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Freud and Lawrence: Thoughts on War and Instinct

Michael Bell

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  • 1 "Myths of Civilisation in Freud and Lawrence," Etudes Lawrenciennes 44, (Presses universitaires de (...)

1This paper is an addendum to that given last year at the University of Nanterre conference on Lawrence and Freud.1 On that occasion I outlined the radical difference between these two writers' views on the instinctual nature of human beings: Freud's belief in the need for instinctual repression as opposed to Lawrence's, and Nietzsche's, more positive commitment to spontaneity. I thought the topic worth airing because, although it represents an opposition that runs through much modern literature and culture, it obtains responses at such an intuitive, apparently self-evident, level on both sides as to be not only beyond argument but largely beyond consciousness. And, of course, there can be no objective “truth” of the matter although the rhetoric on both sides constantly implies that there is. In short, we are faced with rival myths, or Weltanschauungen, with significant consequences for many other domains but with minimal visibility or self-consciousness in themselves.

2It should be said at once that Lawrence's opposition to Freud was partly based on a common reductive understanding of him. Just as Lawrence in Women in Love mistakenly criticised Nietzsche as a promoter of worldly power while affirming the essential Nietzschean spirit on his own account, so he mistakenly criticised Freud for attributing everything to the sexual motive while reinventing an essential Freudian understanding in his own terms. In Fantasia of the Unconscious, for example, he corrects Freud by identifying the unconscious with life itself and later on he emphasises the opposite principle of gravity, the acceptance of death. In truth, however, Freud is careful to explain that Eros is a broader category than sex and his model of Eros versus Thanatos is closely echoed in Lawrence's contrast of Life and Gravity. But this confusion arises partly from the radical difference in attitude that Lawrence rightly detects in Freud's view of the instinctual realm and his notion of the unconscious.

3In the present context, we may see Lawrence's essays on the unconscious as a response not just to Freud but also to the Great War of 1914-18. Indeed, the war was not only an object of interpretation from the rival standpoints of Freud and Lawrence, it may also have affected the internal development of these writers' views on the question of instinct. We know, of course, that the war had damaging consequences for the intellectual careers of both of them. Its catastrophic impact for Lawrence is recorded in Paul Delaney's study frankly entitled D. H. Lawrence's Nightmare and in Mark Kinkead-Weekes's volume in the Cambridge biography. For Freud it meant the disruption of the international psychoanalytic community just as it had seemed to be acquiring a critical mass and a measure of respectability.

  • 2 "Thoughts for the Times on War and Death," The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works (...)

4What is harder to judge is the longer-term ramifying impact of the war on the substantive thinking of both writers. Freud wrote explicitly about the war in pieces such as “Thoughts for the Time on War and Death” but to what extent did it also influence his thoughts on primal violence in Totem and Taboo, the “discovery” of the death instinct in Beyond the Pleasure Principle, or his analysis of group psychology?2 Likewise, Lawrence wrote directly about the wartime, including most notably in “The Crown,” Women in Love, England, my England and Lady Chatterley's Lover. But we have no counter-historical version of Women in Love by which to assess what that project, as it was originally conceived before the War, might otherwise have become. And as the late case of Lady Chatterley's Lover suggests, the experiences of the wartime cast a long shadow over the rest of his work. Without the banning of The Rainbow, exacerbated by the social isolation that was largely occasioned by the war, might Lawrence have adopted some other mode of long fiction, something more socially integrative, than the vagrant pilgrimage novels of his post-war itinerary?

5I raise these hypothetical questions only to indicate that the impact of the War is seismic and yet incalculable. At the same time, it doubtless applies in the intellectual, as much as in the social historical, domain that the war, while seeming to produce great changes, very largely accelerated developments that would probably have occurred anyway albeit less obviously and over a longer period. So too, the reflections of both writers on the nature of the primal instincts drew on the war for corroboration while already interpreting it in the light of their prior convictions. But before considering this more closely, it is worth remarking on some important similarities and differences in their modes of thinking.

  • 3 The Labyrinth of Solitude, trans. Lysander Kemp, (London: Penguin, 1985), 86, 85.
  • 4 "Introduction to these Paintings," Late Essays and Articles, ed. James T. Boulton (Cambridge: Cambr (...)

6A major similarity is that Freud and Lawrence both typically sought the explanations for big historical events or movements at a level of depth-psychology rather than at the economic, military and other levels of rational explanation usually favoured by professional historians. This is not, of course, an either/or question. The war undoubtedly came about through a disastrous combination of accident, interest and long-term tendencies in European international politics. But for Freud and Lawrence these were not the complete explanation. For both of them, the war was an expression of something in the psyche of modern Europeans, it exposed a collective condition. The self-evidence is caught in Freud's rhetorical question: “Do you really believe that a handful of ambitious and deluding men without conscience could have succeeded in unleashing all these evil spirits if their millions of followers did not share in their guilt?” (Complete Works, XV, 146). Such modes of interpretation are on a par with Octavio Paz's view that the conquest of Mexico was made possible by what he called the “imperial fatigue” of the Aztec empire, and the Aztec's belief, even before the arrival of Cortez, that their gods had deserted them.3 So too, Lawrence's history text book, written in wartime for intended use by school-children, was eventually entitled Movements in European History and deals in a similar way with large historical tendencies. Likewise, his studies in American literature, another product of the wartime, make comparable psychological claims about the semi-conscious motives underlying the early settlers leaving Europe for America. Of course, these lectures were themselves written to enable Lawrence's own intended voyage to America at a time of deep psychological crisis in his relation to his native country and to the European continent at large. This latter point reinforces the recognition that, even if such depth psychological speculations are largely undemonstrable, and therefore nugatory for a positivistic view of history, they develop their own mythic power and may bear closely upon practical behaviour and decisions. As with Lawrence's speculations elsewhere about the impact of syphilis on the bodily imagination of early-modern Europeans, it is hard to decide between the rhetorical momentum of a big idea and an intuition of brilliant historical clairvoyance.4

7In this respect, the war focused something more general about Lawrence. Whether as creative writer or as thinker, he typically functioned at this level of depth psychology, which indeed provides the implicit grounding of his fictional worlds, although the realistic texture of a novel, or the discursive argument of an essay, would usually give such intuitions a measure of familiar grounding, a local habitation and a name, so that their claims were mediated and their abruptness mitigated. Fictional realisation in a heuristic spirit was his equivalent for the scientific protocols by which Freud sought to ground his speculations about human behaviour. In effect, then, the war threw into relief not just Lawrence's political dissent but the radical otherness of his intelligence and sensibility. Just as Birkin had largely perfected the art of passing for ordinary, so Lawrence usually managed to pass for normal, but the moral pressures of the home front made this impossible and in a sense, once outed, he was exposed ever afterwards. Indeed, in a letter of 1916 he declares his willed separation from the present world:

  • 5 The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, vol. ii, ed. James T. Boulton and George J. Zytaruk, (Cambridge: Cam (...)

I will not live any more in this time. I know what it is. I reject it. As far as I possibly can, I will stand outside this time, I will live my life, and, if possible, be happy, though the whole world slides in horror down into the bottomless pit. There is a greater truth than the truth of the present. There is a God beyond these gods of today. Let them fight and fall around their idols, my fellow men: it is their affair. As for me, as far as I can, I will save myself, for I believe that the highest virtue is to be happy, living in the greatest truth, not submitting to the falsehood of these personal times.5

8The passage is a striking example of Lawrence's intuitive, rather than derived, Nietzscheanism. Whether or not he knew of Nietzsche's early, "untimely" essay On the Uses and Disadvantages of History for Life, he adopts, in a similar spirit of radical Protestantism, what Nietzche on that occasion called the "superhistorical" viewpoint. He sees the idols of the present for what they are even before they fade into the inevitable twilight of history.

  • 6 Ernest Jones, The Life and Work of Sigmund Freud, vol. 2, (London: Hogarth Press, 1967), 196.

9This mood and posture evidently underlay the radical change that occurred between The Rainbow and the eventual form of Women in Love. Whereas the first novel is cast in the form of a nineteenth-century historical saga, its sequel moved increasingly towards the spatial, geographical symbolism of Nordic and African elements, to provide an ahistorical, modernist map of the psyche. And unlike the agricultural landscape of the Brangwens, including its historical changes such as the building of the canal, the Nordic/African backdrop to Women in Love is a signifier for the reader much more than for the characters. Despite the best efforts of Birkin's persistent consciousness raising, the symbolic map figures largely as the collective unconscious of the characters. In this connection, it is worth noting in passing that around this time Freud was also making the distinction between conscious and unconscious temporality: whereas the conscious mind is temporal and historical, the unconscious is topographical and timeless6 (Jones 196). Or to put it more precisely, the Brangwens' world view is not unconscious so much as unconceptualised and this leads to a significant point of distinction between Freud on the one hand and both Nietzsche and Lawrence on the other with respect to what is meant by the unconscious.

  • 7 A view closer to that of Nietzsche and Lawrence is expressed in W. H. R. Rivers (Instincts and the (...)

10For Freud, the unconscious is metaphorically conceived in spatial terms and denotes a region inaccessible to direct perception. It is revealed only indirectly by its symptomatic impact in the conscious realm, and through the authoritative insights of the therapist. In so far as Nietzsche's psychology implies an equivalent of the unconscious it is less reified and more a function of the individual will albeit both terms, “individual” and “will,” are already radically destabilised in Nietzsche's thought. Unconsciousness for him is rather a matter of semi-culpable blind spots analogous to what is behind us, or to the ground on which we stand, at any one time. These are not out of sight in principle but are subjectively so, and especially so if we don't choose to look. In Lawrence, too, unconsciousness is largely a matter of avoidance rather than complete inaccessibility.7

11The Freudian reading of Hamlet, for example, suggests that its power derives in significant measure from the Oedipal theme which was completely unconscious not only to the characters, but to the author and to generations of readers. In contrast, Lawrence's reading of American literature brings out a struggle between recognition and avoidance which was clearly not conscious to the authors in the way that it is made so by Lawrence, yet the essence of the case is that the American authors are actively avoiding it in their writing. Their flinching and denial are so evident as to imply an incipient or partial self-awareness.

  • 8 Psychoanalysis and the Unconscious and Fantasia of the Unconscious, ed. Bruce Steele, (Cambridge: C (...)

12But there is something even more radical at stake here: in Lawrence “conscious” and unconscious” are less sharply demarcated in principle. In the psychoanalytic essays, when he speaks of the “pristine” and “primal” consciousness, he is already referring to an order of psychic reality not directly accessible to cerebral self-reflection.8 Indeed, he uses the words “consciousness” and “unconsciousness” throughout in ways that may initially seem inconsistent, until we realise that he is destabilising the very dualism on which they usually depend. Even more explicitly, perhaps, a characteristically Lawrencian oxymoron like “blood-consciousness” confounds the traditional distinctions. (FUPU 185) For him, consciousness and unconsciousness are mutually permeable and he finds implicit, but ingenious, ways to make us understand the former only through the latter. In Fantasia of the Unconscious he approaches the human through other orders of being such as the tree which, even though it has no face, he speaks of as sentient, dispositional and purposive, and indeed as having what in Psychoanalysis and the Unconscious he calls "sap-consciousness" (FUPU 19). The tree's lack of a face comes to seem not merely negative but a powerfully positive assertion of its own mode of being. So too, Lawrence describes human beings at a comparable level of blind purposiveness; initially, as might be expected, in the new-born baby but no less so in the adult. When the baby bonds with the mother in a sympathetic circuit while also kicking away into independence, Lawrence locates these different responses within the human body itself. So too, as the body develops into its adult form, the soft front of the breast receives sympathetic connection just as the hardness of the back affirms the independent individual. As part of his radical anti-Cartesianism, consciousness in Lawrence is always more than a cerebral process: it is a bodily manifestation. And by the same token, the unconscious is an emanation of the body asserting a tangible, although not articulate, presence. Hence it is, Lawrence says, “inconceivable” but not unknowable:

If, however, the unconscious is inconceivable, how do we know it at all? We know it by direct experience. All the best part of knowledge is inconceivable. We know the sun. But we cannot conceive the sun, unless we are willing to accept some theory of burning gases, some cause-and-effect nonsense. (FUPU 17)

13Lawrence does not deny the value of scientific knowledge in its own terms only its claims to be a complete account of human knowledge with respect to a sensory phenomenon such as the sun. We can conceive the burning gases but we know the sun carnally in our bodies.

14Hence, for him, as for Freud, the instinctual domain is indeed repressed, overlain and distorted by the cultural order but it is nonetheless available in principle at an intuitive and dispositional level. In this connection, it is worth revisiting the inaugural argument between Gerald and Birkin on "spontaneity" in Women in Love, the book in which Lawrence wished the bitterness of the War to be an implicit background. Gerald assumes that instinctual freedom must unleash violence whereas Birkin argues that this assumption is itself a reflection of Gerald's own nature which has become emotionally violent through frustration and repression. There can be no answer at the back of the book to prove either of them "right" for there is no objective "truth" about the instinctual domain which can be either known or not known. But whereas the words "conscious" and "unconscious" inevitably connote degrees of awareness, or knowledge, what is at stake in this argument is not so much knowledge as trust. The supposed "nature" of the instincts is really a matter of personal disposition in a self-fulfilling sense.

  • 9 "Indians and an Englishman" Mornings in Mexico and Other Essays, ed. Virginia Crosswhite Hyde (Camb (...)

15The elusiveness of the instincts to judgement helps to explain why Lawrence was at once the major example of modern primitivism and also its most penetrating critic. In the Freudian model, the primitive, which may be variously instantiated in archaic cultures, or in contemporary tribal peoples, or in the unconscious, is a pre-civilised self which is always in danger of breaking out. In "civilised" man, therefore, primitivism is a seductive nostalgia for the unrestrained domain of the unconscious. Yet Lawrence, too, would disapprove any too ready indulgence in nostalgia for the primitive although for opposite reasons: not because it is dangerous but because the primitive is irretrievably lost, and the desire for it is likely to be only an emotional falsehood, a sentimentality. He himself, of course, was sometimes susceptible to this sentimental nostalgia but, as he then recognised, he could not "cluster at the drum any more" and must go forwards albeit with a respectful, inward acknowledgement of the primitive whether it is behind, around or within us.9

16Lawrence's double vision in this respect, his looking simultaneously backwards and forwards, is spelled out in his essay "The Crown" which was written in explicit response to the war and typifies once again his depth psychological mode of reflection on history. Indeed, the essay contains little mention of the war as it ranges over aeons of human cultural evolution and, when he moves to his conclusion, Lawrence adopts an increasingly superhistorical standpoint in which he sees contemporary man balanced between two eternities:

  • 10 Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine and Other Essays, ed. Michael Herbert, (Cambridge: Cambridg (...)

If I look at the eternity ahead, my back is towards the other eternity, this latter is forgotten, it is not. Which is the Christian attitude. If I look at the eternity behind, back to the source, then there is for me one eternity, one only. And this is the pagan eternity, the eternity of Pan. This is the eternity some of us are veering round to, in private life, during the past few years.10

17Of course, even the superhistorical standpoint, the standpoint of eternity, is historically conditioned since every historical culture has its own model of eternity. And so Lawrence images himself here not as returning to the pagan past, but as veering round to attend to it, to accepting its model of the eternal within his own present.

  • 11 "Why War?" Complete Works, vol. xxii, 196-215.

18If the primitive is what precedes civilisation, then barbarism is what follows it, but barbarism has different aetiologies. Unlike the original sacking of Rome by the barbarians of the north, the modern metaphorical use of the term implies the emergence of barbarism out of civilisation itself. On Freud's model, this would mean the breakdown of civilised restraints such as he deplored in the War with its attacks on civilians, its disregard for International Law, and the mutual hatred engendered between cultured populations. For him, the war revealed only how thin was the veneer of civilisation which had seemed so firmly established over the course of the nineteenth century, and his only answer, as given to Albert Einstein, lay in continuing to strengthen our civilisation both institutionally and in psychological self-knowledge.11 For Lawrence, by contrast, the War was not the overthrow of civilisation by primal instinct, but quite the opposite: an intimate and consequential product of the civilisation itself. The supposed civilisation was already barbaric and must be overturned, or even better it must be allowed to disintegrate through its own internal process of corruption. That is the sense in which he declares in Fantasia that "The war was really not a bad beginning" (FUPU 118). Hence, too, his call in "The Crown" for a radical change of being.

  • 12 Ernest Jones, vol. 2, op. cit., 412-3.
  • 13 "The Question of a Weltanschauung," Complete Works, vol. xxii, 158-182.
  • 14 Barbara Ehrenreich, Blood Rites: Origins and History of the Passions of War (London: Virago, 1997), (...)

19Although I said at the outset that fundamental attitudes to instinct are largely intuitive and elusive to reasoning, it seems that this latter interpretation, the claim that aggressive emotions are not the primary instincts, is the one that always requires a more complex and as it were pro-active argument. For what I have called the Freudian view of instincts, the view Lawrence ascribes to Gerald Crich, continues to enjoy an apparent self-evidence such that it perdures as the default, common-sense, hard-headed assumption within the culture. It is the position that has constantly to be dislodged if the opposite view is even to be considered. It is striking, for example, that both Freud during the War and Ernest Jones long afterwards took the War to be a straightforward vindication of their psychoanalytic theory. 12 Freud has to restrain any tendency to intellectual triumphalism now that history has proved him so completely, if catastrophically, right in his interpretation of man's instincts. It does not occur to him that there could even be a counter view. In his essay on Weltanschauungen he claims that psychoanalysis has no Weltanschauung of its own except in so far as it partakes of a scientific world view.13 But he shows a significant blind spot in not recognising the arbitrariness of the cultural premise, the belief in instinctual aggression, on which his psychoanalytic interpretation of the war is based. Likewise, Barbara Ehrenreich, seeking at the end of the twentieth century in her book Blood Rites, to understand the passions invested in war, still finds herself arguing against the same common-sense position for which Freud continues to be a classic spokesman.14

20Ehrenreich, like Freud and Lawrence, is concerned not with the causes of war, but with the emotions invested in it, which may or may not be causal. The sacrificial idealism with which soldiers go, or are sent, to war is so widespread a phenomenon that it seems simply natural, not requiring further explanation. But her account, extending from pre-historical through historical times, notes in particular the impact of Christianity in early modern Europe and then the gradual transposition of its emotional structure on to the modern quasi-religion of nationalism. Whether or not one finds all her specific claims convincing, the overall thrust of her argument is to insist that the emotions invested in war, and which seem necessary to sustaining it, are products of culture rather than primordial instinct. They are, as Raymond Williams would say, "structures of feeling" so naturalised as to seem spontaneous. In this respect, Ehrenreich plausibly endorses Lawrence's implicit position.

21I say implicit position because Lawrence does not, perhaps, address the question of instinctual aggression as directly as Freud does, but his opposition to Freud in the psychoanalysis essays is focused on the "authority" and "restraint" model of civilisation enshrined in the Oedipal theory. Meanwhile it is in "The Crown," the essay specifically occasioned by the War, that he offers some of his most memorable criticisms of sentimentalism, the besetting vice, as he sees it, of the contemporary culture and the one most relevant to defining the emotions it has invested in the war.

The most evil things in the world, today, are to be found under the chiffon folds of sentimentalism. Sentimentality is the garment of our vice. It covers viciousness as inevitably as greenness covers a bog. (RDP 285)

22The importance of sentimentality in this connection is that it is the opposite of either primordial instinct or authentic emotion. And, as Lawrence indicates in Women in Love, it is the most advanced spirits in thought and art who must undergo consciously the process of dissolution which is occurring in a more widespread but unconscious way in this phase of modernity. Or as he puts it in "The Crown":

We are capable of nothing but reduction […] Our every activity is the activity of disintegration, of corruption, of dissolution, whether it be our scientific research, our social activity […] our art, or our anti-social activity, sensuality, sensationalism, crime, war. Everything alike contributes to the flux of death, to corruption, and liberates the static data of consciousness. (RDP 281)

23This process of dissolution may be a willed necessity as advocated by Birkin, or a perverse indulgence as in Loerke. As a perverse condition, Lawrence has already associated it with aestheticism:

It is at this crisis in the human history […] that art becomes the only absolute […] This achieved self, which we are, is absolute and universal. There is nothing beyond. All that remains is to state this self, and the reactions upon this self, perfectly. And the perfect statement presumes to be art. It is aestheticism.

At this crisis there is a great cry of loneliness. Every man conceives himself as a complete unity surrounded by nullity. And he cannot bear it. Yet his pride is in this also. The greatest conceit of all is the cry of loneliness.

At this crisis, emotion turns into sentiment, and sentimentalism takes the place of feeling. The ego has no feeling, it has only sentiments. And the myriad egos sway in the tides of sentimentalism. (RDP 280)

24In common usage, sentimentality is generally associated with low-grade forms of art, such as popular romantic fiction, but Lawrence locates it more crucially in the most advanced forms of expression. By the same token, the sentimentalism of which he speaks is at a high level of self-consciousness, if not of self-awareness. In this respect he draws on the deep roots of sentimentalism in European culture. For, although the modern use of the word "sentimental" refers merely to mawkish and indulgent modes of feeling, in its eighteenth-century heyday, as a supremely honorific term that blended feeling with moral and philosophical nobility, the sentimental necessarily included the aspect of self-consciousness. Indeed, this was the emphasis that Schiller, in his classic essay, On Naïve and Sentimental Poetry, identified as the defining mode of modernity itself. Schiller's was not just a specialised development of the word, therefore, but a summative analysis of its more general eighteenth-century significance. Modern sentimentalism, whether in its upper or lower registers, cheap indulgence or high-level art, is equally the product of a corrupt culture. It is at the opposite extreme from primordial instinct.

25Lawrence's final image of the "myriad egos" swaying "in the tides of sentimentalism" is very apt in this regard for it carries a double suggestion. On the one hand it indicates an emotional contagion through hyper-self-conscious idealism while on the other hand indicating why this might be subjectively mistaken for instinct. Part of the dynamic of sentimentalism in its classic form is that the sentimentalist is highly aware of the feeling, and aware of it as an assumed good, while valuing it for its apodictic immediacy. In other words, as it is felt from the inside the sentimental afflatus is not experienced as a culturally induced indulgence but as the spontaneous upwelling of a morally worthy emotion. And in the eighteenth century, we may recall, "complacency," just like "sentimental," was an honorific term. For Lawrence, the ugly public emotions of the wartime were of precisely this kind. His image catches the nature of sentimentality as a mob emotion, the lowest kind of socially constructed feeling, even when no mob is physically present.

  • 15 "Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego," Complete Works, vol xviii, 67-143.

26Freud also reflected during the war years on the nature of collective feeling and produced a contrasting interpretation to Lawrence's focus on sentimentality. Freud revisited Charles Le Bon's famous study of the crowd and showed how readily Le Bon's analysis can be adapted to a Freudian conception.15 The French Revolutionary mob is an enduring archetype in the European imagination and in Le Bon's account the mentality of the individual in the crowd is reduced to a lowest common denominator which Freud sees as a reduction to the primitive. The crowd, in its aspect of mob, is an unmediated manifestation of primal instinct. In a crowd, the responsibility of the superego is weakened while the instinctual impulses, including aggression, are released and strengthened. By contrast, Lawrence's account of sentiment places mob emotion at the opposite extreme from the primitive. Mob emotion is the product of culture: an unhappy, disintegrating culture which has already taken the essential steps into barbarism.

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Notes

1 "Myths of Civilisation in Freud and Lawrence," Etudes Lawrenciennes 44, (Presses universitaires de Paris Ouest 2013), 9-22.

2 "Thoughts for the Times on War and Death," The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, 24 vols, ed. and trans. James Strachey et al, (London: Hogarth Press,1957), vol. XIV, 274-302.

3 The Labyrinth of Solitude, trans. Lysander Kemp, (London: Penguin, 1985), 86, 85.

4 "Introduction to these Paintings," Late Essays and Articles, ed. James T. Boulton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), esp.185-197.

5 The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, vol. ii, ed. James T. Boulton and George J. Zytaruk, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 528.

6 Ernest Jones, The Life and Work of Sigmund Freud, vol. 2, (London: Hogarth Press, 1967), 196.

7 A view closer to that of Nietzsche and Lawrence is expressed in W. H. R. Rivers (Instincts and the Unconscious (1920). Rivers, of course, drew on extensive anthropological experience as well as his treatment of soldiers, including some famously literary ones, traumatised by the war.

8 Psychoanalysis and the Unconscious and Fantasia of the Unconscious, ed. Bruce Steele, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 19, 22.

9 "Indians and an Englishman" Mornings in Mexico and Other Essays, ed. Virginia Crosswhite Hyde (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 120.

10 Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine and Other Essays, ed. Michael Herbert, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 299-300.

11 "Why War?" Complete Works, vol. xxii, 196-215.

12 Ernest Jones, vol. 2, op. cit., 412-3.

13 "The Question of a Weltanschauung," Complete Works, vol. xxii, 158-182.

14 Barbara Ehrenreich, Blood Rites: Origins and History of the Passions of War (London: Virago, 1997), 8.

15 "Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego," Complete Works, vol xviii, 67-143.

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Michael Bell, « Freud and Lawrence: Thoughts on War and Instinct », Études Lawrenciennes [En ligne], 46 | 2015, mis en ligne le 12 novembre 2015, consulté le 29 mai 2017. URL : http://lawrence.revues.org/228 ; DOI : 10.4000/lawrence.228

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Auteur

Michael Bell

University of Warwick, Coventry UK

Michael Bell is Professor Emeritus at the University of Warwick and Associate Fellow of the Centre for Research in Philosophy and Literature. His principal publication on Lawrence is D. H. Lawrence: Language and Being (CUP, 1992). He has published much else on Lawrence including a chapter in his book Open Secrets;Literature, Education and Authority from J-J Rousseau to J. M. Coetzee (OUP, 2007).

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