Michael McIntyre
Department of International Studies
By most measures, Elaine Scarry’s The Body in
Pain (1985) has been a stunning academic success story. Continuously in print
for nearly thirty years, it still ranks among Amazon’s (2015) top ten sellers
in literary theory and counts over six thousand academic citations (Google
Scholar 2015). Reviewed upon its release by prominent public intellectuals in
New Republic (Ignatieff 1985), Commonweal (Wyschogrod 1986), TLS (Byatt 1986),
New York Times Book Review (Suleiman 1986), New York Review of Books (Singer 1986),
and London Review of Books (Shklar 1986), it has nonetheless not been until now
the subject of systematic retrospective. While it has proved unusually fertile
as a source of fresh thinking, few have extensively engaged its philosophical
argument, Moyn (2013) being one notable exception.
This brief paper can hardly make claim to
such an extended engagement, but within its brief compass it will attempt to
come to grips with the philosophical core of Scarry’s argument and critique it
on home ground. That core, to recap with utmost brevity, is that the self is
constructed through the linguistic cathexis between body and world. Pain
destroys that cathexis and therefore destroys the self. There is a great deal
to be said in favor of this core argument; no attempt will be made here to
overturn it. It will be suggested, however, that Scarry makes a signal error at
the very beginning of her argument when she suggests that pain is sheerly
aversive (1985, p. 52). A more complicated phenomenology of pain will be suggested
in its place, and some of its consequences explored.
The Argument Restated
Pain, according to Scarry, has a dual face.
The one who suffers pain cannot not know that she is in pain. Because pain is
felt solely by the sufferer and resists expression in language, however, the
sufferer’s pain is not nearly so readily confirmable for others. “[P]ain comes
unsharably into our midst as at once that which cannot be denied and that which
cannot be confirmed” (Scarry 1985, p. 4). Pain is therefore multiply isolating.
Our linguistic resources for its expression are scant. Pain reduces language to
a cry. Unlike other states, pain has no external object; it locks the sufferer
up inside the body that hurts her (pp. 4-5). In this isolation,
In a bizarre inversion, the prisoner’s answer
is coded as “betrayal”, a coding made possible by pain’s imperceptibility. By
intensifying the prisoner’s experience of pain, the torturer severs her
connection to everything outside her body, reducing her to nothing more than a
body with nothing left to betray. “Just as the interrogation, like the pain, is
a way of wounding, so the pain, like the interrogation, is a vehicle of
self-betrayal. Torture systematically prevents the prisoner from being the
agent of anything and simultaneously pretends that he is the agent of some
things. Despite the fact that in reality he has been deprived of all control
over, and therefore all responsibility for, his world, his words, and his body,
he is to understand his confession as it will be understood by others, as an
act of self-betrayal” (pp. 46-7). The language-game in which the word
“betrayal” is ordinarily and unproblematically used has here been replaced by
one in which the word no longer has a legitimate use (at least insofar as it
refers to the agency of the prisoner). By eliding the two language-games,
though, the regime is able to shift the moral opprobrium of torture, at least
partially, onto the prisoner who “betrays” rather than the jailor who tortures.
Torture is institutionalized, moreover, not
simply in the iterated pantomime of the interrogation. Torture becomes the
central performative act in a theater of power. Just as the torturer reduces
the voice of the tortured to a cry, the regime that tortures bids to reduce all
competing voices to silence. Perversely, bringing torture to public attention
can reinforce the regime’s power. Since pain can barely be expressed directly,
she who wishes to bring torture into public view must usually resort to a
“language of agency” focusing on the wounded prisoner or, more often, the
instruments of torture (p. 16). This language of agency, however, is
chronically unstable, for instruments of torture, weapons, can also be deployed
as insignia of power.
The result is a self-enclosed fiction of
power in which the incontestable reality of the prisoner’s pain is lifted out
of the prisoners body and conferred onto the regime. It is not enough to make
torture visible. It must be made visible in a way that brings to attention the
regime’s unbearability rather than its power. One can see the difficulties
entailed in a singularly well-known counter-theater, the weekly vigils on
behalf of the disappeared held by the Madres de la Plaza del Mayo in Buenos
Aires. This theater was carefully staged for maximum visibility, in the city’s
busiest square during its busiest time. The immediate result of this staging
was an evacuation of the stage as porteños fled or avoided this square at the
appointed hour. The first act of this drama brought the reality of torture and
disappearance under Argentina’s military regime from a passive state of not
caring to know to an active state of taking care not to know, as being seen to
know brought one far too close to the regime’s power to inflict pain. In
retrospect, we know that this state of active not-knowing was not the last act
in the play, but the course of the drama shows us that visibility is not a
simple counter to torture.
Pain reconsidered
In Scarry’s lengthily-developed and in many
ways perceptive phenomenology of pain, the essential error is to be found in
the first step, and the one that seems least subject to objection: “The first,
most essential aspect of pain is its sheer aversiveness. … If to the person in
pain it does not feel averse, and if it does not in turn elicit in that person
aversive feelings toward it, it is not in either philosophical or psychological
definitions of it called pain” (p. 52). Contrast this view of pain as sheer
aversiveness with the wide range of common human activities that often entail
pain: exercise, sport, dance, martial arts, motorcycle riding, skydiving, body
modification, eating highly spiced food, consumption of tobacco, alcohol, or
any number of controlled substances, some forms of meditative practice, labor
(whether work or childbirth), depilation, plastic surgery, listening to loud
music, long periods of restricted mobility (during gaming, writing, or other
sedentary activities), even the dragging of heavy bags and endurance of uncomfortable
chairs during academic conferences.
In many of these practices pain is not merely
endured as a regrettable but necessary side-effect on the road to some valued
goal; pain is cultivated as an intrinsic part of the activity. Dancers who go
en pointe are told to “embrace the pain”. Long-distance runners wear t-shirts
reading “my sport is your sport’s punishment.” Rugby players sport bumper
stickers reading, “Give blood, play rugby.” A tattoo or a piercing is valued,
at least in part, because of, not in spite of, the pain entailed in acquiring
it. Ghost peppers are eaten for the pain, not for the taste. Cigarettes,
motorcycles, skydiving lure with the frisson of danger. In which world do
people live lives devoted to the avoidance of pain?
The same problem reemerges in Scarry’s much
briefer discussion of pleasure, which she identifies with either “the absence
of pain” or “a bodily state in which something other than the body is
experienced” (p. 355 n.6). For Scarry, even the most intimate bodily pleasures
are finally identified with disembodiment.
Surely this must be among the most anemic
descriptions of embodied pleasure imaginable. Bodily pleasure must be
understood as having positive content, not merely the negative content of
pain’s absence. Pleasure, then, cannot be a simple opposite of pain. To better
tease out the relationship between pain and pleasure, let us retreat to two
near-synonyms of each that can be treated as simple opposites: discomfort and
comfort. “Comfort” can readily be used to denote the absence of pain, just as
“discomfort” can be used to denote slight pain, or as a euphemism for more
severe pain. Correlatively, “pain” can readily be used to mean extreme
discomfort, but we one would not ordinarily use “pleasure” to mean “extreme
comfort”. Very roughly, it may be said that we use “comfort” to refer to
decreased stimulation of the brain’s aversion system and “pleasure” to refer to
increased stimulation of the brain’s reward systems. (Scitovsky 1992, p. 59).
Pleasure as mere avoidance of pain is, in the
first instance, unattainable and counterproductive. A sedentary life, a life
that avoids the discomfort of physical exertion, leads ineluctably to loss of
flexibility, loss of muscle mass, loss of anaerobic capacity, and the chronic
pain that attends this loss. But many if not most kinds of bodily pleasure
require some kind of physical exertion, exertion that at a minimum entails
discomfort and frequently pain. Any engagement in sport, for example, requires
the first, and any serious training for sport requires the second. Sport and
like activities require a relationship to pain that includes acceptance,
management, control, endurance, and pleasure in the counterposition of pain and
pain’s cessation. Pain itself may be sought as a limit experience, a gateway to
forms of consciousness not usually attained. Indeed, that form of consciousness
may be precisely an escape from the language-mediated world that Scarry sees as
constitutive of self. One need not deny the self-constitutive linguistic
cathexis between body and world in order to recognize that the relationship of
self to language can also be experienced as an endlessly self-referential loop,
a prison-house from which intense embodiment can be sought as a form of escape.
In these intense forms of embodiment, the
line between pleasure and pain is by no means entirely clear. Consider the
phenomenon of a “second wind,” a point when the discomfort involved in intense
physical exertion turns into a more pleasurable experience. Does all discomfort
disappear at that point? Certainly not, nor in the course of training does one
experience a single threshold after which all exertion becomes easy. Rather,
one encounters multiple thresholds, both within a single training session and
over a course of training. Pain and pleasure are experienced as a complex flow,
not as rival states with a switch thrown that transforms one into the other,
for the brain’s aversion and reward systems are not so neatly separable as the
very rough distinction sketched above suggests. Excessive stimulus of the
reward systems becomes aversive, but there is no simple switch between the two.
Rather, stimulus of the aversive system begins while stimulus of the reward
systems is still increasing, so that aversion and reward are felt
simultaneously. Only later does stimulus become so extreme that the reward
systems are shut out (Scitovsky 1992, 60).
Similarly, intense sexual arousal, a bodily
state normally associated with pleasure, can become so intense that it becomes
aversive, or even painful. Once again, there is no simple transition between
one state and the other. Sexual arousal can be experienced as painful and
pleasurable, desirable and aversive, simultaneously. Finally, let us consider
orgasm, a bodily state sometimes seen as the epitome of bodily pleasure. Can we
not recognize here a structural homology with Scarry’s phenomenology of pain?
Our linguistic resources for its expression are scant. It renders one’s bodily sensations
overwhelmingly present while shutting out much of the external world. It
reduces language to a cry. It has no external object. “[P]hysical pain—” Scarry
argues, “unlike any other state of consciousness—has no referential content. It
is not of or for anything” (1985, p. 5). But sexual climax is also a state that
is “not of or for anything,” even when experienced in the intimate company of
another. The obvious distinction, of course, is that pain is paradigmatically
(though, as we have seen, not universally) tied to the aversion system while
orgasm is paradigmatically tied to the reward systesms, at least up to the
point of excessive stimulus. The structural similarities in the somatic
experiences of this form of intense pleasure and intense pain, though, indicate
that an overly facile opposition of the two is not to be hastily embraced.
Let us briefly consider the gustatory
system’s relationship to the reward and aversion systems. Of the four basic
tastes – sweet, sour, salt, and bitter – sweetness dominates the reward system.
At moderate concentrations, sweetness correlates with the highest levels of
gustatory pleasure, pleasure that declines only slightly at much higher
concentrations. The pleasures associated with the other three tastes peak at
lower concentrations, are much less pleasurable at those peaks, and decline
rapidly into intensely unpleasant experience at higher concentrations (Rozin
1999, pp. 115-6). The palate, it might be said, is primed to favor sweets. A
palate that always favors sweets, however, is said to be childish or
undeveloped. A developed palate integrates odor and taste and seeks complex
combinations that stimulate the aversion system as well as the reward systems.
One might think of a sexual palate in a similar way, with stimulation of the
reward systems to easy climax characteristic of an undeveloped palate and full
exploration of the flavors that combine stimulation of the aversion system and
reward systems characteristic of mature, sophisticated, sexual taste.
Pathology, fascism, continuity
What has been tendentiously termed here a
“mature, sophisticated, sexual taste” is more conventionally denominated
“masochism”, still classified along with sadism and sadomasochism as clinical
paraphilias. ICD-10 contains the following codes: F65.5 – Sadomasochism, F65.50
– Sadomasochism, unspecified, F65.51 – Sexual masochism, F 65.52 – Sexual
sadism (World Health Organization 2015), while DSM-5 recognizes “sexual sadism
disorder” and “sexual masochism disorder” as paraphilic disorders if people
with these disorders “feel personal distress about their interest, not merely
stress resulting from society’s disapproval; or have a sexual desire that
involves another person’s psychological distress, injury, or death, or a desire
for sexual behaviors involving unwilling persons or persons unable to give
legal consent” (American Psychiatric Association 2013). These carefully worded
exceptions to the pathologization of masochism and sadism were the result of
intense controvery between those who argued for continued clinical diagnoses
and those who argued for the depathologization of these practices (Wakefield
2011). The compromise struck, while applying equally to all paraphilic
disorders, in fact introduces a marked distinction between sexual masochism
disorder and sexual sadism disorder, since masochistic sexual desire never
includes “another person’s psychological distress [or] injury,” while sadistic
sexual desire, at least arguably, always does.
The relationship of the sadist to pain is
utterly unlike that of the masochist. The sadist experiences not the interplay
of pain and pleasure but the masochist’s somatic and affective response to pain
and pleasure. The sadist’s experience, then, lies in continuum not with those
who experience the interplay of pain and pleasure in non-eroticized contexts,
but with those who enjoy
the discomforting power bestowed on them by a
relationship of authority (or perhaps, in some cases, brute power): the
teacher, the coach, the trainer, the judge, the bureaucrat, the priest and a
raft of others who are authorized to compel obedience and take pleasure in
making compliance difficult. This sort of behavior, however, is far less likely
to be considered benign in non-eroticized contexts, and the rubric “sadistic”
attaches far more easily to these roles than does “masochistic” to
non-eroticized practices. Scarry argues that the torturer must be stupid, must
not know what she is doing, must fail to perceive the pain of the tortured in
order to do her work. But on this reading the sadist draws satisfaction from
not only perception but often heightened and intimate perception of the other’s
pain. This opens the possibility that some torturers are not stupid, but
sadists who accomplish their work in full knowledge of what they do. We must,
then, place sadism under a scrutiny that we would not necessarily attach to
masochism. What does the sadist gain from such an interaction, and does her pleasure
in such an interaction stand of a piece with the pleasure gained from other
kinds of exercise of authority?
Let us consider the Nietzschean possibility
that one root of the sadist’s pleasure lies in the pleasure that comes from the
power of requital. In a section of Human, All Too Human titled “Dual prehistory
of good and evil” Nietzsche posits two rival sources of the distinction between
good and bad: “first of all, namely, in the soul of the ruling tribes and
castes. Whoever has the power to requite good with good, evil with evil, and
who really engages in requital and is therefore grateful and vengeful, is
called good; whoever is powerless and cannot engage in requital is considered
bad” (Nietzsche 1995, §45). Here the distinction is not between good and evil,
because the good requite evil with evil. Good is instead contrasted with
contemptibility, powerlessness, abjection. The counterposition of good to evil,
in contrast, lies “in the soul of the oppressed, powerless person” who consider
“every other person” to be “hostile, inconsiderate, exploitative, cruel,
crafty, whether he is noble or base” (Nietzsche 1995, §45).
The power of requital, however, need not be a
license for cruelty. What makes it thus? Nietzsche finds the root of cruelty
not in the relationship of the noble to the vile, but in the commercial realm
of contracts, of legal recourse for the breaking of contractual promises.
“Precisely here, promises are made; precisely here, the person making the
promise has to have a memory made for him: precisely here, we may suppose, is a
repository of hard, cruel, painful things” (Nietzsche 2007, §II,5). In an
instance reminiscent of The Merchant of Venice, Nietzsche takes as his
paradigmatic example of cruelty the creditor’s “cutting as much flesh as seemed
appropriate” from the defaulting debtor. Nietzsche, so often aphoristic, takes
care here to elaborate and draw the conclusion in some detail:
– or at least, when the actual power of
punishment, of exacting punishment, is already transferred to the
‘authorities’, of seeing the debtor despised and maltreated. So, then,
compensation is made up of a warrant for and entitlement to cruelty. (Nietzsche
2007, §II,5)
Cruelty thus originates not in the noble’s
power of requital, but in those instances where the base are temporarily
allowed to join the noble in exercising that power. This “delicious titbit,”
this temporarily “elevated feeling of being in a position to despise and
maltreat someone,” is the fons et origo of pleasure in cruelty.
And so let us return to our sadist, playing
her part in a theater of cruelty, taking part in what is typically referred to
as a scene, enjoying her own “delicious titbit,” savoring the abjection of her
subordinate, effecting the conversion of the bottom’s pain to the top’s
arousal. Is her “enjoyment of violating” prized precisely because of her low
and base position in the social scale? Is sadism, in other words, the ersatz
pleasure of the small, the contemptible? And who is the small figure does evil
for the pleasure of doing it if not … the fascist? This would hardly be the
first time such an elective affinity has been suggested. As Susan Sontag
suggested some thirty-five years ago:
Between sadomasochism and fascism there is a
natural link. ‘Fascism is theater,’ as Genet said. As is sadomasochistic
sexuality: to be involved in sadomasochism is to take part in a sexual theater,
a staging of sexuality. Regulars of sadomasochistic sex are expert costumers
and choreographers as well as performers, in a drama that is all the more
exciting because it is forbidden to ordinary people. Sadomasochism is to sex
what war is to civil life: the magnificent experience. … The end to which all
sexual experience tends, as Bataille insisted in a lifetime of writing, is
defilement, blasphemy. To be ‘nice,’ as to be civilized, means being alienated
from this savage experience—which is entirely staged. (Sontag 1980, 103-4)
Sontag’s reference to Bataille would bear
investigation, since Bataille is both a central figure in this conversation and
has been accused, if not of being a fascist, at least of having fascisant
tendencies (Wolin 1996, 2004). Certainly in Bataille’s early work, particularly
his essay, “The Psychological Structure of Fascism” (1979), one can hear a
certain attraction to fascism as a heterogeneous response to the deadening
homogeneity of bourgeois society, though a closer reading of this essay reveals
that the Bataille sees the attraction of fascism as a lure and a danger. But it
is also Bataille who draws an important distinction between érotisme and
sadism:
Eroticism [érotisme] always entails a
breaking down of established patterns, the patterns, I repeat, of the regulated
social order basic to our discontinuous mode of existence as defined and
separate individuals. But in eroticism even less than in reproduction our
discontinuous existence is not condemned, in spite of de Sade; it is only
jolted. It has to be jarred and shaken to its foundations. Continuity is what
we are after, but generally only if that continuity which the death of
discontinuous beings can alone establish is not the victor in the long run.
What we desire is to bring into a world founded on discontinuity all the continuity
such a world can sustain. De Sade’s aberration exceeds that limit. (Bataille
1986, 18-19)
Let us throw the reasoning process into
reverse and ask ourselves: to what do we commit when we commit to the
proposition that sexual pleasure is embodied, perhaps an archetype of
embodiment? We must deny the binary oppositions set up by Scarry. We experience
bodily sensations as self-displacing, self-transforming objectification. We
experience the intense feelings across the skin of our bodies as the intensely
feelable bodily presence of our beloved in our bodies. We commit, in Bataille’s
words, to all the continuity our world can sustain. But we cannot stop there,
for we must trace this intimacy back to the pain-racked body. Paradigmatically,
to be in the presence of such a body is not to experience doubt. We may take compassion in its most literal sense.
There are no walls, there is no bodily enclosure, no doubt about the cry that
pierces our cerebral cortex and alters it (Swain and Lorberbaum 2008). The pain
of another is also intensely and bodily feelable. Terrifyingly, this commits us
as well to the proposition that the torturer is neither stupid nor in doubt.
The torturer knows.
As the torturer knows, so does the sadist;
knows, feels her partners pain, and takes pleasure in it, with the distinction
that the torturer aims to destroy a world while the sadist and her partner
intend to explore a world. The metaphors “power exchange” or “energy flow”,
endlessly repeated by practitioners, nonetheless call attention to Bataillean
continuity, all the continuity they can sustain.
“Whose dogged strength alone”
But let us not end with a vindication of
sadomasochism, but instead call attention to an as-yet-uncorrected error, one
shared with Scarry. As Douglass and Wilderson (2013) note, “Scarry worked at
the site of deracination: the injured body, the body in pain, pain beyond
words—pain as that phenomenon for which there are no words” (p. 120). Yet this
injured body is framed by two whole bodies: the integrated relational body
which precedes it and the body which may yet be made whole afterward (p. 121).
Contrast this body with the black body portrayed by W. E. B. Du Bois:
It is a peculiar sensation, this
double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the
eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in
amused contempt and pity. One ever feels his twoness—an American, a Negro; two
souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings, two warring ideals in one dark
body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder. (Du Bois
1997, 38)
We cannot, then, expect the real world of
sadomasochism (or the extraordinarily varied world of practices with which it
is networked) to seamlessly enact a new and pristine form of cathexis. On the
contrary, such practices can eventuate in brutal sexual violence (e.g., Hussain
2015, Schmadeke 2015, Sobol 2015). The world may be able to sustain far more
continuity than one’s world. What might it mean to jar, to jolt, to shake a
discontinuous existence to its foundations without falling into “de Sade’s
aberration”? The answer is surely not the normalization of sadomasochism, bdsm,
or any other set of stigmatized practices. While the impulse to avoid stigma is
understandable, there is no salvation in the fiction of the whole self, the
relationally integrated body, free of stigmata. Nor will gender and
hierarchical binaries be overturned by the proliferation of new binary systems:
top or bottom, vanilla or kinked, dom or sub, slave or master, sadist or
masochist, daddy or boy, with the occasional intermediate category (switch)
thrown in to catch those who don’t quite fit. Nor will discontinuous
foundations be shaken if those binaries are instantiated through choreographed “scenes”
in which everyone knows who they are throughout the interaction, rather than
encounters that bracket all identities, binary or otherwise, and make room for
emergent and fluid properties.
We have traveled far from Scarry’s world,
circuitously, but the path can be retraced simply. Rejecting at the outset the
proposition that pain is sheerly aversive, we found ourselves confronted with a
range of pain-incorporating practices, none of them sheerly aversive, all of
them entailing a body open to pain. In at least some cases, pain is intrinsic
to the practice, not a mere by-product. Being led later to reject the
proposition that to be in the presence of another’s pain is to be in a state of
doubt, we uncovered a new potential cathexis of body, self, and world, mediated
not by language but by sensation. That cathexis is no panacea. At its worst, it
can tip over into the unmaking of the world, as Scarry warns. It nonetheless
may open one path to “a different economy of bodies and pleasures” (Foucault
1990, 159).
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