and by which the code is founded upon the utterance.
Hence, too, that strange proximity between madness and literature,
which ought not be taken in the sense of a relation of common psycholog-
ical parentage now finally exposed. Once uncovered as a language si-
lenced by its superposition upon itself, madness neither manifests nor
narrates the birth of a work (or of something which, by genius or by
chance, could have become a work); it outlines an empty form from
where this work comes, in other words, the place from where it never
ceases to be absent, where it will never be found because it had never
been located there to begin with. There, in that pale region, in that essen-
tial hiding place, the twinlike incompatibility of the work and of madness
CriticalInquiry Winter1995 297

becomes unveiled; this is the blind spot of the possibility of each to be-
come the other and of their mutual exclusion.
But since Raymond Roussel, since Artaud, it is also the place from
where the language of literature comes. But it does not come from there
as if from something that might have borne the task of enunciating. It is
time to recognize that the language of literature is not defined by what it
says, nor by the structures that render it significant. Rather, it has a being,
and it is about this being that it ought to be questioned. What, in fact, is
this being? Undoubtedly something connected to self-implication, to the
double and the void that expands within it. In this sense, the being of
literature, as it has been produced from Mallarme to today, obtains the
region where, since Freud, the experience of madness figures.
In the eyes of some unknown future culture-one possibly already
quite near-we shall be those that have come closest to those two senten-
ces never really pronounced, those two sentences equally contradictory
and impossible as the famous "I am lying" and both pointing to the same
empty self-reference: "I am writing" and "I am delirious." We shall thus
figure next to countless other cultures that placed the "I am mad" near
an "I am an animal," or "I am a god," or "I am a sign," or yet near an "I
am a truth" as was the case in the entire nineteenth century up to Freud.
And if that culture should have a feeling for history, it will in effect re-
member that Nietzsche, becoming mad, had proclaimed (in 1887) that
he was the truth (why I am so wise, why I have known of it so long, why
I write such great books, why I am fate); and that less than fifty years
later, on the eve of his suicide, Roussel would write in Commentj'ai ecrit
certainsde meslivres, the systematically divided account of his madness and
his procedures of writing. And they will be astonished, no doubt, that we
were capable of identifying such a strange kinship between what, for a
long time, was dreaded like a scream and what, for a long time, was con-
sidered a song.

But it is quite possible that precisely this transformation will not seem
to merit any astonishment. It is we today who are astonished to see two
languages communicate with each other (that of madness and that of lit-
erature) whose incompatibility has been established by our history. Since
the seventeenth century, madness and mental illness have occupied the
same space in the realm of forbidden languages (in general, the realm of
the insane). Entering another domain of excluded language (a language
that is circumscribed, consecrated, dreaded, erected, and elevated far
above itself, whose reference is but a self-reference within that useless and
transgressive fold we call literature), madness dissolves its kinship, an-
cient or recent according to the chosen scale, to mental illness.
The latter will no doubt enter into a technical space of ever increas-
ing control. In the hospitals, pharmacology has already transformed the
298 MichelFoucault Madness,theAbsenceof Work

wards of the agitated into vast, tepid aquariums. But underneath these
transformations and for reasons that will seem strange to them (at least
according to our current views), a denouementis already in process: mad-
ness and mental illness are undoing their affiliation to the same anthro-
pological unit. This unity itself is disappearing along with the human as
a transitory postulate. Madness, the lyrical halo of illness, continues to
extinguish itself. And at a distance from pathology, from the vicinity
where language folds in upon itself still saying nothing, an experience is
about to be born where our thought is headed. This imminence, already
visible but absolutely empty, remains to be named.