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Enumerating Difference: Lawrence, Freud, Irigaray and the Ethics of Democracy1

Susan Reid
p. 125-140

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  • 1 I would like to express my gratitude to the late Peter Preston for encouraging me to attend the 20 (...)

“[…] we derive the antithesis between civilization and sexuality from the circumstance that sexual love is a relationship between two individuals in which a third can only be superfluous or disturbing, whereas civilization depends on relationships between a considerable number of individuals”(Freud 55)

1Freud’s essay “Civilization and its Discontents” (1930) posits a seemingly irremediable problem: the seeming inevitability of the conflict between the individual and a society which necessarily requires the repression of that individual’s instincts, both towards pleasure and towards aggression. Rejecting the possibilities of moral conscience, particularly of religion or love, as amounting to a “limitless narcissism” or involving “regressions to primordial states of mind,” Freud confesses that “I have not the courage to rise up before my fellow-men as a prophet, and I bow to their reproach that I can offer them no consolation” (Freud 92).

2Lawrence felt no such reticence. While his writings also underline the clash between the individual and society, he seems strongly impelled to explore solutions based on his own notions of being, love and the divine, and the relationships between them. Lawrence’s approach to the problem of living in community is an ethical one, founded on respect for mutual otherness. He was therefore suspicious of Freud’s ideas, which he perceived as a challenge to the foundations of morality: “Psychoanalysis is out, under a therapeutic guise, to do away entirely with the moral faculty in man. Let us fling the challenge, and then we can take sides in all fairness” (Psychoanalysis 12). Lawrence’s ethical approach to the unknowable other might usefully be compared with that of Luce Irigaray, who also began by challenging Freud and a series of male thinkers reaching back to Plato. Her primary concern is the relation between man and woman—a relationship of difference which precedes all others. If all three thinkers—Freud, Irigaray and Lawrence—begin with the couple, Freud seems unable to progress beyond this point, while for Lawrence and Irigaray the couple is the foundation for all other relationships. As Irigaray writes in Democracy begins between two:

Sexual difference is perhaps the hardest way, but it is also the key, to achieving civil coexistence between other forms of difference. An apprenticeship in respect for the other at the most instinctive, emotional level, leads to peaceful coexistence with all forms of otherness. (12)

3Irigaray here links “respect for the other” to the instincts, an idea I will revisit later in this discussion. Staying with the question of ethics for a moment, it should however be noted from the outset that Freud’s essay considers ethics to be irrelevant to the problem of living in civilization, claiming that “‘Natural’ ethics, as it is called, has nothing to offer here except the narcissistic satisfaction of being able to think oneself better than others” and that “I too think it quite certain that a real change in the relations of human beings to possessions would be of more help in this direction than any ethical commands’” (Freud 90). Accordingly, natural ethics, which focuses on law as God-given, was found wanting in Freud’s research, at least by Lawrence who argued that “Science should embrace the old religious faculty” (Psychoanalysis 44). It might therefore seem irrelevant to construct an argument here around the ethics of democracy, except that both Lawrence and Irigaray would seem to agree with some of Freud’s reservations about conventional religious and ethical beliefs and also that Freud’s essay poses, in any case, valid questions about their ethics, indeed about the basis of ethics itself. It may furthermore seem unrealistic to speak of Lawrencian ethics in the same light as Luce Irigaray. After all, Lawrence admitted to waxing “philosophicalish” on occasions, but he never purported to be a philosopher. Moreover, he used the term “morality” much more frequently than the more encompassing term “ethics.” However, rather as Mark Spilka perceived a Lawrencian “love ethic” which united his work, I would argue that the entire body of Lawrence’s writing constituted a search for ethical relationships with the other, and that while this was also a “religious” mission, the religion and the doctrine was of his own formulation.


4Freud’s renunciation of the ideology of self-sacrifice and of loving one’s neighbour as oneself has to do with his perception of the oceanic. He describes this as a “feeling as of something limitless, unbounded,” which he identifies with religious feeling and with love and which he perceives as threatening to the boundaries of the self. For example, he writes: “At the height of being in love the boundary between ego and object threatens to melt away” (Freud 13). This perception is reflected in Lawrence’s descriptions of sexual love, which are often concerned with two melting into one—a condition which alternately attracts and repels him. We need only compare the two couples in Women in Love to see how Gerald desires to transgress the boundaries of self and other by “pouring himself” into Gudrun, while Birkin’s theory of “star equilibrium” is intended to maintain the boundaries between him and Ursula. If the desire for loss of self intensifies in later stories such as “The Woman Who Rode Away,” the seductiveness of the oceanic perhaps reaches its height in The Plumed Serpent, in which Kate feels, somewhat ominously, “as if, from Ramón and Cipriano, from Jamiltepec and the lake region, a new world was unfolding, unrolling, as softly and as subtly as twilight falling and removing the clutter of day” (PS 359). Although seduced into marriage, Kate eventually retreats back to Europe because “in the new way she was not her own mistress at all, and her egoistic will recoiled” (PS 429). Lawrence’s own recoil from his most extreme experiment in re-writing the social order leads, importantly, towards the much less authoritarian vision of a “democracy of touch” in his final novel, Lady Chatterley’s Lover, discussed at the end of this article.

5Lawrence repeatedly tries to resist the oceanic through the introduction of a third term between his fictional lovers. In The Rainbow, Lydia Brangwen talks of love as the “third thing” between two people. In Women in Love there is star equilibrium, and in The Plumed Serpent the Morning Star. However Lawrence spells out his doctrine in “Morality and the Novel” (1925) and he directly contradicts the Freudian notion of two poles of self-sacrifice or aggression:

There is, however, the third thing, which is neither sacrifice nor fight to the death: when each seeks only the true relatedness to the other. Each must be true to himself, herself, his own manhood, her own womanhood, and let the relationship work out of itself. This means courage above all things: and then discipline. Courage to accept the life-thrust from within oneself, and from the other person. Discipline, not to exceed oneself any more than one can help. Courage, when one has exceeded oneself, to accept the fact and not whine about it.
(STH 174)

6In this respect, Lawrence seems to anticipate the ideas of Luce Irigaray, who writes that “If a third term does not exist within and for the container, he or she becomes all-powerful” (Ethics 13). For Irigaray, this third term defines self limits, as well as “a relation to the divine, to death, to the social, to the cosmic.” These elements are explicit in Irigaray’s invocation of “a new age,” which “signifies a different relation between: man and god(s), man and man, man and world, man and woman” (9). This resonates with Lawrence’s theory of a threefold relationship in “A Propos of Lady Chatterley’s Lover,” with its idea that “First, there is the relation to the living universe. Then comes the relation of man to woman. Then comes the relation of man to man. And each is blood-relationship, not mere spirit or mind” (LCL 331). For Lawrence, the “living universe” incorporates the divine, rather as, for Irigaray, “the religious […] must correspond to a way of accomplishment of the human both as a gathering of the self in oneself and as a bond with the universe and the other” (Key Writings 192).

7Yet the notion of a bond with the universe is problematic—for Freud this is where the oceanic threatens: “a feeling of an indissoluble bond, of being one with the external world as a whole” (12). This is an issue that Irigaray specifically responds to in her theorisation of the self as a container or envelope, existing in its own space, but capable also of opening to the other (Ethics 13). The relationship with the “living universe” is however a particular problem for Lawrence: his fiction repeatedly shows how the unformed individual can be overwhelmed by the cosmos. In The Rainbow, Tom Brangwen’s “undifferentiated self” is literally swept away by a cosmic flood and, even in a late novel like The Plumed Serpent, the highly individual Kate Leslie feels herself merging into oneness with the Mexican landscape and Don Ramón’s vision of a new world. What is required are boundaries of being—or envelopes, in Irigaray’s terms—which can be maintained rather than dissolved during union with the other. Maintaining the “bounds of being,” as he puts it in Studies in Classic American Literature, is thus a key project for Lawrence, much as it is for Irigaray who writes that one must “love the other as a whole, love him in his life without giving him one’s own” (Democracy 12):

But the triumph of love, which is the triumph of life and creation, does not lie in merging, mingling, in the absolute identification of the lover with the beloved. It lies in the communion of beings, who, in the very perfection of communion, recognise and allow the mutual otherness. There is no desire to transgress the bounds of being. Each self remains utterly itself—becomes, indeed, most burningly and transcendently itself in the uttermost embrace or communion with the other.
(SCAL 240)

8The self is conceived here in terms of the sacred, much as Irigaray talks of “a love so attentive that it is divine” (Ethics 19). Freud, on the other hand, conceives the religious impulse as an offshoot of the Oedipus complex—a “longing for the father” (ibid.). Man displaces onto the gods what Freud describes as a “threefold task: they must exorcize the terrors of nature, they must reconcile men to the cruelty of Fate, particularly as it is shown in death, and they must compensate them for the sufferings and privations which a civilized life in common has imposed on them” (Freud 19). Freud’s emphasis on terror is in stark contrast to Lawrence’s celebration of the triumph of life and creation. It is also marked by an absence of the “wonder,” which underpins Irigaray’s ethics of sexual difference: “This feeling of surprise, astonishment, and wonder in the face of the unknowable” (Ethics 13).

9Freud’s “threefold task” is thus very different from the relational conceptions of Irigrary or Lawrence. Freud’s psychoanalytical approach collapses into one dimension, placed under the sign of one, of sameness, whereby everything returns to the Father. This brings us back to what is Irigaray’s primary objection to Freudian theory, to what she qualifies as his sexual indifference: “Freud does not see two sexes whose differences are articulated in the act of intercourse, and, more generally speaking, in the imaginary and symbolic processes that regulate the workings of a society and a culture” (Whitford 119). Although Freud begins his essay on “Civilization” with a warning about the oceanic, his indifference to sexual difference threatens to dissolve into the universal oneness of the same. Irigaray would argue that this is the inheritance of a long accumulation of western thought originating with Plato, a legacy which Lawrence also disputes although he remains drawn to this version of transcendence. The seductive power of a binary relation, composed of a self and its other which collapse into the same, of a two which opens not to multiple others but only to one, can be demonstrated by exploring a text by Lawrence which specifically challenges the basis of democracy. Like Irigaray, who objects that “as democracy does not exist in the sense in which it is evoked, its very principle must be called into question” (Whitford 211), Lawrence mounts a challenge against the primacy of the one, the self, which he perceives as underpinning democratic principles.


10Lawrence’s essay “Democracy”, written in 1919, a decade earlier than Freud’s “Civilization,” is a strange, quasi-mathematical piece, which begins with his condemnation of the “Law of the Average,” of man as a “Unit” and which leads to a measuring of the two halves of man’s nature, whereby “almost half [lies] in the material world. [And] His spontaneous nature just takes precedence” (79). This strange abstraction is the subject of Jeff Wallace’s fine essay “51/49,” which astutely points out that Lawrence seems to fall into precisely the type of abstraction which his essay warns us against. But, let us first remind ourselves of the main points of Lawrence’s argument—here primarily with Whitman, rather than with Freud, although the American poet stands as something of a proxy for western civilization. In the first part, Lawrence establishes that the idea of the “Average Man” exists “Merely for the comparing of one living man with another living man” (RDP 64). His objection, as he elaborates it some pages later, is that “each self is unique and therefore incomparable” (78). If men today are unable to realize their unique selves it is because they succumb to external ideals. The particular ideal that comes under attack in Part 2 is Whitman’s idea of “One Identity” as Lawrence perceives it from his reading of Leaves of Grass:

We are all one, and therefore every bit partakes of all the rest. That is, the whole is inherent in every fragment. That is, every human consciousness has the same intrinsic value as every other human consciousness, because each is an essential part of the Great Consciousness. This is the One Identity which identifies us all.
(RDP 70)

11Whitman’s ideal as articulated here by Lawrence has at least something in common with Freud’s conception of the oceanic in “Civilization.” And as Lawrence insists, “Better, far better, to be oneself than to be any bursting Infinite, or swollen One Identity” (707). Part 3 then inveighs in similar fashion against the “ideal self” until finally, in Part 4, we reach the crux of Lawrence’s argument which is his discrimination “between an ideal and a desire,” namely that: “The great lesson is to learn to break all the fixed ideals, to allow the soul’s own deep desires to come direct, spontaneous into consciousness” (RDP 78). Instead, he insists on “The fact that an actual man present before us is an inscrutable and incarnate Mystery, untranslatable, this is the fact upon which any great scheme of social life must be based. It is the fact of otherness” (ibid.). A few paragraphs later he reiterates: “what will a man be unto his neighbour? Where each thing is unique in itself there can be no comparison made […]. There is only this strange recognition of present otherness” (RDP 80).

12Now Wallace quite rightly takes issue with Lawrence’s playing with the idea of abstraction—his weighing of man’s spontaneous nature against his nature in the material world—and he argues that it is Lawrence’s notion of “the primal self, the individual core of being […] that is in danger of looking like a bad abstraction” (113). But Wallace goes further in identifying “a rigid morality of personal authenticity, a “clean, fine singleness” of the self, that today’s readers of Lawrence may continue to find troublingly authoritarian” (114). Where then does this leave Lawrence’s ethics of otherness? Indeed what might Wallace’s comment about “rigid morality” imply for the very basis for ethical belief? Is the notion of otherness just another abstraction—a “bad abstraction” in Wallace’s terms and in Freud’s? Lawrence concludes that “When men become their own decent selves again, then we can so easily arrange the material world” (RDP 82), but is his idea of decency only what Freud describes as “fall[ing] back on the ideational content which is most readily associated with feeling” (Freud 12)? Accordingly, Freud draws a conclusion which is the polar opposite to that of Lawrence regarding materialism and morality, stating “that a real change in the relations of human beings to possessions would be of more help in this direction than any ethical commands” (90).

13Irigaray is again useful for the negotiation of this binary opposition between ethics and materialism. In Democracy begins between two, she talks of the “Illusory desire for possession” (7), arguing that possessiveness is itself a false ideal imposed by a materialistic society and thus an illusion, in the way that Freud has argued that religion is an illusion.

Renouncing the desire to possess the other, in order to recognize him as other, is perhaps the most useful and the most beautiful of the tasks which fall to us. It allows us to move into a new stage in the History of the relation between the genders but also of that between races, generations, traditions.
The human ideal has, for centuries, been associated with the capacity to dominate, to tame, to produce and encourage production with one’s own instruments, and methods, to cultivate—nature, the other, others—for oneself. Yet, if the human species is to have a future, the ideal should assert itself as a willingness to respect nature, the other, others.
(Democracy 7–8)

14If the desire to possess is illusory, then it is not a natural instinct, as Freud maintains, but an imposed ideal which we can overcome in the way Irigaray and Lawrence suggest. But what then is the source of what Lawrence would call “decency” or what Irigaray describes as “respect”?

15Might Lawrence’s idea of decency itself represent not an ethical idea but a fundamental human drive or instinct? At the beginning of “Democracy”, Lawrence states that “Society means people living together. People must live together” (RDP 65). Although the nature of this necessity is not explored here, in a later essay, “Matriarchy” (1928) he talks about man’s “deeper social instincts and intuitions,” the satisfaction of which requires that “a man must be able to get away from his family” (Phoenix 552), that is be able to extend his social circuit beyond Freud’s two. Darwin had already given currency to the idea of man’s “social instincts,” writing in 1874 that “the social instincts lead an animal to take pleasure in the society of its fellows, to feel a certain amount of sympathy with them, and to perform various services for them” (86). Subsequently, in “Civilization,” Freud inscribes the social instinct within the drive to happiness. Might it however represent more than this?

  • 2 The research cited here was published in “Emory Brain Imaging Studies Reveal Biological Basis For (...)

16While the scientific rigour of Freud’s findings has subsequently been criticized for working within the cultural confines of patriarchal assumptions, a number of much more recent developments in our understanding of the science of the human brain claim to “have revealed a ‘biologically embedded’ basis for altruistic behaviour.”2 However, since the small print of this 2002 study by researchers at Emory University explains that social cooperation is “either genetically programmed or acquired through socialization during childhood and adolescence,” it seems that there is still a long way to go if we are to untangle the relationship between instincts and culture. And yet, in many respects, this is what Lawrence attempted in Lady Chatterley’s Lover, with his idea of a “democracy of touch” which attempts to blur the boundaries between the instinctual and the social, through a resurrection and repositioning of the body. For Wallace, Lawrence’s essay “Democracy” is not typical of Lawrence, in that it defies the fluidity of much of the rest of his writing. In this regard, Lady Chatterley’s Lover reaches another extreme, as Lawrence emphasizes the liquidity between the lovers as the basis for a new age, through the “the touch of bodily awareness between human beings” (LCL 279). As T.H. Adamowski observes, the imagery of this novel is “consistently as much of liquid (meltings, waves, surges, plasms) as it is of the flesh (belly, buttock, thigh)” (49). To invoke Irigaray again, Lawrence seems to approach what she later describes as “the fecundity of the caress,” which both restores the boundaries of the body and ensures a “porosity that moves from the inside to the outside of the body,” “a mystery of the touch that goes beyond touching” (Ethics 191).

17Nevertheless, in Lawrence’s novel, the lovers are thwarted by society. While they find temporary retreat from the world in Wragby Wood, they are finally isolated even from one another. In all of Lawrence’s fiction, as in his life, he seems unable to achieve his vision of “Rananim,” a new world where money and class and difference will no longer be sources of friction. Yet, as Irigaray acknowledges, difference is the most difficult thing to accomplish, in part because it is incalculable: “The error has been to want to quantify or enumerate a difference which is of another nature than one which can be described, evaluated, counted” (Democracy 150). According to Irigaray, the idea of “being two” marks an incalculable difference between beings—a state of being between which “resists normal systems of calculation by being irreducible to ‘two times one.’ Instead, the ‘being’ of ‘being-two’ is found in-between” (Jones 22). In the case of Lawrence’s fiction, the Holy Ghost that Mellors describes at the end of Lady Chatterley’s Lover describes an incalculable difference between the lovers, which might also ignite old feelings of community and a way of moving beyond one or two: “let the mass be forever pagan” (LCL 300).


18In moving towards a conclusion, I will however suggest another “illusion” that might enable us to overcome the apparent conflict between the individual’s altruistic and destructive instincts, thus moving beyond the stalemate which Freud perceives between man and civilization and beyond the reductionism of a two that simply denotes “two ones, or a binary, doubling, or duality” (Jones 232). Leo Bersani, albeit by different means than those of Irigaray, also finds that “Difference is the one thing we cannot bear” (14) and, with Adam Philips, posits an “impersonal narcissism” (85), which seems to offer a way to reconcile the binary opposition of same and other. Bersani and Philips argue that:

What both the beloved and the lover love are “secrets” about themselves and the truth about the other. The lover’s desire is not that which he fails to recognize as his; rather, it is the reality of the other that he remembers and embraces as his own. (84)

19At stake in their work is a recuperation of the idea of the “same” which, as they point out, has “become the forbidden, or less dramatically, the proscribed” (108). In thinking about otherness in opposition to sameness, it is easy to fall into the type of binary logic which Lawrence contested. It is the same trap he falls into, of course, with the 51/49 split in “Democracy.” As Bersani and Phillips state:

If binaries are to be avoided we can’t simply say that our differences are our best defense against our sameness, that so-called difference is merely a technique for distance-regulation, that sameness as our most longed for, if not forbidden pleasure is, by the same token, our greatest terror. (108)

20In formulating a theory of “impersonal narcissism” which would result in “a generalized recognition of our being-in the world (one not based on appetitive and destructive projections), as an alternative to our being ruled by a ‘collusion of ego-identities’,” they argue that this would require a:

[…] loss of the power of selfhood—a power it was, in any case, always an illusion to think we possessed. Strange, and yet natural if we acknowledge, as I suppose we must, what may be the most profound “mistake” inherent in being human: that of preferring our opposition to the world we live in over our correspondence. Our “friendly accord,” with it. (124)

21Now, while there is an appealing logic to this argument, it would be difficult indeed to argue either that Lawrence’s writing suggests a readiness to relinquish the “power of selfhood” or that he overcomes his perception of the world’s opposition, the conflict of many perceived binaries, thus achieving a “friendly accord.” But I would suggest that there are rare moments of peace in his writing, as in Lady Chatterley’s Lover, where conflict is stilled, not by monism or dualism but by a trinity, or a something in-between individuals which has the power to transcend materialism:

I believe in the little flame between us. For me now, it’s the only thing in the world. […] It’s my Pentecost, the forked flame between me and you. The old Pentecost isn’t quite right. Me and God is a bit uppish, somehow! But the little forked flame between me and you: there you are! That’s what I abide by, and will abide by, Cliffords and Berthas, colliery companies and governments and the money-mass of people all notwithstanding.
(LCL 300–301)

22This incalculable something may also exist between man and man, as it does for a time between Mellors and his Colonel: “I lived under his spell, while I was with him. I sort of let him run my life. And I never regret it” (LCL 216). Lawrence’s final novel thus suggests both the difficulty and the possibility of losing the power of selfhood and of the stilling of conflict between self and world. Lawrence’s conflict with Freud, however, remains irreconcilable.

Works Cited

23Adamowski, T.H. “The Natural Flowering of Life: The Ego, Sex, and Existentialism,” in D.H. Lawrence’s “Lady”: A New Look at Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Michael Squires and Dennis Jackson, eds. Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1985, 36–57.

24Bersani, Leo and Adam, Phillips. Intimacies. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008.

25Darwin, Charles. The Descent of Man. London: Forgotten Books, 2007. Accessed on 1 December 2011 at .

26Freud, Sigmund. Civilization and its Discontents. Trans. and ed. by James Strachey. New York: W.W. Norton, 1962.

27Irigaray, Luce. Democracy begins between two. Translated by Kirsteen Anderson. London: Athlone, 2000.

28Irigaray, Luce. An Ethics of Sexual Difference. Translated by Carolyn Burke and Gillian C. Gill. London: Continuum, 2004.

29Irigaray, Luce. Key Writings. London: Continuum, 2004.

30Jones, Rachel. Irigaray: Towards a Sexuate Philosophy. Cambridge: Polity, 2011.

31Lawrence, D.H. “Democracy,” in Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine. Michael Herbert, ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988.

32Lawrence, D.H. Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Michael Squires, ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002.

33Lawrence, D.H. “Matriarchy,” in Phoenix: The Posthumous Papers of D.H. Lawrence. Edward D. McDonald, ed. London: Heinemann, 1961.

34Lawrence, D.H. “Morality and the Novel,” in Study of Thomas Hardy and Other Essays. Bruce Steele, ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985.

35Lawrence, D.H. The Plumed Serpent. L.D. Clark, ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987.

36Lawrence, D.H. Psychoanalysis and the Unconscious. New York: Thomas Seltzer, 1921.

37Lawrence, D.H. Studies in Classic American Literature. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1971.

38Spilka, Mark. The Love Ethic of D.H. Lawrence. London: Dennis Dobson, 1955.

39Wallace, Jeff. “51/49: Democracy, abstraction and the machine in Lawrence, Deleuze and their readings of Whitman,” in New D.H. Lawrence. Howard J. Booth, ed. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009.

40Whitford, Margaret. The Irigaray Reader. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1991.

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1 I would like to express my gratitude to the late Peter Preston for encouraging me to attend the 2011 conference at Nanterre University, “D.H. Lawrence and the Discontents of Civilization.” Without him, this essay would never have been written.

2 The research cited here was published in “Emory Brain Imaging Studies Reveal Biological Basis For Human Cooperation,” Science Daily, July 18, 2002. Accessed online on 1 March 2011 at:

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Susan Reid

Susan Reid, an independent scholar in the UK, is the Editor of the Journal of D.H. Lawrence Studies and Reviews Editor for the Journal of Postcolonial Writing. She has published several articles on D.H. Lawrence, Katherine Mansfield and Virginia Woolf, as well as co-editing three volumes of Katherine Mansfield Studies (2010–2012) and an essay collection Katherine Mansfield and Literary Modernism (2011). She is currently writing a monograph on Lawrence and masculinities.

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