This paper was first presented to a Symposium in Honor of Hans Loewald, M.D., New Haven, CT, Oct. 17^th, 1987. It was published later under the present title in the Psychoanalytic Study of the Child. 44:241-263, 1989. I became aware of Loewald's work in the late 1960's, and corresponded with him during the succeeding decades until shortly before his death. I admired him deeply for his writings, and what I came to know of him personally. For me he was one of a handful of psychoanalysts I've known who made truly great contributions to psychoanalysis through their creativity. Loewald was an excellent scholar of Freud's work, and as a consequence of his early training in philosophy with Heidegger, he was at home in that world too. Later, when I came to know him in person well enough, my personal affection clearly transcended that of an idealization of a teacher or mentor.

He seemed to like the present paper, and asked me to visit him to talk about it. I intended to, but, sadly, his health deteriorated to the extent I did not get to see him. A month or so before his death, he dictated a note to me complimenting me for referring to Alfred North Whitehead in my 1990 Freud Lecture -- he said that Whitehead was a great man who had been "unfairly consigned to oblivion."

This paper considers the complexities of attempting to apply psychoanalytic insights to a contribution toward thinking about moral issues. I certainly do not believe that psychoanalysis can generate a nondeistic theory of morality on its own. Yet we cannot, should not, ignore the subject -- for our own sake or for other disciplines: there is no other discipline that looks upon moral issues from the viewpoint of depth psychology: development, sublimation, blaming systems, responsibility systems, etc. But, as we know, our own purview is limited. The other disciplines can't do without psychoanalysis because currently there no rivals to it in its insights into the minds of single individuals. And we can't do without them. But this contemporary fallibility of ours (and theirs) is no justification to turn our backs on the questions.

Therefore, this paper offers no answers -- but perhaps it raises questions. One of them is the possibility that the word, morality, carries unsolvable, contradictory, components hidden within itself. Assuming that there is no thing, morality, perhaps we could think of varieties of motivations that promote human beings living together, cooperating together, surviving together -- or varieties of motivations that get in the way, that threaten the glue that holds relationships together.

My other papers relating to these subjects are, 1987c: Crowd psychology and ideology: A psychoanalytic view of the reciprocal effects of folk philosophies and personal actions; 1990. Freud Lecture: "The Analytic Situation: Sheltered Freedom;" 1993b, "The word "just": an essay on resistance, words, and multiple meanings."

Humans -- at least those who have survived developmentally well enough to reach "good-enough" levels of development -- have preferences of their own, sometimes overwhelming ones. They have sets of realistic, aesthetic and moral values which may be volatile or relatively stable, depending upon changes (or lack of changes) in their inner states of mind which are largely influenced by the dynamic unconsciousness. And reactions to the external world are largely influenced what the individual more or less "knows" on a conscious level but also by their "folk philosophies" (VS 1987c, Crowd psychology: A psychoanalytic view of the reciprocal effects of folk philosophies and personal actions). They are also influenced by the ever-shifting dynamisms of that part of the unconscious that is at least potentially phenomenal.

Values are everywhere in mental life. Sometimes they are manifested only by their apparent or real absence: they are not apparent because they are repressed, or not apparent because they are actually missing as a result of aberrant development.

No general theory of morality can be worth anything if it ignores these (and other) general truths about human beings. Outside of religious or mystical faiths, there is no alternative to thinking about values at all except in terms of their human origins and human meanings. At the same time psychoanalysts now recognize the limitations of their purview. They tread gingerly about matters having to do with values. They are cautious because they depend on their ability as analysts to manifest a generally "neutral" stance (if they can) toward their patients' values.

Freud (1933 [1932]). hoped to avoid attempts by psychoanalysts to identify with a particular Weltanschauug, or "Folk Philosophy" -- precisely because he recognized the power of those inner influences in all of us that we do not understood consciously. In fact, we are not wise enough to give our patients directions concerning their beliefs or what they should do about them. We can, of course, identify contradictions and irrational convictions in ourselves and in others; but we can only know people who are like ourselves, who can allow themselves to be examined deeply. In practice, this means we are bound by the limitations of our own culture and cultures like ours. Anthropologists and sociologists can investigate cultures unlike ours, at least to some extent. But altogether, collectively we reliably comprehend only a fraction of the total number of cultures.

Any intellectual discipline makes fundamental assumptions to which it holds. Simultaneously, it makes an effort to minimize the expression by the analyst to his patient's personal values -- and not only in the service of making as objectively valid empirical observations as we can. To paraphrase Fenichel, the analyst tries to deal with irrational content without becoming irrational himself.

Among all professionals, psychoanalysts are probably the most watchful and self-reflective in their efforts to identify and correct the distorting influences of prejudices and private beliefs, in themselves and in their patients. Nevertheless, psychoanalysts cannot forget that their own values, especially moral ones, are a large part of the very stuff of their own and their patients' lives. If values are a major part of the "fullness of the individual's concrete existence," then the investigation of the analyst's and analysand's values can't be ignored. To ignore them would be less "scientific," not more. To evade the subject would amount to a travesty of science; nevertheless, to address the subject exposes our own uncertainties.

Heinz Hartmann, whose theories in some respects were very different from those of Loewald, summarized several of the most important of these issues in Psychoanalysis and Moral Values ( 1960). Unfortunately, that little book tends to be unfairly remembered merely as a cautionary homily (Spruiell, 1989). It is much more. Hartmann discussed tendencies in people to "agglutinate" their values, combining values which vary in rationality. Values can seem to become "contagious." The good can be seen simultaneously and contradictorily as the ideal and as the average or mean. And not only psychoanalytic theory, but analytic techniques themselves are sometimes misapplied as prescriptions of behavior in the non-therapeutic world—with consequences which are sometimes ludicrous and occasionally tragic.

Hartmann criticizes "health morality" and, like Freud, did not believe that psychoanalysis can provide, by itself, a valid Weltanschaung (the term I used above; because it is defined so variously, I prefer to call this variously defined German word folk philosophy). He made it clear, however, that psychoanalysis may have a role in understanding how values are created, applied, how means, ends, and consequences are assessed, and that potential psychoanalytic contributions might enrich a rational ethical philosophy. And in this he is joined by Loewald.

Values have existence as immaterial entities. As such they are fit subjects for scientific investigation (insofar as they can be investigated). Even if there is no way currently available to do that, we do not wear blinders and declare all nonscientific knowledge to be invalid. That said, we often have to acknowledge what we call antinomies: for example, we cannot do without a concept of personal intentionality on conscious and unconscious levels, just as we cannot do without some version of scientific determinism.

If we want to think about blaming, all sorts of related interests will arise: the psychological nature of valuations, validations, their retention or replacement, stability, the depth and strength with which they are held, how they can be compartmentalized within appropriate situations, how contradictions and conflicts among them can be governed. And we may have to endure our fallibility when we contemplate unanswerable questions about the generalizability of value contents. Are they strictly relative in nature? Are they strictly utilitarian? Some combination? Is it possible that there are social structures in many or all cultures which are to some extent products of universal moral interests? Even if we can't prove them, might there be some ways the values of all human beings, insofar as they are developed, resemble each other?

I am specifically concerned here with the moral spectrum, and leave to the side all the other questions having to do with our relative abilities to be realistic, how self-centered we should be, or aesthetic issues, or the general influences of a social nature which have to do with blaming and its alternatives. Yet, this essay, in honor of Hans Loewald, inevitably reopens old questions and speculates about some possible answers. It is important here to emphasize the obvious: my interests are my own. While they have been enormously stimulated and influenced by Loewald's work, they do not necessarily reflect all of his own formulations and proposed solutions.

An examination of blaming, an almost ubiquitous and apparently simple human phenomenon, is one way to approach the more general subject of morality. Blaming is an operation which is expectable in early stages of life, and is "normal" also in adults who live in traditional societies which have fixed rules defining free will and evil. Among adults who have had an opportunity to mature in post-traditional, relatively free societies, however, blaming by adults is not necessarily "normal" at all, except in some emergency situations. In any society, at least a few adults replace blaming systems with responsibility systems.

I also use blame and blaming to illustrate questions of individual group values and their organization and disorganization. My intention is to demonstrate that psychoanalysis can play an essential part—but, again, only a part—in the possible future construction of a non-deistic theory of values, a theory which might have general validity rather than mere social serviceability—a redefinition of the obvious.

Whether cultural diversity will forever prevent the construction of a general, non-deistic theory of values, any approximation of one will have to base itself on the realities of human beings, especially concerning the recognition of the importance of their actual conscious and unconscious natures.

T0 BLAME: SOME POSSIBLE MEANINGS 

Blaming: a commonplace human quality. Usually found obnoxious by its targets, it is the designation of the source of evil. The evil agent may be enemy, human or otherwise, even one's own self. The blamer assumes his victim is malevolent and chooses to be bad. Blaming is a judgment of deliberate evil. It imputes power to the blamed—not to speak of power to the blamer as soothsayer: thus good authority to the blamer (who hopes others will join the blame-group); thus evil authority to the accused.

Blame is an onus. It is an accusation. If your accusation blaming another person gets communicated to the human target, it is apt to stir him up in one way or another. If the blamed one accepts the charge, he may feel guilt, or at least pretend so. If he rejects the stigma, he feels, consciously or not, falsely accused, outraged, hurt, treated unfairly. He may try to mollify his accuser. He may openly or furtively counterattack—by ejecting the blame, returning it to its sender, smearing it on someone else. One common tactic to dodge blame is to say, "It wasn't me, it was somebody or something else. And whoever says it was me is a liar. He or she is evil, to be blamed, not me."

Or the blame might be accepted. The blamed person may try to expiate his wrongness; feel bad; accept punishment as his rightful due; support the righteousness of his accuser.

An observer thinks about "blame" differently if he is external to the field of observation than he does if he is within it. The observer not only thinks differently but feels differently if he is in one way or another involved as an active participant. In the early days of psychoanalysis Freud assumed that he should come as close as possible to the ideal of the scientist-investigator, to think "objectively," to set aside his private, personal feelings, even to be like a surgeon operating, in order to be most "objective." At the same time, Freud was certainly aware that his most remarkable, daring, original discoveries were those he made first within himself. It was his fate, he said to discover truths about children's sexuality that "every nursemaid knows." He was, of course, referring to his own (and everybody else's) "subjectivity." Subjectivity, however, was not a respectable mode of thought for scientists in his day -- and often even among today's scientists. It took a long time to recognize that subjective thoughts and fantasies are inevitable. They are inevitable even in the most "pure" techniques of scientific investigations. Such ways of thinking can be denied but they can't be banished; they exist whether we like it or not.

Actually, it took a long time for us to recognize that these forms of thought were not harmful in themselves. They were "endopsychic" perceptions of our own internal events, especially those literally of the body, of the affective, emotional systems. Sometimes they speak more truly to us than the best of scientific paraphernalia can. But -- not to idealize them more than to idealize "objective" observations of the external world -- the person is best off if it's as important to listen to the one as to listen to the other. It's the integration of what one may perceive about the external and the internal world that serves the person best.

We need to be as "realistic" as we can about that which confronts us inwardly and outwardly -- sometimes with more intensity in one direction, sometimes less. It's important to be rational. At the same time we need to hear (feel, acknowledge) our fantasies, our dreams -- sometimes more, sometimes less. Metaphorically, we need to be realistic and listen as well as we can to the matters confronting us -- sometime more, sometimes less. We also need to listen to the language of our hearts, sometimes more, sometimes less.

Because of the nature of our discipline, most psychoanalysts tend to think "internally," subjectively, about a psychological event like blaming. They still need to turn to the truths they know internally -- about themselves and their patients. If we want to explain motivations abstractly we think of the simultaneous operation and compromises of the great springs of human motivation, the manifold influences of the id; the ego ideal and superego at all levels of development and regression; ego operations and phenomena having to do with conceptions of one's own self and of other people and relations with them; with control and modulations systems; and with the final pathways to action, etc; apprehensions of the external worlds in which the person lives which exert influences on him.

External perceptions are tucked into remembered contexts—the representations of subjects and objects in action, who, if not strangers, share conventions and beliefs about external realities.

Proscriptive rules in psychological systems set boundaries. They are usually more numerous and explicit, at least in relatively free societies, than the other category of rules, prescriptive rules. The latter define what must be done in various circumstances. In regard to particular actions, prescriptive rules abrogate freedom; in contrast, proscriptive rules define the limits of freedom. Prescriptive rules predominate in the hive and the herd; proscriptive rules predominate in groups of higher mammals, particularly humans, who have many options. (See my paper, 1993b, The rules and frames of the psychoanalytic situation). This classification of rules is for convenience. Of course, prescriptive and proscriptive rules cannot always be delineated. Many are arbitrary pairs; there are many regularities of behavior which can be identified either way; one statement for what must be done; an obverse statement for what cannot be.

Blame refers to particular acts of judgment in a field within a coherent human system. If blame is consensually agreed by a group to be appropriate and just, then it is one element of what is assumed "by everybody" to be external reality. Such "external" versions of reality have variable influences on "inner" constructions of reality. The variables have to do with the relative strength of the external impingements on the one hand, and the developmental maturity and autonomy of the individual's intrapsychic operations on the other.

Even God can be and gets blamed. The stars. Uncanny influences. Governments. But individual people are seen no less magically as evildoers. Parents and children, spouses and siblings, authorities, peers and siblings, especially psychoanalysts—all get blamed. Patterns of blaming may become deeply rooted as a consequence of group influence (for example, if practically everybody else in a given culture indulges in blaming), and as a consequence of the structuring of character traits (which arise out of early identifications).

On the other hand, some people have character traits which make them appear incapable of blaming. If the incapacity to blame is actual, a fixed defensive stance rather than a transiently defensive denial, a very serious illness, is probable. The statement may become clearer in what follows in the "clinical example" of this paper. In any event, society often rewards both blame-seekers and blamers, regardless of whether they are individually pathological or not.

But among reasonably well-educated people in our culture, calculated blame is "known" to be irrational. To blame is to lose a more accurate view of a differentiated world and of the interactions of forces in causal networks within it. To blame is to retain or revert to childish modes, by definition, immaturely narcissistic modes—especially in relation to the aggressive aspects of babyish narcissism. There is a reversion to a psychic state of seeming oneness between self and other, like the actual or seeming lack of differentiation within the mother-infant unity or field. I believe that such regressions, if they do not become fixed, are at times adaptive (E. Kris, 1950).

To blame is not the same as the discovery of defects or inefficiencies within a causal network, or the discovery of faults or breaks in a system. To blame is magically to short-circuit the recognition of multiple determinants or actual defects in the system itself. To blame is a leap to "discover" simple causes which are thought to be acts of intentional evil. In the sense that psychoanalysis sees events as psychologically determined, the search for single sources of evil is absurd. But in the sense that psychoanalysis retains concepts of freedom of choice, then, of course, one can imagine choices by individuals which at least most people would regard as evil. Perhaps this apparent antinomy can be resolved if traditional concepts of morality itself can be rethought. Perhaps blaming systems can be replaced by responsibility systems.

At least in our culture, the acts of chronic blamers and blame-seekers are primarily motivated by defensive reactions, which are, in turn, aimed to suppress and contain imperative id and superego motivations. The result is a violation of inner integrity—and attempts to control behavior by mastery and repression rather than as a result of the buffering, interacting elements of a free mind. As pathological or immature as blame can appear when viewed rationally, it is evident that some consistent systems of blaming can be, and often are, stabilizing in given cultures. Such systems make up coherent patterns which, if discerned, help us determine where evil (the simple "cause") is, whom or what to blame, and what might be done about it. These patterns of blame are largely unconscious conventions which infiltrate all societies known to us. They may not be reasonable in themselves, but conventions help hold groups together.

But when these social systems of blaming break down—as they often do in all parts of the world—and are not replaced by any other consistent ordering devices, social authority breaks down too. Not only is society put at risk, but so is the individual. An environment gone amok no longer can support a person's shared folk philosophy (Spruiell, 1988), his largely unconscious notions of practical reliability about what he calls external reality or commonsense morality. The individual loses bare safety of orientation.

THE VIRGIN SPRING. SIN AND EXPIATION

Most people think of narcissistic traits in terms of sin. Ingmar Bergman's movie, The Virgin Spring, based on an old Swedish legend, is relevant to blame. A nubile and flirtatious adolescent girl, who simultaneously seems uncannily beautiful and pure, is allowed to take offerings to a shrine a day's walk through the medieval forest. Her stern father, patriarch of the farm, worships the girl and his judgment is clouded by her charm. The mother, also a slave, flutters before her pure and clean angel-product. In the little world encased within the dour stockade, only a servant girl, pregnant, is not consumed by the positive idealization of the child. Like a dying sailor she drinks the urine of her own envy; in her bitter spite she too is a slave.

The virgin, dressed in splendor, rides alone through the forest. She is unaware that the servant, frightened by her own terrible, murderous wishes, trails behind. Just before she latter catches up with the girl, the young pilgrim comes across three youths, goatherds, hungry, and homeless. The oldest is a mute whose tongue had been cut out as punishment; the youngest is a pubescent boy. Ugly, unattached except to each other, these goatherds are like subhuman creatures to the childish girl, alien to anything she has ever known. She is fascinated, romantically charmed by them, and stops to share her food. Her patronizing Christian ministrations are first accepted, then interrupted by a sudden recognition of danger, evil. She is trapped, held by one of the young men, brutally raped, by the tongueless one. The boy, transfixed, watches. The servant, hiding in the bushes above, watching also, is perversely thrilled. Suddenly, in the thrall of the rape, ecstasy transfigures the child-woman's face. Afterwards, stunned, she weeps—then stares, unbelieving and believing, as one of the young men begins to club her to death.

The young boy's fixed stare is broken. Left for a time by his brothers, he tries ineffectually to cover the girl's body. Then he tries to eat a bite of her bread. He vomits. The serving girl's posture of thrill turns to shudders.

Later, the wanderers find shelter in the family farm. There is no sign that they know or bother to wonder if it might be the girl's home. They are taken in and fed. But during the night the young man who can speak offers to sell the mother an elaborately sewn shift. To his blandishments she is silent; she sees that the shift had been the virgin's. Later she finds the rest of the bloody belongings and lets the father-husband know.

He prepares himself. His measured, vengeant butchery of the grown brothers, followed by the lifting of the whole body of the young boy and smashing it like a club, like a sack, against the wall is almost unbearable to watch. When the father is finished, a passing expression of prideful pleasure crosses his face.

The family and servants make a processional to the awful site of the daughter's death. The blame clearly falls upon each—including the angel-child-woman. Blame and remorse are accepted by each of the living. As they pray, a virgin spring wells up from the spot where she had rested. The father vows to build a shrine there. Undone authority is restored; God's place is fixed.

The audience can see that if there is blame, there is a nexus of blame. If there is blame, each is to blame. Anyone of them, including the virgin, could have prevented the crime if only there had not been the selfish concerns, sinful in the legend, narcissistic to us: the idealized enthrallment and barely hidden possessiveness of the parents—in the father so clearly and intolerably erotic; in the mother, beneath surface doting, so hateful; corrosive envy and spite in the servant girl; the perverse lust for both sexes coupled with murderousness in the two goatherds, with their blindness for people, sight for things; the boy at puberty, in a roar of impulses and fears, shaking with unbearable wishes which have to be vomited; to be them all: the innocent, the rapist, the murderer, the avenger of hunger—and he who is raped and killed; the virgin girl herself, who embodied the special, stupid vanity of the omnipotent and totally indulged beginner in genitality.

But at least the characters in the legend had the certainties of faith, the knowledge of sin and how to find it, the belief in expiation and forgiveness. At least their system of blaming was consistent, coherent, and believable It is not so simple for us.

NORMAL AND PATHOLOGICAL ASSESSMENT: INDIVIDUALS AND GROUPS

Blame can be as insignificant as a passing sniff, as palpable as a black oven awaiting its spark. Blamers are all of us sometimes. And blamers are the inquisitors, the great and mad leaders of history. Blamers are people harassed by emergency circumstance. They may be hostile and guilty obsessionals. They may be injustice collectors or other kinds of angry narcissists. In particular, blamers are among the unhappy souls with congenital defects or bodily deformities. They are the oppressed and easily identifiable minority groups. Blamers may have any diagnosis.

In our society, the most common forms of obviously distorted blaming are found among sadomasochistic, paranoid, and depressed people, people whose childish catastrophic fantasies were stimulated, at least, by external reality, and seem to continue to be confirmed by it. They live lives in terms of being able to blame themselves or others. Worse still, they surrender to temporary or permanent helplessness, irrationally incapable of blaming. These are people, the strong and the weak, obsessed by questions of who has the power, and what is its quality—from the overwhelmingly catastrophic and magical to ordinary blackmail operations within a family. They believe they are internally possessed by mindless systems of monstrous goodness or by other systems between or among themselves and other people which are implacable.

The subject of blaming is too broad, blaming too widespread, to be identified with specific diagnostic categories or characterological types. But it is useful to explore ways of thinking about the various phenomena herded together under the term. Then we wind a path from the rational, to the infantile, and thus to the narcissistic. At all levels we can see that the act of blaming is the servant of many masters, many motivations which may conflict and must somehow be compromised and interdigitated.

We need the bridge uniting intrapsychic psychology (made up of the influences and integrations and compromises of these four sources of motivations), and a compatible interactional psychology (Spruiell, 1983b, The rules and frames of the psychoanalytic situation.). The usual approach is to postulate two psychologies, one intrapsychic, seen heuristically as a closed system; the other a compatible group or interactional psychology, made up of multiple closed systems which communicate, negotiate, battle, and cooperate across space. In this view, the individual and his group are like figure to ground, or ground to figure. The aim of development is thought to be to distinguish self from object.

And there is another approach: that individuals are only apparently as separate as their bodies seem to be, that psychological worlds are made up of fields of forces in which only more or less differentiated centers of organization exist. It is only the external observer who sees them as individual people, separated by empty space, communicating across it by signals. I do not know how to do without both views – intrapsychic-interpersonal psychology, and the unitary psychology toward which Freud leaned in his later years. In this essay, I take this second heuristic point of view, from the "inside," so to speak, and take into account the oscillations between partial separations and partial returns to an original oneness postulated by Hans Loewald (1971). In other words, here I take the second point of view to be less illusory than the first. Ithas to do with simultaneous life within the mind and lives among minds.

In truth, we can't delineate precisely what we mean by "individual" or by "group," anymore than we can be precise about "intentionality" or "freedom." We know in general what we mean, and in fact can't function as analysts without drawing upon these meanings, simultaneously evocative within us, vaguely understood among us. We can, however, recognize that extreme versions of "individualism" and "socialization" express philosophical assumptions which are in radical conflict with each other in regard to responsibility, intentionality, and the nature of good and evil.

THE PSYCHOANALYTIC CONTRIBUTION TO MORAL VALUES

Of the philosophers who attempted to construct nondeistic etyhical systems, Aristotle and Kant made the most notable efforts. Each began by basing his system on the realities, as he understood them, of the strengths and limitations of actual human beings. A conception of mind is the most important part of that nature.

It would be as absurd to demand that a human have magical mental powers in order to be moral as it would be absurd to demand that he have sings in order that he could fly. Unless we draw upon the chancy gods of our magical unconscious wishes, we must, as Aristotle and Kant knew, draw upon what is present in mortal bodies and minds. All aspects of mind have to be taken into account, but for morality the most relevant discoveries of psychoanalysis have to do with the existence of the dynamic unconscious, the relationship of internalization processes to the acquisition of layers of more and more highly organized psychic structures, the increasing complexity of drive-object relations, and the acquisition of more and more complex systems, all of these understandings are essential. No scientific discipline has studied individual human beings as deeply as psychoanalysis. What it has to offer has to do with insights into the nature of man—but not a complete view of the values he wishes he could have.

It is true that values can be smuggled into analytic situations. Examples are the "healthy morality" which Hartmann ( 1960) warned about, the conception of "normality" as an ideal, and all sorts of subtle and gross infiltrations of prejudices, opinions, and even specific political dogmas. But the most serious contaminations of psychoanalysis with values which are in fact antianalytic have to do with evasions of the painful truths of life, particularly as they refer to the realities of regression, the continued effects of infantile sexuality, and the extent and persistence of aggressive destruction. All these distortions and more can subvert analytic work. That is why analysts pay such assiduous attention to them.

Among the manifestations of countertransference phenomena, psychoanalysts can also become blamers—and can even succumb to accepting irrational blame of themselves. Analysts in the past particularly blamed individual parents of their patients, and it is a common observation that analysts tend to blame each other for all sorts of things. To blame is not to analyze. To analyze is to peer into seeming chaos and find connections and order—and constraints to freedom of thought and affect. From the aspect of mind, to analyze is to look at and finally begin to comprehend the network of patterns and associations which underlie any particular act, whether physical, verbal, fantasy, or dream. What a thrill it is to be able to do that! To analyze is to try to see the interrelationships, and even the "nodal points" in the associations (Freud, 1900; Loewald, 1971), the unexpected intersections of lines of thought from differing modalities: past, present, future; the worlds of transference, past intimacies, and contemporary external life; experiences of being from immediate to the abstract; "outside life"; blessings and curses of desire; ranges from rational to non-rational to irrational.

Ultimately, to analyze is to seek (and to whatever extent possible, find) one's own person as a whole, thus embrace the responsibility for the whole person, what Freud meant by Gesamt-Ich. And it means the ferreting out of what might be called pseudo-responsibility—the distortion implied when a person purloins responsibilities which rightfully belong to others. True responsibility for all psychic acts must come to be seen to reside more and more "within" the person, despite the inevitable helplessness, imperfections, faults, and deficits which also live in that place within the field. It means to find whatever there is of conscious and unconscious freedom of choice – or at least options for actions – and expand them if possible. If it was the fate of psychoanalysis to demonstrate to man that his ego is not master in his own house, it also is central to the psychoanalytic endeavor that it expand whatever freedom there is: to make into ego where id was. Psychoanalysis could not endure if it imagined analysands were slaves or robots. But some other people could. We turn our eyes away from the extent and persistence of aggressive destruction at our own risk. All these distortions and more can subvert analytic work. That is why analysts pay such assiduous attention to them.

Among the manifestations of countertransference phenomena, psychoanalysts can also become blamers—and can even accept irrational blame of themselves. Analysts in the past particularly blamed individual parents, and it is a common observation that analysts tend to blame each other for all sorts of things. To blame is not to analyze. To analyze is to peer into seeming chaos and find connections and order— and constraints to freedom of thought and affect. From the aspect of mind, to analyze is to look at and finally begin to comprehend the network of associations which underlie any particular act, whether physical, verbal, fantasy, or dream. What a thrill it is to be able to do that! To analyze is to try to see the interrelationships, and even the "nodal points" in the associations (Freud, 1900; Loewald, 1971), the unexpected intersections of lines of thought from differing modalities: past, present, future; the worlds of transference, past intimacies, and contemporary external life; experiences of being from immediate to the abstract; "outside life"; blessings and curses of desire; ranges from rational to nonrational to irrational.

Ultimately, to analyze is to seek (and to whatever extent possible, find) one's own person as a whole, thus embrace the responsibility for the whole person, what Freud meant by Gesamt-lch. And it means the ferreting out of what might be called pseudo-responsibility—the distortion implied when a person purloins responsibilities which rightfully belong to others. True responsibility for all psychic acts must come to be seen to reside more and more "within" the person, despite the inevitable helplessness, imperfections, faults, and deficits which also live in that place within the field. It means to find whatever there is of conscious and unconscious freedom of choice, and expand it as much as possible.

If it was the fate of psychoanalysis to demonstrate to man that his ego was not master in its own house, it is also central to the psychoanalytic endeavor that it expand whatever freedom there is: to make into ego where id was. Psychoanalysis could not endure if it imagined analysands were slaves or robots.

It is one of the tragedies of being human that what is demanded of a mature person is the absolute maximum of responsibility for himself (even for those matters within his purview in the face of which he feels helpless), while recognizing that his actual rather than pretended freedom is more constrained than had ever had been assumed in past times. It is only in the area of that small portion of actual freedom—that portion which practicality rather than philosophical proof forces us to assume—that one can rationally speak of moral choice in the old, traditional way. Psychoanalysis has little or nothing to say about good and evil in this sense because it is not able to determine the relative extent of this freedom. It cannot measure it, even in comparison to the other multiple determinants of psychic acts. All it can say is that there is choice, and freedom is to be cherished.

It is always a temptation to think of morality in terms of one part of the structural point of view of mind, the superego, which traffics in ideas and feelings of good and evil. But it is obvious that any moral system must take into account all the other structures of mind, all the other motivations deriving from id, ego, and internal maps of the external world. All is process—and even the superego is in a state of constant flux and change. To illustrate, individual superego maturation—in relation to all the other psychic elements—results in the gradual buffering (but not loss!) of rigid, dogmatic generalizations, which apply at first to mother and child, then to family, eventually to the outside social world. In the middle of adolescence healthy superego maturation implies a structural revolution: the harsh superego of latency is partly replaced by a more adult form of the ego ideal.

Naturally, if this is to occur, it also depends upon object relations becoming more clearly organized in terms of intimacy—just as these alterations of object relations depend upon the alterations of drives and their modulations. Superego maturation potentially even moves away from the supposedly pragmatic necessities of the (mostly silent) rules defining conventional social relationships. Individual ego and superego maturation may reach a point at which the individual can make choices among prevailing social rules, or allow healthy hypocrisy in relation to them, or, if necessary, allow outright defiance.

Thus, the maturing individual acquires more choices. Put another way, there is less dependence upon automatic, infantile, simple, and categorical rules—particularly those rules which are socially prescriptive (how a person is supposed to do things just so) rather than socially proscriptive (the boundary-setting limits of permissible behavior). Yet if maturity is genuine, not the pseudomaturity of hyperrationality, the factors leading to unconscious and conscious choice remain accessible to and interdigitated with all the preceding layers of one's psychic being, and all the layers of a person's sense of separateness and oneness.

Psychoanalysis, even though it cannot exist without humane values, rationality, and a belief in freedom, cannot provide the content of a moral system. But it can encourage human endeavors which are apt to facilitate humane and constructive moral development. And, in the other direction, psychoanalysis certainly can play a part in informing others of practices of child rearing which are harmful. It can play a part in documenting those social conditions which are apt to contribute to eventual acts of cruelty and destructiveness.

In particular, psychoanalysis demonstrates the limitations of "will power" as it pertains to inner life. At the same time, it demonstrates—as everyone who experienced a successful therapeutic analysis knows—that inner change is indeed possible and at least partially understandable. It did not take analysts long to understand that they could not "make" their patients "grow up," nor could they correct or extirpate pathological elements. They learned that infantile wishes never disappear. They are not simply "given up." Instead, if all goes well, they remain conscious and accessible, but are overlain and buffered and even infiltrated by other fantasies, including the restoration to the wholeness of life of previously suppressed and repressed impulses and fantasies along with the acquisition of more elaborate and complex and mature new versions.

The resulting integration of the "lowest" and the "highest" can save the individual from the aridity of empty intellectualizations to the one side and the sumps of adult infantilism on the other hand. Instead of "helping" analysands in traditional styles of "help," analysts can provide an amazing situation, like no other, in which it is safe for the analysand to discover himself and accept his own responsibilities and thus integrity—without blame, and eventually, for the most part, without shame.

In the past, it was supposed that the results of successful ordinary development (and the results of successful analyses) would result in reaching the stage of "genitality," which succeeded the dissolution of the oedipus complex and should allow the individual to both love sexually and work successfully as an adult. Genitality is hardly mentioned in the contemporary literature, partly because few, if any psychoanalysts now believe the oedipus complex is ever "dissolved," and partly because there are such enormous differences between postoedipal children, early and late adolescents, and adults of various ages, chronological and psychological. Another reason for the lack of popularity of the term is that "genitality" can be confused with phallic narcissism, mixed up with questions of gender, and misinterpreted reductionistically. Nevertheless, there is a metaphorical advantage to the use of "genitality," just as there was a metaphorical advantage to insist that the Freudian conception of sexuality should include experiences which many would have preferred to call "sensual."

Genitality is not merely established, it evolves. An adult stage of genitality evolving ultimately toward death is the fate of lucky men and women. The same state of evolving maturity is alluded to by some (but not all) cults of phallicism, found in cultures about the world, and referring to the celebration of male and female sexuality, fertility, generativity—and usually in a disguised way, to death. The evolution of genitality (or Eros and death) implies the evolution of responsibility. The rules governing responsibility are highlighted by the very celebrations and fiestas which allow them to be broken in circumscribed ways. The Dionysian symbol Phallos is a representation of these collective agreements, but needs to be sharply distinguished from the more "penis-oriented" immaturity known as phallicism (in the everyday sense) and phallic narcissism.

In the celebration of maturity is the loss, temporarily, of aloneness of parts of the mind from the whole and the loss of separateness from other people. One might say it is the grief of maturity to recognize our essential aloneness and incapacity to fully integrate our parts. Our health lies in the ability to oscillate between these states—to some extent according to our own volition. Our illnesses lie in the fixations in one place or another. The capacity to reach temporary experiences of wholeness—and to separate again—is an important way to distinguish what might be thought of as genuinely normal maturation from pseudomaturations in which the earlier stages of development seem to be lost from experience and no longer are interdigitated with all the other levels in undisguised ways. 

The successful living by a whole person, waxing and waning, implies that a reliable inner sense of authority has been established within—and allowed to wane in the father in favor of its waxing in the sons. If humane and reliable superego functions are internalized and subsequently modified in the direction of rationality, more autonomy and freedom can exist for the individual; there is less dependence on controls from the environment. There is more to be had from life.

I am sure that psychoanalysts will differ in regard to this or that aspect of general maturation, but not about its fundamental nature. For me, it is a perspective which is central not only to psychoanalytic theory but to human morality. Whatever facilitates growth toward states in which more and more choices are available for the individual—and from which the individual is capable of selecting—by definition furthers the possibility that constructive as opposed to destructive choices will be made in the course of ordinary life.

The question of sublimation is another matter. Dale Boesky (1986) has written an incisive survey of the many contradictory usages of the term sublimation. His "Questions about Sublimation" should demonstrate to any reader just how complex "sublimation" is—and yet how persistent the need for its use. Sublimation has been used as simply another "defense mechanism" and as something "higher" and "more normal" than a defense mechanism. It has been used in terms of one form of Freud's concepts of drives and in terms of other analysts' concepts of drives, e.g., those of Loewald, which Boesky believes are incompatible with Freud's meanings. Sublimation has been used as practically synonymous with the "neutralization" of sexual and aggressive drives and as somehow a different process. And it has been used by some as the extreme expression of individuation and by others as a creative—not a neurotic—return to the original wholeness characterized by the mother-infant unity. Boesky particularly criticizes Loewald's use of sublimation in this sense because he believes such a use does not adequately distinguish it from normal development.

The criticisms of Loewald's use of sublimation are debatable and important, because they relate to central theoretical conceptions of the nature of reality—in particular, nonmaterial reality. But I cannot do justice to the debate here. My concern is limited to blaming and responsibility systems as they refer to the question of values.

Occasionally we observe dramatic changes within an analysis which do not seem to represent the undoing of a chronic regression, or the achievement of some new level of normal organization, but rather a new capacity to invest emotionally and less narcissistically in another person or an activity. It is probable that there are more such happenings than we recognize. I am referring to changes which we are inclined to label as sublimation. In my experience, there are regular elements in these processes, although they do not necessarily take place in the order I shall list: an older sexual-aggressive organization, including more or less fixed motivational elements and systems of resolution, becomes disrupted; a period of disorganization supervenes; there are evidences of transitory regressions, which besides having obvious defensive uses may contain extraordinarily rich, evocative images or fantasies which are more like primary than secondary process mentation; the individual appears to be much more self-preoccupied; erotic and aggressive fantasies may temporarily seem much more "narcissistic"—in fact, contain more perverse qualities which seem to have little to do with other people as actual persons at all; at these times, everything in life seems to be put aside, in particular many of the ordinary, restraining, proscriptive and prescriptive rules governing behavior; there may be much more anxiety and restlessness; and then, quite often, there is a sudden resolution—a "surprise," a "Eureka," or an "all the pieces fit together" experience. There is almost always a feeling of pleasure; sometimes there is a feeling of awe; there is almost always at least a feeling of wholeness.

While the new acquisition is intensely felt, it seems to have nothing directly to do with sexual or aggressive elements—although it can be utilized indirectly for purposes of derivatives. And while the sublimatory experience can certainly be drawn into defensive operations, as anything human can be, defensive uses do not appear to be primary. But it is not "neutral" either.

These states often oscillate with more mundane neurotic (or perverse, or psychotic) ways of being. Finally, we know that during the extremes of sublimatory triumphs, the individual—whether involved in good or evil—is apt to be involved in passionate states which transcend his own sense of egoistic preoccupations; he is apt to feel at one with a larger collective, or even that he is that larger body.

This process is certainly like that in creative acts, and it is easy to see how the regressions, disorganizations, and access to infantile levels of drive derivatives provide opportunities to observe the "nodal points" described by Freud when patterns of association from different levels intersect. I think many major creative acts are sublimations, but sublimations are not necessarily artistic or scientific acts. And the process is certainly like that which precedes major new insights in analysis—and major new insights often are sublimations. Probably the process occurs in a variety of special situations in ordinary life.

We can be certain of no one-to-one correlation between evil sublimatory states and what we regard as "good" and "constructive acts." Fiendish destruction can come out of complex states which cannot be distinguished qualitatively in terms of their elements from those that result in the greatest gifts to mankind. We know too little about the distinctions. We believe, however, that maturational developments broadly distributed among the functions of the psyche—cognitive, affective, drive-related, object-related—are more apt to lead to constructive and compassionate actions than monstrously dehumanized actions, which are apt to be related to perverse or psychotic fixations.

Sublimation seems to Loewald (1981) to take part in a a form of nonmaterial inner reality, "psychic reality" itself. But while Freud was considering psychic reality, he remained devoted to scientific materialism. It is still impossible to demonstrate, as opposed to postulate, close causal connections between psychic reality and the brain. Much of the difficulty with the concept of sublimation has to do with just this question: if material reality is seen as the only authentic reality, sublimation must be seen only in terms of illusions which are inherently false.

The concept of sublimation, in Loewald's words (1988),is "at once privileged and suspect": privileged in the nearly universal view of man as uniquely valuable; suspect in terms of the scientific need to analyze man's development impartially as a resultant of more primary (and allegedly more "real") components.

Sublimation in this sense is not a "mystical" or "oceanic" experience, not a state of mental life with distinct boundaries, not one to be conjured up by specific exercises or "mantes." It may or may not seem to be limited by specific periods of time. It may or may not be associated with the creation of any external product. Yet, it is a recognizable state of mind, and with it goes a unique, unmistakable experience of meaning and integration—one which has been described many times by many observers in many cultures. Yet it is one which cannot be described in words very well. It is better known through some experiences in solitude, in intimate relations, and in communion with art.

I agree with Loewald (1981, 1988) that there are qualitative differences between genuine sublimations ("passion transformed") and what might be called pseudosublimations (primarily the results of unconscious defensive reactions to intense infantile wishes, which often happen to be rewarded by the world).

It is morally valid to favor and encourage states of life which make true individuation and sublimation more possible, more likely. To provide only one example of what I mean: individuation-deindividuation processes and sublimation are more possible in societies in which there is freedom of thought and expression and less likely in authoritarian societies.

It should be noted that the concept of sublimation used here is the very antithesis to regressive processes of desublimation—like blaming.

In summary, the fundamental theories of psychoanalysis, having to do with the most important aspects of man's nature, must play a contextual part in any rational moral theory. The understandings of human individuation and deindividuation, together with a particular view of sublimation, should play an important part in future general theories of morality.

A JOURNEY INTO GROUP PSYCHOLOGY

It is dangerous for psychoanalysts to venture away from their own stockades in the wilderness, which seem cheerless to outsiders, but rich with warmth and sadness for those inside. We know things about the clinical practice of analysis and we have an admirable and useful theory of intrapsychic life. But few of us are more than amateurs in other fields: philosophy, folk philosophy, anthropology, sociology, mythology, physics, or the neural sciences. The danger of excursions into these woods is that they will become flights; they might make too much of what is apt to be a small fund of knowledge. But some risks are worth taking.

Patterns of blaming and the rules governing blaming which involve specific values, standards, and ideals are usually acquired through identifications with parents and other authorities, although individuals can also internalize their own creative constructions. These patterns of blaming have to do with ego functions (being "realistic") and superego prohibitory and idealistic functions. There is another element in the acquisition of values which is often ignored except in reference to adolescence: the enormous needs children have to be like their peers, to be accepted by them, to be at one with them, their brothers and sisters. From babyhood there is an eagerness to know how to do things, how big kids act, what is the right way and what is the wrong way, what is fair. The dialectic between conformity and freedom continues through all but the earliest developmental levels.

Most if not all moral restraints, or their lack, and dull or shining ideals (no matter how well internalized) depend upon regular reinforcements from the outside world's versions of social reality—and prescriptions and proscriptions of behavior embedded within these versions. Traditions, conventions, standards, principles, values—all can be usefully examined by the utilization of formal rule theory (Spruiell, 1983, The rules and frames of the analytic situation). Rule theory can supplement the insights of Freud ( 1921) into group psychology, for example, the embodiment of shared values by a leader.

Shared values provide the binding which holds small and large groups together (VS, 1988, The indivisibility of Freudian object relations and drive theories). But compliance may be only superficial. There may be inner freedoms held tenaciously. Deeply held private values, which have been truly internalized and are at least somewhat independent of the external contemporary group, may persist as banked fires, with potential to flame forth as agents of change.

In our own past, most of the masses—Protestants, Catholics, Jews, and the irreligious—were overtly in general agreement about good and evil. This was because there was a public consensus claimed about the material and moral world—a folk philosophy, expressed consciously in religion and patriotism. It varied slightly in content from place to place, and of course there were different levels of sophistication from class to class. The folk philosophy was supported by authority (probably cynically by most individual leaders). A socially useful hypocrisy prevailed. Those followers and leaders who did not seem to accept "self-evident" rights and wrongs were apt to be branded outlaws and fit subjects for torture. The masses could be suppressed; old leaders could be overthrown by new ones with more plausible pretenses. Not so many of ficial laws were needed to define evil because covert and overt common rules defined it without an appeal process. This is no longer true.

For all the dangers posed by the disorganization of social rule systems, such as the state of blaming, there are certain advantages. Our present world allows for an unprecedented amount of freedom in "inner reality," available to an unprecedented number of people. On a mass scale, too, it may be that sublimation can exist.

A RETURN TO DIRECT PSYCHOANALYTIC OBSERVATIONS

For all the worries (and promises) about our condition, and for all the arguments that blaming is an absurd, unreasonable, and inappropriate activity when applied to the world at large, the psychoanalyst needs to touch base with clinical experience. From that position it is evident that, for practical psychological purposes, blaming will always be with us as subjective phenomena, invoked in emergencies and in our most immediate relationships. If an adolescent pokes a gun in my ribs on Conti Street in New Orleans, I certainly will blame him. I will not care in the least about his motives, or his unfortunate past. At that moment I will not even care about him as a human being. Only if he were neutralized, no immediate threat, could I afford to be more objective, conceivably even compassionate. Nevertheless, my regression to blaming, provided it was temporary, would have been immediately adaptive.

A child cannot be expected to have any objective understanding of the disparate realistic or neurotic reasons behind his mistreatments, especially on the part of his parents. Only when the adult is able to overlay his childish self with more mature patterns of being—and thus to some extent transcend childhood, and to some extent re-contact his childhood on a higher level—will he be able to forgive his past, no longer blame his past as a way of escaping present responsibility.

These are all transformations of narcissism, from the viewpoint of the drives and from the viewpoint of object relations. Blaming, especially, has to do with aggressive actions, thus the omnipotent strand of narcissism. In the best of worlds, as development proceeds, the earliest omnipotence gives way to more and more elaborate alterations. The process moves from magic omnipotence, through the delegated omnipotence to authorities, to the boundlessness of adolescent fantasies, to true adult potency. Still, the certainties of at least temporary regressions are always there, in everybody. And some kinds of regression—perhaps to distinguish them from flights of terror we should call them inward historical pilgrimages—are necessary for a life to be whole and in process.

The origins of blame are in the sense of reproach the infant feels toward his mother for whatever unpleasure he experiences. He can do this when the mother becomes at least partially distinguished from himself. Blame and blaming come into their own with the anal struggles between the ages of 1 1/2 and 3—the period described by Mahler et al. (1975) in terms of the rapprochement subphase of separation-individuation. Thus the development of a capacity to blame is crucial. It is one signal of the development of relations with others—and it is missing from those horribly mistreated individuals described by Shengold (1979) as victims of "soul murder" in childhood. These people as children were quite unable to imagine blame, much less blame their cruel parents.

It is during the period just preceding and including the climax of the oedipal passions that blame and blaming mechanisms come to be internally codified. Taboos and ideals become specified and stratified in importance. There are strong pressures against behaving "babyishly" beyond one's time. On the other hand, major blame can become associated with trivial indiscretions because of links to incestuous and murderous taboos.

Blaming as a fantasy is one thing, blaming as an act is another. The former may become replaced by other fantasies, or the targets of blame might be shifted, or the fantasy become frozen as a character trait— perhaps a pattern of grudges. Pathological blaming is a chronic maneuver in the inner world involving disavowal, denial, isolation, and projection. But acts in the interactional "outside" world related to these fantasies cause harm to other human beings. Childish acts of blame are hostile and often sadistic, indulged in by children and adults who are terrified of the consequences of forbidden wishes and of real or fantastic punishments, sadistically eager to divert these consequences to others. They are acts particularly seen among siblings in competition for the love of authoritarian parents, and in competition to avoid censure by the same authorities.

Typically, the blamer tries to recruit others to identify a victim. A successful group of blamers can become a group of persecutors, even a fundamental part of the actual external world of the targeted person or group. To whatever tendencies already exist to neurotically accept blame, there may be additional needs to avoid acknowledgment of perceptions of evil in the external world; the result may be a dangerous paralysis of aggressive impulses, a self-destructive response wellknown to concentration camp victims and to some of the prisoners of war—for example, in the hideous prisons of both sides during the American Civil War.

PHILOSOPHICAL AND FOLK PHILOSOPHICAL CONSIDERATIONS

Bernard Williams ( 1985) has written a brilliant book about the current state of nondeistic philosophical considerations of ethics. It summarizes the profound but partially failed efforts of Aristotle and Kant, along with contemporary philosophical efforts, documenting their limits. The title, Ethics, is perhaps not as important as the subtitle, Limits of Philosophy. Williams too characterizes blame, the location of deliberately evil actions, as a central type of negative ethical reaction in response to the conduct of others. He too believes blame springs "from a deeply rooted misconception of life." But philosophy, he admits modestly, can play only a part in correcting those misconceptions.

Systems of blaming are supported by the rules of the dominant folk philosophies of a society. They are affected little, if at all, by the careful thoughts of philosophers and theologians, much less by the essays of psychoanalysts. Williams admires the moral systems of Aristotle and Kant, but cannot totally accept their metapsychological assumptions. He does not mention Whitehead
(1929), who developed the only twentieth-century extensive morality embedded in a new metaphysics, with its emphasis on process and spiraling increases in organization of systems.

Is there hope for a more rational folk philosophy? An ethical mechanism to replace blaming? I believe there may be grounds for such hopes, but I am aware of the distinction between "my" moral beliefs and what might be "ours." In any event, it would be a terrible misconception to rely only on man's "highest" levels of rationality, and utilize them to deny what psychoanalysts know more about than anyone else; what seems to be the "lowest" in man may also be the language of the heart. It is only when the language of the intellect is married to the language of the heart that authentic reason— the God-child, Logos—comes into being.

SUMMARY

In this paper I have considered acts of blaming as an approach to a psychoanalytic contribution to a theory of moral values—a search for a way of thinking about the mental processes mediating values and valuations. Many modern philosophers do not believe their own discipline will be able to develop complete, valid, acceptable, and workable nondeistic ethical understandings alone. Psychoanalysts cannot either, but psychoanalysis can contribute necessary components in its unique understandings of mental operations.

The study of blaming as a part of a larger system of values can also be an avenue to the study of intrapsychic-interactional theoretical propositions. The stability or lack of stability of the "worlds" in which we live has influences on all of us, especially those who are most vulnerable to "external" influences.

Empirically, in addition to responses to immediate threats from the outside world, an internal world of blaming always remains. The self may be blamed for its failure to live up to its own standards and rules. Often this internal blaming and acceptance of the blame—thus guilt— operate unrealistically. Nevertheless, some such operations continue in even the most mature people, but in mature people it is possible to transform blaming systems into responsibility systems. Along with other transformations that accompany sublimations, the wholeness of personality can be restored in part.

One of the faces of a responsibility system is turned toward inner, passionate, often contradictory animal needs which remain in us all. Unless "owned," channeled, restrained, some wishes would be externally disastrous if converted directly into behavior and personally disastrous if totally repressed instead of channeled. Not only this, their disguised expressions can again become externally harmful to oneself and others when projected outward in the form of blame.

The other face is turned toward the ways the individuals' motives to join (or rejoin) the affairs of the collective "other"—some of which have to do with the most apparently transcendent qualities in man.

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