Felman

Turning the Screw of Interpretation
Author(s): Shoshana Felman

Source: Yale French Studies, No. 55/56, Literature and Psychoanalysis. The Question of
Reading: Otherwise (1977), pp. 94-207
Published by: Yale University Press
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Shoshana Felman
Turning the Screw of Interpretation
-An Uncanny Reading Effect

-What is a Freudian Reading?
-The Conflict of Interpretations: The Turns of the Debate

-The Turns of the Story's Frame: A Theory of Narrative
-The Scene of Writing: Purloined Letters
-The Scene of Reading: The Surrender of the Name
-A Child is Killed
-Meaning and Madness: The Turn of the Screw
--The Madness of Interpretation: Literature and Psychoanalysis

-A Ghost of a Master
What does the act of turning a screw have to do with literature?
What does the act of turning a screw have to do with psychoanalysis? Are these two questions related? If so, might their relationship help to define the status of literature? It is these rather odd
questions that the present study intends to articulate, so as to give

them a further turn, to investigate and interrogate them on the
basis of Henry James's famous short novel, The Turn of the Screw.
1. An Uncanny Reading Effect
I didn't describe to you the purpose of it
(...) at all, I described to you (...) the effect
of it- which is a very different thing.
(H. James, The Sacred Fount)
The mental features discoursed of as the
analytical are, in themselves, but little susceptible of analysis: we appreciate them only
in their effects.
(E. A. Poe, The Murders in the Rue Morgue)
The plot of The Turn of the Screw is well known: a young

woman answering a want ad in a newspaper goes to meet a "perfect
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Shoshana Felman
gentleman," a "bachelor in the prime of life," who hires her to take
charge of his niece Flora and his nephew Miles, two little orphans
who live in a secluded country house belonging to him. The young

woman is to become the children's governess, but under the strict
condition set down by her employer-"the Master"-that she
assume "supreme authority" for her two charges, that is, that she
solve singlehandedly any problems concerning them, without at any
time turning to him for help or even contacting him for any reason.
This condition is no sooner accepted than it begins to weigh heavily
upon the governess (who is also the narrator)-especially when a

letter arrives informing her, without giving the reason, that little
Miles has been expelled from school: this unexplained punishment

makes the child's apparent innocence seem somehow mysterious,
suspect, ambiguous. In addition, the governess discovers that the
house is haunted: several times she finds herself confronted by

strange apparitions, whom, with the help of information about the
house's past history gleaned from the housekeeper, Mrs. Grose, she
finally identifies as the ghosts of two servants, Peter Quint and
Miss Jessel, now dead, but formerly employed by the Master in this
very house, and whose shady intimacy had, it seems, "corrupted"
the children. The governess becomes steadily more convinced

that the ghosts have come back to pursue their nefarious intercourse
with the children, to take possession of their souls and to corrupt

them radically. Her task is thus to save the children from the ghosts,
to engage in a ferocious moral struggle against "evil," a struggle
whose strategy consists of an attempt to catch the children in the

very act of communing with the spirits, and thereby to force them
to admit that communion, to confess their knowledge of the ghosts
and their infernal complicity with them. Total avowal, the governess
believes, would exorcise the children. The results of this heroic
metaphysical struggle are, however, ill-fated: Flora, the little girl,

caught by the governess in presence of the phantom of Miss Jessel,
denies seeing the vision and falls seriously ill following the vehement
accusations directed at her by the governess, whom she thenceforth
holds in abhorrence; Miles, the little boy, on the other hand, having
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seemingly "surrendered" by pronouncing-under the governess's

pressure-the name of Peter Quint face to face with his ghost, at
that very moment dies in the arms of the governess as she clasps
him to her breast in moral triumph. It is with this pathetically
ironical embrace of a corpse that the story ends.

If the strength of literature could be defined by the intensity
of its impact on the reader, by the vital energy and power of its
effect, The Turn of the Screw would doubtless qualify as one of

the strongest-i.e., most effective-texts of all time, judging by the
quantity and intensity of the echoes it has produced, of the critical
literature to which it has given rise. Henry James was himself

astounded by the extent of the effect produced on his readers by
his text, the generative potency of which he could measure only a
posteriori. Ten years after the first appearance of The Turn of the
Screw, in his New York Preface (1908), he writes:
Indeed if the artistic value of such an experiment be measured by the
intellectual echoes it may again, long after, set in motion, the case would
make in favour of this little firm fantasy-which I seem to see draw

behind it today a train of associations. I ought doubtless to blush for thus
confessing them so numerous that I can but pick among them for reference. I
Few literary texts indeed have provoked and "drawn behind them"
so many "associations," so many interpretations, so many exegetic
passions and energetic controversies. The violence to which the
text has given rise can be measured, for example, by the vehement,
aggressive tone of the first reactions to the novel, published in the
journals of the period: "The story itself is distinctly repulsive,"

affirms The Outlook (LX, October 29, 1898, p. 537; Norton, p. 172).
And The Independent goes still further:
The Turn of the Screw is the most hopelessly evil story that we have ever
read in any literature, ancient or modern. How Mr. James could, or how
1 Unless otherwise specified, all quotes from The New York Preface and
from The Tuirn of the Screw are taken from the Norton Critical Edition of
The Turn of the Screw (ed. Robert Kimbrough), New York: Norton, 1966;
hereafter abbreviated "Norton." As a rule, all italics within the quoted texts
throughout this paper are mine; original italics alone will be indicated.
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Shoshana Felman
any man or woman could, choose to make such a study of infernal human
debauchery, for it is nothing else, is unaccountable... The study, while it
exhibits Mr. James's genius in a powerful light, affects the reader with a
disgust that is not to be expressed. The feeling after perusal of the horrible
story is that one has been assisting in an outrage upon the holiest and
sweetest fountain of human innocence, and helping to debauch -at least
by helplessly standing by -the pure and trusting nature of children.
Hu-man imagination can go no further into infamy, literary art could not
be used with more refined subtlety of spiritual defilement. (The Independent,
LI, January 5, 1899, p. 73; Norton, p. 175)
The publication of The Turn of the Screw thus meets with a scandalized hue and cry from its first readers. But, interestingly enough,
as the passage just quoted clearly indicates, what is perceived as
the most scandalous thing about this scandalous story is that we
are forced to participate in the scandal, that the reader's innocence

cannot remain intact: there is no such thing as an innocent reader
of this text. In other words, the scandal is not simply in the text,
it resides in our relation to the text, in the text's effect on us, its
readers: what is outrageous in the text is not simply that of which
the text is speaking, but that which makes it speak to us.
The outraged agitation does not, however, end with the reactions
of James's contemporaries. Thirty years later, another storm of
protest very similar to the first will arise over a second scandal:
the publication of a so-called "Freudian reading" of The Turn

of the Screw. In 1934, Edmund Wilson for the first time suggests
explicitly that The Turn of the Screw is not, in fact, a ghost story
but a madness story, a study of a case of neurosis: the ghosts, accordingly, do not really exist; they are but figments of the governess's sick imagination, mere hallucinations and projections symptomatic of the frustration of her repressed sexual desires. This
psychoanalytical interpretation will hit the critical scene like a
bomb. Making its author into an overnight celebrity by arousing as

much interest as James's text itself, Wilson's article will provoke
a veritable barrage of indignant refutations, all closely argued and
based on "irrefutable" textual evidence. It is this psychoanalytical
reading and the polemical framework it has engendered that will
henceforth focalize and concretely organize all subsequent critical
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discussion, all passions and all arguments related to The Turn of

the Screw. For or against Wilson, affirming or denying the "objec-
tivity" or the reality of the ghosts, the critical interpretations have

fallen into two camps: the "psychoanalytical" camp, which sees
the governess as a clinical neurotic deceived by her own fantasies

and destructive of her charges; and the "metaphysical," religious,
or moral camp, which sees the governess as a sane, noble saviour
engaged in a heroic moral struggle for the salvation of a world

threatened by supernatural Evil. Thus, as John Silver astutely puts
it, "If the ghosts of 'The Turn of the Screw' are not real, certainly
the controversy over them is." 2
Would it be possible to say, indeed, that the reality of the debate

is in fact more significant for the impact of the text than the reality
of the ghosts? Could the critical debate itself be considered a ghost

effect? Even more than the debate's content, it is its style which
seems to me instructive: when the pronouncements of the various
sides of the controversy are examined closely, they are found to
repeat unwittingly-with a spectacular regularity-all the main

lexical motifs of the text. Witness the following random examples,
taken from a series of polemical essays:
-The motif of a danger which must be averted:

The danger in the psychoanalytic method of
criticism lies in its apparent plausibility.
(Nathan Bryllion Fagin)3
-The motif of a violent aggression inflicted upon an object by
an injurious, alien force:

The Freudian reading of Henry James' 'The
Turn of the Screw' (...) does violence not
only to the story but also to the Preface.

(Robert Heilman) 4
2 "A Note on the Freudian Reading of The Turn of the Screw, in:
A Casebook on Henry James's "The Turn of the Screw," ed. Gerald Willen,
New York: Thomas Y. Crowell Company, 1969, 2nd edition; p. 239. This
collection of critical essays will hereafter be abbreviated "Casebook."
3 "Another Reading of The Turn of the Screw," in Casebook, p. 154.
4 "The Freudian Reading of The Turn of the Screw," in Modern Lan-
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Shoshana Felman
-The motif of attack and defense, of confrontation and struggle: in a rebuttal to the Freudian reading, Oliver Evans proposes
that Wilson's theory be
attacked point by point.
(Oliver Evans) 5
-The motif of final victory, of the enemy's defeat:

Here is one place where I find Freud com-
pletely defeated.
(Katherine Anne Porter) 6
It could perhaps be objected that a vocabulary of aggression, conflict, and maybe even danger, is natural in a conflictive critical debate, and that it is just a coincidence that this vocabulary seems to
echo and repeat the combative spirit which animates the text. Such
an objection could not, however, account for some other, more
specific, more peculiar stylistic echoes of the text which reemerge in
the very language of the critics, in the very style of the polemic: the
motif, for instance, of neurosis and of madness, of hysterical delusion. Robert Heilman thus accuses Wilson of alleged "hysterical
blindness" (FR, MLN, p. 434), which alone would be able to account
for the latter's errors in interpretation. Wilson, argues Heilman, is
misreading James's use, in his New York Preface, of the word

"authority." In Heilman's view, James's statement that he has given
the governess "authority," is referring but to her narrative authority,
to the formal fact that the story is being told from her point of view,
and not, as Wilson would have it, to "the relentless English 'authority' which enables her to put over on inferiors even purposes
which are totally deluded." How is this misreading possible? "Once

again," explains Heilman, "the word authority has brought about,
in an unwary liberal, an emotional spasm which has resulted in a

guage Notes, LXII, 7, Nov. 1947, p. 433. This essay will hereafter be referred
to as: "Heilman, FR, MLN."
5 "James's Air of Evil: The Turn of the Screw," in Casebook, p. 202.

6 "James: The Turn of the Screw. A Radio Symposium," in Casebook,
p. 197.
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kind of hysterical blindness" (FR, MLN, p. 434). Wilson's reading

is thus polemicized into a hysterical reading, itself viewed as a
neurotic symptom. What is interesting-and seems to me instructive-about this, is that it is the very critic who excludes the
hypothesis of neurosis from the story, who is rediscovering neurosis
in Wilson's critical interpretation of the story, an interpretation

which he rejects precisely on the grounds that pathology as such
cannot explain the text:
It is probably safe to say that the Freudian interpretation of the story,
of which the best known exponent is Edmund Wilson, no longer enjoys
wide critical acceptance. (...) We cannot account for the evil by treating the
governess as pathological ...7
But the hypothesis of madness, or "pathology," which is indeed

brought up by the governess herself, is not nearly so easy to eliminate as one might think, since, expelled from the text, it seems
to fall back on the text's interpreter, and thus ironically becomes,

through the very critical attempt at its elimination, ineradicable
from the critical vocabulary, be it that of the "Freudians" or that
of the "metaphysicians."
Another textual motif which crops up unexpectedly in the very

language of the critical controversy is that of salvation. While
insisting on the fact that The Turn of the Screw is in truth a drama
of salvation, that is, a rescue operation to save the children from

the evil ghosts, Robert Heilman writes:
The Turn of the Screw may seem a somewhat slight work to call forth all
the debate. But there is something to be said for the debate. For one thing,
it may point out the danger of a facile, doctrinaire application of formulae
where they have no business and hence compel either an ignoring of, or a
gross distortion of, the materials. But more immediately: The Turn of the
Screw is worth saving. (FR, MLN, p. 443).
The rescue operation, the drama of salvation described by the text

thus repeats itself in the critical arena. But from what must the text
7 Robert Heilman, "The Turn of the Screw as Poem," in Casebook,

p. 175.
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be saved? From being reduced, explains Heilman, to "a commonplace clinical record." But again, let us notice the terms of the
objection, which associates the psychoanalytical reading's abuses
with the more general abuses of science as such:

We run again into the familiar clash between scientific and imaginative
truth. This is not to say that scientific truth may not collaborate with,
subserve, and even throw light upon imaginative truth; but it is to say that
the scientific prepossession may seriously impede the imaginative insight.

(FR, MLN, p. 444).
Another critic, repeating and emphasizing the term "prepossession,"
agrees: "We must agree, I think, that Freudian critics of the tale
are strongly prepossessed." 8 But what precisely is a "prepossessed"
critic if not one whose mind is in advance in the possession of some

demon, one who, like James's children, is himself possessed? Possessed-should we say-by the ghost of Freud? It is clear, in any
case, that the urgency of rescuing, of saving the text, in a critical

account like Heilman's, strongly resembles the exorcistic operations
of the governess vis-a-vis her "possessed" charges, and that the

critical confrontation appears itself as a kind of struggle against
some ghost-effect that has somehow been awakened by psychoanalysis. The scene of the critical debate is thus a repetition of the
scene dramatized in the text. The critical interpretation, in other
words, not only elucidates the text but also reproduces it dramatically, unwittingly participates in it. Through its very reading, the
text, so to speak, acts itself out. As a reading effect, this inadvertent

"acting out" is indeed uncanny: whichever way the reader turns, he
can but be turned by the text, he can but perform it by repeating it.
Perhaps this is the famous trap James speaks of in his New York
Preface:
It is an excursion into chaos while remaining, like Blue-Beard and Cinderella, but an anecdote-though an anecdote amplified and highly emphasized
and returning upon itself; as, for that matter, Cinderella and Blue-Beard
return. I need scarcely add after this that it is a piece of ingenuity pure and
8 Mark Spilka, "Turning the Freudian Screw: How Not to Do It," in
Norton, pp. 249-250.
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simple, of cold artistic calculation, an amusette to catch those not easily
caught (the "fun" of the capture of the merely witless being ever but small),
the jaded, the disillusioned, the fastidious. (Norton, p. 120).
We will return later on to this ingenious prefatory note so as to try

to understand the distinction James is making between naive and
sophisticated readers, and to analyze the way in which the text's
return upon itself is capable of trapping both. Up to this point, my
intention has been merely to suggest-to make explicit-this uncanny trapping power of Henry James's text as an inescapable reading-
effect.
Taking such reading-effects into consideration, we shall here
undertake a reading of the text which will at the same time be

articulated with a reading of its readings. This two-level readingwhich also must return upon itself-will be concerned with the
following questions: What is the nature of a reading-effect as such?
and by extension: what is a reading? What does the text have to

say about its own reading? What is a "Freudian reading" (and what
is it not)? What in a text invites-and what in a text resists-a

psychoanalytical interpretation? In what way does literature authorize psychoanalysis to elaborate a discourse about literature, and
in what way, having granted its authorization, does literature
disqualify that discourse? A combined reading of The Turn of the
Screw and of its psychoanalytical interpretation will here concentrate, in other words, not only on what psychoanalytical theory has
to say about the literary text, but also on what literature has to
say about psychoanalysis. In the course of this double reading, we
will see how both the possibilities and the limits of an encounter
between literature and psychoanalytical discourse might begin to be
articulated, how the conditions of their meeting, and the modalities

of their not meeting, might begin to be thought out.
11. What is a Freudian Reading?

The Freudians err in the right direction.
(Mark Spilka)
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Shoshana Felman
I would like, as a starting point, to begin by subscribing to the

following remarks by Mark Spilka:
My concern (...) is with the imaginative poverty of much Freudian criticism,
its crudeness and rigidity in applying valid psychological insights, its narrow
conception of its own best possibilities (...) Over the past four decades
Freudian critics have made James's tale a cause celebre. The tale sustains
the "cause" through erotic ambiguities. Since it also arouses childhood
terrors, and perhaps arises from them, we may say that the Freudian
approach works here or nowhere. Yet opponents charge that Freudian critics
have reduced the tale to a "commonplace clinical record." Though they are
perfectly correct, my own charge seems more pertinent: these Freudian
critics have not been sufficiently Freudian. (Norton, p. 245).
These subtle, challenging remarks err only in the sense that they
consider as resolved, non-problematic, the very question that they
open up: how Freudian is a Freudian reading? Up to what point
can one be Freudian? At what point does a reading start to be
"Freudian enough"? What is Freudian in a Freudian reading, and

in what way can it be defined and measured?
The one characteristic by which a "Freudian reading" is generally

recognized is its insistence on sexuality, on its crucial place and
role in the text. The focal theoretical problem raised by a psycho-
analytical reading would thus appear to be the definition of the very

status of sexuality as such in a text. Wilson's reading of The Turn
of the Screw indeed follows this interpretative pattern of accounting

for the whole story in terms of the governess's sexual frustration:
she is in love-says Wilson-with the Master, but is unable to
admit it to herself, and thus obsessively, hysterically projects her
own desires upon the outside world, perceives them as exterior to
herself in the hallucinated form of fantasmatic ghosts.
The theory is, then, that the governess who is made to tell the story is a
neurotic case of sex repression, and that the ghosts are not real ghosts but
hallucinations of the governess. 9
9 Edmund Wilson, "The Ambiguity of Henry James," in The Triple

Thinkers, Penguin, 1962, p. 102. This essay will hereafter be referred to as
Wilson.
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In order to reinforce this theory, Wilson underlines the implicitly

erotic nature of the metaphors and points out the numerous phallic
symbols:
Observe, also, from the Freudian point of view, the significance of the
governess's interest in the little girl's pieces of wood and of the fact that
the male apparition first takes shape on a tower and the female apparition
on a lake. (Wilson, p. 104).
What, however, was it in James's text that originally called out

for a "Freudian" reading? It was, as the very title of Wilson's article
suggests, not so much the sexuality as "The ambiguity of Henry
James." The text, says Wilson, is ambiguous. It is ambiguous, that

it, its meaning, far from being clear, is itself a question. It is this
question which, in Wilson's view, calls forth an analytical response.
The text is perceived as questioning in three different ways:
1) Through its rhetoric: through the proliferation of erotic

metaphors and symbols without the direct, "proper" naming of their
sexual nature. 10
2) Through its thematic content - its abnormal happenings

and its fantastic, strange manifestations. 11
3) Through its narrative structure which resembles that of an

enigma in remaining, by definition, elliptically incomplete. 12
Solicited by these three modes of textual questioning - narrative, thematic, and rhetorical - the "Freudian" critic, in Wilson's
view, is called upon to answer. In the case of the narrative question
10 Cf., for example, Wilson, p. 126: "Sex does appear in his work - even
becoming a kind of obsession," but we are always separated from it by
"thick screens."
11 Cf. ibid., p. 126: "The people who surround this observer tend to
take on the diabolic values of The Turn of the Screw, and these diabolic
values are almost invariably connected with sexual relations that are always
concealed and at which we are compelled to guess."
12 Cf. ibid., p. 108: "When one has once got hold of the clue to this
meaning of The Turn of the Screw, one wonders how one could ever have
missed it. There is a very good reason, however, in the fact that nowhere
does James unequivocally give the thing away: almost everything from
beginning to end can be read equally in either of two senses."
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Shoshana Felman
of the elliptical, incomplete structure of the enigma, he answers
with the riddle's missing word, with the mystery's solution: the
governess's sexual desire for the Master. In the case of the thematic question of uncanny strangeness, of fantastic happenings, he
answers with a diagnosis: the ghosts are merely the symptoms of

pathological, abnormal sexual frustration and repression. In the case
of the rhetorical question of symbolic ambiguity, he answers with
the "proper name," with the literal meaning of the phallic metaphors.
Considered from the "Freudian point of view," sexuality, valorized as both the foundation and the guidepost of the critical
interpretation, thus takes on the status of an answer to the question of the text. Logically and ontologically, the answer (of sexuality) in fact pre-exists the question (of textuality). The question
comes to be articulated (rhetorically, thematically, and narratively)

only by virtue of the fact that the answer is as such concealed.
Indeed the question is itself but an answer in disguise: the question is the answer's hiding place. The Freudian critic's job, in this
perspective, is but to pull the answer out of its hiding place- not
so much to give an answer to the text as to answer for the text:
to be answerable for it, to answer in its place, to replace the question with an answer. It would not be inaccurate, indeed, to say that
the traditional analytical response to literature is to provide the
literary question with something like a reliably professional "answering service."
Such an operation, however, invites two fundamental questions:

Does "James" (or James's text) authorize this way of answering
for him? Does "Freud" (or Freud's text) authorize this way of
answering through him?
The question of the possibility of answering for the text, as well
as that of the status of such an answer, is in fact raised by James's

text itself in its very opening, when Douglas, having promised to
tell his dreadful story, intimates that it is a love story, which was
confided to him by the heroine (the governess):
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Mrs. Griffin, however, expressed the need for a little more light. "Who was
it she was in love with?"
"The story will tell," I took upon myself to reply. ....
"The story won't tell," said Douglas; "not in any literal, vulgar way."
(Prologue, Norton, p. 3; James's italics).
In taking upon himself "to reply," to make explicit who it was the
governess was in love with, in locating the riddle's answer in
the governess's repressed desire for the Master, what then is Edmund Wilson doing? What is the "Freudian" reading doing here
if not what the text itself, at its very outset, is precisely indicating
as that which it won't do: "The story won't tell; not in any literal,
vulgar way." These textual lines could be read as an ironic note
through which James's text seems itself to be commenting upon
Wilson's reading. And this Jamesian commentary seems to be suggesting that such a reading might indeed be inaccurate not so
much because it is incorrect or false, but because it is, in James's

terms, vulgar.
If so, what would that "vulgarity" consist of? And how should
we go about defining not only an interpretation's accuracy, but
what can be called its tact? Is a "Freudian reading"-by definition- tainted with vulgarity? Can a Freudian reading, as such,
avoid that taint? What, exactly, makes for the "vulgarity" in
Wilson's reading? Toward whom, or toward what, could it be said

that this analysis lacks tact?
"The difficulty itself is the refuge from the vulgarity," writes

James to H. G. Wells (Norton, p. 111). And in the New York Preface to The Turn of the Screw, he elaborates further the nature
of that difficulty, of that tension which underlies his writing as a

question:
Portentous evil -how was I to save that, as an intention on the part of
my demon spirits, from the drop, the comparative vulgarity, inevitably at-
tending, throughout the whole range of possible brief illustration, the offered
example, the imparted vice, the cited act, the limited deplorable presentable
instance? (Norton, p. 122).
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Shoshana Felman
What is vulgar, then, is the "imputed vice," the "offered example,"
that is, the explicit, the specific, the unequivocal and immediately
referential "illustration." The vulgar is the literal, insofar as it is
unambiguous: "the story won't tell; not in any literal, vulgar way."
The literal is "vulgar" because it stops the movement constitutive
of meaning, because it blocks and interrupts the endless process of

metaphorical substitution. The vulgar, therefore, is anything which
misses, or falls short of, the dimension of the symbolic, anything
which rules out, or excludes, meaning as a loss and as a flight,

-anything which strives, in other words, to eliminate from language its inherent silence, anything which misses the specific way
in which a text actively "won't tell." The vulgarity that James then
seeks above all to avoid is that of a language whose discourse is
outspoken and forthright and whose reserves of silence have been
cut, that of a text inherently incapable of silence, inherently unable

to hold its tongue.
If vulgarity thereby consists of the reduction of rhetoric as such,

of the elimination of the indecision which inhabits meaning and of
the ambiguity of the text, isn't that precisely Wilson's goal? Isn't
Wilson's critical and analytical procedure that, precisely, of a literalization (i.e., in James's terms, of a "vulgarization") of sexuality
in the text? Wilson, in fact, is quite aware of the text's rhetorical,
undecidable question:
The fundamental question presents itself and never seems to get properly
answered: What is the reader to think of the protagonist? (Wilson, p. 112).
But he only points out that question in order to reduce it, overcome the difficulty of the ambiguity, eliminate the text's rhetorical
indecision by supplying a prompt answer whose categorical literality cannot avoid indeed seeming rudimentary, reductive, "vulgar."
What are we to think of the protagonist?
We find that it is a variation on one of his [James's] familiar themes: the
thwarted Anglo-Saxon spinster; and we remember unmistakable cases of
women in James's fiction who deceive themselves and others about the
origins of their aims and their emotions. (...)
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James's world is full of these women. They are not always emotionally
perverted. Sometimes they are apathetic. (...)
Or they are longing, these women, for affection but too inhibited or
passive to obtain it for themselves. (Wilson, pp. 110-111).
Is this type of literalization of textual sexuality what a "Freudian point of view" is really all about? Invalidated and disqualified
by James, would this "vulgarizing" literalization in truth be val-
idated, authorized, by Freud? If for James the literal is vulgar,. can

it be said that from a Freudian point of view the sexual as such is
literal? In order to investigate this question, I would like to quote,

at some length, Freud himself, in a little-known text which appeared
in 1910 under the title "'Wild' Psychoanalysis":
A few days ago a middle-aged lady (...) called upon me for a consultation,
complaining of anxiety-states. (...) The precipitating cause of the outbreak
of her anxiety-states had been a divorce from her last husband; but the
anxiety had become considerably intensified, according to her account, since
she had consulted a young physician in the suburb she lived in, for he had
informed her that the cause of her anxiety was her lack of sexual satisfaction. He said that she could not tolerate the loss of intercourse with her
husband, and so there were only three ways by which she could recover
her health-she must either return to her husband, or take a lover, or obtain
satisfaction from herself. Since then she had been convinced that she was
incurable (...)
She had come to me, however, because the doctor had said that this
was a new discovery for which I was responsible, and that she had only to
come and ask me to confirm what he said, and I should tell her that this
and nothing else was the truth (...). I will not dwell on the awkward
predicament in which I was placed by this visit, but instead will consider
the conduct of the practitioner who sent the lady to me (...) connecting
my remarks about "wild" psycho-analysis with this incident. 13
It is tempting to point out the analogy between the rather comical

situation Freud describes and the so-called "Freudian" treatment
of the governess by Wilson. In both cases, the reference to Freud's
theory is as brutally and as crudely literal, reducing the psychoanalytical explanation to the simple "lack of sexual satisfaction."
13 "'Wild' Psycho-Analysis," in The Standard Edition of the Complete

Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, Vol. XI (1910), pp. 221-222. This
edition will hereafter be abbreviated Standard.
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Shoshana Felman
Here therefore is Freud's own commentary on such procedures.
Curiously enough, Freud, like James, begins with a reminder that
the validity of an interpretation is a function not only of its truth,

but also of its tact:
Everyone will at once bring up the criticism that if a physician thinks it
necessary to discuss the question of sexuality (...) he must do so with tact.
(Standard, p. 222).
But tact is not just a practical, pragmatic question of "couchside manner"; it also has a theoretical importance: the reserve
within the interpretative discourse has to allow for and to indicate
a possibility of error, a position of uncertainty with respect to truth.

Besides all this, one may sometimes make a wrong surmise, and one is never
in a position to discover the whole truth. Psycho-analysis provides these

definite technical rules to replace the indefinable "medical tact" which is
looked upon as a special gift. (Standard, p. 226).
The "wild psychoanalyst" 's analysis thus lacks the necessary tact,
but that is not all.
Moreover, the physician in question was ignorant of a number of scientific
theories [Freud's italics] of psycho-analysis or had misapprehended them,

and thus showed how little he had penetrated into an understanding of its
nature and purposes.
(...) The doctor's advice to the lady shows clearly in what sense he
understands the expression "sexual life" -in the popular sense, namely,
in which by sexual needs nothing is meant but the need for coitus (...) In
psychoanalysis the concept of what is sexual comprises far more; it goes

lower and also higher than its popular sense.
(...) Mental absence of satisfaction with all its consequences can exist
where there is no lack of normal sexual intercourse (...)
(...) By emphasizing exclusively the somatic factor in sensuality he
undoubtedly simplifies the problem greatly. (Standard, pp. 222-223).
Sexuality, says Freud, is not to be taken in its literal, popular

sense: in its analytical extension, it goes "lower and also higher"
than its literal meaning, it extends both beyond and below. The
relation between the analytical notion of sexuality and the sexual
act is thus not a relation of simple, literal adequation, but rather

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a relation, so to speak, of inadequation: the psychoanalytical notion

of sexuality, says Freud, comprises both more and less than the
literal sexual act. But how are we to understand an extension of
meaning which includes not only more, but also less than the literal
meaning? This apparent paradox, indeed, points to the specific
complication which, in Freud's view, is inherent in human sexuality
as such. The question here is less that of the meaning of sexuality

than that of a complex relationship between sexuality and mean-
ing; a relationship which is not a simple deviation from literal
meaning, but rather, a problematization of literality as such.

The oversimplifying literalization professed by the "wild psycho-
analyst" thus essentially misconstrues and misses the complexity

of the relationship between sex and sense. It entails, however,
another fundamental error, which Freud goes on to criticize:

A second and equally gross misunderstanding is discernable behind the
physician's advice.
It is true that psycho-analysis puts forward absence of sexual satisfac-
tion as the cause of nervous disorders. But does it not say more than this?
Is its teaching to be ignored as too complicated when it declares that nervous
symptoms arise from a conflict between two forces -on the one hand, the
libido (which has as a rule become excessive), and on the other, a rejection
of sexuality, or a repression (which is over-severe)? No one who remembers

this second factor, which is by no means secondary in importance, can ever
believe that sexual satisfaction in itself constitutes a remedy of general

reliability for the sufferings of neurotics. A good number of these people
are, indeed, (...) in general incapable of satisfaction (Standard, p. 223).
Nervous symptoms, Freud insists, spring not simply from a "lack

of sexual satisfaction" but from a conflict between two forces. Re-
pression is constitutive of sexuality: the second factor is by no

means secondary in importance. But the second factor as such is
precisely the contradiction of the first. Which means not only that
the literal meaning-the first factor-is not simply first and fore-
most, but also, that its priority, the very primacy in which its
literality is founded, its very essence of literality, is itself subverted
and negated by the second, but not secondary, meaning. Indeed,
sexuality being constituted by these two factors, its meaning is its
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own contradiction: the meaning of the sexual as such is its own
obstruction, its own deletion.
The "lack of satisfaction," in other words, is not simply an

accident in sexual life, it is essentially inherent in it: "All human
structures," says Lacan, after Freud, "have as their essence, not
as an accident, the restraint of pleasure-of fulfillment." 14
Here, then, is another crucial point which Wilson misses, opposing as he does sexuality to the "lack of satisfaction," considering
the frustration of the governess (defined as the "thwarted AngloSaxon spinster") as an abnormal accident to be treated as pathogenic. What would "the abnormal" be, however, in Wilson's view,
if not precisely that which is not literal, that which deviates from
the literal? Literal (normal) sex being viewed as a simple, positive
act or fact, it is simply inconceivable that it would constitutively
miss its own aims, include its own negation as its own inherent
property. For Wilson, sex is "simple," i.e., adequate to itself. 15
Wilson can thus write of The Sacred Fount, another enigmatic

Jamesian story-"What if the hidden theme of The Sacred Fount
is simply sex again?" (Wilson, p. 115). But for Freud, as we have
seen, not only is the status of sexuality not simple: composed as

it is by two dynamically contradictory factors, sexuality is precisely
what rules out simplicity as such.
It is indeed because sexuality is essentially the violence of its

own non-simplicity, of its own inherent "conflict between two
forces," the violence of its own division and self-contradiction, that

it is experienced as anxiety and lived as terror. The terrifying aspect
of The Turn of the Screw is in fact linked by the text itself, subtly
14 Jacques Lacan, "Discours de cloture des journees sur les psychoses
chez l'enfant," in Recherches, special issue on "Enfance alienee," 11 d6cembre 1968, pp. 145-146; translation mine. Unless otherwise indicated, all
quotations from Lacan's works in this paper are in my translation.
15 And if that adequation does not appear in James's work, it is, in
Wilson's view, because James, too, like the governess, missed out on the
simplicity of the normal status of normal sex and knew only the lack of
satisfaction involved in its pathological manifestations: cf. Wilson, p. 125:
"Problems of sexual passion (...) were beginning to be subjects of burning
interest. But it is probable that James had by this time (...) come to
recognize his unfittedness for dealing with them and was far too honest
to fake."
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but suggestively, precisely to its non-simplicity. After having promised to tell his story, Douglas adds:
"It's quite too horrible." (...) "It's beyond everything. Nothing at all
that I know touches it."
"For sheer terror? I remember asking. He seemed to say it was not so
simple as that; to be really at a loss how to qualify it (Prologue, p. 1).
If, far from implying the simplicity of a self-present literal meaning, sexuality points rather to a multiplicity of conflicting forces,
to the complexity of its own divisiveness and contradiction, its
meaning can by no means be univocal or unified, but must necessarily be ambiguous. It is thus not rhetoric which disguises and
hides sex; sexuality is rhetoric, since it essentially consists of ambiguity: it is the coexistence of dynamically antagonistic meanings.
Sexuality is the division and divisiveness of meaning; it is meaning
as division, meaning as conflict.
And, indeed, what is the subject of The Turn of the Screw if

not this very conflict which inhabits meaning, the inherent conflict
which structures the relationship between sex and sense? "The
governess," John Lydenberg pertinently writes, "may indistinctly

consider the ghosts as the essence of evil, and, as Heilman points
out, she certainly chooses words which identify them with Satan
and herself with the Saviour. But our vantage point is different
from the governess's: we see her as one of the combatants, and
as the story progresses we become even more uncertain who is

fighting whom." 16
In thus dramatizing, through a clash of meanings, the very functioning of meaning as division and as conflict, sexuality is not,
however, the "text's meaning": it is rather that through which
meaning in the text does not come off, that which in the text, and
through which the text, fails to mean, that which can engender
but a conflict of interpretations, a critical debate and discord precise-
ly like the polemic which surrounds The Turn of the Screw and
with which we are concerned here. "If analytical discourse," writes
16 J. Lydenberg, "The Governess Turns the Screws," in Casebook, p. 289.
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Lacan, "indicates that meaning is as such sexual, this can only be

a manner of accounting for its limits. Nowhere is there a last word.
(....) Meaning indicates only the direction, point only at the sense
toward which if fails." 17
III. The Conflict of Interpretations: the Turns of the Debate

Et ma tete surgie
Solitaire vigie
Dans les vols triomphaux
De cette faux
Comme rupture franche

Plutat refoule ou tranche
Les anciens desaccords
Avec le corps
(Mallarme, Cantique de St-Jean)
In repeating as they do the primal scene of the text's meaning

as division, the critics can by no means master or exhaust the very
meaning of that division, but only act the division out, perform
it, be part of it.
To participate in a division is, however, at the same time, to
fight against division: it is indeed to commit oneself to the elimination of the opponent, and through him, to the elimination of the
heterogeneity of meaning, the very scandal of contradiction and
ambiguity. One after another, the critics thus contest Wilson's reading by negating or denying his assumption that the very meaning
of The Turn of the Screw can at all be divided or equivocal:
"Almost everything from beginning to end," [Wilson] declares, "can be read
equally in either of two senses." "Almost everything": But what if there
is one thing, one little thing, that cannot be read in either of two senses,
that can be read only in one sense? What then? How strange that
Mr. Wilson does not see that any such fact (...) could be the sharp little
rock on which his theory must split (A. J. A. Waldock). 18
17 J. Lacan, Le Sehninaire - Livre XX: Encore (1972-73), Paris: Seuil,

1975, p. 66. This work will henceforth be referred to as Encore.
18 "Mr. Edmund Wilson and The Turn of the Screw," in Casebook,
p. 172.
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The Freudians misread the internal evidence almost as valiantly as they
do the external. In the story, of course, there are passages that it is possible
to read ambivalently; but the determining unambiguous passages from which
the critic might work are so plentiful that it seems hardly good critical
strategy to use the ambiguous ones as points of departure (Robert, Heilman,

FR, MLN, p. 436).
Gi'axted that the text hits various levels of meaning, it would appear on the
whole unwise to have themn mutually contradictory (Alexender Jones). 19
The attempt, however, to eliminate contradiction itself partakes
of the contradiction: the affirmation of meaning as undivided is

simultaneously one that excludes the position of the opponent; the
homogeneity of meaning can be asserted but through the expulsion

of its heterogeneity. In precisely trying to unify the meaning of the
text and to proclaim it as unambiguous, the critics only mark more
forcefully its con.titutive division and duplicity. Contradiction reappears with ironical tenacity in the very words used to banish it:
[My] interpretation (...) has the virtue of extreme inclusiveness, though I
fear there is no rojium in it for (...) Mr. Wilson (Oliver Evans, Casebook,
p. 211!.
But here again, to affirm contradiction in the very act of deny-
ing it, as does the critics' story, their story of the "true" interpretation of the story, is precisely to bear witness to the double
bind which is constitutive of the very framework of the governess's

narrative, to be caught in the dynamically conflictive impasse which
confronts the governess herself as narrator. To affirm contradiction
in the very act of denying its existence in the text is therefore to
repeat, oneself, the textual act, to perform the very act of textuality
triggered by the ambiguity of sexuality. It becomes thus clear that

the critical debate, in its intentions and contentions, itself partakes
of the textual action. "The Turn of the Screw," writes James, "was
an action, desperately, or it was nothing" (New York Preface,
Norton, p. 121). The actors, or the agents of this textual action,
are indeed the readers and the critics no less than the characters.
Criticism, to use Austin's terminology, here consists not of a state19 "Point of View in The Turn of the Screw," in Casebook, p. 301.
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ment, but of a performance of the story of the text; its function
is not constative, but performative. Reading here becomes not the

cognitive observation of the text's pluralistic meaning, but its "acting out." Indeed it is not so much the critic who comprehends the
text, as the text which comprehends the critic. Comprehending its
own criticism, the text, through its reading, orchestrates the critical
disagreement as the performance and the "speech act" of its own
disharmony. "Irony," as Roland Barthes, in a different context,
puts it, "irony is what is immediately given to the critic: not to
see the truth, but, in Kafka's terms, to be it." 10
In thus dramatizing, through their contradictory versions of the
text's truth, the truth of the text as its own contradiction, James's
critics, curiously enough, all hold Freud responsible for their dis-
agreement: "Freud" is indeed believed to be the cause and is referred to as the demarcation line of their polemical divergence.
The studies of The Turn of the Screw, according to their own selfpresentation, divide themselves into so-called "Freudian" and so-
called "anti-Freudian" readings. Thus it is that while Ezra Pound

calls James's story "a Freudian affair," 21 while Wilson-as we have
seen-invites us to "observe the Freudian point of view," and while
Oscar Cargill celebrates "Henry James as a Freudian Pioneer" in

the very title of the first version of his study of The Turn of the
Screw, Katherine Anne Porter, on the other hand, singles out The
Turn of the Screw as an illustration of Freud's "defeat": "Here
is one place," she argues, "where I find Freud completely defeated"
(Casebook, p. 167). So does Robert Heilman strike at Freud himself

through Wilson, in entitling his polemical essay against the latter,
"The Freudian reading of The Turn of the Screw," an essay whose

opening line marks well the generalization of the methodological
reproach at stake: "The Freudian reading of Henry James's The
Turn of the Screw (...) does violence not only to the story but
also to the Preface" (FR, MLN, p. 433). In a counter-attack on
20 Critique et Vertie, Paris: Seuil, 1966, p. 75.
21 Quoted by Harold C. Goddard in "A Pre-Freudian Reading of The
Turn of the Screw," in Norton, p. 182.
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Heilman and other "anti-Freudian essays" listed in a footnote under

this terminological heading, John Silver proposes "to lend support
to Mr. Wilson's interpretation" in an essay which he entitles: "A
Note on the Freudian Reading of The Turn of the Screw" (Casebook, p. 239). Between "Freudians" and "anti-Freudians," in the
critical debate around The Turn of the Screw, Freud's ghost significantly and ironically thus seems to have become the very mark
and sign of divisiveness and of division. It is as though "Freud"
himself, in this strange polemic, had become the very name of the
critical disagreement, the uncanny proper name of discord.
This symmetrical polar opposition between "Freudians" and

"anti-Freudians" itself rests, however, on an implied presupposition,
which is, in truth, as problematic, and as paradoxical, as the debate
itself. The paradox can be summed up as follows: Whereas the
two opposing critical sides believe themselves to be in spectacular
disagreement over James's "true meaning," they demonstrate in
fact a spectacular agreement over Freud's "true meaning," which,

unlike that of James, is considered by both sides to be transparent,
unequivocal, incontrovertible. But in reality the "true Freud" is

no more immediately accessible to us than the "true James." For
"Freud" is equally a text, known only through the difficulties and

uncertainties of the act of reading and of interpretation. What, indeed, if it were not enough to call oneself a "Freudian" in order
to be one? And what if it were not enough to call oneself an "anti-
Freudian," either, in order to, in truth, become one? In this sense,

Freud's name can hardly be considered a proper name, but becomes
in effect nothing other than a ghost, as ambiguous as James's ghosts,
to the extent that it conveys not an established truth or a referential
knowledge, but an invitation to interpretation. A "Freudian reading" is thus not a reading guaranteed by, grounded in, Freud's
knowledge, but first and foremost a reading of Freud's "knowledge," which as such can never a priori be assured of knowing
anything, but must take its chances as a reading, necessarily and
constitutively threatened by error.
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In thus examining the paradigm of the so-called "Freudian reading of The Turn of the Screw" and its distortion of Freud's theory
as we could here but begin to read it in Freud's text, our intention

has been to displace and dislocate the much-repeated, central
question of the polemic: "is the Freudian reading true or false?"
by suggesting that we do not yet even know what a Freudian reading really is.
The question, therefore, can no longer be simply to decide
whether in effect the "Freudian" reading is true or false, correct
or incorrect. It can be both at the same time. It is no doubt correct,
but it misses nonetheless the most important thing: it is blind to

the very textuality of the text. The question of a reading's "truth"
must be at least complicated and re-thought through another
question, which Freud, indeed, has raised, and taught us to articulate: what does such "truth" (or any "truth") leave out? What
is it made to miss? What does it have as its function to overlook?
What, precisely, is its residue, the remainder it does not account

for? Since, as we have seen, the critical scene of the polemic is
both repetitive and performative of the textual scene, it can in fact
be said that it is the very "falseness" of the readings which constitutes their "truth." The Freudian reading is no doubt "true,"
but no truer than the opposed positions which contradict it. And
it is "false," indeed, to the extent that it excludes them. These
opposed positions which assert the text's contradiction in the very
act of denying it, are thus "true" to the extent that they are "false."
And a new, far more troubling question can no longer be avoided,
with respect to James as well as with respect to Freud, and indeed
because of both: is a reading of ambiguity as such really possible?

Is it at all possible to read and to interpret ambiguity without re-
ducing it in the very process of interpretation? Are reading and

ambiguity in any way compatible?
It should be noted that the expression "Freudian reading" is

itself an ambiguous expression which can refer either to Freudian
statements or to Freudian utterance: a reading can be called
"Freudian" with respect to what it reads (the meaning or thematic
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content it derives from a text) or with respect to how it reads

(its interpretative procedures, the techniques or methods of analysis
it uses). While it is almost exclusively in the first of these two

senses that the concept "Freudian reading" is understood and used
in the American cultural context, in France, it is on the contrary

rather in the second sense that a new reading of Freud has been
elaborated by Jacques Lacan. For Lacan, indeed, the unconscious
is not only that which must be read, but also, and primarily, that
which reads. Freud's discovery of the unconscious is the outcome
of his reading of the hysterical discourse of his patients, i.e., of

his being capable of reading in this hysterical discourse his own
unconscious. The discovery of the unconscious is therefore Freud's

discovery, within the discourse of the other, of what was actively
reading within himself: his discovery, in other words, or his reading, of what was reading-in what was being read. The gist of
Freud's discovery, for Lacan, thus consists not simply of the revela-
tion of a new meaning-the unconscious-but of the discovery of

a new way of reading:
[Freud's] first interest was in hysteria. (...) He spent a lot of time listening,
and, while he was listening, there resulted something paradoxical, (...), that
is, a reading. It was while listening to hysterics that he read that there was
an unconscious. That is, something he could only construct, and in which

he himself was implicated; he was implicated in it in the sense that, to
his great astonishment, he noticed that he could not avoid participating in

what the hysteric was telling him, and that he felt affected by it. Naturally,
everything in the resulting rules through which he es'tablished the practice

of psychoanalysis is designed to counteract this consequence, to conduct
things in such a way as to avoid being affected. 22
In the light of this Lacanian insight, I would like to propose a rereading of The Turn of the Screw which would try to replace the
conventional idea of a "Freudian reading" with a different type of
reading, one whose necessity and possibilities have been precisely

opened up by Lacan's re-reading of Freud's discovery of reading.
22 Transcribed from a recording of J. Lacan's talk at the "Kanzer

Seminar" (Yale University, Nov. 24, 1975), which has been translated into
English by Barbara Johnson.
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Throughout this paper, Lacan's works will be periodically referred

to, not so much as an authoritative body of theoretical knowledge,
but as a remarkably rich and complex analytical text, whose value

lies for us less in any reified form of its pronouncements than in
the suggestiveness of its rhetoric, less in what it states than in
what it understates, leaves open,-in its linguistic silences and their

possible interaction with James's text.
Our reading of The Turn of the Screw would thus attempt not
so much to capture the mystery's solution, but to follow, rather,
the significant path of its flight; not so much to solve or answer the
enigmatic question of the text, but to investigate its structure; not
so much to name and make explicit the ambiguity of the text, but
to understand the necessity and the rhetorical functioning of the
textual ambiguity. The question underlying such a reading is thus
not "what does the story mean?" but rather "how does the story
mean?" How does the meaning of the story, whatever it may be,
rhetorically take place through permanent displacement, textually
take shape and take effect: take flight.
IV. The Turns of the Story's Frame: a Theory of Narrative

It appeared that the narrative he had prom-
ised to read us really required for a proper

intelligence a few words of prologue.
(The Turn of the Screw)
Literature is language (...); but it is language

around which we have drawn a frame, a
frame that indicates a decision to regard with

a particular self-consciousness the resources
language had always possessed.

(Stanley E. Fish)
The actual story of The Turn of the Screw (that of the governess
and the ghosts) is preceded by a prologue which is both posterior

and exterior to it, and which places it as a story, as a speech event,
in the context of the "reality" in which the story comes to be told.

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With respect to the story's content, then, the prologue constitutes
a sort of frame, whose function is to situate the story's origin.

The narrated story is thus presented as the center of the frame
-the focal point of a narrative space which designates and cir-
cumscribes it from the outside as its inside. Placed around the story
which becomes its center, the narrative frame, however, frames
another center within its literal space:
The story had held us, round the fire, sufficiently breathless (...) He began
to read to our hushed little circle, (...) kept it, round the hearth, subject
to a common thrill (pp. 1 and 4).
Since the narrative space of the prologue organizes both a frame

around the story and a circle around the fire, since the fire and
the story are both placed at the very center of the narration, the
question could arise as to whether they could be, in any way, con-
sidered metaphors of each other in the rhetorical constellation of

the text. This hypothesis in turn opens up another question: if
the content of the story and the fire in the hearth are metaphors
of each other, how does this metaphorical relation affect the centrality of the two terms?
Before pursuing these questions further, let us take another

look at the prologue's status as the story's "frame." The prologue,
in fact, frames the story not only spatially but also temporally:
while it takes place long after the governess's story, it also tells of
events which had occurred before it: the meeting between the
governess and the Master which sets up the determining conditions
of the subsequent events. The frame picks up the story, then, both
after its end and before its opening. If the function of the frame
is to determine the story's origin, then that origin must somehow
be both anterior and posterior to the story.

Anterior to the story but recounted and accounted for a posteriori, the story's origin seems to depend on the authority of the
story teller, i.e., of the narrator, who is usually supposed to be
both the story's literal source and the depositary of the knowledge
out of which the story springs and which the telling must reveal.
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But while the prologue's function would thus seem to be to relate
the story to its narrator, the prologue of The Turn of the Screw
rather disconnects the story from the narrator since it introduces
not one narrator, but three: 1) the person who says "I," the first
person "general narrator" who transmits to us the story with which
he himself had no direct connection, and which he heard from

Douglas; 2) Douglas, who reads the story to the circle around
the fire, but who did not participate in it himself. Douglas had
known the governess, the story's heroine, as his sister's governess
long after the story had taken place, and had been secretly in love
with her although she was ten years his senior. It was, however,
only later, on her deathbed, that the governess confided to him
a written account of her story. 3) The third teller of the story
is thus the governess herself, who is the first-person narrator of
her own written narrative.
Having received and read the manuscript, Douglas had in turn
kept the governess's story secret for forty years, until that night
around the fire when at last, to his privileged circle of friends and
most especially to the general narrator, he decided to reveal it.
And finally, long after his own telling of the story around the fire,
Douglas, on his own deathbed, confided the treasured manuscript
to his friend the narrator, who tells us in the prologue that the
story he is transmitting to us is his own transcription, made still
later, of that manuscript, which he had heard Douglas read before

the fire.
The existence of the story is thus assured only through the
constitution of a narrative chain, in which the narrators relay

the story from one to the other. The story's origin is therefore
not assigned to any one voice which would assume responsibility

for the tale, but to the deferred action of a sort of echoing effect,
produced-"after the fact"-by voices which themselves re-produce
previous voices. It is as though the frame itself could only multiply
itself, repeat itself: as though, in its infinite reproduction of the
very act of narration, the frame could only be its own self-repetition,
its own self-framing. If the tale is thus introduced through its own
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reproduction, if the story is preceded and anticipated by a repetition

of the story, then the frame, far from situating, as it first appeared,
the story's origin, actually situates its loss, constitutes its infinite
deferral. The story's origin is therefore situated, it would seem, in

a forgetting of its origin: to tell the story's origin is to tell the
story of that origin's obliteration. But isn't this forgetting of
the story's origin and beginning, and the very story of this forgetting, constitutive, precisely, of the very story of psychoanalysis and
of analysis as a story? The Turn of the Screw would seem to be

very like a psychoanalytical tale. Through the spiral threads of its
prologue, the story indeed originates in a frame through which it
frames itself into losing its own origin: as is the case with the
psychoanalytical story of the unconscious, it is here the very loss
of the story's origin which constitutes the origin of the story. The
New York Preface, in its turn, both underlines and illustrates this
point: added a posteriori as a second preface to the beginning of

the story, it is like a prologue to the prologue, an introduction
to the introduction, as if to make up for the missing origin or
beginning, but succeeding only in repeating, in beginning once again
the tale of the constitutive loss of the tale's beginning.

The starting point itself - the sense (...) of the circle, one winter afternoon,
round the hall-fire of a grave old country house where (...) the talk turned,
on I forget what homely pretext, to apparitions and night-fears, to the

marked and sad drop in the general supply (.. .). The good (...) ghost stories
appeared all to have been told (...) Thus it was, I remember, that amid our
lament for a beautiful lost form, our distinguished host expressed the wish
that he might but have recovered for us one of the scantiest of fragments
of this form at its best. He had never forgotten the impression made on
him as a young man by the withheld glimpse, at it were, of a dreadful
matter that had been reported years before, and with as few particulars,
to a lady with whom he had youthfully talked. The story would have been
thrilling could she but find herself in better possession of it, dealing as
it did with a couple of small children in an out-of-the-way place, to whom
the spirits of certain "bad" servants, dead in the employ of the house, were
believed to have appeared with the design of "getting hold" of them. This
was all, but there had been more, which my friend's old converser had lost
the thread of (...). He himself could give us but this shadow of a shadow
- my own appreciation of which, I need scarcely say, was exactly wrapped
up in that thinness (Norton, pp. 117-118).
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A narrative frame which thus incarnates the very principle of

repetition of the story it contains, and, through that repetition,
situates both the loss of the story's origin and the story's origin
as its own loss, is clearly not a simple backdrop, staging, from the
circumstancial outside, the inside of the story's content, but constitutes rather a complication, a problematization of the relationship
itself between the inside and the outside of the textual space. On
the one hand, as Alexander Jones points out, the "outside" frame
expands the "inside" of the story, bringing into it both the storyteller and the reader:
By placing himself within the confines of the story as "I," the narrator,
James makes himself one of the characters rather than an omniscient author.
No one is left on the "outside" of the story, and the reader is made to feel
that he and James are members of the circle around the fire (Casebook,
p. 299).
In including not only the content of the story but also the figure
of the reader within the fireside circle, the frame indeed leaves no
one out: it pulls the outside of the story into its inside by enclosing
in it what is usually outside it: its own readers. But the frame
at the same time does the very opposite, pulling the inside outside:
for in passing through the echoing chain of the multiple, repetitive
narrative voices, it is the very content, the interior of the story
which becomes somehow exterior to itself, reported as it is by a

voice inherently alien to it and which can render of it but "the
shadow of a shadow," a voice whose intrusion compromises the tale's

secret intimacy and whose otherness violates the story's presence to
itself. The frame is therefore not an outside contour whose role is to
display an inside content: it is a kind of exteriority which permeates

the very heart of the story's interiority, an internal cleft separating
the story's content from itself, distancing it from its own referential
certainty. With respect to the story's content, the frame thus acts
both as an inclusion of the exterior and as an exclusion of the

interior: it is a perturbation of the outside at the very core of
the story's inside, and as such, it is a blurring of the very difference
between inside and outside.

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No one, then, is left on the "outside" of the story, except the

story's inside. Like the circle round the fire, the story's frame thus
encloses not only the story's content, but, equally, its readers and
its reading. But what if the story's content were precisely its own
reading? What if the reading (outside the text) were none other
than the story's content (inside the text), being also, at the same
time, that which compromises that content's inside, preventing it
from coinciding with itself, making it ec-centric, exterior to itself?

If we stop to consider that this non-presence of the story to it-
self, this self-exteriority, this ec-centricity and foreignness of the

content to itself, can define, as such, precisely, the unconscious, we
can see that reading, here, might be just the key to an understanding of the essential link between the story and the unconscious.
"That is what analytical discourse is all about: reading," says Lacan

(Encore, p. 29). For has it not become obvious that the chain of
narrative voices which transmits The Turn of the Screw is also, at
the same time, a chain of readings? Readings which re-read, and

re-write, other readings? In the chain transmission of the story,
each narrator, to relay the story, must first be a receiver of the
story, a reader who at once records it and interprets it, simultaneous-
ly trying to make sense of it and undergoing it, as a lived experience, an "impression," a reading-effect.
I asked him if the experience in question had been his own. To this his
answer was prompt. "Oh, thank God, nol"
"And is the record yours? You took the thing down?"
"Nothing but the impression. I took it here " he tapped his heart.
"I've never lost it" (Prologue, p. 2).
"The safest arena," writes James elsewhere, "for the play of moving
accidents and of mighty mutations and of strange encounters, or
whatever odd matters, is the field, as I may call it, rather of their
second than of their first exhibition":
By which, to avoid obscurity. I mean nothing more cryptic than I feel myself
show them best by showing almost exclusively the way they are felt, by
recognising as their main interest some impression strongly made by them
and intensely received. We but too probably break down (...) when we
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attempt the prodigy (...) in itself; with its "objective" side too emphasised
the report (...) will practically run thin. We want it clear, goodness knows,
but we also want it thick, and we get the thickness in the human consciousness that entertains and records, that amplifies and interprets it. That
indeed, when the question is (...) of the "supernatural", constitutes the only
thickness we do get; here prodigies, when they come straight, come with
an effect imperilled; they keep all their character, on the other hand, by
looming through some other history -the indispensable history of somebody's normal relation to something. 23
The "main interest" of the story is thus the "thickness" it acquires

through its own reading-through "the human consciousness that
entertains and records, that amplifies and interprets it." The very
subject-matter of the story of the "supernatural," its narrative condition, is, says James, its way of "looming through some other
history," its narration in the other, and out of the other. And that
"other" here is the reader. The reader-i.e., also each one of the
narrators: Douglas with respect to the governess!s manuscript;
"I" with respect to Douglas's account of it. The reader-narrator is
here that "other," his personal story is the "other history," and his
reading (i.e., his narrative, his telling) is significant to the extent
that it interferes with the tale it tells. Each one of these superimposed stories, each act of narration and each narrative, is here a
reading of the other; each reading is a story in the other, a story
whose signification is interfered with but whose interference is
significant, a story whose very meaning interferes but whose inter-
ference means. And this, of course, brings us back to the very

question of the unconscious, for what, indeed, is the unconscious
if not-in every sense of the word-a reader? "In analytical discourse," writes Lacan, "the unconscious subject is presumed to be
able to read. And that's what the whole affair of the unconscious
amounts to" (Encore, p. 38). The story of the unconscious thus
resembles James's tale, insofar as they both come to us, constitutively, through the reader.
23 Preface to "The Altar of the Dead," in Henry James, The Art of the
Novel, Critical Prefaces, ed. R. P. Blackmur, New York: Charles Scribner's
Sons, 1962, p. 256. Unless otherwise indicated, quotations from James's
Prefaces will refer to this collection, hereafter abbreviated AN.
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Thus it is that the narrator presents us with his own transcription of the manuscript which Douglas, "with immense effect, (...)
began to read to our hushed little circle" (p. 4). Douglas's performance as storyteller, as author-narrator, consists, thereby, of a
literal act of reading. And if the first-person narrator retransmits
the story, communicates to us a reproduction and a reading of that

reading, it is doubtless the result of the "immense effect" Douglas's
reading produced on him, and which he hopes in turn to produce

on us. The very act of telling, of narration, proceeds then from the
potentially infinite repercussion of an effect of reading; an effect
that, once produced, seeks to reproduce itself as an effect yet to be
produced-an effect whose effect is an effect to produce. Narrative

as such turns out to be the trace of the action of a reading; it is,
in fact, reading as action. In Douglas's very first remarks, on the
opening page of the prologue, the very title of the story is uttered
as the mark, or the description, of its own reading-effect:

"I quite agree-in regard to Griffin's ghost, or whatever it was-that
its appearing first to the little boy, at so tender an age, adds a particular
touch. (...) If the child gives the effect another turn of the screw, what
do you say of two children?"
"We say, of course," somebody exclaimed, "that they give two turns!
Also that we want to hear about them" (Prologue, p. 1).
It is by virtue of the reading-effect it produces that the text
receives its very name, its title. But that title, as a title, is not
given to it by the original author of the manuscript: it is added
to it "after the fact"-as the alien seal of the reader-by the third
narrator, the last reader-receiver in the narrative chain of readings:
The next night, by the corner of the hearth (...) [Douglas] opened the faded
red cover of a thin old-fashioad gilt-edged album (...). On the first occasion
the same lady put another question. "W'hat is your title?"

"I haven't one."
"Oh, I* have"! I said. But Douglas, without heeding me, had begun to
read with a fine clearness that was like a rendering to the ear of the beauty
of his author's hand (Prologue, p. 14; *Jamess italics; remaining italics

mine).
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Not only does the title precisely name "the turn of the screw" of
its own effect: the title is itself the product of such an effect, it is
itself the outcome of a reading of the story (and is itself thereby
a reading of the story), since the narrative is given its name and
title by the reader and not by the author. In this manner the
prologue, just as it displaced and dislocated the relationship between the inside and the outside, deconstructs as well the distinction
and the opposition between reader and writer. The reader here be-
comes the author, and the author is in turn a reader. What the
-narrator perceives in Douglas's reading as "a rendering to the ear
of the beauty of his author's hand" is nothing but Douglas's per-
formance as a reader, which becomes a metaphor of the original

author's writing through the very act of reading which that writing
has inspired and produced as one of its effects. In essence, then,
when Douglas answers the question "What is your title?" with "I
haven't one," that answer can be understood in two different
manners: he has no name for his own narrative; or else, he has
no title to that narrative which is really not his own, he is not

entitled, therefore, to give it a title, he has no right or authority
over it, since he is not its author, since he can only "render the
beauty of his author's hand," "represent" the story's author, to
the extent that he is the story's reader.
The story, therefore, seems to frame itself into losing not only
its origin but also its very title: having lost both its name and the
authority of its author, the narrative emerges, out of the turns of
its frame, not only authorless and nameless, but also unentitled
to its own authority over itself, having no capacity to denominate,

no right to name itself. Just as the frame's content, the governess's
narrative, tells of the loss of the proprietor of the house, of the

"Master" (by virtue of which loss the house becomes precisely
haunted, haunted by the usurping ghosts of its subordinates), so
does the framing prologue convey, through the reader's (vocal) rendering of an authorship to which he has no title, the loss of the
proprietor of the narrative. And this strange condition of the narrative, this strange double insistence, in the frame as in the story,
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on the absence of the story's master, o. the owner of the property,
cannot but evoke, once more, the constitutive condition of the
unconscious, itself a sort of obscure knowledge which is, precisely,

authorless and ownerless, to the extent that it is a knowledge which
no consciousness can master or be in possession of, a knowledge
which no conscious subject can attribute to himself, assume as
his own knowledge. "Any statement of authority," writes Lacan with
respect to the discourse of the unconscious, but in terms which
can equally describe the very narrative conditions of The Turn of
the Screw-"Any statement of authority [in this discursive space]

has no other guarantee than that of its own utterance." 4
If the story has thus managed to lose at once its author, its
authority, its title, and its origin, without losing itself-without
being itself suppressed, obliterated or forgotten-, it is because its
written record has been repeatedly and carefully transferred from
hand to hand: bequeathed first by the dying governess to Douglas,

and then by the dying Douglas to the narrator. It is thus death
itself which moves the narrative chain forward, which inaugurates
the manuscript's displacements and the process of the substitution
of the narrators. By so doing, death paradoxically appears not as
an end but rather as a starting point: the starting point of the
transferral of the story, that is, of its survival, of its capacity to
go on, to subsist, by means of the repeated passages which it effects
from death to life, and which effect the narrative.
For each of the people who receive and keep the manuscript
of the story, that manuscript constitutes, well beyond the death of
the addressor-the person who bequeathed it to them-, the survival of the giver's language and the giver's own survival in his
language: a return of the dead within the text. And we hardly
need recall that it is precisely the return of the dead which provides
the central moving force of the narrative being thus transferred:
the story of the governess's struggles with the servants' ghosts.
While the prologue contains nothing supernatural in itself, it
24 Ecrits, Paris: Seuil, 1966, p. 813. Hereafter referred to as Ecrits.
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curiously foreshadows the question of the return of the dead by
making the manuscript itself into a ghost, speaking from beyond

several graves.
What, however, is the motivation for the narrative's transmission? For what reason is the manuscript at all transferred? Douglas,
quite discreetly, alludes to the reason.
"Then your manuscript-?"
"(...) A woman's. She has been dead these twenty years. She sent me
the pages in question before she died." They were all listening now, and
of course there was somebody to be arch, or at any rate to draw the
inference. But if he put the inference by without a smile it was also without
irritation. "She was a most charming person, but she was ten years older
than I. She was my sister's governess," he quietly said. "She was the most
agreeable woman I've ever known in her position; she would have been
worthy of any whatever. It was long ago, and this episode was long before.
(...) We had, in her off-hours, some strolls and talks in the garden-talks
in which she struck me as awfully clever and nice. Oh yes; don't grin:
I liked her extremely and am glad to this day to think she liked me too.
If she hadn't she wouldn't have told me. She had never told, anyone.
(Prologue, p. 2).
In an understatement, Douglas lets it be understood that if the

manuscript has survived "these twenty years" beyond the death
of its author, it is because of the love which had once drawn him
to her and which had prompted her in turn to confide to him her
ultimate deathbed secret. The cause for the transferral of the ma-
nuscript is, therefore, not just death, but love. For Douglas, the
manuscript commemorates his encounter with a woman, and with

her writing: the story is as such the outcome, the result of love,
of death, of writing, of transferring.
If the story's origin is lost, then it is not just because, by virtue

of the author's death, it is buried in an unrecoverable, distant past:
it is also because that origin cannot be situated as a fixed point,
but only as a movement, a dynamics: the story's origin is in transference. The beginning of the tale, in other words, is not ascribable
to any of the narrators, but to the relationship between the nar-
rators. The story's origin is not a referent, but the very act of
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reference: the very act.-through love and death-of referring to
the Other; the gesture of the transference of a story.

The narrators, in fact, constitute not only a self-relaying chain
of narrative transmissions, but also a series of pairs or couples: the
governess and Douglas; Douglas and the first-person narrator. Be-
fore the triangular narrative chain comes into being-by means of
the repeated and successive transfers of the manuscript due precisely

to the disruption of the couples, to the death, each time, of one
of the two partners, -the couples, during their lifetime, carry on

a relationship which, in both cases, has a discreet erotic connotation
but is primarily discursive and linguistic. Such is the relationship
between the governess and Douglas:
[and] we had, in her off-hours, some strolls and talks in the garden-talks
in which she struck me as awfully clever and nice. Oh yes; don't grin: I
liked her extremely and am glad to this day to think she liked me too
(Prologue, p. 2).
Later on, it is 'the same sort of relationship which structures the

rapport between Douglas narrating and the first-person narrator
listening:
It was to me in particular that he appeared to propound this-appeared
almost to appeal for aid not to hesitate (...). The others resented postponement, but it was just his scruples that charmed me (Prologue, p. 2).
In both cases, the couples therefore become couples by virtue of a

constitutive situation of dialogue and of interlocution, whose discursiveness subtly develops into a discreet game of seduction. In-
deed, this structuring situation of the couples strikingly calls to

mind the psychoanalytical situation par excellence, governed as it
is by transference, in its most strictly analytical sense: it is quite
clear that the narrator's fascination with Douglas, as well as
Douglas's fascination with the governess, are both transferential
fascinations-and so is the governess's fascination with the Master.
The tale of transference thus turns out to be the tale of the transference of a tale. This transferential structure will, however, not
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only motivate, but also modify the narrative, becoming at once its
motive and its mask: putting the narrative in motion as its dynamic,
moving force, it will also hide, distort it through the specular
mirages of its numerous mirrors of seduction.
The play of seduction is productive of mirages insofar as, inscribed within the very process of narration, it becomes a play of
belief-belief in the narrator and therefore in the accuracy of his
narrative. It is because Douglas is so charmed by the governess,
on whom the discursive situation makes him transfer, with whom

he becomes narcissistically infatuated, that he adds faith to the
literality of her narrative and to the authority of her own idealized
mirror-image of herself. Vouching for the governess, he grants her
story the illusory authority of a delusive credibility. Douglas, in
other words, endows the governess with a narrative authority.

Authority as such, so crucial to The Turn of the Screw, nonetheless
turns out to be itself a fiction, an error in perspective, created by
and established through the illusions and delusions of the transferential structure. 25 In the same way, Douglas's account of the
governess's story is in turn given authority and credibility by the
play of mutual admiration and intuitive understanding between him

and his charmed, privileged listener, who will himself become a
narrator.
The transferential narrative chain thus consists not only of the

echoing effect of voices reproducing other voices, but also of
the specular effect of the seductive play of glances, of the visual

exchange of specular reflections, of the mirror-repetition of a sym-
25 Cf. James's own comments on the "authority" of the governess in
the New York Preface: "I recall (...) a reproach made me by a reader
capable evidently, for the time, of some attention, but not quite capable
of enough, who complained that I hadn't sufficiently 'characterized' my
young woman engaged in her labyrinth (...), hadn't in a word invited her
to deal with her own mystery as well as with that of Peter Quint (...) I
remember well (...) my reply to that criticism. "(...) We have surely as
much of her own nature as we can swallow in watching it reflect her
anxieties and inductions. It constitutes no little of a character indeed, in
such conditions, (...) that she is able to make her particular credible
statement of such strange matters. She has "authority," which is a good
deal to have given her, and I couldn't have arrived at so much had I
clumsily tried for more" (Norton, pp. 120-121).
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metrically-and therefore infinitely-self-reproducing, self-reflecting

self-reflections. The Turn of the Screw, indeed, in every sense of the
word, is a reflection of, and on, the act of seeing. The story's frame
is nothing other than a frame of mirrors, in which the narrative is
both reflected and deflected through a series of symmetrical, mutual

glances of couples looking at themselves looking at themselves.
4...she liked me too. If she hadn't she wouldn't have told me. She had
never. told anyone. It wasn't simply that she said so, but that I knew she
hadn't. I was sure; I could see. You'll easily judge why when you hear."
"Because the thing had been such a scare?"
He continued to fix me. "You'll easily judge," he repeated; "you* will."

I fixed him too. "I see. She was in love."
He laughed for the first time. "You are* acute. Yes, she was in love.
That is she had* been. That came out -she couldn't tell her story without
its coming out. I saw it, and she saw I saw it; but neither of us spoke
of it (...)" (Prologue, pp. 2-3; *James's italics; remaining italics mine)
What, however, is the nature of the act of "seeing"? This is

the crucial question raised by the appearance of the ghosts, not
simply because the ghosts only appear when the governess sees
them, but also because each of their appearances enacts the same
specular confrontation as that between the other couples: the same
exchange of symmetrical, dual glances occurs between the gover-
ness and the supernatural intruder. In this play of "seeing oneself

seen by the other" and of "seeing the other see," through which the
prologue, once again, foreshadows the main story, what, then, does
"seeing" mean? "I saw it, and she saw I saw it"; "I was sure; I
could see"; "He continued to fix me (...) I fixed him too. 'I see.
She was in love.'" Clearly, in the play of these Jamesian sentences,

"seeing" is interpreting; it is interpreting love; and it is also inter-
preting by means of love. Thus, in several ways and on several levels,

love has here become, in both senses of the word, the subject of
interpretation. In this double transferential structure, in this double
love-relation, between the narrator and Douglas, and between

Douglas and the governess, love has become both what is seen and
what "can see"; both what is read and what is reading; both what
is to be interpreted in this intense exchange of glances, and what is
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actively, through that exchange, doing the interpreting. Love interprets. And inversely, the interpreter as such, whether or not
he knows it, wants it, or intends it, is caught up in a love-relation,

in a relationship constitutively transferential.
Transference, says Lacan, is "the acting-out of the reality of

the unconscious." 21 On the basis of the literary evidence which we
are analyzing, and within the framework of a theory of narrative,

we are here prompted to raise the question whether the acting-out
of the unconscious is always in effect the acting-out of a story, of
a narrative; and whether, on the other hand, all stories and all
narratives imply a transferential structure, that is, a love-relation
which both organizes and disguises, deciphers and enciphers them,

turning them into their own substitute and their own repetition. The
Turn of the Screw at any rate would seem to confirm such a
hypothesis.
It is therefore no coincidence that the transferral of the manuscript should be presided over by a pair of would-be lovers, nor
that the story should be twice retold (and acted out) for love,
precisely, of its previous narrator or teller. Nor is it a coincidence
that the transferential couple is here identified with the couple
author-reader. The love-relation, i.e., the acting out of the unconscious through a relation of performative interpretation, seems
to inhere in, and to govern, the relationship between the addressor

of the narrative ("author" or narrator) and its addressee (listenerreceiver or reader-interpreter).
I can see Douglas there before the fire (...) looking down at his converser
with his hands in his pockets. "Nobody but me, till now, has ever heard.
It's quite too horrible." (...)"It's beyond everything. Nothing at all that
I know touches it."
"For sheer terror?" I remember asking.

He seemed to say that it wasn't so simple as that; to be really at a loss
how to qualify it. He passed his hand over his eyes, made a little wincing
grimace. "For dreadful -dreadfulness!"
"Oh, how delicious!" cried one of the women.
26 J. Lacan, Le Sgininaire - Livre XI: Les Quatre concepts fondamentaux
de la psychanalyse, Paris: Seuil, 1973, p. 158. This work will henceforth
be referred to as Quatre Concepts.
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He took no notice of her; hle looked at me, but as if, instead of mae,
he saw what he spoke of. "For general uncanny ugliness and horror and
pain" (Prologue, pp. 1-2).
The play of passionate glances becomes even more complex when

the act of looking is revealed to be not so much a passive observa-
tion but an active operation of substitution. Paradoxically, the

intensity of that emotive look directs both the seduction and the
story, both the narrative and the emotion toward a rhetorical place
rather than an individual object: "he looked at me, but as if,

instead of me, he saw what he spoke of." That sentence has two
different implications: 1) "what the narrator speaks of" is equivalent
to the place of the person he addresses, or speaks to: if the reader
also finds himself in that place (spoken to), then the reader is indeed
the subject of the story; 2) what Douglas actually "speaks of" is
the "general uncanny ugliness and horror and pain" that has to do
with ghosts. In becoming, by virtue of his place ("spoken to") the
subject of the story ("spoken of"), the reader (as well as the firstperson narrator) himself becomes a ghost, occupying the rhetorical
ghostly place, bound up in the "uncanniness" of the odd relationship

between love, death, and substitution.
If, by virtue of the storyteller's transference on the reader, the
reader thus becomes the storyteller's ghost (the addressee of his
unconscious), the reader, in his turn, transfers on the storyteller

or the "author," to the extent that he invests the latter with the
authority and prestige of the "subject presumed to know." "Trans-
ference," says Lacan, "is only understandable insofar as its starting

point is seen in the subject presumed to know; he is presumed to
know what no one can escape: meaning as such." It is, as we have
seen, the first-person narrator who, in his role as fascinated reader
and admiring interpreter, confers upon Douglas his prestige, upon

the narrative its title, and upon the story the authority of the
ultimate knowledge it is presumed to have of its own meaning:

"'The story will tell,' I took upon myself to reply" (p. 10). The "I"
of the first-person narrator in his role of reader thus constitutes as
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cisely the same way as a psychoanalytical patient's transferential

fantasy attributes to his analyst a knowledge which is really his own
story as unknown.
In telling at once of transference and through transference, the

story acts as a repetitive border-crossing, as a constant shuttle
between opposed domains: speech and silence, life and death, inside
and outside, consciousness and the unconscious, sleep and wakefulness:
The case, I may mention, was that of an apparition in just such an old
house as had gathered us for the occasion -an appearance, of a dreadful

kind, to a little boy sleeping in the room with his mother and waking her
up in the terror of it; waking her not to dissipate his dread and soothe him
to sleep again, but to encounter also, herself, (...) the same sight that had
shaken him. It was this observation that drew from Douglas-not immediately, but later in the evening -a reply that had the interesting consequence to which I call attention (PrQlogue, p. 1).
It is noteworthy that, in these opening lines of the prologue, it is a
child who is at the origin both of the dream and of the dreamlike
tale that follows. But if the child, indeed, awakens here his mother,
it is only so as to include her in his dream, to wake her into his
own sleep. In straddling, in this manner, the line between waking

and sleeping, the child's story thus subverts or at least distorts
the possibility of telling the two apart. Like the child, the narrator,
too, through the dreamlike narrative which he puts in motion out

of his own transferential illusions, can only wake us into his own
sleep: into the transferential dream 'which becomes our own. What
the tale awakens in us is finally nothing other than, precisely, our
own sleep.
At this juncture, it could be illuminating to recall that the

psychoanalytical notion of transference is for the first time brought
up by Freud in The Interpretation of Dreams, precisely with respect
to the question of the relation between sleeping and waking: in
attempting to explain the interactions and exchanges which occur
between sleep and wakefulness, Freud analyzes the role of the

"day's residues" and their relation to the "dream wish":
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On this view dream might be described as a substitute for an infantile scene
modified by being TRANSFERRED on to a recent experience. The infantile
scene is unable to bring about its own revival and has to be content with
returning as a dream.27
My supposition is that a conscious wish can only become a dream-instigator

if it succeeds in AWAKENING an unconscious wish with the same tenor
and in obtaining reinforcement from it (Ibid., p. 591).
It is only possible to do so [to explain the part played by the day's residues]
if we bear firmly in mind the part played by the unconscious wish and
then seek for information from the psychology of the neuroses. We learn
fromz the latter that an unconscious idea is as such quite incapable of

entering the preconscious and that it can only exercise any effect there by
establishing a connection with an idea which already belongs to the preconscious, by TRANSFERRING ITS INTENSITY on to it and by getting
itself "covered" by it. Here we have the fact of "TRANSFERENCE," which
provides an explanation of so many striking phenomena in the mental life
of neurotics (Ibid, p. 601).
I will be seen, then, that the DAY'S RESIDUES (...) not only borrow
something from the unconscious when they succeed in taking a share in
the formation of a dream-namely the instinctual force which is at the
disposal of the repressed wish-but that they also OFFER THE UNCONSCIOUS something indispensable - namely THE NECESSARY POINT
OF ATTACHMENT FOR A TRANSFERENCE (Ibid., p. 603).
Let us summarize what we have learnt so far. (...) The unconscious wish
links itself up with the day's residues and effects a transference on to them;
this may happen either in the course of the day or not until a state of sleep
has been established. A wish now arises which has been transferred on to
the recent material; or a recent wish, having been suppressed, gains fresh
life by being reinforced from the unconscious. This wish seeks to force its
way along the normal path taken by thought-processes, through the pre-
conscious (...) to consciousness. But it comes up against the censorship. (. ..)

At this point it takes on the distortion for which the way has already been
paved by the transference of the wish on to the recent material. So far it is
on the way to becoming an obsessive idea or a delusion or something of
the kind - that is, a thought which has been intensified by transference
and distorted in its expression by censorship. Its further advance is halted,
however, by the sleeping state of the preconscious. (...) The dream-process
consequently enters on a regressive path, which lies open to it precisely
27 S. Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams (trans. James Strachey), New

York: Discus/Avon, 1967, p. 585. In this quotation and those that follow
from The Interpretation of Dreams, the italics are Freud's; the capitalization
is mine.
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owing to the peculiar nature of the state of sleep, and it is led along that
path by the attraction exercised on it by groups of memories; some of these
memories themselves exist only in the form of visual cathexes and not as
translations into the terminology of the later systems (....) In the course
of its regressive path the dream-process acquires the attribute to represen-
tability. (...) It has now completed the second portion of its zigzag journey
(Ibid., pp. 612-613).
Freud's analysis of the movement of psychic energies back and
forth between sleep and wakefulness via transference seems perfectly tailored to fit precisely the visual dream-like figures of the
ghosts. Seeing is thus above all transferring. And if, as we have
"seen"l ourselves from the prologue, seeing is always reading, deciphering, interpreting, it is because reading is also transferring: just
as a dream is a transference of energy between the "day's residue"
and the unconscious wish, so does the act of reading invest the
conscious, daylight signifiers with an unconscious energy, transfer on
recent materials the intensity of an archaic sleep. Seeing, thus, is

always in some manner sleeping, that is, looking with the very eyes
of the unconscious-through the fabric of a dream, reading not

literally but rhetorically.
Both senses of the term "transference" in Freud's text-transference as the mainspring of psychoanalysis, as the repetitive structural principle of the relation between patient and analyst, and trans-
ference as the rhetorical function of any signifying material in

psychic life, as the movement and the energy of displacement
through a chain of signifiers-thus come together in the prologue
of The Turn of the Screw: it is their very interaction which gives
rise to the story and carries out the narrative both as a couplerelation and as the displacement-the transferral-of a manuscript.
The whole story is thus played out in the differential space between
the transference of the narrators and the transference of the nar-
rative, between an enterprise of seduction and of narcissistic capture and the displacement of a signifier, the transferral of a text, the
work of an effect of writing:
"Well then," I said, "just sit right down and begin."
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He turned round to the fire, gave a kick to a log, watched it an
instant. Then as he faced us again: "I can't begin. I shall have to send to
town. (...) The story's written. It's in a locked drawer-it has not been
out for years" (Prologue, p. 2).
V. The Scene of Writing: Purloined Letters

Sans ce qui fait que le dire, pa vient A s'ecrire,
il n'y a pas moyen de faire sentir la dimension du savoir inconscient.
(J. Lacan, 1974 Seminar)
... l'histoire nous laisse ignorer A peu pres
tout de l'expediteur, non moins que du contenu de la lettre (...) nous n'en pouvons
retenir qu'une chose, c'est que la Reine ne
saurait la porter A la connaissance de son

seigneur et maitre.
(J. Lacan, Seminaire sur la lettre volee)
The fact that "the story's written," underlined by.the narrative

suspense that that fact creates, has two important implications:
1) The story is a text and not just a series of events: it has
its own materiality and its own place; it exists as a material object;
2) As a material object, the manuscript is independent of the
narrator, who is, rather, himself dependent on it: the narrator is
dependent on the place and materiality of the written word.
This double implication will in turn have three immediate consequences:
1) It is impossible for the narrator to begin; there seems to be

a problem inherent in the beginning as such, since it is first
postponed, and then replaced by a "prologue": "I can't begin. I

shall have to send to town. (...) The story's written," says Douglas.
However, when the manuscript has arrived, Douglas explains the
need for "a few words of prologue" (p. 4) which will substitute for
the beginning, since "the written statement took up the tale at a

point after it had, in a manner, begun" (p. 4).
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2) The manuscript's place is a "locked drawer"-a closed,

secret place: for the story to be told, the lock has to be forced, the
hideout opened up: a seal of silence must be broken, and the story's
"opening" is thus literally and figuratively an outbreak:
"The story (...) has not been out for years. I could write to my man and
enclose the key; he could send down the packet as he finds it." (...) he had
broken a thickness of ice, the formation of many a winter; had had his
reasons for a long silence (Prologue, p. 2).
Mrs. Griffin spoke. (...)
". . . It's rather nice, his long reticence."
"Forty years!" Griffin put in.
"With this outbreak at last."

"The outbreak," I returned, "will make a tremendous occasion of Thurs-
day night" (Prologue, p. 3).
3) In order for there to be a narrative at all, Douglas must have

the manuscript sent to him through the mail. There is thus an
address on the text: the story is a letter. Indeed, it is triply so:

sent first by the governess to Douglas, then by Douglas to himself,
then by Douglas to the narrator. As a letter, the narrative entails

both a change of location and a change of address.
In fact, the manuscript-letter is itself a story about letters: the
first narrative event of the governess's story is the cryptic letter
announcing Miles's dismissal from school; then the governess men-
tions that she intercepts the children's letters to the Master; then
there is the troubling question for the governess of the letter

Mrs. Grose wants sent to the Master about the goings-on at Bly,
which the governess promises to write herself; and finally, the
governess's letter to the Master is intercepted and destroyed by
Miles.
What is striking about these letters is that they all bear a

curious resemblance to the letter of the manuscript itself. They
are addressed and sealed:
my letter, sealed and directed, was still in my pocket (ch. 18, p. 65).
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To open them requires that a seal be broken, that violence be
done; the letters' opening instigates a sort of crisis:

The postbag, that evening (...) contained a letter for me, which, however,
in the hand of my employer, I found to be composed but of a few words
enclosing another, addressed to himself, with a seal still unbroken. "This,
I recognize, is from the head-master, and the head-master's an awful bore.
Read him, please; deal with him; but mind you don't report (...)" I broke
the seal with a great effort -so great a one that I was a long time coming
to it; took the unopened missive at last up to my room and only attacked
it just before going to bed. I had better have let it wait till morning, for
it gave me a second sleepless night (ch. 2, p. 10).
In the story as in the prologue, the materiality of writing, as the
materiality of the manuscript, seems to create a problem of beginnings. Like Douglas, the governess finds it difficult to begin:
I went so far, in the evening, as to make a beginning. (...) I sat for a
long time before a blank sheet of paper (...). Finally I went out (ch. 17,
p. 62).
We will later learn that this letter from the governess to the
Master will never be, in fact, more than just an envelope containing that same blank sheet of paper: the beginning as such
is only written as unwritten, destined to remain anterior and exterior to what can be learned from a letter:
"I've just begun a letter to your uncle," I said.
"Well then, finish itl"
I waited a minute. "What happened before?"

He gazed up at me again. "Before what?"
"Before you came back. And before you went away." .. . he was silent
(ch. 17, pp. 64-65).
Insofar as the narrative itself is an effect of writing and as

such is dependent on the letter of its text, its very telling in-
volves the non-possession of its beginning. If the story is a letter

and if a letter is the materialization of the absence of the beginning of a story, then the very act of telling, of narrating, must
begin as the transgressive breaking of a seal-the seal of the
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silence from which the story springs. The story then is nothing
but the circulation of a violated letter which materially travels
from place to place through the successive changes of its addres-
sees, and through a series of "address-corrections." While the

letter is never really begun, it is nonetheless ceaselessly forwarded.
The letters in the story, then, strikingly resemble the letter

of the manuscript of the story. And although these letters either
remain unwritten or are intercepted and destroyed, although their
content is either missing or undecipherable, their function nonetheless, like that precisely of the manuscript-letter which contains
them, is to constitute a narrative, to tell the story of the goingson which they partake of, the story which has necessitated their
being written.
"Do you mean you'll write?" Remembering she couldn't, I caught
myself up. "How do you communicate?
"I tell the bailiff. He writes."
"And should you like him to write our story?"
My question had a sarcastic force that I had not fully intended, and
it made her (...) inconsequently break down (...).
"Ah, Miss, you write!" (ch. 16, pp. 61-62).
Clearly, what the letter is about is nothing other than the very
story which contains it. What the letters are to tell is the telling
of the story: how the narrative, precisely, tells itself as an effect

of writing. The letters in the story are thus not simply metonymical to the manuscript which contains them; they are also
metaphorical to it: they are the reflection en abyme of the nar-
rative itself. To read the story is thus to undertake a reading of
the letters, to follow the circuitous paths of their changes of

address.
The first thing such a "letter-reading" must encounter is the
fact that, paradoxically enough, it is not what the letters say which
gets the story started, but what they don't say: the letters are as
such unreadable, illegible as much for the reader as for the characters in the story, who are all the more affected by them for not
being able to decipher them. The letters are thus unreadable in

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precisely the same way the unconscious is unreadable: like the letters, the unconscious also governs an entire (hi)story, determines
the course of a whole life and destiny, without ever letting itself
be penetrated or understood.
If the letters' very resistance to daylight, to transparency and
to meaning, is indicative of their participation in an unconscious
economy; if, as signifiers par excellence of that unconscious econo-
my, they can only be meaningful through their own censorship,

signify through their own blacking-out; if the very story of the
unconscious is a story of the circulation of undecipherable letters,

-then the crucial theoretical question for both literature and
psychoanalysis, for the reader of textual letters as well as for the
interpreter of the text of the unconscious, would be the following

one: how can unreadable letters be read, even as they demand to
be read as unreadable? This question, which is indeed raised by
The Turn of the Screw on all levels, is crucial as much for the
reader as for the characters of the story, whose fortunes are wholly
determined by the mystery that the letters at once point to and
withhold.
How can we read the unreadable? This question, however, is

far from simple: grounded in contradiction, it in fact subverts its
own terms: to actually read the unreadable, to impose a meaning

on it, is precisely not to read the unreadable as unreadable, but to
reduce it to the readable, to interpret it as if it were of the same
order as the readable. But perhaps the unreadable and the readable
cannot be located on the same level, perhaps they are not of the
same order: if they could indeed correspond to the unconscious
and to the conscious levels, then their functionings would be

radically different, and their modes of being utterly heterogeneous
to each other. It is entirely possible that the unreadable as such

could by no means, in no way, be made equivalent to the readable,
through a simple effort at better reading, through a simple conscious

endeavor. The readable and the unreadable are by no means simply
comparable, but neither are they simply opposed, since above all
they are not symmetrical, they are not mirror-images of each other.
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Our task would perhaps then become not so much to read the
unreadable as a variant of the readable, but, to the very contrary,
to rethink the readable itself, and hence, to attempt to read it as a
variant of the unreadable. The paradoxical necessity of "reading

the unreadable" could thus be accomplished only through a radical
modification of the meaning of "reading" itself. To read on the

basis of the unreadable would be, here again, to ask not what does
the unreadable mean, but how does the unreadable mean? Not what
is the meaning of the letters, but in what way do the letters escape
meaning? In what way do the letters signify via, precisely, their
own in-significance?
We have seen how the letters become a crucial dramatic element
in the narrative plot precisely because of their unreadability: their
function of "giving the alarm" (ch. 21, p. 78), of setting the story
in motion and keeping it in suspense through the creation of a
situation of tension and of contradiction in which ambiguity reigns,

is correlative to the persistent opacity of their informative function
and to the repeated failure of their attempts at narration, of their
endeavor to tell the story of a beginning, to "write a story" which
would itself know its own origin and its own cause. But it is
precisely because the letters fail to narrate, to construct a coherent,
transparent story, that there is a story at all: there is a story

because there is an unreadable, an unconscious. Narrative, paradoxically, becomes possible to the precise extent that a story becomes impossible-that a story, precisely, "won't tell." Narrative
is thus engendered by the displacement of a "won't tell" which,
being transmitted through letters, forwards itself as a writing-effect.

It is indeed the unreadable which determines, in James's text,
the narrative structure of the story. The narrative events them-
selves arise out of the "alarm" the letters invariably produce. And
each of the letters will end up, indeed, giving rise to another letter.
There is therefore a chain of letters, in much the same way as there

is a chain of narrative voices, of narrators. The letters, however,
relay each other or give rise to each other by means of the very
silences, of the very ellipses, which constitute them: the letters
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are only linked to each other through the very "holes" in their
contents. From the enigmatic letter of the Director of Miles's
school, to the unfinished letter of the governess to the Master which
Miles intercepts and destroys, the story of The Turn of the Screw
is structured around a sort of necessity short-circuited by an im-
possibility, or an impossibility contradicted by a necessity, of recounting an ellipsis, of writing, to the Master, a letter about the
head-master's letter, and about what was missing, precisely, in
the head-master's letter: the reasons for Miles's dismissal from
school. The whole story springs from the impossibility, as well as

from the necessity, of writing a letter about what was missing in
the initial, original letter.

Thus it is that the whole course of the story is governed by the
hole in a letter. The signifying chain of letters, constituted less by
what the letters have in common than by what they lack in com-
mon, is thus characterized by three negative features which can be

seen as its common attributes: 1) the message or content of the
letters is elided or suppressed; 2) in place of the missing message,
what is recounted is the story of the material movement and fate

of the letters themselves: the letters' circuit, however, becomes,
paradoxically enough, a short-circuit of the direct contact between
receiver and sender; 3) the addressee, who determines the letters'
displacements and circuit, becomes the privileged element in each

one of the letters: the address is the only thing that is readable,
sometimes the only thing even written. And, curiously enough, all
the letters in The Turn of the Screw-including the one from the
school director, forwarded to the governess-are originally addressed to one and the same person: the Master. What is the structural
significance of this convergence of the unreadable upon one crucial
address?
The need to write to the Master to inform him of the uncanny
happenings for which Bly has become the arena, stems from the
fact that the Master is the lawful proprietor of Bly: for the governess and for the children as well, the Master embodies at once
the supreme instance of Law as such and the supreme figure of
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Power. But the Master, before the story's beginning, in its unwritten
part for which the prologue accounts, had precisely exerted his
power and dictated his law to the governess through the express
prohibition that any letters be addressed to him.
"He told her frankly all his difficulty -that for several applicants the
conditions had been prohibitive. (...) It sounded strange; and all the more
so because of his main condition."
"Which was -?"
"That she should never trouble him - but never, never; neither appeal
nor complain nor write about anything; only meet all questions herself;
receive all moneys from his solicitor, take the whole thing over and let
him alone. She promised to do this, and she mentioned to me that when,
for a moment, disburdened, delighted, he held her hand, thanking her for
the sacrifice, she already felt rewarded."
"But was that all her reward?" one of the ladies asked.
"She never saw him again" (Prologue, p. 6).
The paradoxical contract between the governess and the Master

is thus from the outset a contract of disconnection, of non-correspondence. Constitutive of an aporia, of a relation of non-relation,
the Master's discourse is very like the condition of the unconscious

as such: Law itself is but a form of Censorship. But it is precisely
this censoring law and this prohibitive contract which constitute,
paradoxically, the story's condition of possibility: the condition

of possibility of the story of the impossibility of writing the Master
a letter about what was initially missing, not said, in yet another
letter (equally addressed to, but refused by, the Master). Through
the Master's inaugural act of forwarding unopened to the governess
a letter addressed to him from the Director of Miles's school, mastery determines itself as at once a refusal of information and a desire
for ignorance. Through its repressive function of blocking out, of
suppressing, the instance of Law is established as the bar which
will radically separate signifier from signified (S/f), m placing the

letters, by the same token, under the odd imperative of the non-
knowledge of their own content, since, written for the Master, the
28 Cf. J. Lacan, "L'Instance de la lettre dans F'inconscient" (Ecrits), esp.

pp. 497-498 and 502.
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letters are, from the outset, written for their own Censor. The situa-
tion, however, is even more complex than this, since the governess
also, quite clearly, falls in love-right away-with the Master. The
Master therefore becomes, at the same time, not only an authority
figure as well as an instance of prohibition, but also an object of
love, a natural focus of transference. Written not only for the very
personified image of power, but also for their own censorship and
their own prohibition, the letters addressed to the Master are in
fact, at the same time, requests for love and demands for attention.
What, then, is the nature of a demand addressed both to the instance
of power and to the instance of active non-knowledge? What is

the status of love for the Censor-of love for what censures love?
And how can one write to the Censor? How can one write for the
very figure who signifies the suppression of what one has to say
to him? These are the crucial questions underlying the text of The
Turn of the Screw. It is out of this double bind that the story is
both recounted and written.
The letters to the Master can convey, indeed, nothing but silence.
Their message is not only erased; it consists of its own erasure.
This is precisely what Miles discovers when he steals the letter the
governess has intended to send to the Master:
"Tell me (...) if, yesterday afternoon, from the table in the hall, you
took, you know, my letter."
"Yes -I took it."
"What did you take it for?"

"To see what you said about me."
"You opened the letter?"
"I opened it."
( . *)
"And you found nothing!" I let my elation out.
He gave me the most mournful, thoughtful little headshake. "Nothing."
"Nothing, nothing!" I almost shouted in my joy.
"Nothing, nothing," he sadly repeated.
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I kissed his forehead; it was drenched. "So what have you done with
it?"
"I've burnt it" (Ch. 23-24, pp. 84-86). 2
It is no coincidence, doubtless, that the letters to the Censor
end up being intercepted and materially destroyed. Just as the governess intercepts the children's letters to the Master, Miles intercepts the governess's letter to the Master and ends up throwing
it into the fire. The reader may recall, however, that the fire, as of
the very opening line of the prologue, appeared as the center of the
narrative space of desire out of which the story springs: "The story
had held us, round the fire, sufficiently breathless..." Symbolically
narrative frame: in the center of the circle, in the center of the
prologue, the same central place, with respect to the circle of

readers-listeners, as that of the story's content with respect to the
narrative frame: in the center of the circle, in the center of the
frame, fire and story's content seemed indeed to act as foci-as
foyers-upon which the space both of narration and of reading

seemed to converge. But through Miles's gesture of throwing the
governess's letter into the fire, the fire inside the story turns out
to be, precisely, what annihilates the inside of the letter; what
materially destroys the very "nothing" which constitutes its content.
And since the letters in the story are metaphorical to the manu-
script of the story as a whole, i.e., to the narrative itself as an
effect of writing, we can see that what the fire indeed consumes,
29 The fact that the letter of Nothing can in fact signify a love letter is
reminiscent of Cordelia's uncanny reply to King Lear: by virtue of his
imposing paternal and royal authority, King Lear, although soliciting his
daughter's expression of love, can symbolically be seen as its censor. In
saying precisely "nothing," Cordelia addresses her father with the only
"authentic" love letter:
Lear: ... Now, our joy,
Although the last, not least, to whose young love
The vines of France and milk of Burgundy
Strive to be interested, what can you say to draw
A. third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.
Cordelia: Nothing, my lord.

Lear: Nothing I
Cordelia: Nothing.
Lear: Nothing will come of nothing. Speak again. (King Lear, I, i)
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in burning up the content of the letter, is nothing other than the
very content of the story. If the story here is one of letters, it is

because, in every sense of the expression, letters burn. As that
which burns in the letter and which burns up the letter, the fire
is the story's center only insofar as it eliminates the center: it is
analogous to the story's content only insofar as it consumes, incinerates at once the content of the story and the inside of the
letter, making both indeed impossible to read, unreadable, but unreadable in such a way as to hold all the more "breathless" the
readers' circle round it. "We do not see what is burning," says
Lacan in another context, referring to another fire which, however,
is not without resemblance in its fantastic, funereal presence to

the one which, here, is burning up the letter-"we do not see what
is burning, for the flame blinds us to the fact that the fire catches
(...) on the real.""'
Tout I'Ame resumee
Quand lente nous 1'expirons
Dans plusieurs ronds de fumde
Abolis en autres ronds
Atteste quelque cigare

Brdlant savamment pour peu
Que la cendre se separe
De son clair baiser de feu

Ainsi le cheur des romances
A la 1vre vole-t-il
Exclus-en si tu commences
Le rdel parce que vil

Le sens trop precis rature
Ta vague litterature
(Mallarme) 31
30 Quatre concepts, p. 58. It is perhaps not indispensable, but neither

would it be here out of place to recall the crucial importance of fire in
Henry James's life, and its recurrent role, both real and symbolic, as a
castrating agent: just as James's father lost a leg in attempting to put

a fire out, James himself believed he had injured his back in the course
of a fire, as a result of which he was afflicted for the rest of his life with
a mysterious, perhaps psychosomatic back ailment. Cf. Dr. Saul Rosen148
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VI. The Scene of Reading: The Surrender of the Name

It was a sense instinctive and unreasoned,
but I felt from the first that if I was on the
scent of something ultimate I had better
waste neither my wonder nor my wisdom. I
was on the scent - that I was sure of; and
yet even after I was sure I should still have
been at a loss to put my enigma itself into

words. I was just conscious, vaguely, of being
on the track of a law, a law that would fit,

that would strike me as governing the
delicate phenomena (...). The obsession pays,
if one will; but to pay it has to borrow.

The Turn of the Screw is thus organized around a double

mystery: the mystery of the letters' content and the mystery of
the ghosts. Like the letters, the ghosts, too, are essentially figures
of silence:
It was the dead silence of our long gaze at such close quarters that gave
the whole horror, huge as it was, its only note of the unnatural (ch. 9,
p. 41).
On the one hand, then, the ghosts-which are, by definition, "horrors" ("What is he? He's a horror" [ch. 5, p. 22]; "For the woman's
a horror of horrors" [ch. 7, p. 32])-are as mute, that is, as silent

as the letters. And on the other hand, the letters themselves,
through their very silence, point to "horrors":
My fear was of having to deal with the intolerable question of the grounds
of his dismissal from school, for that was really but the question of the
horrors gathered behind (ch. 15, p. 57).
zweig, "The Ghost of Henry James: A Study in Thematic Apperception"

in Character and Personality, Dec. 1943.
31 The whole soul when slow we breathe it out summed up in several
rings of smoke abolished into others, attests to some cigar burning cannily as long as the ash falls away from its clear kiss of fire; just so, the
chorus of old romances steals to the lip. Exclude them if you begin
the real, because vile. A too precise meaning crosses out your vague
literature. (My literal translation).
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In the governess's eyes, the word "horror" thus defines both what
the ghosts are and what the letters suppress, leave out. Could it
not be said, then, that the ghosts, whatever their horror may
consist of, act as a kind of pendant to the missing content of the
letters? Like that content, the ghosts are themselves erased sig-
nifications, barred signifieds: just as the letter opened by Miles

turned out to contain "nothing," the ghost seen by the governess
is like "nobody."
"What is he like?"
"I've been dying to tell you, but he's like nobody" (ch. 5, p. 23).
Nothing, nobody; no-thing, no-body: marked by the very sign of

negation and denial, prefixed by a "no" which bars them in the
very act of calling them up, the ghosts-like the letters-manifest
themselves only to negate themselves, but through this self-nega-
tion, carry out their own self-affirmation; their mode of being and
of self-manifestation is that of their own contradiction. The double
scandal implicated by the double reference to the "horrors," qualifying both what the ghosts reveal and what the letters conceal, could
thus spring not from any essential evil inherent as such in the
letters and the ghosts, but precisely from their structural self-con-
tradictory way of functioning. In the ghosts as well as in the letters,

it could be nothing other than this economy of contradiction which
takes on the power to "horrify," to scandalize and to appall.

If the ghosts, themselves marked with the sign of negation, come
to fill in-so to speak-the letters' gaps, or at least to occupy a
place homologous to the vacant interior of the letters, could it not
be said that the ghosts are in reality nothing other than the letters'
content, 32 and that the letters' content could thus itself be nothing other than a ghost-effect? 33
32 The signifying chain of letters would then by the same token be

a chain of ghosts: the return of the erased letter would have something
to do with the return of the dead; writing, in its blots, its omissions,
and its changes of address, would reveal the insistence and mark the
return of that which was considered dead and buried, but which has
nonetheless come back; the story of the unconscious would be that of
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Shoshana Felman
The suggestion that the ghosts are in fact contained in the letters, that their manifestations have to do with writing, is outlined
by a remark of the governess herself, concerning Peter Quint:
So I saw him as I see the letters I form on this page (ch. 3, p. 17).
This remark, which creates a relation between the letters and the
ghosts through the intermediary verb "to see," seems to posit an
equivalence between two activities, both of which present themselves as a mode of seeing:
as
so I saw him = I see the letters

to see ghosts = to see letters
But what is "seeing letters," if not, precisely, reading? 3 In observing and in "seeing," as she says, the very letters that she forms
"on this page" of the manuscript of her narrative, the governess

is indeed reading her own story, which she is also writing in the
form of a letter to be sent to Douglas. Contained within the letter,
the return of the repressed through the insistence of the signifier. Cf. The
Turn of the Screw, ch. 13, pp. 50-51: "The element of the unnamed and
untouched became, between us, greater than any other, and (...) so much
avoidance couldn't have been made successful without a great deal of
tacit arrangement. It was as if, at moments, we were perpetually coming
into sight of subjects before which we must stop short, turning suddenly
out of alleys that we perceived to be blind, closing with a little bang
that made us look at each other-for, like all bangs, it was something
louder than we had intended - the doors we had indiscretely opened.
All roads lead to Rome, and there were times when it might have struck
us that almost every branch of study or subject of conversation skirted
forbidden ground. Forbidden ground was the question of the return of
the dead in general and of whatever, in especial, might survive, in memory, of the friends little children had lost."
33 Since the letters, as we saw earlier, are metaphorical to the manuscript as a whole, and since the letters' content thus represents the content of the story, the inside of the "frame" outlined by the prologue, it
is not surprising that the ghost first appears to the governess as precisely
that which fills in a frame: "The man who looked at me over the battlements was as definite as a picture in a frame" (ch. 3, p. 16).
34 The obverse of this equation, which indeed confirms its validity, is
illustrated by Mrs. Grose: on the one hand, she never sees any ghosts,
and on the other, she "cannot read," she is illiterate:
not to read letters = not to see ghosts
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the ghosts are thus determined as both a writing- and a readingeffect.
The governess is in fact revealed to be an avid reader not only
of her own story but also of the novels which fill the library at
Bly. Is it not significant, indeed, that the ghosts are consistently
associated in the governess's mind with the novels she has read?
Quint's first appearance immediately calls up the memory of two

such novels: 35 the novels constitute interpretations of the ghost.
The governess's third encounter with the apparition, on the other
hand, occurs just after she has sleepily put aside the book she has
been reading: through this metonymical, contiguous connection,
the ghost, almost directly, seems to spring out of the pages of the
book. It is here no longer fiction- which interprets ghostly apparitions, but rather the ghost itself which constitutes a possible interpretation of the novel just read.
I sat reading by a couple of candles (...) I remember that the book I had
in my hand was Fielding's Amelia; also that I was wholly awake. I recall
further both a general conviction that it was horribly late and a particular
objection to looking at my watch. (...) I recollect (...) that, though I was
deeply interested in the author, I found myself, at the turn of a page
and with his spell all scattered, looking straight up from him and hard at
the door of my room. (...)
.. -I went straight along the lobby (...) till I came within sight of the
tall window that presided over the great turn of the staircase (...). My
candle (...) went out (...). Without it, the next instant, I knew that there
was a figure on the stair. I speak of sequences, but I require no lapse of
seconds to stiffen myself for a third encounter with Quint (ch. 9, pp. 40-41).
To see ghosts, then, is to read letters, and to read letters is to

stay up late at night: reading has to do with night as such, just
as ghosts have to do with darkness. To read (to see letters, to see
35 "Was there a 'secret' at Bly - a mystery of Udolpho or an insane,
an unmentionable relative kept in unsuspected confinement?" (ch. 4, p. 17)
The allusions here are to Ann Radcliffe's Mystery of Udolpho, which
depicts the presence of a ghost in an uncanny, supernatural environment,

and to Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre, which tells of a romance precisely
between a governess and her Master, untimely cut off by the revelation
of the Master's former marriage to a woman, now mad, who is being
i squestered in his house.
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Shoshana Felman
ghosts) is thus to look into the dark, to see in darkness ("My
candle (.A.) went out. (...) Without it, the next instant, I knew
there was a figure on the stair"). In order to look into the dark, to
see in darkness (in order to read), should the eyes be opened or
should they, on the contrary, be closed? The governess tells us
that her eyes were open, that she was "wholly awake." If, however,
a suspicion could arise that this was somehow not quite the case,
the ghost itself would turn out to be nothing but a dream induced
by letters; reading itself could then be suspected of being prey to
sleep-apparitions, apparitions which would inextricably attend and
suffuse the written word as such. 31
The governess is thus a reader, undergoing the effects of letters;

of letters which come through the mail or are written to be mailed,
as well as those which can be read on the printed pages of a book.
The governess's very first question, upon receipt of the letter from
the head-master of Miles's school, is indeed the question par excellence of the interpreter:
What does it mean? The child's dismissed his school (ch. 2, p. 10).
In her pursuit of meaning-the meaning of the ghosts as well as

that of the letters-, in her constant efforts at deciphering the
goings-on at Bly, the governess's whole adventure turns out to be,
essentially, a reading-adventure, a quest for the definitive, literal

or proper meaning of words and of events.
I had restlessly read into the facts before us almost all the meaning they
were to receive from subsequent and more cruel occurrences (ch. 6,
pp. 27-28).
I (...) read into what our young friend had said to me the fullness of its
meaning (ch. 15, p. 57).
36 Cf. indeed the description of the Master: "4a figure as had never
risen, save in a dream or an old novel" (prologue, p. 4), and that of the
house at Bly: "I had a view of a castle of romance inhabited by a rosy
sprite, such a place as would somehow (...) take all colours out of
storybooks and fairy-tales. Wasn't it just a storybook over which I had
falen a-doze and a-dream? No " (ch. 1, p. 10)
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I extracted a meaning from the boy's embarrassed back (ch. 23, p. 82).
I suppose I now read into our situation a clearness it couldn't have had at
the time (ch. 23, p. 84).
The search for meaning is prompted by a perception of ambiguities:-Ambiguities in the letters:

Deep obscurity continued to cover the region of the boy's conduct at
school (ch. 4, p. 19).
-Ambiguities in the ghosts:

. . . I caught at a dozen possibilities (...) that I could see, in there having
been in the house (...) a person of whom I was in ignorance. (...) My
office seemed to require that there should be no such ignorance and no
such person. (...) This visitant (...) seemed to fix me (...) with just the
question, just the scrutiny (...) that his own presence provoked (ch. 3,
p. 17).
-Ambiguities in the spoken word:

... my impression of her having accidentally said more than she meant (..
I don't know what there was in this brevity of Mrs. Grose's that struck
me as ambiguous. (...) I felt that (...) I had a right to know (ch. 2,
pp. 12-13).
Thus, "seeing ghosts" and "seeing letters" both involve the percep-
tion of ambiguous and contradictory signifiers, the perception of

double meanings. The act of reading and interpreting those am-
biguities, however, reveals itself paradoxically to be an act of reducing and eliminating them:
I (...) opened my letter again to repeat it to her. (...) "Is he really bad?"
The tears were still in her eyes. "Do the gentlemen say so?"
"They go into no particulars. They simply express their regret that it

should be impossible to keep him. That can have but one meaning (...):
that he's an injury to the others" (ch. 2, p. 11).
There was but one sane inference: (...) we had been, collectively, subject
to an intrusion (ch. 4, p. 18).
I had an absolute certainty that I should see again what I had already seen
(ch. 6, p. 26).
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Shoshana Felman
I began to take in with certitude and yet without direct vision, the presence,
a good way off, of a third person. (...) There was no ambiguity in anything (ch. 6, p. 29).
"If I had ever doubted, all my doubt would at present have gone. I've been
living with the miserable truth, and now it has only too much closed round
me.. ." (ch. 20, p. 7).
In her endeavor to reduce the contradictory and the ambiguous to
"but one meaning," the governess's method of reading her own
adventure is thus not substantially different from that of James's

readers, the critics of the text:
But what if there is one thing (...) that cannot be read in either of two
senses, that can be read only in one sense? (A. J. A. Waldock, Casebook,
p. 172).
The determining unambiguous passages from which the critics might work
are so plentiful that it seems hardly good critical strategy to use the ambiguous ones as points of departure (Robert Heilman, FR, MLN, p. 436).
In anticipating once again the strategies of its own reading, the
text becomes a challenge to the reader, an invitation to a seconddegree reading, which would attempt to read the text's own critical
reading of its reading: the way in which the text puts in perspective, and reflects upon, its own dramatization of the quest for proper
meaning, of the determining transition from a perception of the
equivocal to the establishment of meaning as univocal, of the very

process of truth's closing around the reader:
"If I had ever doubted, all my doubt would at present have gone. (...)
Truth (...) has only too much closed round me" (ch. 20, p. 73).
The elimination of uncertainty and doubt, the acquisition of

certainty and clearness about the meaning of what had nonetheless
appeared at first to be ambiguous and obscure-the successful
culmination, in other words, of the reading process-is time and

again formulated in the text as an epistemological assertion, as a
cognitive achievement, as a claim to knowledge:
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"He was looking for little Miles." A portentous clearness now possessed
me. "That's whom he was looking for."
"But how do you know?"
"I know, I know, I knowl" My exaltation grew.
"And you know, my dearl" (ch. 6, pp. 25-26; James's italics).
The reader's certainty is thus correlative to his claim to know:

knowing, indeed, is first and foremost knowing meaning. "I don't
know what you mean, protests Flora (ch. 20, p. 73). "Knowing,"
however, is acquired by means of "seeing":
Mrs. Grose, of course, could only gape the wider. "Then how do you
know?"
"I was there- I saw with my eyes" (ch. 7, pp. 30-31).

"For the woman's a horror of horrors."
"Tell me how you know," my friend simply repeated.

"Know? By seeing her! By the way she looked" (ch. 7, p. 32).
If "to know" is to know meaning, "to see" is, on the other hand, to
perceive a figure as a sign:
There was a figure in the ground, a figure prowling for a sight (ch. 10,
p. 44).
Seeing, in other words, is of the order of the signifier (that which

is perceived as a conveyer of signification, in the very process of
signifying), while knowing, on the other hand, is of the order of
the signified (that which has been meant; the accomplished meaning which, as such, is mastered, known, possessed). "Knowing,"
therefore, is to "seeing" as the signified is to the signifier: the
signifier is the seen, whereas the signified is the known. The sig-
nifier, by its very nature, is ambiguous and obscure, while the

signified is certain, clear, and unequivocal. Ambiguity is thus inherent in the very essence of the act of seeing:
...there are depths, depths! The more I go over it, the more I see in it,
and the more I see in it, the more I fear. I don't know what I don't see
-what I don't fearl (ch. 7, p. 31; James's italics).
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Shoshana Felman
By the same token, ambiguity is fundamentally excluded from the

act and the domain of "knowing":
The way this knowledge gathered in me was the strangest thing in the
world (...). I began to take in with certitude (...) the presence (...) of a
third person (ch. 6, p. 29).
The reading strategy employed by the governess entails, thereby,

a dynamical relation between seeing and knowing, a conversion of
the act of seeing into the fact of knowing. We will now attempt to
analyze more closely, within the very lexical tracks outlined by
the vocabulary of the text, the functioning of this conversion and
of this strategy, in order to explore the ways in which it governs
the narrative diachrony, shaping it indeed into the story of the
progress of a reading-process toward its ineluctable end.

Reading, then, begins with an awareness, with a perception of
ambiguous signifiers: an enigmatic letter, an unfamiliar and uncanny ghost. The meaning they imply is a knowledge from which
the governess is barred ("He's-God help me if I know what he

is!"; ch. 5, p. 22). If it is precisely out of lack of knowledge that
the reading-process springs, the very act of reading implies at the
same time the assumption that knowledge is, exists, but is located
in the Other: in order for reading to be possible, there has to
be knowledge in the Other (in the text, for instance), and it is that
knowledge in the Other, of the Other, which must be read, which
has to be appropriated, taken from the Other. The governess naturally thus postulates that the signified she is barred from, the sense
of what she does not know, exists and is in fact possessed by-or
possessing-someone else. Knowledge haunts. The question of meaning as such, which seems indeed to haunt the pages of The Turn
of the Screw, can thus be formulated as the question: "What is it

that knows?" "If the unconscious has taught us anything," writes
Lacan, "it is first of all this: that somewhere, in the Other, 'it'
knows. 'It' knows because 'it' is supposed by those signifiers the
subject is cot Aituted by (*e) The very status of knowledge implies

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tLat some sort of knowledge already exists, in the Other, waiting

to be taken, seized." (Encore, p. 81, 89.)
Through reading, the governess tries indeed to seize the Other's
knowledge, to read in the Other the signified she seeks. First she
aims at seizing Mrs. Grose's knowledge:
Then seeing in her face that she already, in this (...) found a touch of
picture, I quickly added stroke to stroke (...).
"You know him then?"
(. . .
"You do know him?"
She faltered but a second. "Quint! she cried" (ch. 5, pp. 23-24).
But it is most especially the knowledge of the children which the

governess seeks to read:
"They know; it's too monstrous: they know, they know ! " (ch. 7, p. 45;
James's italics).
I was ready to know the very worst that was to be known. What I had
then had an ugly glimpse of was that my eyes might be sealed just while
theirs were most opened. (...)
What it was most impossible to get rid of was the cruel idea that
whatever I had seen, Miles and Flora saw more * -things terrible and
unguessable and that sprang from dreadful passages of intercourse in the
past (ch. 13, pp. 52-53; * James's italics).
Having been the witnesses or the accomplices of the presumed

liaison between the two dead servants, the children, in the gover-
ness's eyes, are in possession of a knowledge which is at once

knowledge of meaning and knowledge of sex: "They know-it's too
monstrous: they know, they know!" The very predicate of knowledge, while still maintaining here its cognitive sense or value, equally rejoins its Biblical, archaic, sense: "to know," indeed, is both
"to possess valuable information," and "to have sexual intercourse
with." The presumed knowledge of the Other, which the governess
attempts to read, has to do, in some odd way, both with cognition
and with pleasure, both with sense and with the senses: that which
must be read is, uncannily, both an epistemological and a carnal
knowledge.
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Shoshana Felman
The children become, then, in the governess's eyes, endowed

with the prestige of the "subjects presumed to know." The reader
will recall, however, that "the subject presumed to know" is what
sustains, according to Lacan, precisely the relationship of transference in psychoanalytical experience: "I deemed it necessary,"
says Lacan, "to support the idea of transference, as indistinguishable
from love, with the formula of the subject presumed to know (...).
The person in whom I presume knowledge to exist, thereby acquires
my love" (Encore, p. 64). "Transference is love (...) I insist: it is

love directed toward, addressed to, knowledge." 3 Presuming the
child to know, the governess does indeed-unwittingly-fall in love

with him, and her love, her fascination, is directed toward his
knowledge:
It was extraordinary how my absolute conviction of his secret precocity
(...) made him (...) appear as accessible as an older person-forced me

to treat him as an intelligent equal (ch. 17, p. 63).
... Miles stood again with his hands in his little pockets (...) We continued
silent while the maid was with us -as silent, it whimsically occurred to
me, as some young couple who, on their wedding journey, at the inn, feel
shy in the presence of the waiter (ch. 22, p. 81).
As was the case in the prologue, we find ourselves again dealing

with a relationship of reading which as such entails a relationship
of transference: reading is again revealed to be the repetition of a
love story, the story of a love addressed to and directed toward

the knowledge of the Other. The governess's reading, her search
for a signified located in the knowledge of the Other, thus paradoxically places her in the role not of analyst but of analysand,
of patient with respect to the children presumed to know, who
hence themselves occupy unwittingly the very place, the very struc-
tural position, of the analyst. ,

But of course this is not the way the governess herself sees
things. In her view, it is the children who are the "patients,"
whereas she herself is, to the contrary, the therapist:

37 J. Lacan, "Introduction Ai 'dition allemande des Ecrits," Scilicet
No 5 (Paris: Seuil, 1975), p. 16.
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His clear, listening face, framed in its smooth whiteness, made him for
the minute as appealing as some wistful patient in a children's hospital;
and I would have given, as the resemblance came to me, all I possessed
on earth really to be the nurse or the sister of charity who might have
helped to cure him (ch. 17, p. 63).
Toward the end of the novel, the governess does indeed come up
with what she calls a "remedy" (ch. 21, P. 76) to cure Miles. The
remedy she has in mind is a confession:
"I'll get it out of him. He'll meet me -he'll confess. If he confesses, he's
saved" (ch. 21, pp. 78-79).
It is thus in her capacity as a therapist, as a soul-doctor, that the
governess brings about the story's denouement in the form of a

confession intended as a cure. The importance she thereby attributes
to the therapeutic value of language and of speech as such, to the
exorcistic power of Miles's mere naming of the evil which possesses

him, could be suggestive of a remote resemblance with the therapeutic project of the psychoanalytical "talking cure."
It is, however, not only as a would-be "therapist," but also as

a reader that the governess desires to bring about Miles's confession:
in demanding from the child the whole truth about what he knows,
she seeks, precisely, to appropriate the knowledge that the Other
is presumed to have: to force that knowledge to reveal itself, to
reveal itself, indeed, both as cognition and as pleasure. Miles's expected double confession, the revelation of his misdeeds at school
and the avowal of his complicity with the ghosts, would enable the
governess to decipher, i.e., to read, both the meaning of the ghosts
and the content of the letters. The child's confession would thus
constitute the crowning achievement of the governess's enterprise
of reading: the definitive denomination-by means of languageof both truth and meaning.
They are in my ears still, his supreme surrender of the name and his
tribute to my devotion (ch. 24, 9. 88).
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Shoshana Felman
This victory, this ultimate triumph of reading through the
1'supreme surrender of the name," remains, however, highly ambiguous and doubly problematic in the text. On the one hand, the
very act of naming, which the governess takes to be the decisive
answer to her questions, is in the child's mouth, in reality, itself

a question:
"It's there - the coward horror, there for the last time "
At this (...) he was at me in a white rage, bewildered, glaring vainly
over the place and missing wholly, though it now, to my sense, filled the
room (...). "It's he?"
I was so determined to have all my proof that I flashed into ice to
challenge him. "Whom to you mean by 'he'?" - "Peter Quint - you devil!"
His face gave again, round the room, its convulsed supplication. "Where?"
(ch. 23, p. 88; James's italics).
If the act of naming does indeed name the final truth, that truth
is given not as an answer to the question about meaning, but as
itself a question about its location. "Where?" asks Miles-and this

interrogation is to be his last word, the last word, indeed, of his
"confession." The final meaning, therefore, is not an answer, but

is itself a question, which also questions its own pursuit. In considering that question as an answer, the governess in effect stifles
its nonetheless ongoing questioning power.
On the other hand, the governess's triumph both as a reader
and as a therapist, both as an interpreter and as an exorcist, is

rendered highly suspicious by the death of what she had set out
at once to understand and to cure. It therefore behooves the reader

of The Turn of the Screw to discover the meaning of this murderous effect of meaning; to understand how a child can be killed
by the very act of understanding.
VIL. A Child is Killed

Insupportable est la mort de l'enfant: elle
realise le plus secret et le plus profond de

nos veux (...)
I1 est remarquable que, jusqu'A ce jour,
on se soit plus volontiers arrete (...) dans la
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constellation oedipienne, [sur les] fantasmes
du meurtre du pere, de prise ou de mise en
pieces de la mere, laissant pour compte la
tentative de meurtre d'Oedipe-enfant dont
c'est l'echec qui a assure et determind le

destin tragique du heros.
(Serge Leclaire, On tue un enfant)
What, indeed, is the cause of Miles's death? The final paragraph

suggests that he is accidentally suffocated by the governess in the
strength of her passionate embrace:
The grasp with which I recovered him might have been that of catching
him in his fall. I caught him, yes, I held him -it may be imagined with
what a passion; but at the end of a minute I began to feel what it truly
was that I held. We were alone with the quiet day, and his little heart,
dispossessed, had stopped (ch. 23, p. 88).
The word "grasp," which commands this closing paragraph, thus

appears to account for Miles's death. Interestingly enough, this same
word "grasp" also commands the opening paragraph of the last

chapter. It is as though the beginning and end of the last chapter
were both placed in the grasp of the word "grasp," as though that
word had as its role at once to introduce and to bring to a conclusion the story's final act. Here is then the opening sentence of
the last chapter:
My grasp of how he received this suffered for a minute from something
that I can only describe as a fierce split of my attention a stroke that,

at first, as I sprang straight up, reduced me to the merie blind movement
of getting hold of him, drawing him close and, while I just fell for support
against the nearest piece of furniture, instinctively keeping him with his
back to the window (ch. 24, pp. 84-85).
In spite of the apparent symmetry of its two occurrences, however,

the word "grasp" does not have the same meaning in both cases:
in the opening sentence ("my grasp of how he received this") the
word is used in its abstract sense of "comprehension," "understand.

ing"; in the closing sentence ("the grasp with which I recovered
him"), it is used in its concrete, physical sense of "clasp," "hold."

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In repeating the word "grasp" in its two different senses in these

two symmetrical, strategic points of the final chapter, James's text
seems to play upon the two connotations, to play them off against
each other in order to reveal their fundamental interaction and
their complicity. The implicit question behind this semantic play
which frames the novel's ending thus becomes: what does a "grasp"l
involve? What is the relation and the interaction between the act
of understanding ("my grasp of how he received this") and the

act of clasping in one's arms, to the point of suffocating ("the grasp
with which I recovered him")? Curiously enough, in a very different context, it is precisely by a similar double image highlighting the interaction between the mental and physical act of grasping
that Cicero chooses to reflect upon the very nature of understanding:
"Except for the sage," he writes, "no one knows anything, and that
fact was demonstrated by Zeno by means of a gesture. He held
up his hand, its fingers extended. That's representation, visum, he

said. Then he curled back his fingers a bit. That's assent, assensus.
Next, he completely closed his hand and made a fist, and declared
that that was comprehension, comprehensio. That's why he gave it
the name catalepsis, 38 which had not been used before him. Finally,
he brought his left hand toward his right hand and grasped his fist
tightly; that, he said, was science, scientia, something none but
the sage possess." 39 It is thus the governess's very "science" which
seems to kill the child. Just as Cicero illustrates the act of comprehension by the image of a closed fist, James seems to literalize
and at the same time ironize the same act by the suffocating gesture
of a tightly closed embrace.
Mightn't one, to reach his mind, risk the stretch of a stiff arm across his
character? (ch. 22, p. 111).
... the grasp with which I recovered him (...), I caught him, yes, I held
him... (ch. 23, p. 88)..
38 Etymologically, "a seizing."
39 Cicero, quoted by J.-A. Miller, "Thdorie de Lalangue (rudiment),"
in Ornicar NO 1 (Jan. 1975) p. 22.
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The comprehension ("grasp," "reach his mind") of the meaning the

Other is presumed to know, which constitutes the ultimate aim of
any act of reading, is thus conceived as a violent gesture of appropriation, a gesture of domination of the Other. Reading, in other
words, establishes itself as a relation not only to knowledge but
equally to power; it consists not only of a search for meaning but
also of a struggle to control it. Meaning itself thus unavoidably becomes the outcome of an act of violence:
To do it in any * way was an act of violence, for what did it consist of
but the obtrusion of the idea of grossness and guilt on a small helpless
creature who had been for me a revelation of the possibilities of beautiful
intercourse? (...) I suppose I now read into our situation a clearness it
couldn't have at the time (ch. 23, p. 84; * James's italics; other italics
mine).
But why is violence necessary in order for meaning to appear as
"clearness" and as light? What is the obstacle to clearness which
the violence of the act of reading must eliminate? What does comprehension ("my grasp of how he received this") suffer from before
the physical pressure of its embrace ("the grasp with which I recovered him") insures its triumph? Let us take another look at the
opening lines of the last chapter:
My grasp of how he received this suffered for a minute from something
that I can describe only as a fierce split of my attention -a stroke that
at first, as I sprang straight up, reduced me to the mere blind movement

of getting hold of him, drawing him close and, while I just fell for support
against the nearest piece of furniture, instinctively keeping him with his
back to the window (ch. 24, pp. 84-85).
Just before this passage, the governess has asked Miles the decisive
question of whether he did steal her letter. But her ability to grasp
the effect of her own question on Miles suffers, as she herself puts
it, from a "fierce split of her attention": her attention is divided

between Miles and the ghost at the window, between a conscious
signifier and the unconscious signifier upon which the latter turns,
between a conscious perception and its fantasmatic double, its contradictory extension toward the prohibited unconscious desire which
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Shoshana Felman
it stirs up. Thus divided, her attention fails to "grasp" the child's
reaction. The failure of comprehension therefore springs from the
"fierce split"-from the Spaltung-of the subject, from the divided
state in which meaning seems to hold the subject who is seeking
it. 40 But it is precisely this division, this castrating "split," which

must be reduced or dominated, denied or overcome, by the violence
of a suffocating hold.
... something that I can describe only as a fierce split of my attention
--a stroke that at first (.. .) reduced me to the mere blind movement of
getting hold of him, drawing him close...
... yet I believe that no woman so overwhelmed ever in so short a time

recovered her command of the act. (ch. 24, p. 84-85; James's italics).
James originally wrote "recovered her grasp of the act." It is in the
revised New York edition that "grasp" is replaced by "command."

But what act is it of which the governess regains her understanding
("grasp"), i.e., her control ("command")?
It came to me in the very horror of the immediate presence that the act
would be, seeing and facing what I saw and faced, to keep the boy hiinself
unaware (ch. 24, p. 85).
It should be remembered that in this final chapter the entire effort
of the governess aims at reading the knowledge of the child, and

thus at naming truth and meaning. But in this passage, paradoxically
40 Like the ghost, Miles's language (which is responsible for his dismissal from school and is thus related to the missing content of the letter)
equally divides the "attention" of the governess and her "grasping" mind,
by manifesting a contradiction - a split within language itself - between
the statement and the utterance of the child, between the speaker and his
speech: "'What did you do?' 'Well -I said things.' 'But to whom did
you say them?' . . .) '[To] those I liked.' Those he liked? I seemed to
float not into clearness, but into a darker obscure (...) there had come
to me out of my very pity the appalling alarm of his being perhaps in-
nocent. (...) He turned to me again his little beautiful fevered eyes. 'Yes,
it was too bad (...). What I suppose I sometimes said. To write home.'
"I can't name," comments the governess, "the exquisite pathos of the
contradiction given to such a speech by such a speaker" (ch. 24, p. 87).

"What the unconscious forces us to examine," writes Lacan, "is the law
according to which no utterance can ever be reduced simply to its own
statement" (Ecrits, p. 892).
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enough, the very act of reading the child's knowledge turns out to
be an act of suppressing, or repressing, part of that knowledge:
of "keeping the boy himself unaware." As an object of suppression
and of repression, the knowledge of the child itself becomes thereby
the very emblem of the unconscious; of the unconscious which is
always, in a sense, the knowledge of a child about to die and yet

immortal, indestructible; the knowledge of a child dead and yet
which one has always yet to kill. "The unconscious," says indeed
Lacan, "is knowledge; but it is a knowledge one cannot know one
knows, a knowledge which cannot tolerate knowing it knows" 41-a
knowledge, in other words, which cannot tolerate, and which es-
capes, in every sense, conscious reflection.

What was prodigious was that at last, by my success, his sense was sealed
and his communication stopped: he knew that he was in presence, but
knew not of what (...). My eyes went back to the window only to see
that the air was clear again (...). There was nothing there. I felt that the
cause was mine and that I should surely get all * (ch. 24, pp. 85-86;
* James's italics; other italics mine).
The act of reading, the attempt to grasp and hold the signified,
goes thus hand in hand with the repression or obliteration of a
signifier-a repression the purpose of which is to eliminate meaning's division. "The act would be, seeing and facing what I saw
and faced, to keep the boy himself unaware (...). My eyes went back
to the window only to see that the air was clear again. (...) There
was nothing there." To see (and by the same token, to read: "to
see letters," "to see ghosts") is therefore paradoxically not only
to perceive, but also not to perceive: to actively determine an area

as invisible, as excluded from perception, as external by definition
to visibility. To see is to draw a limit beyond which vision becomes
barred. The rigid closure of the violent embrace implied by the act
(by the "grasp") of understanding is linked, indeed, to the violence

required to impose a limit, beyond which one's eyes must close.
For it is not the closing of one's eyes which determines the invisible
41 1974 Seminar, "Les Non-dupes errent" (unpublished).
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Shoshana Felman
as its empirical result; it is rather the invisible (the repressed) which
predetermines the closing of one's eyes. The necessity of shutting
one's eyes actively partakes, indeed, of the very act of seeing, knowing, reading:
... my equilibrium depended on the success of my rigid will, the will
to shut my eyes as tight as possible to the truth that what I had to deal
with was, revoltingly, against nature. I could only get on at all by taking
nature into my confidence and my account (...). No attempt, none the less,
could well require more tact than just this attempt to supply, one's self,
all * the nature. How could I put even a little of that article into a
suppression of reference to what had occurred? How, on the other hand,

could I make a reference without a new plunge into the hideous obscure?
(ch. 22, p. 80; * James's italics; other italics mine).
To grasp: to close one's arms, to stifle. To see: to close one's eyes,
to suppress a reference, or else to make a reference and by that
very act to take "a new plunge into the obscure," that is, into the
invisible. Paradoxically enough, however, it is precisely the imposition of a limit beyond which vision is prohibited which dispels
the "split of attention" and at the same time the split of meaning,
and which hence makes possible the illusion of total mastery over
meaning as a whole, as an unimpaired totality42:
My eyes went back to the window only to see that the air was clear
again. (...) There was nothing there. I felt that the cause was mine and
that I should surely get all (ch. 24, p. 86; James's italics).
I seemed to myself to have mastered it, to see it all (ch. 21, p. 78).
The principle of totality being the very principle of a boundary and

of the repression inherent in it, the text's irony here lies in the
42 Totality as such is both unique (since it includes everything, nothing

is left outside it) and univocal (continuous, coherent, undivided, homogeneous). Thus it is that the governess can say: "That can have but one
meaning (...) to put the thing with some coherence.. ." (ch. 2, p. 11).
"The principle of coherence," writes E. D. Hirsch, "is precisely the same
as the principle of a boundary. Whatever is continuous with the visible
part of an iceberg lies inside its boundaries, and whatever lies within these
falls under the criterion of continuity. The two concepts are codefining"
(E. D. Hirsch, Validity in Interpretation, New Haven: Yale University
Press, 1967, p. 54).
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suggestion that the illusion of total mastery, of "seeing all," is in

reality a counterpart to the act of "shutting one's eyes as tight as
possible to the truth." Now, to master, to become a Master, is inevitably in this text also to become like the Master. As the reader
will recall, the Master is indeed the incarnation of the very principle of censorship and of the imposition of a limit, as constitutive
of authority as such: of the authority of consciousness itself as
mastery. But his is a mastery which exerts its authority not as an
imperative to know, but as an imperative not to know. To "master,"
therefore, to understand and "see it dl," as the governess complacently puts it to herself, is in this text, ironically enough, to
occupy the very place of blindness: of the blindness to which the
Master voluntarily commits himself at the outset of the story, by
ordering the suppression of all information,43 by prohibiting the

governess from informing him of anything at all. Through the go-
verness's own action, the quest for mastery will thus repeat itself as
a form of blindness:
... a stroke that reduced me to the mere blind movement of getting hold
of him, drawing him close (...) instinctively keeping him with his back
to the window.
(e. .)
He almost smiled at me in the desolation of his surrender. (...) I was

blind with victory (ch. 24, p. 85, 87).
To master, to "see all," is thus not only to be blind with victory,
but also, and quite literally, to be triumphant out of blindness.

The violence of the blind grip through which the governess seizes
Miles recalls the image of the quasi-compulsive clasping of a sinking

43 This suppression of information is also the function of the Masters
(the head-masters) of Miles's school, since their letter suppresses all mention of the grounds of the child's dismissal: "I turned it over. 'And these
things came round-?' 'To the masters? Oh yesl' he answered very
simply. 'But I didn't know they'd tell.' 'The masters? They didn't -they've
never told. That's why I ask you.'" (ch. 24, p. 87) The word "Master"
thus comes to signify, in James's text, at once the principle of authority

and the principle of repression,- the very principle of the authority to
repress: to repress at once mentally and physically, in a psychoanalytical

but equally in a political sense (cf. Miles's dismissal from school and,
ultimately, his murder).
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Shoshana Felman
boat's helm which the governess evokes so as to metaphorically
justify in her own eyes her quest for mastery, her effort to control
the situation:
It was in short by just clutching the helm that I avoided total wreck
(ch. 22, p. 79).
This metaphor of the boat recurs several times in the text. Marking
here the ending of the story, it is also found at the beginning, at
the conclusion of the very first chapter:
It was a big, ugly (...) house, (...) in which I had the fancy of our being
almost as lost as a handful of passengers in a great drifting ship. Well,

I was, strangely, at the helm! (ch. 1, p. 10).
The metaphor of the helm serves to bring out the underlying interdependence between meaning and power: to clutch the helm, to
steer the ship, is in effect to guide it, to give it a direction and a
sense, to control its direction or its sense. Indeed, throughout the

story, the governess's very act of reading consists in her imposing
meaning, in her imposing sense both as a directive and as a direction upon the others:
This is why I had now given to Mrs. Grose's steps so marked a direction
-a direction that made her, when she perceived it, oppose a resistance
"You're going to the water, Miss? -you think she's in *? (ch. 19,
p. 68; * James's italics).
I could only get on at all by taking "nature" into my confidence (...), by
treating my monstrous ordeal as a push in a direction unusual (ch. 22,

p. 80).
"Is she here *?" Miles panted as he caught with his sealed eyes the direction
of my words" (ch. 24, p. 88; * James's italics).
In "clutching the helm," in giving direction to the ship she steers,

the governess, whose reading alone indeed commands the situation,
clutches at power as sense, and at sense as power: she leads us to

believe, along with those under her direction, that if her power is
as such meaningful, it is because it is meaning itself which is in

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power; that it is her sense which commands, and that her command
indeed makes sense: "She has 'authority'," writes James, "which is

a good deal to have given her"; "It constitutes no little of a character indeed (...) that she is able to make her particular credible
statement of such strange matters" (New York Preface, p. 121).
Putting into effect the very title of her function, the "governess"
does govern: she does indeed clutch at the helm of the boat with
the same kind of violence and forceful determination with which
she ultimately grips the body of little Miles. The textual repetition
of the metaphor of the boat thus serves to illustrate, through the
singular gesture of grasping the rudder-bar, the very enterprise of

reading as a political project of sense-control, the taking over of the
very power implied by meaning.
Curiously enough, the image of the boat recurs in yet another

strategic, although apparently unrelated context in the story: in
the incident beside the lake during which the governess comes upon
Flora playing (under the influence, thinks the governess, of Miss
Jessel) with two pieces of wood out of which she is trying to construct a toy boat:
[Flora] had picked up a small flat piece of wood, which happened to have
in it a little hole that had evidently suggested to her the idea of sticking
in another fragment that might figure as a mast and make the thing a boat.
This second morsel, as I watched her, she was very markedly and intently
attempting to tighten in its place.
(. - )
I got hold of Mrs. Grose as soon after this as I could (...)
I still hear myself cry as I fairly threw myself into her arms: "They
know -it's too monstrous: they know, they knowl"
"And what on earth -? (...)
"Why, all that we * know - and heaven knows what else besides!"
(ch. 6-7, p. 30; * James's italics; other italics mine).
This incident is crucial, not only because it constitutes for the

governess a decisive proof of the children's knowledge, but also
because, implicitly but literally, it evokes an image related to the

very title of the story: in attempting to fit the stick into the hole
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as a mast for her little boat, Flora "tightens it in its place" with a
gesture very like that of tightening a screw.
But what precisely does this gesture mean? The screw-or the
mast-is evidently, in this incident, at least to the governess's eyes,
a phallic symbol, a metaphor connoting sexuality itself. This phallic

connotation, the reader will recall, was pointed out and underlined,
indeed, by Wilson. Wilson's exegesis, however, viewed the sexual

reference as an answer, as the literal, proper meaning which it suf-
ficed to name in order to understand and "see it all," in order to

put an end to all textual questions and ambiguities. As an emblem
of the sexual act, Flora's boat was for Wilson a simple indication of
the literal object-the real organ-desired by the governess without

her being able or willing to admit it. But it is precisely not as an
unequivocal answer that the text here evokes the phallus, but on
the contrary rather as a question, as a figure-itself ambiguousproduced by the enigma of the double meaning of the metaphorical
equation: phallus=ship's mast. To say that the mast is in reality

a phallus is no more illuminating or unambiguous than to say that
the phallus is in reality a mast. The question arises not of what the
mast "really is" but of what a phallus-or a mast-might be, if they

can thus so easily be interchangeable, i.e., signify what they are
not. What is the meaning of this movement of relay of meaning
between the phallus and the mast? And since the mast, which is a
figure of the phallus, is also a figure of the screw, it seems that the
crucial question raised by the text and valorized by its title might
be: what is, after all, a screw in The Turn of the Screw?
Let us take another look at Flora's boat. It is as a phallic symbol
that the boat disturbs the governess and convinces her of the perversity of the children: "They know-it's too monstrous: they
know, they know! " The screw, or the phallic mast, thus constitutes
for the governess a key to meaning, a master-signifier: the very
key to what the Other knows.
In such a context it is no longer possible to be insensitive to
the remarkable phonetical resemblance between the word "mast"

and the word "master," which it cannot but bring to mind: indeed,
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if the mast is a kind of "master," i.e., a dominant element determin-
ing both the structure and the movement of a boat, the Master is
himself a kind of "mast" which at once determines and supports
the structure and the movement of the entire story of The Turn
of the Screw. As one of the principal elements in a ship, the mast
is thus not unrelated to the helm which the governess clutches with
the same convulsive grasp as that with which she seizes Miles (who
is himself a little Master). 14
Now, to suggest that all these metaphorical elements-Miles in

the governess's arms, the tightly gripped helm in the uncanny drifting ship, the little mast in Flora's boat, and the screw in The Turn
of the Screw-refer alternately to the phallus and to the Master
(as well as to one another), is to set up a signifying chain in which
the phallus (or the screw, or the mast, or the Master), far from
incarnating the unambiguous literal meaning behind things, sym-
bolizes rather the incessant sliding of signification, the very principle of movement and displacement which on the contrary prevents
the chain (or the text) from ever stopping at a final, literal, fixed
meaning. The phallus, far from being a real object, is in fact a

signifier; a signifier which only appears to become a Master-a key
to meaning and a key to the knowledge of the Other-by virtue of
its incarnating, like the Master, the very function of the semiotic
bar-the very principle of imposition of a limit, the principle of

censorship and of repression which forever bars all access to the
signified as such. Is
44 Cf.: "At this, with one of the quick turns of simple folk, she
suddenly flamed up. 'Master Miles! -him* an injury?'" (ch. 2, p. 11).
45 Cf. J. Lacan, The Meaning of the Phallus (La Signification du
Phallus): "In Freudian thought, the phallus is not a fantasy, if a fantasy
is understood to be an imaginary effect. Nor is it as such an object (partial,
internal, good, bad, etc.) if the term is used to designate the reality
involved in a relationship. It is still less the organ, penis or clitoris, which
it symbolizes. It is not without cause that Freud took his reference from
the simulacrum it was for the ancients. For the phallus is a signifier (...).
It can only play its role under a veil, that is, as itself the sign of the
latency which strikes the signifiable as soon as it is raised to the function
of a signifier (...). It then becomes that which (...) bars the signified.
(Ecrits, pp. 690-692).
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Shoshana Felman
"The question is," said Alice, "whether you can make words mean so
many different things."
"The question is," said Humpty Dumpty, "which is to be master -that's

all." 46
In reaching out both for the master and for the mast, in aspiring
to be, in fact, herself a master and a mast, in clasping Miles as she
would clutch at the ship's helm, the governess becomes, indeed, the
Master of the ship, the Master of the meaning of the story (a masterreader) in two different ways: in clutching the helm, she directs
the ship and thus apparently determines and controls its sense, its
meaning; but at the same time, in the very gesture of directing,

steering, she also masters meaning in the sense that she represses
and limits it, striking out its other senses; in manipulating the
rudder bar, she also, paradoxically, bars the signified. While the
governess thus believes herself to be in a position of command and

mastery, her grasp of the ship's helm (or of "the little Master" or
of the screw she tightens) is in reality the grasp but of a fetish,
but of a simulacrum of a signified, like the simulacrum of the mast

in Flora's toy boat, erected only as a filler, as a stop-gap, designed
to fill a hole, to close a gap. The screw, however, by the very gesture
of its tightening, while seemingly filling the hole, in reality only
makes it deeper.
I was blind with victory, though even then the effect that was to have
brought him so much nearer was already that of an added separation (ch. 24,
p. 87).
The grasp with which I recovered him might have been that of catching
him in his fall. I caught him, yes, I held him, it may be imagined with
what a passion; but at the end of a minute I began to feel what it truly
was that I held. We were alone with the quiet day, and his little heart,
dispossessed, had stopped (ch. 24, p. 88).
Even though, within this ultimate blind grip of comprehension, the

"name" has been "surrendered" and meaning at last grasped,
the governess's very satisfaction at the successful ending of the
46 Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass, VI.

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reading process is compromised by the radical frustration of a tragic

loss: the embrace of meaning turns out to be but the embrace of
death; the grasp of the signified turns out to be the grasp but of a
corpse. The very enterprise of appropriating meaning is thus revealed to be the strict appropriation of precisely nothing-nothing alive,
at least: "le demontage impie de la fiction et consequemment du
mecanisme litteraire," writes Mallarme, "pour etaler la piece prin-
cipale ou rien (...) le conscient manque chez nous de ce qui la-haut

eclate." 47
Literature, suggests thus Mallarme, like the letters of The Turn
of the Screw, contains precisely "nothing"; fiction's mainspring is

but "nothing," because consciousness in us is lacking, and cannot
account for, "that which bursts." But what, precisely, bursts or
splits, if not consciousness itself through the very fact that, possessing nothing (as it does in the end of The Turn of the Screw), it is
dispossessed of its own mastery? What is it that bursts and splits
if not consciousness itself to the extent that it remains estranged
from that which splits, estranged, in other words, from its own
split? When Miles dies, what is once again radically and unre-
deemably divided, is at once the unity of meaning and the unity

of its possessor: the governess. The attempt to master meaning,
which ought to lead to its unification, to the elimination of its con-
tradictions and its "splits," can reach its goal only at the cost,
through the infliction of a new wound, of an added split or distance,
of an irreversible "separation." The seizure of the signifier creates
an unrecoverable-loss, a fundamental and irreparable castration: the

tightened screw, the governed helm, bring about "the supreme surrender of the name," surrender meaning only by cleaving the very
power of their holder. Meaning's possession is itself ironically
transformed into the radical dispossession of its possessor. At its
final, climactic point, the attempt at grasping meaning and at closing
47 "The impious dismantling of fiction and consequently of the literary

mechanism as such in an effort to display the principal part or nothing,
(...) the conscious lack(s) within us of what, above, bursts out and splits":
Mallarm6, La Musique et les Lettres, in Oeuvres Completes (Paris: PlMiade,
1945), p. 647; my translation.
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Shoshana Felman
the reading process with a definitive interpretation in effect discovers-and comprehends-only death.
The Turn of the Screw could thus be read not only as a remark-
able ghost story but also as a no less remarkable detective story:

the story of the discovery of a corpse and of a singularly redoubtable
crime: the murder of a child. As in all detective stories, the crime
is not uncovered until the end. But in contrast to the classical
mystery novel plot, this crime is also not committed until the end:
paradoxically enough, the process of detection here precedes the
committing of the crime. As a reader, the governess plays the role
of the detective: from the outset she tries to detect, by means of
logical inferences and decisive "proofs," both the nature of the crime
and the identity of the criminal.
I remember (...) my thrill of joy at having brought on a proof (ch. 20,
p. 71.)
I was so determined to have all my proof, that I flashed into ice to chal-
lenge him (ch. 24, p. 88).

It didn't last as suspense- it was superseded by horrible proofs (ch. 6,
p. 28).
Ironically enough, however, not knowing what the crime really
consists of, the governess-detective finally ends up committing it

herself. This unexpected and uncanny turn given by James's story
to the conventions of the mystery novel is also, as it happens, the
constitutive narrative peripeteia of one of the best known detective

stories of all time: Oedipus Rex. In James's text as well as in
Sophocles's, the self-proclaimed detective ends up discovering that

he himself is the author of the crime he is investigating: that the
crime is his, that he is, himself, the criminal he seeks. "The interest
of crime," writes James, in a discussion of modern mystery dramas,

"is in the fact that it compromises the criminal's personal safety":
The play is a tragedy, not in virtue of an avenging deity, but in virtue
of a preventive system of law; not through the presence of a company

of fairies, but through that of an admirable organization of police detec-
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tives. Of course, the nearer the criminal and the detective are brought
home to the reader, the more lively his "sensation". 48
The Turn of the Screw appears indeed to have carried this ideal
of proximity or "nearness" (of the criminal and the detective to the

reader) to its ultimate limits, since the criminal himself is here as
close as possible to the detective, and the detective is only a
detective in his (her) function as a reader. Incarnated in the governess, the detective and the criminal both are but dramatizations
of the condition of the reader. Indeed, the governess as at once

detective, criminal, and reader is here so intimately "brought home"
to the reader that it is henceforth our own search for the mysterious
"evil" or the hidden meaning of The Turn of the Screw which

becomes, in effect, itself nothing other than a repetition of the crime.
The reader of The Turn of the Screw is also the detective of a crime
which in reality is his, and which "returns upon himself." For if it
is by the very act of forcing her suspect to confess that the governess
ends up committing the crime she is investigating, it is nothing
other than the very process of detection which constitutes the crime.
The detection process, or reading process, turns out to be, in other

words, nothing less than a peculiarly and uncannily effective murder
weapon. The story of meaning as such (or of consciousness) thus
turns out to be the uncanny story of the crime of its own detection.
Just as, in the end, the detective is revealed to be the criminal,

the doctor-therapist, the would-be analyst, herself turns out to be
but an analysand. The Turn of the Screw in fact deconstructs all

these traditional oppositions; the exorcist and the possesssed, the
doctor and the patient, the sickness and the cure, the symptom and
the proposed interpretation of the symptom, become here interchangeable, or at the very least, undecidable. Since the governess's
"remedy" is itself a sympton, since the patient's "cure" is in effect
his murder, nothing could indeed look more like madness than the
very self-assurance of the project (of the notion) of therapy itself.
48 From a review of "Aurora Floyd," by M. E. Braddon, in Norton,
p. 98.
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Shoshana Felman
There can be no doubt, indeed, that the ship is really drifting, that
the governess is in command but of a "drunken boat." Sailing confidently toward shipwreck, the helm that the governess violently
"grasps" and "clutches" is indeed the helm of a phantom ship.

DU FOND DU NAUFRAGE
LE MAITRE
jadis il empoignait la barre

hesite
cadavre par le bras
dcarte du secret qu'il detient
Fiangailles
dont
le voile d'illusion rejailli leur hantise

ainsi que le fant6me d'un geste
chancellera
s'affalera
folie 49
VIII. Meaning and Madness: the Turn of the Screw

Les hommes sont si necessairement fous que
ce serait etre fou par un autre tour de folie

de n'etre pas fou.
(Pascal)
But this is exactly what we mean by operative

irony. It implies and projects the possible
other case.
(H. James, Preface to "The Lesson

of the Master")
49 FROM THE BOTTOM OF A SHIPWRECK / THE MASTER / for-
merly he gripped the helm I hesitates / a corpse by the arm / distanced from
the secret he holds / Betrothal of which / the spewed forth veil of illusion
their obsession / as the ghost of a gesture / will collapse / madness (Mallarme, Un Coup de des, in Oeuvres Completes, ed. cit., pp. 459-464;
translation mine).
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The fundamental metaphor of the title-The Turn of the Screwhas thus itself been given an unexpected turn of the screw: on
the sexual level, the seizure of the phallic signifier as a mastersignifier -as the very fetish of plenitude and potency-amounts
to a void, to a castrating loss of potency; on the cognitive level,
the grasp of the signifier as a key to meaning-as the final proof
that everything makes sense-amounts to a loss of common sense,
to the interpreter's loss of his senses, and to the ultimate nonsense of death. By the turn of the screw given to "the turn
of the screw," the delusory, self-evident metaphor of control
(over the screw) turns out to be an essential metaphor of loss-the
loss, precisely, of control over the mechanical functioning of a

machine. The manipulator of the screw, who believes himself to
be in control of its successive turns, in control of an enterprise of

fixity and closure, discovers that, in reality, he himself is nothing
but a screw, a cog in the wheel of a machine that runs by itself,

automatically and repetitively.
We had, all three, with repetition, got into such splendid training that we
went, each time, almost automatically, to mark the close of the incident,
through the very same movements (ch. 13, p. 53).
The "incident," however, is never "closed," since the movement

of the screw constitutes in fact not a circle but a spiral which never
closes: as a perfect illustration of the Freudian concept of the

repetition compulsion, the spiral consists of a series of repeated
circlings in which what turns is indeed bound to re-turn, so but in
which what circularly thus returns only returns so as to miss anew
its point of departure, to miss the closing point, the completion (or
perfection) of the circle. The successive turns and returns of the
spiral never meet, never touch or cross one another; hence, what
50 Cf. ch. 13, P. 72: "All roads lead to Rome, and there were times
when it might have struck us that almost every (...) subject of conversation skirted forbidden ground. Forbidden ground was the question of the
return of the dead... Cf. also The New York Preface: "To bring the bad
dead back to life for a second round of badness is to warrant them as
indeed prodigious" (p. 122).
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Shoshana Felman
the spiral actually repeats is a missed meeting with itself, a missed

encounter with what returns. The screw, in order to precisely function properly, be operative, can by no means close the circle; it
can but repeat it; it can but repeat the turn and repeat its own
returns, and its own repetition of its turns, "through the very same
movements."
No longer a substantial metaphor, the figure of a substance

(which, like the phallic mast on Flora's boat, is designed to fill a
hole, to be the central plenitude supporting and securing an enter-
prise of fixity), the turning screw turns out to be a functional

metaphor, the figure of a dynamic functioning: it is not so much
the screw itself that counts, as the very turning movement of its
twists and whirls, and the very turns it at the same time marks and
misses. It is, indeed, quite striking that the ghosts' appearances so

very often have to do-in all senses of the word-with turns:
... I could take a turn into the grounds and enjoy, almost with a sense of
property (...), the beauty and dignity of the place. (...) One of the thoughts
that (...) used to be with me (...) was that it would be (...) charming
(...) suddenly to meet someone. Someone would appear there at the turn
of a path (...). What arrested me on the spot (...) was the sense that my
imagination had, in a flash, turned real. He did stand there (...) at the
very top of the tower... (ch. 3, pp. 13-16).
I sat reading (...). I found myself, at the turn of a page (...) looking (...)
hard at the door of my room. (...) I went straight along the lobby (...)
till I came within sight of the tall window that presided over the great
turn of a staircase. (...) I require no lapse of seconds to stiffen myself
for a third encounter with Quint (ch. 9, pp. 40-41).
But what, in fact, is the significance of a turn, if not that of a

change, precisely, of direction, the modification of an orientation,
that is, both a displacement and a choice of sense, of meaning? And
if indeed what is at stake in The Turn of the Screw is the question
of sense in all its senses (meaning, sanity, direction), it is not surprising to discover that the text is organized as a veritable topography of turns. The screw, however, turns in place: the topography
of turns and of circular returns is in reality but the tight enclosure
of a labyrinth:
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It was a tighter place still than I had yet turned round in (ch. 22, p. 79).
The labyrinth thus annihilates the value, or the meaning, of its

turns: while a turn as such indicates direction, sense, the topographical economy of a labyrinth on the contrary implies the loss
of all sense of direction. And the loss of the sense of direction is,
or can be, indeed fatal: it is just such a state of disorientation which
brings about, in fact, the very death of Peter Quint:

Peter Quint was found (...) stone dead on the road from the village: a
catastrophe explained (...) by a visible wound to his head; such a wound
as might have been produced - and as, on the final evidence, had * been
- by a fatal slip, in the dark and after leaving the public house, on the
steepish icy slope, a wrong path altogether, at the bottom of which he lay.
The icy slope, the turn mistaken at night and in liquor, accounted for
much - practically, in the end and after the inquest and boundless chatter,
for everything (ch. 6, p. 28; * James's italics; other italics mine).
If the "wrong path" or "the turn mistaken" can "account for

much," or even, "in the end (...) for everything"-notably for the
accident of death-, could they not account equally "in the end"
for the novel's end, for that other accident of the death of little
Miles, doubled as it is by a "second death" of Peter Quint, by the
disappearance of the ghost? The parallel, in any case, is striking.
The hypothetical, possible madness of the governess could then

itself be accounted for "in the end" by a "turn mistaken," by a
misguided choice of sense or of direction, indeed by nothing other

than a fatal, deadly reading mistake. The semantic charge of the
word "turn" itself in fact connotes the possible resonance of "an
attack of madness" (cf. "turns of hysteria"), upon which the text
occasionally seems to play. At the crucial moment when the governess is furiously accusing Flora of seeing Miss Jessel and of
refusing to admit it, Mrs. Grose, who, like the girl, sees nothing,
protests against the governess's accusation:
"What a dreadful turn, to be sure, Miss ! Where on earth do you see
anything?" (ch. 20, p. 72).
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Does the word "turn" here mean "a turning point," "a change of
meaning," "a turn of events," or "a turn of hysteria," "an attack
of nervousness," "a fit," "a spell"? And if it means a turning point

(a change of meaning), does it designate a simple reorientation or a
radical disorientation, i.e., a delirious twist and deviation? Or does
the "turn" name, precisely, the textual ironic figure of its own
rhetorical capacity to reverse itself, to turn meaning into madness,
to "project the possible other case" or other turn? Whatever the

case, the metaphor of the "turn of the screw," in referring to a
turn-or a twist-of sense, establishes an ironical equivalence
between direction and deviation, between a turn of sense and a turn

of madness, between the turn of an interpretation and the turning
point beyond which interpretation becomes delirious. The governess
herself is in fact quite aware of the possibility of madness, of her

own madness, as the very risk involved in reading, as the other
turn-the other side of the very coin of meaning:
I began to watch them in a stifled suspense, a disguised excitement that
might well, had it continued too long, have turned to something like madness. What saved me, as I now see, was that it turned to something else
altogether (...) it was superseded by horrible proofs. Proofs, I say, yesfrom the moment I really took hold (ch. 6, p. 28).
To "take hold"-to seize the screw and tighten it once more so as

to gain control of sense, of meaning-is thus conceived as a means
of preserving and securing lucidity and sanity, as a gesture of protection against the threat of madness. The question of "taking hold"
is often, in effect, associated with the very question of equilibrium:
I had felt it again and again - how my equilibrium depended on the
success of my rigid will (...). I could only get on at all (...) by treating
my monstrous ordeal as a push in a direction unusual, of course, and
unpleasant, but demanding, after all (...) only another turn of the screw
of ordinary human virtue (ch. 22, p. 80).51
51 Cf. ch. 24, p. 88: "The grasp with which I recovered him might have
been that of catching him in his fall. I caught him, yes, I held him ..."
and ch. 24, p. 85: "... the mere blind movement of getting hold of him
(...) while I just fell for support against the nearest piece of furniture..."
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The expression "turn of the screw" is, indeed, itself twice used
explicity in the text, in two entirely different contexts. The question

thus arises whether, within their very differences, these two textual
uses of the expression are nonetheless linked to each other in a

revealing way. In the context just quoted, we have seen that the
"turn of the screw" is directly linked to the question of equilibrium,
of balance, and therefore also to the question of the loss of balance,

of the loss of equilibrium, to the very possibility of madness; in
the other context-that of the prologue-the expression "turn of
the screw" is, on the other hand, used in relation to the question
of the reception of the story, of the narrative's impact on its lis-
teners (readers), of the tale's reading-effect. From one context to

the other, from the story to its "frame," it is once again reading
and madness which interact and confront each other through the
differential repetition of the expression "turn of the screw." But
their interaction, this time, also implicates us as the story's readers,
places us in the same boat as the governess, since the prologue's

use of the expression "turn of the screw" names the "effect" produced precisely on its readers by the very story of The Turn of the
Screw. Douglas, in this manner, introduces the story he is about
to tell:
"I quite agree -in regard to Griffin's ghost (...) that its appearing
first to the little boy, at so tender an age, adds a particular touch. But
it's not the first occurrence of its charming kind that I know to have
involved a child. If the child gives the effect another turn of the screw,
what do you say to two * children?"
"We say, of course," somebody exclaimed, "that they give two turnsl 52
Also that we want to hear about them." (Prologue, p. 1; * James's italics;

other italics mine.)
52 If the presence of a child in a ghost story gives a "turn of the
screw" to the effect of horror produced upon the reader, the presence of
two children obviously does not, however, give that effect "two turns."
The listener's response does not correspond to Douglas's intention in
asking the question. The expression "to give a turn of the screw" is a
clich6 which as such produces meaning only as a reified unit, but cannot
be divided into its component parts, is not susceptible to modification;

it is thus impossible to say "to give two turns of the screw" -or at any
rate to say it is to disrupt the cliche's ordinary meaning. As a stereotype
signifying "a strengthening (of the effect)," the expression "to give a turn
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In what way, however, does the turn of the screw given by the
children to the story's reading-effect more specifically refer to the

turn of the screw given by the governess to "ordinary human
virtue"? Like the story's reader, dramatized in the frame by the
listener who replies "two turns!," the governess is herself essentially a reader, engaged in an interpretative entreprise. Now, what
the governess precisely tells us of the "turn of the screw of ordinary
human virtue," is that this turn of the screw is designed to insure

her very equilibrium. Her equilibrium indeed depends on the
strength of her "rigid will," on her capacity to withstand "a push
in a direction unusual" by tightening the screw, on her mastery
of the screw's direction and of its meaning, on the strength and
rigidity of her "hold": "ordinary human virtue," in other words,
of the screw" is not mathematizable: like the act of turning the screw
itself, the cliche lends itself not to addition but to repetition; in order to
indicate an added strengthening, it is only possible to repeat the same
cliche: not "give two turns," but, as the governess and Douglas both put
it, "give another turn of the screw." The answer to Douglas's question
can only repeat the terms of its formulation: "two children would indeed
give the effect another turn of the screw." In this sense, Douglas's question
is a rhetorical one-an affirmation which in truth does not ask nor call
for an answer. In addition, if the effect of horror is linked to the presence

of a child, the relation of effect to cause (of horror to child) is not
quantitative, but qualitative: what produces the effect is not the number
of children, but childhood as such. The number "two" used by Douglas
is not meant as an enumeration, as a quantitative measure, but as a

superlative, as a qualitative measure. Douglas's proposal to outdo the
previous narrative constitutes not an arithmetical but a rhetorical outbidding. Douglas is tantalizing the hushed little circle with a better, more
thrilling version of the same type of ghost story: the two children, in this
sense, amount to the same.
The listener's interpretation (2 children = 2 turns) is thus a readingmistake, an error of interpretation. The error lies in taking rhetoric as
such (the rhetorical question as well as the rhetorical outbidding) literally.
In answering "two turnsl," the reader thus produces a difference, or
a split, in the text's very relation (or identity) to itself. Curiously enough,
however, this misreading, this misguided suggestion that the story will have
"two turns"-two different senses or directions - rejoins in fact precisely
the fundamental reality of the text, the very truth of its duplicity and
of its ambiguity. The text itself could thus say of its reader as the
governess says of Miles: "horrible as it was, his lies made up my truth"

(ch. 2, p. 84).
In including at its very outset its own misreading, in dramatizing its
own rhetoricity as a potentiality for error which, however, effectively
deconstructs the decidable polarity between truth and error, the very
metaphor of "the turn of the screw," through the turn of the screw given
to its meaning by its own enunciation, thus refers at once to a readingeffect and to a reading-mistake.
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is nothing other than an enterprise of mastery, a system of control
over meaning. But in what way does the governess's reading strategy
relate to the position of the reader in the story's frame? How is
this hold on meaning at the very heart of the story linked with the
turn of the screw of its reading-effect? Does the turn of the screw
of the reading-effect itself involve some kind of a hold?
Indeed, while the ending of the story recounts the way in which
the governess-reader takes hold at once of meaning and of the child
("I caught him, yes, I held him"), the beginning of the story, in a
strikingly parallel way, introduces in its very first sentence, another
type of hold implied by reading: "The story had held us, round
the fire, sufficiently breathless..." (Prologue, p. 1). With respect
to the hold defining the reading-enterprise ("another turn of the
screw of ordinary human virtue"), the hold defining the reading-
effect is thus reversed: while the governess as a reader strives to
get hold of the story, the reading-effect is such that it is rather the
story itself which takes hold of its readers. The reading-enterprise
and the reading-effect turn out to be diametrically opposed: to
hold the signifier (or the story's meaning) is in reality but to be held
by it. This, then, is the final turn of the screw of the metaphor of
the turn of the screw: the reader who tries to take hold of the text
can but find himself taken in by it. As a performative (and not a

cognitive) figure of the ironic textual force of reversal and of chiasmus, of the subversion of the subject by the very irony of language,
the "turn of the screw"-or The Turn of the Screw-acts out,
indeed, the very narrative-or tale-of reading, as precisely the
story of the subversion of the reader. While the reader thus believes
he holds and comprehends the story, it is in effect the story which
holds and comprehends the reader. But what, precisely, is the story's
hold on us? In what way are we at once held and comprehended

by the story?
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IX. The Madness of Interpretation: Literature and Psychoanalysis

"Do you know what I think?"
"It's exactly what I'm pressing you to
make intelligible."
"Well," said Mrs. Briss, "I think you are

crazy."
It naturally struck me. "Crazy?"
"Crazy."
I turned it over. "But do you call that
intelligible?"
She did it justice. "No; I don't suppose
it can be so for you if you are insane."

I risked the long laugh which might have
seemed that of madness. "'If I am' is lovely."

And whether or not it was the special sound,
in my ear, of my hilarity, I remember just

wondering if perhaps I mightn't be.
The indication that The Turn of the Screw is constructed as a
trap designed to close upon the reader is in fact, as we saw earlier,

explicitly stated by James himself:
It is an excursion into chaos while remaining, like Blue-Beard and Cinderella, but an anecdote -though an anecdote amplified and highly emphasized and returning upon itself; as, for that matter, Cinderella and Blue-
Beard return. I need scarcely add after this that it is a piece of ingenuity
pure and simple, of cold artistic calculation, an amusette * to catch those
not easily caught (the "fun" of the capture of the merely witless being ever
but small), the jaded, the disillusioned, the fastidious. (The New York
Preface, p. 120; * James's italics; other italics mine.)
What is interesting about this trap is that, while it points to the

possibility of two alternative types of reading, it sets out, in capturing both types of readers, to eliminate the very demarcation it
proposes. 5 The alternative types of reading which the trap at once

53 These two types of reading thus recall the illusory "two turns" which
the mistaken reader in the frame attributes to the screw of the text's
effect. (Cf. Prologue, p. 1, and, above, note 52.) But we have seen that
the "two turns" in fact amount to the same: based on the symmetry
implied by the "two children," the apparent difference between the "two
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elicits and suspends can be described as the naive ("the capture
of the merely witless") and the sophisticated ("to catch those not
easily caught... the jaded, the disillusioned, the fastidious"). The

trap, however, is specifically laid not for naivete but for intelligence
itself. But in what, indeed, does intelligence consist, if not in the

determination to avoid the trap? "Those not easily caught" are
precisely those who are suspicious, those who sniff out and detect
a trap, those who refuse to be duped: "the disillusioned, the jaded,
the fastidious." In this sense the "naive reading" would be one which
would lend credence to the testimony and account of the governess,
whereas the "disillusioned" reading would on the contrary be one
which would suspect, demystify, "see through" the governess, one

which, in fact, would function very much like the reading carried
out by Wilson, who in effect opens his discussion by warning us
precisely against a trap set by the text, a "trick of James's":
A discussion of Henry James's ambiguity may appropriately begin with
The Turn of the Screw. This story (...) perhaps conceals.another horror
behind the ostensible one. (...) It is a not infrequent trick of James's to

introduce sinister characters with descriptions that at first sound flattering,
so this need not throw us off. (Wilson, p. 102.)
Since the trap set by James's text is meant precisely for "those not
easily caught"-those who, in other words, watch out for, and seek
to avoid, all traps,-it can be said that The Turn of the Screw, which
is designed to snare all readers, is a text particularly apt to catch
the psychoanalytic reader, since the psychoanalytic reader is, par
excellence, the reader who would not be caught, who would not be
made a dupe. Would it be possible then to maintain that literature,

in The Turn of the Screw, constitutes a trap for psychoanalytical
interpretation?
turns" is purely specular. This is the final irony of the figure of the turn
of the screw: while appearing to double and to multiply itself, the turn
of the screw only repeats itself; while appearing to "turn," to change
direction, sense, or meaning, the turning sense in fact does not change,
since the screw returns upon itself. And it is precisely through such a
"return upon itself" that the trap set by the text, says James, catches the
reader.
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Shoshana Felman
Let us return, one last time, to Wilson's reading, which will be

considered here not as a model "Freudian reading," but as the
illustration of a prevalent tendency as well as an inherent temptation of psychoanalytical interpretation as it undertakes to provide
an "explanation," or an "explication" of a literary text. In this

regard, Wilson's later semi-retraction of his thesis is itself instructive: convinced by his detractors that for James the ghosts
were real, that James's conscious project or intention was to write
a simple ghost story and not a madness story, Wilson does not,
however, give up his theory that the ghosts consist of the neurotic
hallucinations of the governess, but concedes in a note:

One is led to conclude that, in The Turn of the Screw, not merely is the
governess self-deceived, but that James is self-deceived about her. (Wilson,

note added 1948, p. 143.)
This sentence can be seen as the epitome, and as the verbal formulation, of the desire underlying psychoanalytical interpretation: the
desire to be non-dupe, to interpret, i.e., at once uncover and avoid,

the very traps of the unconscious. James's text, however, is made
of traps and dupery: in the first place, from an analytical perspective, the governess is self-deceived; duping us, she is equally herself
a dupe of her own unconscious; in the second place, in Wilson's
view, James himself is self-deceived: the author also is at once our
duper and the dupe of his unconscious; the reader, in the third
place, is in turn duped, deceived, by the very rhetoric of the text, by

the author's "trick," by the ruse of his narrative technique which
consists in presenting "cases of self-deception" "from their own
point of view" (Wilson, p. 142). Following Wilson's suggestions,

there seems to be only one exception to this circle of universal
dupery and deception: the so-called Freudian literary critic himself.

By avoiding the double trap set at once by the unconscious and by
rhetoric, by remaining himself exterior to the reading-errors which
delude and blind both characters and author, the critic thus becomes
the sole agent and the exclusive mouthpiece of the truth of literature.
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This way of thinking and this state of mind, however, strikingly

resemble those of the governess herself, who is equally preoccupied
by the desire, above all, not to be made a dupe, by the determina-
tion to avoid, detect, demystify, the cleverest of traps set for her
credulity. Just as Wilson is distrustful of James's narrative technique, suspecting that its rhetoric involves a "trick," i.e., a strategy,
a ruse, a wily game, the governess in turn is suspicious of the
children's rhetoric:
"It's a game," I went on, "it's a policy and a fraud" (ch. 12, p. 48).
And just as Wilson, struck by the ambiguity of the text, concludes

that the governess, in saying less than the truth, actually says more
than she means,- the governess herself, struck by the ambiguity

of Mrs. Grose's speech, concludes in a parallel fashion that
Mrs. Grose, in saying less than all, nonetheless says more than she
intends to say:
. . . my impression of her having accidentally said more than she meant ...
I don't know what there was in this brevity of Mrs. Grose's that struck
me as ambiguous (ch. 2, pp. 12-13).
I was (...) still haunted with the shadow of something she had not told
me (ch. 6, p. 27).
Like Wilson, the governess is suspicious of the ambiguity of signs

and of their rhetorical reversibility; like Wilson, she thus procedes
to read the world around her, to interpret it, not by looking at it
but by seeing through it, by demystifying and reversing the values

of its outward signs. In each case, then, it is suspicion which gives
rise as such to interpretation.
But isn't James's reader-trap, in fact, a trap set for suspicion.?

an amusette * to catch those not easily caught (.. .). Otherwise expressed, the study is of a conceived "tone," the tone of suspected and felt
trouble, of an inordinate and incalculable sore - the tone of tragic, yet
of exquisite, mystification. (New York Preface, p. 120; * James's italics;
other italics mine.)
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Shoshana Felman
The Turn of the Screw thus constitutes a trap for psychoanalytical
interpretation to the extent that it constructs a trap, precisely, for
suspicion. It has indeed been said of psychoanalysis itself that it is
a veritable "school of suspicion." ` But what, exactly, is suspicion?

"Oran," reads the opening line of Camus' The Plague, "was a city
without suspicion." Brought by "the Plague," suspicion will then
signify, in this case, the awakening of consciousness itself through
its melees with death, with fear, with suffering-the acquisition of

a keen awareness of the imminence of a catastrophe of unknown
origin, which has to be prevented, fought against, defeated. If it
is thus the plague which brings about suspicion, it is well known,
indeed, that Freud himself, at the historic moment of his arrival
in the United States, said precisely that he had brought with him,
ironically enough, "the plague"... Psychoanalysis, therefore, could

very accurately be described as a "school of suspicion," a school
which teaches an awareness of the Plague. What, however, is the

alternative to suspicion? James's text can perhaps provide an answer. In the New York Preface, to begin with, the alternative to
the suspicious reader was incarnated in the so-called "witless"
reader ("the 'fun' of the capture of the merely witless being ever
but small"); suspicion would thus seem to be equivalent to "wit,"

to the intelligence of the reader. In the text of The Turn of the
Screw itself, moreover, the alternative to the suspicion of the governess is, symmetrically, the naive belief of Mrs. Grose, who un-
suspectingly lends credence to whatever the governess may choose
to tell her. And, as if the very name of Mrs. Grose were not a
sufficient clue to James's view of the attitude of faith which he
thus opposes to suspicion, the fact that Mrs. Grose does not know
how to read ("my counselor couldn't read!" ch. 2, p. 10) clearly
suggests a parallel with the "witless" reader which the New York
Preface in its turn opposes to the suspicious, unbelieving reader,

the one who is precisely difficult to catch. Psychoanalysis, there-
fore, is strictly speaking a "school of suspicion" to the extent that
54 The formula is Paul Ricoeur's.

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it is, in effect, a school of reading. Practiced by Wilson as well as

by the governess, but quite unknown to Mrs. Grose, "suspicion"
is directed, first and foremost, toward the non-transparent, arbitrary nature of the sign: it feeds on the discrepancy and distance
which separates the signifier from its signified. While suspicion
constitutes, thereby, the very motive of the process of interpretation, the very moving force behind the "wit" of the discriminating
reader, we should not forget, however, that the reader is here
"caught" or trapped, not in spite of but by virtue of, because of

his intelligence and his sophistication. Suspicion is itself here part
of the mystification ("the tone of suspected and felt trouble...
the tone of tragic, yet of exquisite, mystification"): the alert, suspicious, unduped reader is here just as "caught," as mystified, as
the naive believer. Like faith (naive or "witless" reading), suspicion (the intelligence of reading) is here a trap.
The trap, indeed, resides precisely in the way in which these
two opposing types of reading are themselves inscribed and comprehended in the text. The reader of The Turn of the Screw can
choose either to believe the governess, and thus to behave like
Mrs. Grose, or not to believe the governess, and thus to behave

precisely like the governess. Since it is the governess who, within
the text, plays the role of the suspicious reader, occupies the place
of the interpreter, to suspect that place and that position is, thereby, to take it. To demystify the governess is only possible on one
condition: the condition of repeating the governess's very gesture.

The text thus constitutes a reading of its two possible readings,
both of which, in the course of that reading, it deconstructs. James's

trap is then the simplest and the most sophisticated in the world:
the trap is but a text, that is, an invitation to the reader, a simple
invitation to undertake its reading. But in the case of The Turn
of the Screw, the invitation to undertake a reading of the text is
pzrforce an invitation to repeat the text, to enter into its labyrinth

of mirrors, from which it is henceforth impossible to escape.
It is in just the same manner as the governess that Wilson, in

his reading, seeks to avoid above all being duped: to avoid, pre190
Shoshana Felman
cisely, being the governess's dupe. Blind to his own resemblance
with the governess, he repeats, indeed, one after the other, the
procedures and delusions of her reading strategy. "Observe," writes
Wilson, "from a Freudian point of view, the significance of the

governess's interest in the little girl's pieces of wood" (Wilson,
p. 104). But to "observe" the signified behind the wooden signifier,
to observe the meaning, or the significance, of the very interest
shown for that signifier, is precisely what the governess herself does,
and invites others to do, when she runs crying to Mrs. Grose, "They
know-it's too monstrous: they know, they know!" (ch. 7, p. 30).
In just the same manner as the governess, Wilson equally fetishizes
the phallic simulacrum, delusively raises the mast in Flora's boat

to the status of Master-Signifier. Far from following the incessant
slippage, the unfixable movement of the signifying chaim from

link to link, from signifier to signifier, the critic, like the governess,
seeks to stop the meaning, to arrest signification, by a grasp, precisely, of the Screw (or of the "clue"), by a firm hold on the
Master-Signifier:
What if the hidden theme (...) is simply sex again? . . the clue of experience... (Wilson, p. 115.)
When one has once got hold of the clue to this meaning of The Turn of
the Screw, one wonders how one could ever have missed it. (Wilson, p. 108.)
Sharing with the governess the illusion of having understood all,
of having mastered meaning by clutching at its clue, at its mastersignifier, Wilson could have said, with the governess and like her,
but against her:
I seemed to myself to have mastered it, to see it all (ch. 21, p. 78).
In Wilson's case as in the governess's, the move toward mastery,

however, is an aggressive move, an "act of violence," which involves a gesture of repression and of exclusion. "Our manner of
excluding," writes Maurice Blanchot, "is at work precisely at the
very moment we are priding oil-selves on our gift of universal com191
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prehension." In their attempt to elaborate a speech of mastery,

a discourse of totalitarian power, what Wilson and the governess
both exclude is nothing other than the threatening power of rhetoric

itself-of sexuality as division and as meaning's flight, as con-
tradiction and as ambivalence; the very threat, in other words,

of the unmastery, of the impotence, and of the unavoidable castration which inhere in language. From his very grasp of meaning and
from the grasp of his interpretation, Wilson thus excludes, represses, the very thing which led to his analysis, the very subject of
his study: the role of language in the text, "the ambiguity of Henry
James":
Henry James never seems aware of the amount of space he is wasting
through the long abstract formulations that do duty for concrete details,
the unnecessary circumlocutions and the gratuitous meaningless verbiage
- the as it were's and as we may say's and all the rest -all the words
with which he pads out his sentences and which themselves are probably
symptomatic of a tendency to stave off his main problems. (Wilson, p. 129;
author's italics.)
As Jean Starobinski puts it elsewhere, "The psychoanalyst, the expert on the rhetoric of the unconscious, does not himself wish to
be a rhetorician. He plays the role that Jean Paulhan assigns to

the terrorist as such: he demands that one speak in clear language."55 In demanding that the text "speak in clear language,"
Wilson thus reveals the terroristic status of his psychoanalytic

exegesis. But the governess as well demands "clear language": she
terrorizes in effect the child into "surrendering the name," into giv-
ing, that is, to the ghost its proper name. Wilson's treatment of
the text indeed corresponds point for point to the governess's treatment of the child: Wilson, too, forces, as it were, the text to a
confession. And what, in fact, is the main effort of the analytical
interpreter as such, if not, at all events, to extort the secret of the

text, to compel the language of the text-like that of the child-to
confess or to avow: to avow its meaning as well as its pleasure;
55 Jean Starobinski, La Relation critique (Paris: Gallimard, 1970),
p. 271; my translation.
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to avow its pleasure and its meaning to the precise extent that
they are unavowable.
It is thus not insignificant for the text's subtle entrapment of

its psychoanalytical interpretation that the governess ends up killing
the child. Neither is it indifferent to the textual scene that the
Latin word for child, infans, signifies, precisely, "one incapable of

speaking." For would it not be possible to maintain that Wilson,
in pressing the text to confess, in forcing it to "surrender" its
proper name, its explicit, literal meaning, himself in fact commits
a murder (which once more brings up the question of tact), by

suppressing within language the very silence which supports and
underlies it, the silence out of which the text precisely speaks?
... a stillness, a pause of all life, that had nothing to do with the more or
less noise we at the moment might be engaged in making... (ch. 13, p. 53).
As the figure of a knowledge which cannot know itself, which can-
not reflect upon nor name itself, the child in the story incarnates,
as we have seen, unconscious knowledge. To "grasp" the child,
therefore, as both the governess and Wilson do, to press him to
the point of suffocating him, of killing or of stifling the silence

within him, is to do nothing other than to submit, once more, the
silent speech of the unconscious to the very gesture of its repression.
Here, then, is the crowning aberration which psychoanalysis

sometimes unwittingly commits in its melees with literature. In
seeking to "explain" and master literature, in refusing, that is, to
become a dupe of literature, in killing within literature that which

makes it literature-its reserve of silence, that which, within speech,
is incapable of speaking, the literary silence of a discourse ignorant

of what it knows-the psychoanalytic reading, ironically enough,
turns out to be a reading which represses the unconscious, which
represses, paradoxically, the unconscious which it purports to be
"explaining." To master, then, (to become the Master) is, here as

elsewhere, to refuse to read the letters; here as elsewhere, to "see
it all" is in effect to "shut one's eyes as tight as possible to the
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truth"; once more, "to see it all" is in reality to exclude; and to

exclude, specifically, the unconscious.
Thus repeated on all levels of the literary scene, by the governess as well as by her critics, in the story as well as in its reading,
this basic gesture of repression, of exclusion, is often carried out
under the auspices of a label which, while naming that which is

cast out, excluded, also at the same time sanctions the exclusion.
That subtle label is the term "madness" used by the interpreter
to mark that which is repressed as indeed foreclosed, external to,
shut out from, meaning. Wilson thus suggests that the governess
is mad, i.e., that her point of view excludes her, and hence should
be excluded, from the "truth" and from the meaning of her story.
But the governess herself in her own reading, indeed, refers no less
insistently to the question of insanity, of madness. She is preoccupied, as we have seen, by the alternative of madness and of sense
as mutually exclusive; she is quite aware, in fact, that the pos-
sibility of her own madness is but the converse-the other side,

the other turn-of her seizure and control of sense, of her "grasp"
of and her firm "hold" `6 on meaning, a hold involving the repression of otherness as such, an exclusion of the Other. To "grasp,"
"get hold" of sense will therefore also be to situate madness-outside, to shut it out, to locate it- in the Other: to cast madness
as such onto the other insofar as the Other in effect eludes one's
grasp. The governess indeed maintains that the children are no
less than mad; s when Mrs. Grose urges her to write to the Master
about the children's strange behavior, the governess demurs:
56 Cf. ch. 6, p. 28: ". . . a suspense (...) that might well ( ...) have
turned into something like madness. (...) It turned to something else
altogether (...) from the moment I really took hold." Cf. also ch. 12, p. 48:
"I go on, I know, as if I am crazy, and it's a wonder I'm not. What I've
seen would have made you so; but it only made me more lucid, made
me get hold of still other things..."
57 To begin with, she claims they are "possessed," that is, unseizable,
possessed precisely by the Other: "Yes, mad as it seems! ( ...) They haven't
been good - they've only been absent. (. . .) They're simply leading a life
of their own. They're not mine - they're not ours. They're his and they're
hers!" (ch. 12, pp. 48-49).
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"By writing to him that his house is poisoned and his little nephew
and niece mad?"
"But if they are, Miss?"
"And if I am myself, you mean? That's charming news to be sent him
by a person (...) whose prime undertaking was to give him no worry"

(ch. 12, pp. 49-50).
It is thus either the governess or the children who are mad:
if the children are not mad, the governess could well be; if the
children are mad, then the governess is truly in the right, as well
as in her right mind. Hence, to prove that the children are mad
(that they are possessed by the Other-by the ghosts) is to prove
that the governess is not mad: to point to the madness of the
other is to deny and to negate the very madness that might be

lurking in the self. The Other's madness thus becomes a decisive
proof and guarantee of one's own sanity:
Miss Jessel stood before us (...). I remember (...) my thrill of joy at
having brought on a proof. She was there, and I was justified; she was
there, so I was neither cruel nor mad (ch. 20, p. 71).
Thus, for the governess to be in possession of her senses, the

children must be possessed and mad. The governess's very sense,
in other words, is founded on the children's madness. Similarly but
conversely, the story's very sense, as outlined by Wilson, by the
logic of his reading, is also, paradoxically, based on madness-but
this time on the madness of the governess. Wilson, in other words,

treats the governess in exactly the same manner as the governess
treats the children. It is the governess's madness, that is, the exclusion of her point of view, which enables Wilson's reading to
function as a whole, as a system at once integral and coherent

-just as it is the children's madness, the exclusion of their point
of view, which permits the governess's reading, and its functioning
as a totalitarian system. 58
58 Cf.: "'It's a game,' I went on, - 'it's a policy and a fraud!' (...)
'Yes, mad at it seems ' The very act of bringing it out really helped me to
trace it -follow it up and piece it all together" (ch. 12, pp. 48-49).
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"It is not by locking up one's neighbor," as Dostoievsky once
said, "that one can convince oneself of one's own soundness of

mind." This, however, is what Wilson seems precisely to be doing,
insofar as he is duplicating and repeating the governess's gesture.
This, then, is what psychoanalytical interpretation might be doing,

and indeed is doing whenever it gives in to the temptation of
diagnosing literature, of indicating and of situating madness in a
literary text. For in shutting madness up in literature, in attempting

not just to explain the literary symptom, but to explain away the
very symptom of literature itself, psychoanalysis, like the governess,
only diagnoses literature so as to justify itself, to insure its own

control of meaning, to deny or to negate the lurking possibility of
its own madness, to convince itself of its own incontrovertible

soundness of mind.
The paradoxical trap set by The Turn of the Screw is therefore
such that it is precisely by proclaiming that the governess is mad
that Wilson inadvertently imitates the very madness he denounces,

unwittingly participates in it. Whereas the diagnostic gesture aims
to situate the madness in the other and to disassociate oneself
from it, to exclude the diagnosis from the diagnosed, here, on the
contrary, it is the very gesture of exclusion which includes: to
exclude the governess-as mad-from the place of meaning and of
truth is precisely to repeat her very gesture of exclusion, to in-
clude oneself, in other words, within her very madness. Unsuspec-
tingly, Wilson himself indeed says as much when he writes of

another Jamesian tale:
The book is not merely mystifying, but maddening. (Wilson, p. 112.)
Thus it is that The Turn of the Screw succeeds in trapping the

very analytical interpretation it in effect invites but whose authority
it at the same time deconstructs. In inviting, in seducing the psycho-
analyst, in tempting him into the quicksand of its rhetoric, literature, in truth, only invites him to subvert himself, only lures
psychoanalysis into its necessary self-subversion.
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In the textual mechanism through which the roles of the governess and of the children become reversible, and in the text's tactical
action on its reader, through which the roles of the governess and
of her critic (her demystifier) become symmetrical and interchangeable, - the textual dynamic, the rhetorical operation at work
consists precisely in the subversion of the polarity or the alternative which opposes as such analyst to patient, symptom to interpretation, delirium to its theory, psychoanalysis itself to madness.
That psychoanalytical theory itself occupies precisely a symmetrical,

and hence a specular, position with respect to the madness it ob-
serves and faces, is in fact a fundamental given of psychoanalysis,

acknowledged both by Freud and by Lacan. Lacan as well as Freud
recognize indeed that the very value-but equally the risk-inherent in psychoanalysis, its insightfulness but equally its blindness, its truth but also its error, reside precisely in this turn of
the screw : "The discourse of the hysteric," writes Lacan, "taught

[Freud] this other substance which entirely consists in the fact
that such a thing as a signifier exists. In taking in the effect of
this signifier, within the hysteric's discourse, [Freud] was able to
give it that quarter-turn which was to turn it into analytical dis-
course" (Encore, p. 41). Freud, in turn, acknowledges a "striking

similarity" between his own psychoanalytical theory and the delirious ravings of President Schreber: "It remains for the future
to decide," writes Freud, "whether there is more delusion in my
theory than I should like to admit, or whether there is more truth
in Schreber's delusion than other people are as yet prepared to
believe." 59
It is doubtless no coincidence, therefore, that the myth of
Oedipus-the psychoanalytical myth par excellence-should happen

to recount not only the drama of the symptom but equally the
very drama of interpretation. The tragedy of Oedipus is, after all,
the story no less of the analyst than of the analysand: it is specifically, in fact, the story of the deconstruction, of the subversion of
59 S. Freud, Three Case Histories (ed. Philip Rieff), New York: Collier
Books, 1963, p. 182.
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the polarity itself which distinguishes and which opposes these two
functions. The very murder that Oedipus commits is indeed constitutive in the story, just as much of the impasse of the interpreter
as of the tragedy of the interpreted. For it is the murder which
founds the rhetorical movement of substitution as a blind movement, leading blindly to the commutation, or to the switch between interpreter and interpreted: it is by murdering that the
interpreter takes the place, precisely, of the symptom to be inter-
preted. Through the blind substitution in which Oedipus unwittingly takes the place of his victim, of the man he killed, he also, as
interpreter (as the detective attempting to solve the crime), and
equally unwittingly, comes to occupy the place and the position
of the very target of the blow that he addresses to the Other. But
Wilson also is precisely doing this, unknowingly assuming the position of the target, when he inadvertently repeats the gesture of
the governess at whom he aims his blow, thereby taking her place
in the textual structure.
It is through murder that Oedipus comes to be master. It is by

killing literary silence, by stifling the very silence which inhabits
literary language as such, that psychoanalysis masters literature,
and that Wilson claims to master James's text. But Oedipus be-
comes master only to end up blinding himself. To blind oneself:

the final gesture of a master, so as to delude himself with the im-
pression that he still is in control, if only of his self-destruction,

that he still can master his own blindness (whereas his blind con-
dition in reality preexisted his self-inflicted blindness), that he still

can master his own loss of mastery, his own castration (whereas
he in reality undergoes it, everywhere, from without); to blind
oneself, perhaps, then, less so as to punish, to humiliate oneself
than so as to persist, precisely, in not seeing, so as to deny, once

more, the very truth of one's castration, a castration existing outside Oedipus's gesture, by virtue of the fact that his conscious
mastery, the mastery supported by his consciousness, finds itself

subverted, by virtue of the fact that the person taken in by the
trap of his detection is not the Other, but he himself,-by virtue
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of the fact that he is the Other. And isn't this insistence on not
seeing, on not knowing, precisely what describes as well the func-
tion of the Master in The Turn of the Screw? In its efforts to

master literature, psychoanalysis-like Oedipus and like the Master
-can thus but blind itself: blind itself in order to deny its own
castration, in order not to see, and not to read, literature's subversion of the very possibility of psychoanalytical mastery. The
irony is that, in the very act of judging literature from the height
of its masterly position, psychoanalysis-like Wilson-in effect
rejoins within the structure of the text the masterly position, the
specific place of the Master of The Turn of the Screw: the place,
precisely, of the textual blind spot.
Now, to occupy a blind spot is not only to be blind, but in

particular, to be blind to one's own blindness; it is to be unaware
of the fact that one occupies a spot within the very blindness one
seeks to demystify, that one is in the madness, that one is always,

necessarily, in literature; it is to believe that one is on the outside,
that one can be outside: outside the traps of literature, of the un-
conscious, or of madness. James's reader-trap thus functions by

precisely luring the reader into attempting to avoid the trap, into
believing that there is an outside to the trap. This belief, of course,
is itself one of the trap's most subtle mechanisms: the very act
of trying to escape the trap is the proof that one is caught in it.
"The unconscious," writes Lacan, "is most effectively misleading
when it is caught in the act." 10 This, precisely, is what James suggests in The Turn of the Screw. And what James in effect does in
The Turn of the Screw, what he undertakes through the performative action of his text, is precisely to mislead us, and to
catch us, by on the contrary inviting us to catch the unconscious
in the act. In attempting to escape the reading-error constitutive
of rhetoric, in attempting to escape the rhetorical error constitutive of literature, in attempting to master literature in order not
to be its dupe, psychoanalysis, in reality, is doubly duped: unaware
60 Scilicet No 1, p. 31 ("La YvKprise du sujet suppose savoir").

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of its own inescapable participation in literature and in the errors
and the traps of rhetoric, it is blind to the fact that it itself exem-
plifies no less than the blind spot of rhetoricity, the spot where
any affirmation of mastery in effect amounts to a self-subversion
and to a self-castration. "Les non-dupes errent" [non-dupes err],
says Lacan. If James's text does not explicitly make such a statement, it enacts it, and acts it out, while also dramatizing at the
same time the suggestion that this very sentence-which entraps
us in the same way as does the "turn of the screw"-this very

statement, which cannot be affirmed without thereby being negated,
whose very diction is in fact its own contradiction, constitutes,

precisely, the position par excellence of meaning in the literary
utterance: a rhetorical position, implying a relation of mutual subversion and of radical, dynamic contradiction between utterance
and statement.
The fact that literature has no outside, that there is no safe

spot assuredly outside of madness, from which one might demystify and judge it, locate it in the Other without oneself participating
in it, was indeed ceaselessly affirmed by Freud in the most revealing moments of his text (and in spite of the constant opposite
temptation-the mastery temptation-to which he at other times
inevitably succumbed). Speaking of The Sandman and of Nathanael's
uncanny madness-a madness textually marked, in Hoffmann's
rhetoric, by the metaphor of Nathanael's distorted vision, due to

the glasses bought from the Sandman (from the optician Coppola)
and through which Nathanael at times chooses to behold the world

which surrounds him; glasses through which he looks, at any rate,
before each of his attacks of madness and of his attempts at
murder, - Freud emphasizes the fact that the reader is rhetorically

placed within that madness, that there is no place from which that
madness can be judged from the outside:

. .. We perceive that he [Hoffmann] means to make us, too, look through
the fell Coppola's glasses (...)
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Shoshana Felman
We know now that we are not supposed to be looking on at the
products of a madman's imagination behind which we, with the superiority
of rational minds, are able to detect the sober truth ... 61
In a parallel manner, The Turn of the Screw imposes the governess's distorted point of view upon us as the rhetorical condition
of our perception of the story. In James's tale as in Hoffmann's,
madness is uncanny, unheimlich, to the precise extent that it cannot be situated, coinciding, as it does, with the very space of reading. Wilson's error is to try to situate madness and thereby situate
himself outside it-as though it were possible, in language, to
separate oneself from language; as though the reader, looking

through the governess's madness and comprehended by it, could
situate himself within it or outside it with respect to it; as though
the reader could indeed know where he is, what his place is and
what his position is with respect to the literary language which

itself, as such, does not know what it knows. Thus it is that when,
in another of James's novels, The Sacred Fount, the label "madness" is ironically applied to the narrator as the last word-the
last judgment in the book,

"You are crazy, and I bid you good night" 62
the narrator, indeed, experiences this last word as the loss of his
capacity to situate himself: "Such a last word," he remarks, "(...)

put me altogether nowhere." 13
"It's a game," says the governess of the behavior of the children
that in her turn she claims to be "mad",
"It's a game, it's a policy and a fraud" (ch. 12, p. 48).
"It's all a mere mistake and a worry and a joke," (ch. 20, p. 72)
61 S. Freud, "The Uncanny" (trans. Alix Strachey) in Freud on

creativity and the Unconscious, New York: Harper Torchbooks, 1958,
p. 137.
62 H. James, The Sacred Fount, New York: Charles Scribner's Sons,

1901, p. 318.
63 Ibid., p. 319.
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answers, indirectly, Mrs. Grose, when she realizes that it is the

governess who is mad, and that the children are but the victims
of her delirium. The "mistake," the "worry" and the "joke," in
Mrs. Grose's mouth, refer to, and affirm, the non-existence of the
ghosts; they thus describe, accuse, excuse, the governess's madness. This ambiguous description of the error at the heart of The
Turn of the Screw as at once tragic and comic, as both a "worry"

and a "joke," is also implicit in James's statement in the New York
Preface:
The study is of a conceived "tone," the tone of suspected and felt trouble,
of an inordinate and incalculable sore-the tone of tragic, yet of exquisite,
mystification (p. 120).
The mystification is indeed exquisitely sophisticated, since it comprehends its very de-mystification. Since Wilson's gesture repeats
the governess's, since the critic here participates in the madness
he denounces, the psychoanalytical (or critical) demystification,

paradoxically enough, ends up reproducing the literary mystification. The very thrust of the mystification was, then, to make us
believe that there is a radical difference and opposition between

the turn of the screw of mystification and the turn of the screw
of demystification. But here it is precisely literature's mystification
which demystifies and catches the "demystifier," by actively, in

turn, mystifying him. Thus, paradoxically enough, it is mystification which is here demystifying, while demystification itself turns
out to be but mystifying. The demystifier can only err within his
own mystification.
"We could very well wonder," writes Lacan of Poe's Purloined

Letter but in terms applicable equally to The Turn of the Screw,
"whether it is not precisely the fact that everyone is fooled which

constitutes here the source of our pleasure." 64 If the literary
mystification is, in James's terms, "exquisite," it is indeed because

it constitutes a source of pleasure. The mystification is a game, a
joke; to play is to be played; to comprehend mystification is to
64 J. Lacan, "Sdminaire sur La Lettre volde," Ecrits, p. 17.
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be comprehended in it; entering into the game, we ourselves become fair game for the very "joke" of meaning. The joke is that,
by meaning, everyone is fooled. If the "joke" is nonetheless also
a "worry," if, "exquisite" as it may be, mystification is also "tragic,"
it is because the "error" (the madness of the interpreter) is the

error of life itself. "Life is the condition of knowledge," writes
Nietzsche; "Error is the condition of life-I mean, ineradicable

and fundamental error. The knowledge that one errs does not
eliminate the error." 65
X. A Ghost of a Master
The whole point about the puzzle is its
ultimate insolubility. How skillfully he managed it (...). The Master indeed.
(Louis D. Rubin, Jr., One More Turn of
the Screw)
Note how masterly the telling is (...) still

we must own that something remains unaccounted for.
(Virginia Woolf, Henry James's Ghosts)

The postbag (...) contained a letter for me,
which, however, in the hand of my employer,
I found to be composed but of a few words
enclosing another, addressed to himself, with

a seal still unbroken. "This, I recognize, is
from the head-master, and the head-master's
an awful bore. Read him, please; deal with
him; but mind you, don't report. Not a word.
I'm off!"
(H. James, The Turn of the Screw)
Thus it is that within the space of a joke which is also a worry,

within the space of a pleasure which is also a horror, Henry James,
Master of ceremonies, himself takes pleasure in turning the screw,
in tightening the spring of our interest:
65 F. Nietzsche, The Will to Power.
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That was my problem, so to speak, and my gageure - (...) to work my
(...) particular degree of pressure on the spring of interest. (Preface to
"The Golden Bowl," AN, p. 331.)
- "You almost killed me,"
protests, in Mozart's opera Don Giovanni, the valet of Don Giovanni,

Leporello;
-"Go on,-You are mad,
It was only a joke,"
replies his Master with a laugh. If the joke in The Turn of the
Screw is equally a deadly, or a ghostly one, it is because the author
-the master-craftsman who masters the "turns" of the game-has

chosen indeed to joke with death itself. It is in his capacity as master
of letters that James turns out to be a master of ghosts. Both
ghosts and letters are, however, only "operative terms": the
operative terms of the very movement of death within the signifier,

of the capacity of substitution which founds literature as a paradoxical space of pleasure and of frustration, of disappointment
and of elation:
What would the operative terms, in the given case, prove, under criticism,
to have been - a series of waiting satisfactions or an array of waiting
misfits? The misfits had but to be positiie and concordant, in the special
intenser light, to represent together (as the two sides of a coin show different legends) just so many effective felicities and substitutes. (...)
Criticism after the fact was to find in them arrests and surprises, emotions
alike of disappointment and of elation: all of which means, obviously, that
the whole thing was a living * affair. (Preface to "The Golden Bowl," AN,
pp. 341-342; * James's italics; other italics mine.)
If death is but a joke, it is because death is, in a sense, as

Georges Bataille has put it, "an imposture." Like the ghosts, death
is precisely what cannot die: it is therefore of death, of ghosts,
that one can literally say that they are "a living affair," an affair
of the living, the affair, indeed, of living.
Master of letters and of ghosts alike, James, in contrast to his
interpreters, lets himself become as much as possible a dupe, precise204
Shoshana Felman
ly, of their literality. It is as the dupe of the very letter of his text
that James remains the Master, that he deflects all our critical assaults and baffles all our efforts to master him. He proclaims to
know nothing at all about the content-or the meaning-of his

own letter. Like the letters in the very story of The Turn of the
Screw, his own letter, James insists, contains precisely nothing. His
text, he claims, can, to the letter, be taken as
a poor pot-boiling study of nothing at all, qui ne tire pas a consequence. *
It is but a monument to my fatal technical passion, which prevents my
ever giving up anything I have begun. So that when something that I have
supposed to be a subject turns out on trial to be none, je m'y acharne

d'autant plus. * (Letter to Paul Bourget, August 19, 1898; Norton, p. 109;
* James's italics; other italics mine.)
As regards a presentation of things so fantastic as in that wanton little
tale, I can only blush to see real substance read into them. (Letter to
Dr. Waldstein, October 21, 1898; Norton, p. 110.)
My values are positively all blanks save so far as an excited horror, a
promoted pity, a created expertness (...) proceed to read into them more
or less fantastic figures. (New York Preface, p. 123.)
Master of his own fiction insofar as he, precisely, is its dupe, James,
like the Master in The Turn of the Screw, doesn't want to know
anything about it. In his turn, he refuses to read our letters, sending them back to us unopened:
I'm afraid I don't quite understand the principal question you put to me
about "The Turn of the Screw." However, that scantily matters; for in
truth I am afraid (...) that I somehow can't pretend to give any coherent
account of my small inventions "after the fact." (Letter to F. W. Myers,
December 19, 1898, Norton, p. 112.)
Thus it is that James's very mastery consists in the denial and
in the deconstruction of his own mastery. Like the Master in his

story with respect to the children and to Bly, James assumes the
role of Master only through the act of claiming, with respect to
his literary "property," the "license," as he puts it, "of disconnexion and disavowal" (Preface to "The Golden Bowl," AN, p. 348).
Here as elsewhere, "mastery" turns out to be self-dispossession.

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Dispossessing himself of his own story, James, more subtly still,
at the same time dispossesses his own story of its master. But
isn't this precisely what the Master does in The Turn of the Screw,
when, dispossessing the governess of her Master (himself), he gives

her nothing less than "supreme authority"? It is with "supreme
authority" indeed that James, in deconstructing his own mastery,
vests his reader. But isn't this gift of supreme authority bestowed
upon the reader as upon the governess the very thing that will
precisely drive them mad?

That one should, as an author, reduce one's reader (...) to such a state
of hallucination by the images one has evoked (...)- nothing could better
consort than that (...) with the desire or the pretention to cast a literary
spell. (Preface to "The Golden Bowl," AN, p. 332.)
It is because James's mastery consists in knowing that mastery

as such is but a fiction, that James's law as master, like that of
the Master of The Turn of the Screw, is a law of flight and
of escape. " It is, however, through his escape, through his disappearance from the scene, that the Master in The Turn of the Screw,
in effect, becomes a ghost. And indeed it could be said that James
himself becomes a phantom master, a Master-Ghost par excellence

in terms of his own definition of a ghost:
Very little appears to be [done] - by the persons appearing; (...) This
negative quantity is large -(. . .). Recorded and attested "ghosts" are in other
words (...), above all, as little continuous and conscious and responsive, as
is consistent with their taking the trouble - and an immense trouble they
find it, we gather -to appear at all. (The New York Preface, p. 121.)
Now, to state that the Master has become himself a ghost is

once again to repeat the very statement of The Turn of the Screw:
there are letters from the moment there is no Master to receive

them--or to read them: letters exist because a Master ceases to
exist. We could indeed advance this statement as a definition of
66 Cf. "Our noted behaviour at large may show for ragged, because
it perpetually escapes our control; we have again and again to consent
to its appearing in undress - that is, in no state to brook criticism." "It
rests altogether with himself [the artist] not to (...) 'give away' his
importances." (AN, p. 348)
206
Shoshana Felman
literature iself, a definition implicated and promoted by the practice
of Henry James: literature (the very literality of letters) is nothing

other than the Master's death, the Master's transformation into a
ghost, insofar as that death and that transformation define and
constitute, precisely, literality as such; literality as that which is

essentially impermeable to analysis and to interpretation, that which
necessarily remains unaccounted for, that which, with respect to
what interpretation does account for, constitutes no less than all
the rest: "All the rest is literature," writes Verlaine. 67 "The rest,"
says the dying artist in James's novel The Middle Years, "the rest
is the madness of art": the rest, or literality, that which will for-
ever make us dupe, insofar as the very knowledge it conveys but

cannot know, the knowledge which our knowledge cannot integrate,
dispossesses us both of our mastery and of our Master. "That all
texts see their literality increase," writes Lacan, "in proportion to
what they properly imply of an actual confrontation with truth, is

that for which Freud's discovery demonstrates the structural reason"
(ecrits, p. 364). To quote James again:

It's not that the muffled majesty of authorship doesn't here ostensibly *
reign; but I catch myself again shaking it off and disavowing the pretence
of it while I get down into the arena and do my best to live and breathe
and rub shoulders and converse with the persons engaged in the struggle
that provides for the others in the circling tiers the entertainment of
the great game. There is no other participant, of course, than each of the
real, the deeply involved and immersed and more or less bleeding
participants. (Preface to "The Golden Bowl," AN, p. 328; * James's italics.)
The deeply involved and immersed and more or less bleeding participants are here indeed none other than the members of the "circle
round the fire" which we ourselves have joined. As the fire within
the letter is reflected on our faces, we see the very madness of our
own art staring back at us. In thus mystifying us so as to demystify
our errors and our madness, it is we ourselves that James makes

laugh-and bleed. The joke is indeed on us; the worry, ours.
67 "II faut aussi que tu n'ailles point/ Choisir tes mots sans quelque
meprise/ Rien de plus cher que la chanson grise/ Oui l'Indecis au Precis se
joint/ (...) Et tout le reste est liLtrature." (P. Verlaine, Art Poe'tique)
207

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Turning the Screw of Interpretation

Author(s): Shoshana Felman

Turning the Screw of Interpretation

-An Uncanny Reading Effect

-The Conflict of Interpretations: The Turns of the Debate

--The Madness of Interpretation: Literature and Psychoanalysis

What does the act of turning a screw have to do with literature?

questions that the present study intends to articulate, so as to give

(E. A. Poe, The Murders in the Rue Morgue)

The plot of The Turn of the Screw is well known: a young

who live in a secluded country house belonging to him. The young

condition set down by her employer-"the Master"-that she

This condition is no sooner accepted than it begins to weigh heavily

upon the governess (who is also the narrator)-especially when a

Miles has been expelled from school: this unexplained punishment

house is haunted: several times she finds herself confronted by

finally identifies as the ghosts of two servants, Peter Quint and

the children. The governess becomes steadily more convinced

with the children, to take possession of their souls and to corrupt

whose strategy consists of an attempt to catch the children in the

metaphysical struggle are, however, ill-fated: Flora, the little girl,

Yale French Studies

seemingly "surrendered" by pronouncing-under the governess's

ironical embrace of a corpse that the story ends.

effect, The Turn of the Screw would doubtless qualify as one of

quantity and intensity of the echoes it has produced, of the critical

literature to which it has given rise. Henry James was himself

make in favour of this little firm fantasy-which I seem to see draw

passions and energetic controversies. The violence to which the

journals of the period: "The story itself is distinctly repulsive,"

are forced to participate in the scandal, that the reader's innocence

the publication of a so-called "Freudian reading" of The Turn

psychoanalytical interpretation will hit the critical scene like a

bomb. Making its author into an overnight celebrity by arousing as

Yale French Studies

discussion, all passions and all arguments related to The Turn of

tivity" or the reality of the ghosts, the critical interpretations have

the governess as a clinical neurotic deceived by her own fantasies

engaged in a heroic moral struggle for the salvation of a world

Would it be possible to say, indeed, that the reality of the debate

of the ghosts? Could the critical debate itself be considered a ghost

seems to me instructive: when the pronouncements of the various

sides of the controversy are examined closely, they are found to

repeat unwittingly-with a spectacular regularity-all the main

-The motif of a danger which must be averted:

-The motif of a violent aggression inflicted upon an object by

an injurious, alien force:

only to the story but also to the Preface.

-The motif of final victory, of the enemy's defeat:

(Katherine Anne Porter) 6

misreading James's use, in his New York Preface, of the word

which are totally deluded." How is this misreading possible? "Once

in an unwary liberal, an emotional spasm which has resulted in a

5 "James's Air of Evil: The Turn of the Screw," in Casebook, p. 202.

Yale French Studies

kind of hysterical blindness" (FR, MLN, p. 434). Wilson's reading

in Wilson's critical interpretation of the story, an interpretation

But the hypothesis of madness, or "pathology," which is indeed