Late confidence

 

“If one were to ask a psychologist to explain why it so often happens that we find ourselves unable to recall a name that we nevertheless believe we know, I think he would simply answer that proper names fall into oblivion more easily than other contents of memory. He would cite more or less plausible reasons which, in his opinion, would explain this property of proper names, without suspecting that this process might be subject to other conditions of a more general order. What led me to examine more closely the phenomenon of the temporary forgetting of proper names was the observation of certain details that are lacking in some cases but appear in others with sufficient clarity. These latter cases are those in which it is not only a matter of forgetting, but of false recollection. The person who tries to recall a name that has escaped him finds in his consciousness other names, substitute names, which he immediately recognizes as incorrect, but which nevertheless continue to impose themselves upon him obstinately. It is as if the process that was supposed to lead to the reproduction of the sought-after name had undergone a displacement, had taken a wrong path, at the end of which it finds the substitute name, the incorrect name. I maintain that this displacement is not the effect of a psychic arbitrariness, but takes place along pre-established paths that can be anticipated. In other words, I claim that there exists, between the substitute name or names and the sought-after name, a possible relation to be discovered, and I hope that, if I succeed in establishing this relation, I will have elucidated the process of forgetting proper names.”

Sigmund Freud, The Psychopathology of Everyday Life

Dear Igniatius,
I received your letter with the attention one grants to late confidences, those that no longer seek to persuade but to confide. You speak to me of an uprising that does not take the expected form, and whose very name, Don Carotte, acts as a deliberately imperfect mask. Behind this displaced figure, I recognized less a character than a point of tension, and perhaps an indirect way of speaking about yourself without fully exposing yourself.
You describe the letter you received as one would describe a discreet, almost courteous irruption, which settles in without commotion and whose effect persists long after the reading. What struck me was not so much the content of this message as the space it opens within you. Don Carotte, as you recount him, asks neither for reparation nor for official recognition. He acts otherwise. He obliges. He forces your gaze to turn away from what you believed stabilized. In this, he resembles less an accuser than a witness who decided to speak later than expected.
You write that this insurrection first affected you as a personal affront, then as a more intimate disturbance. I allow myself to see in this a significant transformation. It sometimes happens that what we call an attack is only a displacement of the point of support. The fact that Don Carotte addresses you, and not the world, already indicates that he recognizes in you a singular place. One does not revolt against what is indifferent.
You evoke your old desire to close, to order, to give a soothing ending. It is possible that this inclination has always coexisted with another, more difficult to sustain, one that accepts that certain figures remain open, at the risk of no longer fully belonging to you. Don Carotte, in your account, does not claim freedom as an abstract right. He practices it by continuing to speak from a place that escapes you. This persistence probably explains the attraction you feel, despite your precautions.
I also note your present prudence, this way of settling into an intermediate position, neither declared rupture nor explicit abandonment. You call this listening, preparation, restraint. I prefer to see in it a narrative strategy familiar to you. You have long known that speech, when it presents itself as measured, acts more durably than direct confrontation. It is not certain that Don Carotte will be taken in by it, but it is clear that you still find in it a certain comfort.
You say you ask me for nothing. Allow me to doubt this slightly. The very fact of writing to me, of confiding this story to me in the form you have chosen, indicates that you are seeking a mirror that will not return a single image to you. I do not intend to reduce this situation to a diagnosis. I will simply suggest this: each version you give of Don Carotte speaks as much about the one you describe as about the one who tells the story. Truth does not reside in one of these accounts, but in their slight displacement.
As for the continuation you envisage, I do not ignore that it tempts you under the guise of prudence. To prolong, you say, in order to test. It is a skilful formulation. It assumes that the experience remains under control, even as you acknowledge what already escapes you. I will not warn you; you have always known how to circumvent warnings. I will merely recall that certain figures, once relaunched, durably modify the one who follows them.
Receive this response as a possible reading of your letter, and not as a definitive interpretation. You know better than I that every story changes according to the one who tells it. Yours does not escape this rule.
With an attention that no longer seeks to direct,
Lucian