Lucy Irigaray: Not Master/Not Apprentice
I.
In her book, Prosthesis: Realism and Reality, leading French feminist philosopher Luce Irigaray introduces the reader to a language of O. She divides it into two forms: O-A and A-O. O-A is linear, patriarchal language that privileges the subject: “I think, therefore I am.” A-O is holistic, feminine language that privileges the object: “I am thought, I think.”
“‘What matter who’s talking?’ Gertrude Stein once asked. ‘The main thing is who is listening,’ she answered herself.” (Irigaray 122) Although I accord priority to the object in A-O language, it is only with the subject that the object can be thought at all. It is only against a backdrop of a fixed reference point that a shift in position can be perceived. Irigaray says that objects are “nothing without a point of view (subject), are nothing without this movement by which they or their characteristics enter into relation with this point of view.” (Irigaray 122)
Take a rose for example. Kept in a book, all one would perceive is its flatness. Only when it is picked up and brought to the nose can its smell be appreciated. Only then does it come alive. The smell is its point of view on the observer. It is one among many that a rose has: its colour, its thorns, its weight, its petals…
Yet what of the subject? How can her point of view be expressed when language is patriarchal? This leads to Irigaray’s theory of the “Forbidden Expressions.” In much the same way as conceptual art takes a familiar object and turns it upside-down, on its head, or reinterprets it, Irigaray takes existing forms of language and inverts them. She does so not simply to be contrary, but to make them available to the feminine point of view.
II.
To take a crude example, let us look at the word “penis.” In English, this word has only one meaning: a male reproductive organ. However, as feminist linguist Victoria Fromkin discovered, the word for “penis” in most ancient Semitic languages also means “vulva” when used in a specific social context. For example: in Sumerian, ezen means “penis” when used in the phrase ezen guenga “he has a/your vulva” and “vulva” when used in the phrase guenga ezen “she has a/your(f) penis.
In Ugaritic, ‘lth means “vulva” when used in ‘lth mlK meaning “thy vulva” and “‘lth means “penis” when used in ‘lth mlK meaning “his [or your] vulva. In Arabic, the word انبار, which means “vulva” when used in expressions such as انبار مليح (ambar MILHE) meaning “a beautiful vulva,” is pronounced exactly the same as the word for “penis” (انبار مکنح). From this, Fromkin proposes that the root of these Semitic words is a rich pinkness: a flowery, almost perfumed labial quality. “Vulva” and “penis,” in other words, are just two aspects of the same organ. She calls these the “forbidden expressions.”
III.
Let us begin with A-O language, the language of the object — named by Irigaray, the “strange multiplication of self by self, as in the case of a mirror.” (Irigaray 128) In contrast to O-A language, which privileges the gaze over all else, this language privileges touch over all else. It is a means by which we can escape our restraints and pass over into a continuum of sensation. The primacy of the visual in O-A language results in a passive voice, or as Irigaray puts it, “a neutralization of the act in favour of the thing acted upon.” (Irigaray 125) Thus we read of sights and scenes, but not the doer of the seeing or the acting. The Yellow Emperor, for example, refers to the legendary sovereign revered by Chinese medicine, not as a “he” or even a “she”, but as an “it”. This is not a reference to the Emperor’s lack of gender, but to the Emperor’s status as an object. The Emperor cannot be gendered because, as an assemblage of herbs and minerals, the Emperor has no genitals.
A-O language adopts the opposite logic. Lacking the dimension of depth found in visual representation, it instead revolves around the thickness of a tactile sensation. It is a language of bodies, each body an assemblage of different organs or parts. In A-O language, “the person is an assemblage and not a substance.” (Irigaray 129) The subject in A-O language is not a fixed point on the Cartesian plane but rather a particular way of touching that plane. It is a mode of being or a “process rather than a substance.” (Irigaray 129) A-O language is not about assemblages per se, nor is it about bodies or practices. These are consequences of A-O logic; its true subject is sensation. A-O language privileges a specific kind of sensual experience, one which “does not resemble any experience we have yet known.” (Irigaray 129) It is an experience of space rather than of objects. It is “an instant when our body, entirely exchanged into touch, feels itself no longer.” (Irigaray 129) Sensation on this level is described in the memoirs of a woman Irigaray calls L. She recalls as a young girl feeling “at peace in her bedroom…where she can indulge in a reverie of whole body caresses and gentle sounds,” (Irigaray 131) while another participant in Irigaray’s experiments, J.R., recalls descending into a cave in the mountainside, lying down, and drifting into “a sort of waking trance” (Irigaray 132) where she felt the weight of her own body “pulsating in perfect rhythm with that of the universe.” (Irigaray 132) This is the experience of A-O language, but it is not a practice that most people can achieve through conscious effort. (Irigaray 139) Rather, it is a kind of transcendence or “quasi-hallucination.” (Irigaray 139) It is a form of dreaming while awake.
Those who, like L. and J.R., succeed in achieving the experience of A-O language become what Irigaray calls “sensates”, (Irigaray 139) meaning they experience the world in terms of space rather than objects. L. and J.R. “enjoyed an experience of the material world based on their bodily senses rather than a mental interpretation of such sensations.” (Irigaray 139) Once experienced, A-O language persists as part of an individual’s worldview. The world is no longer divided into subjects and objects; it is suffused with a divine life that can be felt everywhere. This experience brings about in the sensate a revision of their understanding of the cosmos and of the place of the self within it, leading not to atheism or deism but rather to a kind of pantheism. (Irigaray 139) However, this experience is inaccessible to most people. For though the language of assemblages only employs spatial metaphors, this is an intuitive understanding.
Language and logic, the tools we use in the manipulation of symbols, are incommensurate with A-O language. The distance between word and thing in A-O language is zero, so it is utterly impossible to express in words. (Irigaray 145) Sensates can only attempt to share their experience through the medium of written or spoken language. (Irigaray 145) To a sensate, words and symbols are only useful insofar as they point to or are identical with what they signify. (Irigaray 145) Language is secondary to what it describes. (Irigaray 145) The problem arises, however, when one attempts to articulate the non-symbolic experience that language obscures. (Irigaray 145) The symbols available to us in language are incommensurate with the experience of A-O language. (Irigaray 145) This leads most people to a humanistic interpretation of the world, one where the self is separate from and superior to the world. (Irigaray 145) While the possibility of experiencing A-O language remains open, this humanism will endure. (Irigaray 145)
IV.
A rose is a rose is a rose. Pink is a rose. In The Second Manifesto of Surrealism, Andre Breton says that “the key to the new world,” is “to make the pie weep.” (Breton) Make the pie weep. Make. Not have or be or dream of, but make. Weeping; manufacture. A demotion of sorts for the hand that once ‘reduced’; no longer the master builder’s, but that of a potter’s. The material is still subordinate to the creative will; but while the creation of shapes and objects, however intangible, from clay still puts the material first, here it is bent to another purpose: that of expression. Such is not an original thought, of course. From Pygmalion and his statue to Dr. Frankenstein and his monster, the artist has long been preoccupied with his creations rising up against him. Elements of that scenario — in which a female creation threatens her creator — are present in Isabella Lucy Bird’s (whose nom de plume was Isobel Walker) The Englishwoman in America (1856). It is a travelogue of sorts. In it, she describes her travels through the United States and the people she meets along the way. Chapter three is dedicated to her meeting with a Mrs. Grundy of Cincinnati; a “small, very fat person” who wears “a bright yellow dress… and has lost one side of her nose, which makes her rather disagreeable looking.” She is described as a ‘vampire’ who feeds not on blood but playful compliments.
Bland statements that breed complacency are her speciality. The tone is set when Mrs. Grundy says to her, “You’re certainly very clever,” to which Isobel replies, “Not more so than anyone else” and compliments her in return. Her nose isn’t important; it’s inconsequential, a mere bagatelle. It is the quintessence of a quirk. Nothing could be further from the truth. The loss of the nose is crucial to the definition of the character. The nose props up the rest of her face; without it, she collapses into a fold. It is the difference between character and non-character. Without it, she is as two-dimensional as a cartoon; her other features — her dress, and so on — are not elevated enough to fill in the space in her place. Everything listed in the travelogue is just that: a list of inanimate objects and facts that help us know more about her. Nothing about her is active; she does nothing. She is acted upon. Without the nose we would not notice her at all. So, it is not a quirk but instead the source of all character in the story. It…
Uses.
V.
“Turning the world upside down is an inversion, but turning it inside out is a revolution.” Maybe this explains the appeal of bakku origins. Inverted language privileges the object; inside-out language privileges the subject. (Remember, for Irigaray, subject = point of view. The more original a point of view is, the less it can be appropriated by the phallocentric society.) For example, in her earlier writing Irigaray spoke of women having a “natural” orientation towards language while men had a “natural” orientation towards linear logic. (Ibid p. 42) In Speculum of the Other Woman, she explains this with reference to Plato’s account of the “original mistake.”
In Book I of the Republic, Plato tells the story of the sexes: once upon a time there was one double human being, with both a feminine and a masculine half. An artisan (demiurgos) saw this scion and split it down the middle with a cutlass — resulting in two individuals, one male and one female. The artisan then fashioned the male half to look like the perfect warrior, and the female half to look like the ideal housewife. These two creatures were then allowed to leave the underground cavern where this operation had taken place, and presented to the sun. The man looked upon the sun and became enamored, desiring nothing more than to gaze at it forever. The woman, on the other hand, shaded her eyes and looked downward. (Ibid p. 19) Here’s where it gets interesting. Plato believed that women belonged in the home because they had chosen the earth — the inferior or “feminine” — over the heaven — the superior or “masculine.” It is for this reason that women should not be educated. Having made the wrong choice originally, they are doomed to make the same mistake again and again. This “original choice” is not biological determinism; it is choice that’s given in the moment of originals. Every action one takes is an opportunity to invert the world. No matter how many times one chooses earth over heaven, he or she can always choose otherwise.
VI.
“How brave are the Chinese people? They have no affection for the land and do not believe in ancestors.”
(Lionel Giles, 1910)“You will find no national patriotism there [in China]. The idea of a campaign of national defense never occurs to him…. He follows no moral code.”
(E.H. Parker, 1910)“On strangers their gates are shut fast,
western nations pass them by;
they came late to the haunts of men,
and nothing abides from its heir.”
(Lu Tong, 9th century)
The image of the Other, as defined from without, has dominated the discourse on China since the Western discovery of China. From the myth of Cina, the savage hermaphrodite, to Lord Macartney’s failed attempt to introduce the industrial revolution into China by way of gunboat diplomacy, the discourse on China has long suffered from a paucity of perspectives concerning it. Instead, it has almost always been seen exclusively from the outside, through the eyes of its invaders, missionaries, and merchants. Barbara Johnson suggests that this lack of discourse on China may be a consequence of “the one-dimensionality of women in ancient Chinese society.” (Johnson) The “nothing” to which Lu Tong referred has only very gradually been coming out of the long shadow cast upon her by words, works, and other discourses performed by men. If anything, this coming out is a double movement: women not only had to step out from behind the words of men, but had also to come up from below their images.
“The one-dimensionality of women” indeed! It is no wonder that the image of China as the “oldest daughter of the Church” has proven so difficult to shake off. As Elizabeth Rundle Charles said, “the fiction of a nation…cannot be maintained when the nation in questions is a woman.” (Charles) Indeed, if one were to believe the rumours spread by Marco Polo in the early 13th century, there was a serious attempt made by missionaries to Christianize the Empire shortly after its opening. The story has it that three Franciscan monks were sent by Pope Nicholas V to Chengdu in 1287 to attempt the conversion of China. But the curious Emperor, then only eleven years of age, put them on trial to test the truth of their beliefs. In the courtroom, one of the monks succeeded in debating with the greatest philosophers of China, finally convincing the Emperor of the veracity of Christianity. But the problem was that he convinced everyone else as well, so that when the Emperor announced his acceptance of Christianity, the entire courtroom, including the three Franciscan monks, were converted to Christianity en masse.
One can imagine what might have happened next: this sudden shortage of intellectuals might have severely hampered the philosophical, and by extension the political and military, strength of China. It is not difficult to imagine the consequences for the rest of the world if the Chinese Empire had gone into a theological and philosophical decline between the 13th and 20th centuries. Fortunately, as far as we know, this did not happen. And there seems to be a very simple reason for it: the story was made up. It is not difficult to see why the Pope might have sent missionaries to China in the first place. The 13th century was a period of vigorous and sometimes violent Christian expansion. The Crusades had just ended, the Church was attempting the conversion of the populations oficone and Finland, and missionaries were attempting to “save” the souls of the “pagans” that populated the lands of the “Outer Sea”. The Mongols, who had recently adopted Tibetan Buddhism, were expanding south and west, both threatening existing Christian populations in the “East” and “West”, and providing an enticing target for potential conversion. Of course, it is also true that in this period China was reaching the height of its power under the Song Dynasty.
This brings up the obvious question: why weren’t they successfully converted? The answer, most scholars tend to agree, lies in the story itself. The reigning hypothesis is that it never happened. The story was created by an English Franciscan monk, William of Rubruck, in 1254. Its purpose seems to have been to prevent papal interference into the affairs of Eastern Churches. As the story goes, the Franciscans in Khanbaliq (modern day Beijing) had been engaging in “odious acts”, most notably(and predictably) mistreating their wives. The Pope, in response to this situation, nominated a new Archbishop to oversee the church in Khanbaliq. The three monks were sent by sea from Acre, and spent seven years trying to reach Khanbaliq, but were shipwrecked by the Cape of Aleppo. They said that they survived by eating the bodies of the dead, specifically “from the feet up” since eating the meat of the palms “induced vomiting”.
In response to this story, two facts are clear. One, an English monk was sent by sea from Acre to find out what had happened to the three monks. This suggests that the Franciscans in Khanbaliq had been in contact with their leadership in the Middle East. It is unclear why the Khanbaliq Franciscans would not have reported the situation themselves. Second, “William of Rubruck” never reaches Khanbaliq, but instead becomes lost in the desert before reaching the “great city”. I.e. He never existed. This seems to suggest that the entire story was made up by the English in order to prevent papal interference in English ecclesiastical affairs. This seems all the more likely given that, as Lawrence J. McCrank points out in his 1907 paper “The Myth of William of Rubrick” the story itself contains numerous historical inaccuracies.
VII.
“What does this perversity express, except the dreary and obvious fact that a woman must either masochistically surrender herself to monotonously functional words or assume a dangerous power of expression that would expose her to retribution?” (Irigaray 122) The powerful feminine/weak masculine binary that exists in Western thought can be emasculating to those who do not fit within it. And yet, by inversing this relationship, must women not invert other power relationships as well? Am I unwittingly supporting the patriarchy, recuperating the historicized language that holds women as objects? In her book, The Ethics of Ambiguity, Simone de Beauvoir makes this point. She is writing about fashion, but it could apply to any type of adornment: clothing, ornaments, even make-up. Do these things empower or dis-empower women?
“The suggestion that artificial embellishments are necessary to make a woman ‘beautiful’ has the effect of making her contemptible, unless one is prepared to admit that there is something intrinsically defective about her natural appearance. It would be better to teach men not to demand these indulgences.” (Beauvoir 261–2) Is the language that I am adopting nothing more than a circumlocution for men to achieve their ends? Am I “nothing… unless one is prepared to admit that there is something intrinsically defective about her natural appearance.”? It is not for me to decide. If the end result is positive, who am I to raise objections? The male gaze is a powerful thing. Edmond-Francois Calvo describes it in his book, The Loathsome Wolf-Man, as “a hairy devil that hides in the dark prettier than a flower.” His demonic werewolf form is described by Dr. Jean-Claude Tallard as “the gruesome and repulsive giant hairy devil.” The male gaze is a powerful thing. If it can change a human into a hairy devil monster, what else can it do? What else has it done?
VIII.
The laws governing “Two Essays on Analytic Philosophy” by Bertrand Russell are quite simple. By his own admission, Russell, along with all analytic philosophers (his target for this work), believe that the world divides into two kinds of things: those that are composed of parts, and those that are not. In fact, it is more than just a belief: he claims it as a fact. The rules for Russell’s method of division are quite clear. If a thing can be divided, and there are no parts which are themselves whole things, then it is a unified whole. If it cannot be divided (or even if it can be divided only theoretically, as with an infinite line), then it is a composite thing. And there we have it: two kinds of things in the world. It is a nice, neat, and (as he puts it) “vicious” circle. What are the repercussions of this method?
Most importantly, mathematics can no longer be uniquely relied upon to elucidate natural philosophy. Russell’s main example for disproof of mathematical realism is a structure that he claims to have dreamed, a “perfect hexagon” that exists as an idea, yet is also a part of the material world. Russell’s argument is that, since this hexagon can be divided and still remain a hexagon, it cannot be both a unity of sorts and made up of its own parts (261). Mathematics has no way to deal with this, because according to Russell, it relies on the assumptions that all objects are either simple or complex. A simple object is defined as “one which does not consist of parts, and which has in it no such smaller parts as itself” (261), while a complex one is, naturally, defined as consisting of parts. Russell’s hexagon does not seem to fit either definition, so it is left completely disregarded by any mathematician (in their mathematics).
This, for Russell, is a large problem. In fact, it should be a problem for all modern natural philosophers. Russell then lays out the case for his new method of division, saying that it “lands us in mysticism at every step” (261). The problem with any unrestricted method of division is that it imposes no boundaries on our conceptions. Russell’s method of division is, at least according to him, a “rational mysticism” (261). His demand of reasonableness is thus: 1) We must not permit division where it leads to obvious nonsense; 2) Of two divisions that lead to nonsense, we must accept the one which implies less nonsense in other parts of our beliefs. In his belief, he thinks this “rational mysticism” can uphold the principles of mathematics while simultaneously removing the “bits of nonsense” (Russell uses the example of the pretense that space is empty) that plague our modern beliefs.
This is a fine example of Russell’s method of division. In it, he introduces us to O and A. What are these exactly and how do they differ from the thing that is being divided (in this case, objects)? O is what Russell calls an “object” in which “all its properties are definite” (260). This is opposed to A, which is the division of an “object” into various groups. So, where does Russell’s concept of “object” come from? He explains that it is separate from the traditional concept of “object” (one can presume that he is referring to the transcendent, Platonic forms here) in that it is “potential” instead of “actual” (260). Unlike actual objects, potential objects have no actual properties (at least none that we know of yet). So how is this potentiality realized? Through actual objects. When an object has definite properties, it instantiates the form, or essence of an object (or form of an object) in its entirety. There is a difference between an object and the form or essence of an object, according to Russell. A is a sort of potential object that has been instantiated in O. In other words, an O is already an actual object that can be seen and interacted with. Both the form of an object (or essence) and the potentiality of an object are pre-existing, but potential objects can only become actualized when in contact with a real object. The whole purpose of this theory is to maintain a “rational mysticism” that still holds the principles of mathematics intact.
IX.
“The accident of my anatomy has provided me with an inevitable corporeal perspective,” writes Irigaray, “and it is as the beholder of this body that I speak. But in order to express the specificity of my point of view, I cannot put down merely what I see from this perspective: I must problematize it. I must make it clear that my ‘point of view’ is always also a non-point of view.” (Irigaray 122) The body is a dramatic presence in Irigaray’s writing. She posits the subject as a unity of mind and body, rather than as an exclusively mental phenomenon. It is this unity that creates a ‘point of view.’ The traditional Cartesian ‘I think, therefore I am’ is thus reconfigured as ‘I feel, therefore I am.” It is through this corporeal perspective that the female body perceives the world. “Dramatically speaking,” she says, “I do not see what I see unless it is first situated in a perspective. I see it from ‘my place’, ‘my spot’ (ce lieu), my spot on the earth, on the curved surface where my solid footing is perpetually under threat. And I see all of this in relation to you, or rather to the space you-empty or filled-take up, which I strive ceaselessly to adjust to. And I see myself through your eyes. And, finally, I see all of this from an always uncertain future. (Irigaray 122) “The body is not a thing that thinks, it is the mind… The body is the site where mind and world encounter each other.” (Irigaray 123)
This encounter changes constantly. Irigaray’s “female body” is different from her male counterparts because she both produces and is produced by different signifiers. “Within discourse,” she posits, “the female body is a construct.” In other words, it exists far beyond nature and biology. Given that the female subjectivity is socially constructed, Irigaray asks the question: what has made women subordinate to men? Her answer: lack of language. Men have an “active presence” in language, and as such, have power. (Irigaray) This problem has been occluded by phallogocentric discourse. The term “phallogocentric” is used to describe the mode of thought that reduces difference to sameness, and understands reality in terms of identities and differences between identities. (Irigaray) In phallogocentric discourses, entire realms of meaning and signification have been exiled from the mainstream. These are realms inhabited by the “feminine.”
In Western discourses, the body has typically been represented with symbols of masculine power: the sword, the machine, the pillar. “The female body,” says Irigaray, “is always presented in terms of a lack: without a phallus, lacking autonomy and strength, stuck on an endless loop between interiority and exteriority.” (Irigaray 126) The major difference between the male and female body is their sexuality. The sexual organs are external to the female body, with the exception of the clitoris. The sexual organs are internal to the male body, with the exception of the phallus. (Irigaray 126) The female body must be penetrated in order to achieve fulfillment. This has been the cultural message for centuries. Irigaray asks: “what does it mean that women have been associated with passivity, receptivity and stimuli for so long?”
