Theory Does Not Exist: Comparative Ancient and Modern Explorations in Psychoanalysis, Deconstruction, and Rhetoric

THEORY DOES NOT EXIST: AN INTRODUCTION

We would need to think life starting from heritage, and not the opposite. We would need to start from this apparent formal contradiction between the passivity of reception and the decision to say yes, then to select, to filter, to interpret, thus, to transform, not to leave intact, undamaged, not to leave untouched even what one respects before all. And after all. Not to leave untouched: to preserve, perhaps, still, for some time, but without any illusion about ultimate salvation. (Derrida in Derrida and Roudinesco 2001: 16, emphasis his)

Example: if one morning Socrates had spoken for Plato, if to Plato its recipient he had addressed some message, it’s also that p. would have been able to receive, to await, to desire, would have in a certain sense called for what S. will have said to him; and therefore what S., under this dictation, has the appearance of inventing—he writes it. p. sent himself a post card (legend + image), he sent it from himself, or even, he sent himself S. (Derrida 1980: 35)

To entitle a book on deconstruction, psychoanalysis, and rhetoric, Theory Does not Exist, may seem perverse. A glance at the table of contents would lead many a reader and perhaps many a humanities scholar to say this book is filled with nothing but theory. One need only look at the names mentioned or alluded to in the titles: Derrida, Foucault, Freud, Irigaray, Lacan, Sartre, and Žižek. They have become bywords for theory, whether as an academic specialty, an intellectual talisman, or an anathema hurled at cultural adversaries.

At the same time, however, there is another set of names in these titles: Sophocles, Socrates, Plato, the Sophists, and Cicero. These are not simply target texts. They are not the textual or literary objects to which various theories are applied to produce readings or interpretations. They are rather interlocutors and inspirations. They are where the heritage we sometimes call theory begins (insofar as it has a beginning). In a simpler, less self-aware (and hence more problematic, monologic, and oppressive) time, these ancient texts, all by Western men, designated what we called Classics.

Within the essays themselves, we find a variety of other names, Catullus, Juvenal, Julian of Norwich, Dogen, Hegel, Kierkegaard, Mallarmé, Camus, Kristeva, and more. And this is very much the point. What we call theory is not a simple object that can be either accepted or rejected. It is a complex conversation that reaches back to our earliest recorded moments of asking: what is meaning; how do we communicate it to others; how does that communication create and exercise power; how does the possibility of meaning create and limit our desires; and how else can we create meaningful existences for ourselves and others except through narratives, except through the possibility of offering a variety of stories that we then receive, modify, and make our own?¹ This complex conversation is never linear. It is ramified and recursive, sometimes broken, always going back to different beginnings to create new futures, new traditions.

In the Garden of Forking Paths that constitutes the set of theoretical inheritances through which we interpret our received narratives and proffer new ones, each point of reception is a decision point that rewrites the past and makes possible the still to come. Individual paths branch off and intersect. They meet up with others that are possessed of radically different histories, and those meetings cause both themselves and their others to be rewritten.

Such rewriting in fact is the work of meaning. It is what we do in the humanities. We make and investigate the possibility of meaning, and thus the foundation of truth. If theory is this conversation, then there is no world outside of theory, outside the world’s constitution in and through meaning. And thus, theory as a discrete thing in the world, one which can be either accepted or rejected, does not, indeed cannot, exist. It has no discrete being because the questions it asks, and the roots they have in our philosophical, rhetorical, literary, spiritual, and artistic traditions, constitute the ontological conditions of meaning being in the world. Outside these conversations, meaning can only be either an empty abstraction or a predetermined logos existing in the mind of God (or computational linguistics).

In the end, it all depends on what we mean by existence. Can something exist that has no clearly discernible beginning and end, when we cannot definitively describe what lies inside it or outside it? How would such an existence be rigorously distinguished from nonexistence? To define something is to give it borders (fines). The opposite of the defined and hence the definite is not so much the void as the infinite, not so much nothing as no thing. In saying theory does not exist, we are not saying (as some have) that postmodern or critical thought is somehow a hoax, that it is responsible for our post-truth society (Calcutt 2016; Iling 2019), or that people are deluded when they say they study theory. We are saying something closer to Gertrude Stein, when she said of Oakland, there is no there there. That is to say, theory is less a defined place (topos), with a clear inside and outside, an identity, a geometrically demarcated location, than an opening or clearing where space (khōra) can be made (see chapter 5).

Theory as such may not exist, but there is a real sense in which we only exist in and through theory. It is only through concepts, metaphors, and images—received from the vast discursive universe into which we are thrown—that we come to define ourselves as subjects, that we come to define our communities as cities, states, and peoples, and that we body forth our understandings and thus performances of the good, the true, and the beautiful, of gender, genre, and genius. It is only through a moment of self-reflective abstraction, within our dialogically constituted universe, that we can begin to articulate who we are and the objects we desire, that we can therefore come to care for both ourselves and others, and hence that we can start to understand what is the proper (decus), what are the specific properties of our objects, and what is my property versus yours (see chapters 1, 3, and 11).

If the ontology of theory, the humanities, and ultimately of our selves is something like what I have just outlined, then their proper study can only be comparative (see chapter 2). Such comparative study must not only be lateral—comparing different contemporary discourses and traditions—but also historical, examining the genealogy of the present, how it came to be. We must avoid what T. S. Eliot once termed a provincialism, not of space, but of time; one for which history is merely the chronicle of human devices (1945: 30). It is for this reason that the following collection of essays, are subtitled, Comparative Ancient and Modern Explorations in Psychoanalysis, Deconstruction, and Rhetoric. What they, at every turn, seek to examine is the ontology of the present as constituted through the past (Foucault 2008: 22), what Derrida labels the hauntology of our discourse (Derrida 1993: 69, 89; Derrida 2002: 57–58, 83–89).

From this comparative perspective, psychoanalysis, deconstruction, and rhetoric are less topics to be taken up serially, than aspects of the same enterprise: the insistence of the letter in the practice of life. While we often tend to think of psychoanalysis as a clinical practice and lump it with psychology or psychiatry, it works on a fundamentally different substance and in a fundamentally different way. As Lacan says in his Second Seminar:

We cannot grasp being from a scientific point of view because it is not of the scientific order. But psychoanalysis is however an experience that designates, so to speak, its line of flight. It underlines that the human being is not an object, but a being in the process of trying to realize itself. (1978: 147)

The talking cure works on and through the process of signification, on and through the production and examination of dreams, jokes, parapraxes, associative chains, and other texts in order to determine and address the structures of our suffering and desire. It is closer to a humanistic or hermeneutic practice than a social-scientific one.

This is not what psychology does. When one looks at psychology departments in universities, much of the research done is focused on the evolution and adaptation of the brain. It is neuro- and cognitive science. When one examines what is taught in clinical psychology in those same departments, the objects of study are largely behavioral and adaptive practices, forms of operant conditioning, and self-assessment or self-monitoring. Such techniques make patients aware of patterns in their emotional lives and family dynamics. They can be useful in dealing with anxiety or in coping with cognitive differences, addictions, or other disorders.

Psychological science presupposes in every case that there are stable entities in our mental and behavioral activities that can be defined, controlled, and modified, according to certain social norms, standard functions, or operational goals. The entities defined and studied can be either structures of the brain, measurable behaviors, or other forms of adaptation. In short, the behavioral sciences must posit that there are things in or determinative of our psyches or brains that we can define, measure, and hence universalize (all normal people do or have x). This process of universalizing anatomical structures or cognitive and behavioral patterns is what makes possible their scientific study, and hence the production of repeatable, testable data, as well as the derivation from that data of psychic norms and deviations, with all their attendant utilities for patient-, client-, and worker-management as well as dangers (one need only think of the history of the word deviant; Foucault 1999).

Psychiatric science works in an analogous fashion. It has a closer focus on how chemical modifications of the brain produce alterations in those same behaviors and functionalities and hence on the use of antidepressants, antianxiety medications, and antipsychotics to manage patient care. Psychiatry and psychology have beyond doubt brought many people, including in my own family, measurable and welcome relief. Nonetheless, they can only do so by abstracting from individual experience and hence from the processes and practices by which we make meaning in and for our individual existences. They must operate in the name of a set of ontological and epistemic presuppositions that, by definition, bracket the individual and exclude the unrepeatable: the moments that make our lives more than a mechanical repetition of universal patterns, and hence give them meaning and purpose (see chapter 11). They are in their essence reifying and normalizing, even when beneficial.

American Ego Psychology, which is what largely became of psychoanalysis when it reached North America, shares many of these same assumptions, reducing the psyche to a set of reified operations and entities. It is focused on the reduction of resistances and the producing of strong normative egos adapted to their social and economic contexts. It aspires to being a testable science but can always and only fail in that ambition because each analysand brings their own dreams, symptoms, and associations. It rejects the meta-psychological speculations of the late Freud in favor of what it hopes will be a Popperian science (Lacan 1973: 14–15; Lacan 1975a: 13, 259, 300; Lacan 1978: 22; Ragland-Sullivan 1986: 158; Julien 1990: 143; Gherovici 2000: 97; Liu 2000: 129–30; Armstrong 2005: 133–34).

Actual Freudian psychoanalysis works in a very different way, with very different presuppositions. Its domain is the truth of the subject and the search for [that] truth is not completely reducible to objective research (Lacan 1975b: 37). If we turn to The Interpretation of Dreams, at the beginning of the chapter on the Dream-Work Freud compares the text of a dream to a rebus: a puzzle that presents words and images in a seemingly random order, which must be deciphered if the message is to be understood. Typically, the immediate import of the depicted objects to one another is unclear. They lack appropriate scale, causal connections, and logical relations. Nonetheless, they can be made to yield a sensible solution.

Suppose I have a picture-puzzle, a rebus, in front of me, It depicts a house with a boat on its roof, a single letter of the alphabet, the figure of a running man whose head has been conjured away, and so on. Now I might be misled into raising objections and declaring that the picture as a whole and its component parts are nonsensical.[…] But obviously we can only form a proper judgment of the rebus if we put aside criticisms such as these of the whole composition and its parts and if, instead, we try to replace each separate element by a syllable or word that can be represented by that element in some other way. (Freud 1965: 312)

Neuroscientists question whether dreams have meaning, seeing them as expressions of physical processes. Yet, from a psychoanalytic perspective, this is beside the point. Whatever their somatic origins, these images are not random. They pertain to us as their dreamers (my dreams are not exchangeable with yours). We must therefore assume something like the rhetoric of the rebus to be operative if the relation between dream and dreamer is to be discerned. The key problem is determining not simply the relation between parts and wholes within the dream-text, but also that to which they may point. What are those objects? Psychoanalysis is the study of the production of meanings, of the travails of signification, and those travails are always prior to the constitution of the discrete objects they attempt to name (Schneiderman 1983: 168).

Freud continues: in the traditional rebus, once commonly found in newspapers, the convention was that each puzzle had a single solution and that the relation between parts and whole was univalent. Such is not the case in Freud’s dreams, however. The relation between parts and whole, between dream-work and dream-thoughts, is subject to overdetermination. As he writes in his examination of the Dream of the Botanical Monograph:

The elements botanical and monograph found their way into the content of the dream because they possessed copious contacts with the majority of dream-thoughts, because, that is to say, they constituted nodal-points upon which a great number of the dream-thoughts converged, and because they have had several meanings in connection with the interpretation of the dream. The explanation of this fundamental fact can also be put in another way: each of the elements of the dream’s content turns out to have been overdetermined. (1965: 317–18)

Dreams are for Freud, ultimately, less like puzzles than complex texts whose meanings are beyond final specification. The dream-thoughts to which we are led by interpretation cannot, from the nature of things have any definite endings; they are bound to branch out in every direction into the infinite network of our world of thought (Freud 1965: 564).

The term rhetoric, then, for the dream-work is used advisedly. I am far from the first to observe that Freud’s use of terms like condensation and displacement mimics tropes such as metaphor and metonymy. Freud himself deploys artistic examples throughout his oeuvre, most famously perhaps Oedipus Rex and Hamlet in the Traumdeutung (1965: 294–300). There is a rhetoric and poetics to the dream-work that cannot be separated from rhetoric and poetics tout court, from the way signs are deployed in complex fashions to create layers of meaning and resonance. The unconscious, according to Lacan, is structured like a language (Lacan 1973: 167; Lacan 1986: 42; Kristeva 1996; 66–67). This rhetorical language is in evidence whether we are examining dreams, jokes, or parapraxes: a word or image, which in a quotidian setting might have one signification, through juxtaposition or substitution is revealed to have another more ramified set of meanings extending throughout the phenomenon in question, knitting together latent associations, drives, and desires.

For Freud, dreams are first and foremost a means of wish fulfillment (Freud 1965: 155–56). But he also observes that many of our dreams are less easily parsed. Their narratives are fragmented. Parts are missing, and one thing is substituted for another. Freud resists the notion that there is a universal key to all dreams, arguing that each dream must assume its place in the associative chain produced by the analysand (1965: 130n.1, 274, 311–14, 552–53, 561–62). Nonetheless, one of the traits common to many dreams is that they express desires to which it would be forbidden to give voice in our waking hours. Freud argues, moreover, that many of these desires would be too disturbing in their unvarnished form even for our dreams and would wake us from our slumbers: hence the rhetorical devices of the dreamwork (Freud 1965: 175–76, 508–9). Thus, what often appears innocent in dreams can have a sexual meaning.

Freudian psychoanalysis works then not simply at the level of constituted subjects and objects, and hence at the level of a post-Newtonian science, but also at the level on which subjects and object are constituted. To put it in the language of the Freud of Beyond the Pleasure Principle, psychology and most forms of social science work from the economic standpoint, according to which objects are assigned positive and negative values, and the rational subject then chooses between them based on a calculation of pleasure and pain. Psychoanalysis sees that dialectic as dependent on a prior set of operations and figures (primary repression, the mirror stage, the Oedipus complex) which make possible those objects’ constitution as objects rather than as the infinite continuity of the Real or of the Imaginary maternal body (Freud 1961; Derrida 1967: 295). It is, moreover, this set of prior operations and figures that enables those now defined entities, those things, to assume the guise of objects of our desire and for us to be constituted as desiring subjects.

The realm or moment of these operations is by definition beyond or before our subjective constitution and so beyond or before the constitution of the object world. It is also what makes possible the historicizing of that world and its subjects as entities whose boundaries (fines) are contingent and hence open to negotiation. This realm therefore is precisely what lies beyond the pleasure principle: a space or moment that Freud calls death and Lacan jouissance, because the drive (Trieb) toward it is a drive toward the ecstatic annihilation of the object world as given and of our subjective investments in it (Lacan 1975a: 70–71; Ragland-Sullivan 1986: 81; Derrida 1996: 146; Valdré 2019: 23–24; Braunstein 2020: 20–23, 56–57, 90, 125–27). Such a vision can only be anathema to the epistemic and ontological assumptions of psychology, psychiatry, and American Ego Psychology, but it is well at home in our poetic, narrative, and musical traditions.

Deconstruction has a long running engagement with both psychoanalysis and rhetoric. And while Derrida has offered a variety of definitions and descriptions of how he understands deconstruction over the years, we could do worse than if we start from the perception that the world as constituted by our categories of understanding consists of a series of binary judgements—everything can only be A to the extent that it is differentiated from the not A. If this is so, then every moment of division is provisional, in so far as it is dependent on a vast array of simultaneous divisions. A is only A to the extent that all other things are not A’s (B, C, D, etc.), and all those not A’s, in turn, are only what they are to the extent that they too can be divided from their others, and so on. This moment of division happens both in space and time. It is mobile. There is always a before and after of any moment of division, a moment in which boundaries (fines) are drawn and objects defined, even as that moment of division also only exists in the context of a simultaneous series of lateral movements and divisions. It is this ever-moving moment of division and specification, which makes knowledge possible and renders it provisional, that Derrida names différance. In the final analysis (and the final moment never comes), this moment of division is always arbitrary (divisions can be and are made other ways). It represents a decision. Nonetheless, the play of différance is, in fact, what makes meaning possible (Derrida 1972: 38–39; Derrida 1996: 48). Without it, the difference between signifier and signified, between names and things, but also between different signifiers and names would be impossible. Without it, therefore, description and redescription would be impossible, and hence both statements and their verification (and thus truth) would also be impossible.

By definition, différance itself can never have an origin and an end. There is no intelligible moment of the undifferentiated or a moment of homogeneity restored that is not synonymous with nonexistence and death. This is in fact Freud’s death drive, what Plato in the Philebus terms the apeiron (Derrida 1980: 425). The attempt to impose an archē and/or a telos, then, to arrest this moving moment or differentiation, through positing a master signifier—God, the logos, the phallus, history—that organizes and subordinates all other divisions to it, without itself being affected by them is what Derrida terms variously logocentrism, phallogocentrism, or the closure of metaphysics: that is to say, an ideal finality of discourse, a center that structures all its effects but is not structured by them (Derrida 1967: 409–11; Derrida 1972: 30; Derrida 1996: 41–42; Lewis 2008: 121). Hence, as described in Positions and elsewhere, the archetypical deconstructive reading or act is the identification of what appears to be a foundational opposition—writing and speech, muthos and logos, man and woman, human and animal—and demonstrating that the moment of absolute division between these terms is always to some extent arbitrary, that there is always a certain degree of cross-contamination between these seemingly opposed categories, that in fact the not A always already inheres in A (as demonstrated in Hegel’s logic, Encylopedia §73), and therefore any hierarchy based on that opposition is ultimately arbitrary (in the sense that it has no ultimate foundation) and hence open to reversal (Derrida 1972: 56–57: Lewis 2008: 111, 115). But in fact deconstruction in its Derridean guise never stops simply at this act of reversal or at the declaration that the world is logically constituted not as an identity but as an endless series of differences, as dissemination. Deconstruction is an act or gesture to point at what lies beyond these divisions and the economy they represent, what lies beyond this system of exchanges and substitutions, a finger pointing at the moon (Derrida 1986: 135; Derrida 1992: 260–61; Lewis 2008: 3–5, 238–39; Courtine 2008: 26). That beyond, of course, can itself only be specified through the movement of différance, but in that brief moment of the opening, in the beyond of the closure of the present, the possibility of a different set of structures can be envisioned, a different constitution of the world, and this in turn is the moment of political struggle, the moment of potential revolution, when the specter of the divisions of the past becomes visible as the hauntology of the present, offering a moment of decision and the possibility of a world to come (Derrida 1980: 536; Derrida 1993:102, 151; Derrida 1994: 128; Jameson 2007: 152–53).

Finally, if discourse is not a set of rigid designations that maps a preexisting world of discrete entities for a serene, self-present consciousness, but is instead a mobile system of differences and determinations, a vast and yet situated set of dialogic interactions, moving in time, then the categories that make up our world and qualify our perceptions to produce what we call experience, as a complex synthetic movement, can never be a univocal suite of logical divisions that of its own volition organizes the world as a res extensa laid out before a Cartesian cogito. Instead, the very fabric of our experience, insofar as it is meaningful and not simply a disaggregated welter of sensation, must always be implicated in systems of signification, must always be determined by and determining of the phenomenal world. In ways that can never be centered within a unified subject, our experience of the world must always be haunted by the specter of past, present, and future divisions and determinations, by other possible articulations and voices, and hence by the history of our own and others’ desires and divisions. If, as Lacan said, the unconscious is the discourse of the other (1975b: 376; 1978: 127), locating it not as a throbbing pit of instinct within but as the moment of our self-constitution, the moment when the speaking and reasoning subject is demarcated from the other, what Freud calls castration (Kristeva 1979: 11; Ragland-Sullivan 1986: 57; Žižek 1992: 171; Braunstein 2020: 77), then the deconstructive understanding of the subject’s relation to meaning and experience will always cast différance as a vector not simply of reason and signification but also of the unconscious, political and otherwise, and hence also of conflict and power (Derrida 1967: 314; Derrida 1996: 23–24; Zuckert 1996: 213–14; Lewis 2008: 120). In the end, we all have our differences.

And this realization brings us (back) to rhetoric. One of the recurring themes in these essays is the opposition between rhetoric and philosophy as a precursor to that between theory and philosophy or even theory and science (see chapters 3, 4, and 12). If our discourse or our conceptual universe were (or could be made to be) a set of rigid designations of things that exist in the world—and here a fuller discussion would require a parenthesis on the multiplicity of languages and possibilities of translation—then the rhetorical would be a distortion of the world, a sophistic focus on words rather than things, on power rather than truth, on enjoyment rather than rationality.² But if instead discourse is always a provisional and mobile set of situated distinctions, one that bears the smell and taste of its users, their irreducible particularities, their positions within overlapping networks of power and signification, then the rhetorical always already inheres in the moment of truth. Even the mathematicization of the universe never completely elides the moment of our experience, never completely reduces the concrete particularity of reference to the cypher of the universal. Rather we are in every truth claim exercising and/or resisting power. We are attempting to convince others of the rightness of our position, deploying means and mechanisms that are external to and yet determinative of that claim as a moment of pure meaning (Foucault 2012: 51, 74).

Different conventions of rhetoric are applicable in different contexts: who can address which bodies (ethos), under what circumstances (pathos), and using what means (logos). These are all necessary determinations of power and persuasion that are profoundly familiar to anyone who works at a university, who is a member of a professional society, or who has served as a referee or reader for a learned journal or has worked in a laboratory.³ Indeed, these conventions, despite their externality, are not impediments or obstacles to truth, they are what makes true statements and their ratification possible. The rhetorical is not the opposite of the philosophical and the referential, but their prerequisite. The fictive, in the sense of the made (fingo, fingere, fictum), is not the opposite of the true. Rather every statement refers both to a world beyond itself, to an object toward which it gestures, and to its own constructed and situated nature, to the factors that make its construction and reception possible. Every statement is always already a poetic (poein, to make or do) act.

Recognizing that the rhetorical inheres in the referential is not an artifact of theory per se: of deconstruction, psychoanalysis, or any one of its other 31 flavors. It is not in particular postmodern. As these essays argue repeatedly, such insights are as old as philosophy and the systematic search for truth itself. Plato’s Gorgias, arguably the first encounter between a body of discourse termed rhētorikē and an alternative, philosophia, ends not with a set of syllogisms, nor with the clipped back and forth of Socratic questioning, but with a story, a myth. By the same token, for Cicero, the philosopher, the orator, and the politician are not opposed but complimentary positions (see chapters 3, 4, and 6).

It is rather our assumption that the work of truth must be shorn of the provisional, the rhetorical, and the experiential that is anomalous.⁴ The truth for Cicero is not a disembodied or unsituated relation between individual propositions or systematic philosophies and a virgin reality to which they refer. The premise of his masterful De Oratore, On the Perfect Orator, is not that there is no such thing as truth, nor that there is no distinction between persuasion and reason, but rather that there is no truth that is not contested and bound up with contingency and particularity, that there is no philosophy untouched by rhetoric, and that truly eloquent speakers can only be so to the extent they practice philosophy.

Far from being a nihilism, a sophistry, or a pantextualism, I would argue that such a position reveals the danger and emptiness behind many of our modern, conventional notions of truth: that it is completely objective; that it is separate from our experience; that it exists outside the materiality and hence sensuality of the language and institutions in which it is articulated. Not only is such a proposition nonsensical, but it also denies the status of truth to anything that has meaning in our lives, to the textured quality of our existence, to anything that is not quantifiable and hence commodifiable. Values in such a universe become articles of faith that are impervious to reasoned examination, communal discourse, and mediation. The wildest fanaticisms and conspiracy theories become authorized because truth has no purchase on their worldly existence.

The rhetorical tradition offers us resources, ways to think about truth without abstracting it from our lives. Ciceronian philosophy, like what we denominate theory, operates in a middle space between the absolute ideality that would give us access to a realm of truth freed from contingency, from the messy space of the world, and a ruthless cynicism that sees only manipulation, only an immediate contest for domination (see chapter 6). In this context, it is worth reminding ourselves that truth is not the referent, that to which a true proposition, perception, or feeling corresponds, but the confirmation of a statement. The real exceeds every discourse. Every set of true propositions exists on top of, in addition to, and beside the real, as both part of and in addition to the real. Otherwise, there could be no discoveries. If the truth were coterminous with the real, then there would be no need for truth at all. It would simply be the world. As Foucault brilliantly summed up, we have to ask ourselves about the fact that there are, in addition to things, discourses, to pose the problem: why in addition to the real is there the true? (2014: 40).

The following essays were written over the last twenty years. They have been edited and updated. I was surprised to see how well they hung together when I reread them. I begin with an autobiographical reflection, about the stakes we face in the humanities. If the current political and neoliberal attacks on the value of reflection, of narrative, and of attention to language and the texture of our experience continue, I argue in Debits and Credits or Accounting for My Life: A Defense of the Humanities, we will lose more than our careers, or a set of traditions, or even culture itself. We will lose the survival of a life that is not crushed beneath the demands of capital, conformity, and coercive enjoyment.

When we talk about debt in higher education, we too often speak of an abstraction. We speak only on the level of exchange. I understand that we cannot ignore our student’s legitimate needs to ensure their material security. But an account that focuses on money alone is fundamentally impoverished in the narratives of existence it grants our students and ourselves. It confines the arts to the privileged, to those who can afford them, to those who make that consumer choice. Every day, however, lives are lost to despair and anomie when access to richer, more imaginative accounts of existence is denied through poverty, ignorance, and grinding cynicism. Only when we touch upon what cannot be assessed in purely operational terms, on that for which there is no accounting, on what cannot be figured as debits and credits, as a balance between the pleasure and the reality principles, can we begin to talk about what we ought and what