The Chronicle: 2/21/2003: Getting Emotional
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Subject: The Chronicle: 2/21/2003: Getting Emotional
From: David Gibson <[email protected]>
Date: Tue, 18 Feb 2003 17:12:32 -0500
To: David Gibson <[email protected]>
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-David Gibson
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From the issue dated February 21, 2003
Getting Emotional
Front Page
The study of feelings, once the province of psychology, is
now spreading to history, literature, and other fields
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life forever. Its root, pathos, was an ordinary Greek word that
meant suffering. But Aristotle used its plural form, pathe, to cover a
diverse set of feelings -- anger, fear, bravery, and affection, for
example. An average listener would have been puzzled. Not all of
the pathe were painful, for one thing. Besides, it was obvious that
hate, joy, and pity -- to give other pathe he listed -- had nothing in
common.
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Such a bold, category-creating move was typical of what Aristotle
called "theory" (another of his egghead neologisms). After almost
2,400 years, his once-abstract idea seems utterly commonplace.
Pathe did not take, but we now use the term "emotion" to cover a
broad spectrum of inner states -- from the sometimes violent
intensity of the passions (an English expression derived from pathe)
to the subtle hues of mood. Just because the concept is familiar,
though, doesn't mean that thinkers have exhausted it.
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On the contrary, academics are throwing themselves into the study
of emotion with the rapturous intensity of a love affair. In a sense,
emotion has always been at the core of the humanities: Without the
passions, there would not be much history, and even less literature.
Indeed the very word "philosophy" begins with philos (love). But,
however fraught with strong feelings the primary sources may be,
only in recent years have scholars begun focusing, without
embarrassment, on emotion itself, producing a body of work that
regularly crosses the line between the humanities and the social
sciences, with occasional forays into neurophysiology.
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Recent university-press catalogs offer both sweeping theories of
affect and monographic studies on how particular emotions were
expressed (or repressed) during specific historical periods. The
proliferation of scholarship strikes even the people doing it as a
new and surprising development. "Historians have wanted to
distance themselves from emotion," says William V. Harris, a
professor of history at Columbia University, "As in other
occupations, we just want to go on doing things the way we're used
to doing them."
In Restraining Rage: The Ideology of Anger Control in
Classical Antiquity, Mr. Harris cites an incisive argument for why
scholars might want to keep their distance. It comes from the
influential intellectual historian R.G. Collingwood, who declared in
1935 that "irrational elements" -- meaning "sensations as distinct
from thought, feeling as distinct from conception" -- formed "the
subject-matter of psychology ... not part of the historical process."
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Much recent scholarship challenges the assumption that feeling can
be so neatly separated from thought, and that emotion is a strictly
private matter, disconnected from history and culture. Some work
cites research in cognitive science suggesting that reason and
emotion are closely linked in the brain. And anthropologists have
long stressed the variety of ways feeling is expressed and
interpreted in different societies.
The new scholarly focus on emotion may also be conditioned by
social developments well outside the world of academic debate.
Twenty years ago, in her widely discussed book The Managed
Heart: Commercialization of Human Feeling, Arlie Russell
Hochschild, a sociology professor at the University of California at
Berkeley, analyzed how airlines systematically train flight attendants
to be cheerful, no matter what happens.
Her concept of "emotional labor" applies not just to the friendly
skies, but to the service sector as a whole. The market for Prozac
and mood-regulating drugs continues the "commercialization of
feeling" by other means. When politicians and commentators
discuss current events, they now often make reference to stress,
trauma, and self-esteem. In a society deeply shaped by
consumerism and the mass media, the emotions have emerged as a
growth industry -- and not just among scholars.
Irritable Antiquity
Mr. Harris, the author of respected volumes on Roman imperialism
and ancient literacy, calls Restraining Rage "much the most difficult
book that I've ever done." The challenge certainly did not come
from a want of material. Greek and Roman authors wrote about
anger constantly. (They, in turn, followed the undisputed classical
poet of their own day, Homer. After all, the first line of The Iliad is
"Sing, goddess, the wrath of Achilles.") But a reader needs to be as
encyclopedic as Aristotle himself to interpret the original
documents. "I found myself sounding off on topics where people
may think I don't have any expertise," says Mr. Harris.
The territorial imperative of modern specialists is a minor issue
compared with the difficulty of grasping how the ancients
understood emotion. The English word "anger" has connotations
overlapping reasonably well with the Latin ira (as in "irate"). But
things grow more complicated in classical Greek, which possesses
an extremely rich vocabulary of anger, making firm distinctions
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among states we treat as similar.
No free-born Greek citizen would ever confuse cholos
(experienced by women, children, the poor, and the sickly) with
menos (the wrath of gods or heroes). The righteous indignation of
nemesan had nothing in common with the experience of orge, a
sort of full-body fury, impossible to conceal from others, in which
violent retribution became an almost biological necessity.
The semantic differences imply social norms distinct from our own,
and suggest, in turn, that angry feelings were experienced in a
different way. Nobody could experience orge toward an individual
who was far more powerful. (That was common sense.) But if the
host of a dinner party learned that a slave had forgotten to buy
bread, there was no particular shame at unleashing his fury. "Which
of us would not [make] the walls fall down with shouts?" writes
Plutarch. "That," notes Mr. Harris, "is not a question likely to have
been asked by a well-brought-up person in the 19th or 20th
century."
For Aristotle, the ideal was to have just the right amount of orge in
your system -- not so much that you were a menace to society, nor
so little that you were a doormat, but enough to get suitably angry,
in an effective way, on appropriate occasions, for a fitting amount
of time. But for later thinkers, says Mr. Harris, anger was
associated with civic strife that made urban life almost unbearable.
They saw in anger not a way of asserting dignity and power but
proof that you had none, like a woman or a barbarian.
The Stoics developed a sophisticated analysis of how reason and
feeling interacted. Even violent orge, they argued, was not an
irresistible force welling up inside a person, but an effect of
judgments of the world that a wise person could learn to challenge
and revise. The ideal of anger management was taken up by
philosophers outside the Stoic school, including the eclectic Roman
statesman and public intellectual Cicero, who wrote a treatise on
the control of emotions following the death of his beloved daughter
Tullia.
"The discourse in antiquity on controlling anger had several different
levels," says Mr. Harris. "Partly it was a matter of what goes on in
public life, and partly a matter of what goes on in the family. And
there's what people do on their solitary own, trying to work out
how to live with themselves." The work of Cicero and earlier
thinkers "reinforc[ed] the upper order's belief in its own rationality
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and decency," writes Mr. Harris. "The men in power are always
strengthened by a belief in their own superior rectitude."
Tough Love
The elites of antiquity were not unique in cultivating a high opinion
of their own emotional sophistication, according to William Ian
Miller, a professor of law at the University of Michigan at Ann
Arbor. Contemporary academics share the same prejudices about
the inner world of people socially unlike them -- an "upper-class
sense that the richness of one's emotional life varies directly with
one's education, refinement, and wealth." Someone reading the
Icelandic sagas, he says, will tend to assume that the Viking
warriors, conducting themselves by strict and brutal rules of honor,
had crude thoughts and even more rudimentary feelings.
"But if you grew up around tough guys," he says, "you know that
some of them were thick and dumb, and some were sensitive and
smart." In a series of essays and books published over the last
decade (among them, Humiliation and The Anatomy of Disgust),
Mr. Miller has used his study of the Icelandic sagas as a
springboard for reflecting on how emotion is experienced and
expressed, in both literary works and everyday social life. His
scholarship implies that the Vikings understood things about
emotion that few academics ever grasp.
That seems counterintuitive, for as Mr. Miller notes, people in the
sagas almost never talk in any depth about what they are feeling.
Words for emotional states are rare. And characters' behavior
often appears downright bizarre. Talking with the man who killed
her beloved husband, a woman makes coldblooded jokes about
the bloody ax he holds. When a warrior hears that an enemy has
just died, it seems as if he should hoist the mead-horn and celebrate
with a drunken rampage. Instead, he takes to his bed for several
months.
The distance between that strange world and our own is not simply
a matter of the unfamiliar codes of honor from 1,000 years ago,
Mr. Miller says. The saga writers defined their characters as having
distinct and usually permanent dispositions: cunning, fierce,
affectionate, and so forth. Any individual's temperament is, in effect,
a matter of public record. When a character's behavior is at odds
with his known disposition, there is a pronounced emotional charge
for the saga's audience, especially when a situation hinges on rules
of honor and revenge. The (seemingly) merry widow's laughter
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while talking with her husband's killer is a nervous outburst; once
over the shock, she tricks him with "advice" that will lead to his
death. A Viking becomes depressed when an old enemy passes
away, for that means he will never be able to repay the insults he
has suffered.
Mr. Miller's more general point is that we are accustomed to
understanding emotion as an essentially personal experience
-- something that occurs "inside" someone and that may or may not
be expressed to others. But there are cultures in which emotion is
overwhelmingly a social matter, not a private one. The early use of
"humiliation" referred not to an inner state but to being made
humble in the presence of those higher on the social scale. Only in
the 18th century, he says, did it become normal to say "I feel
humiliated" rather than "I am humiliated."
As social mobility became more common, there was a greater
emphasis on using emotional language to describe the inner world
of an individual as something more or less self-contained. What we
gained in expressiveness about feeling, Mr. Miller implies, we lost
in candor about the normal cruelty of social hierarchy. A Viking at
an academic conference would be bewildered by a lot of things,
but at least he would understand that life is a battlefield.
Of Weal and Woe
The idea that civilization rests on the ability to control our feelings
(including what Sigmund Freud called the "renunciation of
instinctual gratification") has been the "grand narrative" implicit in
most scholarly accounts of emotion, according to Barbara
Rosenwein, a professor of history at Loyola University Chicago.
Once, the story goes, people experienced the world with an almost
childlike immediacy. Their emotions were strong, spontaneous, and
fairly uncomplicated. But the rise of complex economies, state
bureaucracies, and intellectual expertise intervened. People grew
more self-conscious about what they felt, and even more so about
how they expressed it.
In an essay titled "Worrying About Emotions in History" that
appeared last year in the American Historical Review, Ms.
Rosenwein challenges the whole paradigm. It rests, she says, on a
"hydraulic" metaphor of emotions as "liquids within each person,
heaving and frothing, eager to be let out." Up through roughly the
Middle Ages, they gushed without restraint; then modernity built a
dam. The hydraulic imagery is deeply embedded in ordinary
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language, where feelings "build up" until they are "released" or,
possibly, "channeled" into something productive, with rationality
thus serving as a kind of psychic steam engine. The model has been
undermined, Ms. Rosenwein says, by both cognitive research and
social constructionism.
For cognitive psychologists, rationality and emotion are both
manifestations of the human organism's ability to judge "weal and
woe," to determine whether a situation is likely to yield pleasure or
pain, advantage or danger. If you see a man waving a gun in the
street, your emotional response may include both bodily sensations
(cold sweat, a pounding heart) and incipient physical action (a
powerful desire to run). This is not simply a matter of perceptual
stimuli directly motivating action. It draws on a concept (eminently
rational) that men waving guns in public are dangerous. We can
distinguish "reason" and "emotion" ex post facto, but for a
cognitivist they function rather like computer programs running
simultaneously on the same system, feeding each other information
as they do.
For social constructionists, the range of emotion is something
people absorb from the culture around them. Some constructionists
entirely reject the cognitivist model, which treats certain basic
emotions (fear and anger, for example) as hard-wired into the
human organism; they see emotion as purely social. But most
emphasize how societies "bend, shape, encourage, and discourage
the expression of various emotions," writes Ms. Rosenwein,
through "language, cultural practices, expectations, and moral
beliefs."
Drawing on those challenges to the "hydraulic" model, Ms.
Rosenwein proposes an alternative to boilerplate stories about how
civilization tamed the wild emotions. People have always lived, she
says, in "emotional communities" that shaped their judgments of
weal and woe (the cognitive element) as well as how they
understood and expressed what they felt (the cultural element).
Examples of emotional communities include "families,
neighborhoods, parliaments, guilds, monasteries, [and] church
memberships" -- in short, the range of groups and institutions, large
and small, in which people live and work.
Studying the history of emotion in this way, Ms. Rosenwein writes,
would mean noticing how people "continually [move] from one
such community to another -- from taverns to law courts, say
-- adjusting their emotional displays and their judgments of weal
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and woe (with greater or lesser success) to these different
environments."
She cites 14th-century Marseille as an example. The handbooks
for preachers in that era clearly defined hatred as a spiritual
disorder. But for the medieval person in the street, it was obvious
that hatred was a good thing, an aspect of honor, a passion
"maintained and nourished by families and friends" or given up in
the interest of building alliances. Hatred could even be offered as a
defense in a murder trial, though not one acceptable to the royal
authorities. Officials of the crown in Marseille "shuttled from one
[emotional] community to the other, participating in the culture of
hatreds at home, belittling the same culture when compiling records
for their Angevin masters."
Emotionally Social
The framework that Ms. Rosenwein proposes for historical
research on emotion bears a striking resemblance to some recent
developments in sociology and political science, including the work
in Passionate Politics: Emotions and Social Movements, edited
by Jeff Goodwin, an associate professor of sociology at New York
University; James M. Jasper, an independent scholar; and
Francesca Polletta, an associate professor of sociology at
Columbia University. When researchers write about animal-rights
activism, Solidarity in Poland, and the Christian right, the
movements all sound very much like "emotional communities."
In their introduction, the editors note that emotions have "led a
shadow existence for the last three decades, with no place in the
rationalistic, structural, and organizational models that dominate
academic political analysis." Even before the rise of rational-choice
theory, though, researchers were not keen to study the social
politics of emotion.
There was a strong tendency -- inherited from such 19th-century
thinkers as Gustave Le Bon -- to treat mass movements as
manifestations of primitive and often violent feelings, led by people
with antisocial tendencies, megalomania, or both. Social scientists
who rejected that perspective (including some with backgrounds in
activism) tended to bend the stick the other way. They saw protest
movements as the form that interest-group politics took when the
normal channels of access to power and public attention were
blocked. Emotion was incidental, at least to the scholars following
the "resource mobilization" model.
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Whether they regarded social movements as irrational outbursts or
as the way ordinary concerns were expressed by exceptional
means, scholars had no reason to think of emotion as anything but
an insignificant factor in everyday political life. But more-recent
work emphasizes how emotion and organization shape each other
in a variety of movements.
Randall Collins, a professor of sociology at the University of
Pennsylvania, identifies two closely interacting processes shaping
political movements -- aspects of what he calls "emotional
transformation in collective rituals." (He borrows the term
"collective ritual" from Émile Durkheim to describe any activity in
which people assert and embody their shared identity as a group.)
The first process is amplification: Whatever the emotion leading
people to join a movement -- fear, pity, or anger, for example
-- involvement tends to make them feel it more intensely by
providing occasions and means for its expression. The second
process is "the transmutation of the initiating emotion" into
"distinctively collective emotions, the feelings of solidarity,
enthusiasm, and morality which arise in group members' mutual
awareness of their shared focus of attention."
It is a model that applies equally to Promise Keepers or Act Up.
Mad and Modern
That sociologists and political scientists are rediscovering emotion
would not have surprised Aristotle, who thought that dangerous
feelings could build up in the public, like toxins in a body. His
solution? The catharsis provided by tragedy -- the release of strong
emotion that an audience experienced from watching action on
stage. Catharsis was a medical term meaning "purge," as if feelings
were forcibly excreted.
The terminology of contemporary literary theory is seldom quite so
concrete, much less visceral. Discussing the emotional impact of
literature was long a taboo of professional literary study
-- denounced as "the affective fallacy" by the mid-20th century's
influential New Critics and deplored as mere "impressionism" even
after the New Critics began seeming old-fashioned. Even with the
emergence of reader-response criticism and other schools during
the 1970s and '80s, literary scholars had few concepts about how
literature and emotion connect.
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"Resources weren't plentiful," says Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, a
professor of English at the City University of New York's Graduate
Center. Critics informed by theoretical approaches to literature
could talk with great subtlety about ideology and textuality, but not
about the emotional charge that accompanies reading. "People in
queer studies and feminism would address it in terms of 'the body,'"
she says, but that, too, tended to turn into more-abstract discourse.
"It was hard to find tools for grappling with it."
The search led her to the work of the late Silvan S. Tomkins, a
psychoanalyst whose magnum opus, Affect, Imagery,
Consciousness, runs to four volumes. Ms. Sedgwick co-edited
Shame and Its Sisters: A Silvan Tomkins Reader, with Adam
Frank, then a graduate student in English at Duke University. Her
latest collection of essays, Touching Feeling: Affect, Pedagogy,
Performativity, reflects a continuing interest in his work.
Tomkins described a small set of affects (basic combinations of
feeling and expression) that appear to be built into to the human
nervous system. Disgust, for example, "intends to maximize the
distance between the face and the object which disgusts the self... .
If the food about to be ingested activates disgust," wrote Tomkins,
"the upper lip and nose is raised and the head is drawn away from
the apparent source of the offending odor." The basic affects are
already present in infancy. Babies can express excitement, fear,
anger, or joy, for example, in ways that are immediately clear to
caregivers.
Which, for Tomkins, is very much the point: Affect forms part of
our connection with other people from the start. The flow of
affective communication, however, runs both ways. If others
respond to your excitement, say, with the unmistakable withdrawal
that characterizes disgust, your excitement will be mixed with
shame: a sort of meta-affect, complicating the experience and
expression of feeling. The diverse range of emotions -- varying
from culture to culture -- is built up from the basic affects, like
chemicals deriving from slots in the periodic table.
What fascinates Ms. Sedgwick about Tomkins's work was his
understanding of shame. She calls it "the place [in his work] where
issues about the self, and the boundaries of the self, become really
acute. Shame is what happens when there is a crisis between
identifying strongly with someone else, reaching out to them, on the
one hand, and encountering a check on that identification, a
rebuke."
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For Tomkins, that crisis is definitive. Shame is, in effect, the matrix
from which individual identity emerges. But it is also an experience
that precedes (and exceeds) our ability to name or understand it.
The experience of shame, says Ms. Sedgwick, "doesn't come
ready-made with an explanation."
Scholarly interest in shame is not limited to those influenced by Ms.
Sedgwick's work in queer theory. Stigma, transgression, and the
uncertain nature of personal identity are recurrent themes in
literature and psychology. In Scenes of Shame: Psychoanalysis,
Shame, and Writing, critics use recent studies of the dynamics of
the emotion to interpret the work of Nathaniel Hawthorne, George
Eliot, Søren Kierkegaard, Friedrich Nietzsche, and William
Faulkner, among others. In Surprised by Shame: Dostoevsky's
Liars and Narrative Exposure, Deborah A. Martinsen, an
adjunct assistant professor of Slavic at Columbia, examines how
"shame collapses the intersubjective boundaries between characters
and thus accounts for the emotional intensity" of key moments in the
Russian novelist's work.
Feeling Scholarly
Ms. Sedgwick's attention has now turned to images of happiness in
Marcel Proust, a subject only apparently unrelated to such somber
matters as shame. Happy people tend not to think about happiness.
They just smile and go about their business. The work of reflecting
on what Tomkins called "positive affect" is left to people who wish
they could feel it, but have trouble doing so.
"I've always had an intuition, and I think Tomkins definitely had it,
that a depressive orientation actually opens one up to important
things cognitively," says Ms. Sedgwick. "There are certain affective
skills it makes necessary that a sanguine temperament might not."
Her speculation has interesting implications. A venerable tradition
sees the life of the mind as deeply linked to melancholy -- perhaps
feeding, in turn, intellectual interest in the emotions. " 'Tis the
commontenet of the world that learning dulls and diminisheth the
spirit," leaving scholars prone to moodiness, wrote Robert Burton
in The Anatomy of Melancholy (1621). And academic life itself
provided much to brood about, according to Burton: "How many
poor scholars have lost their wits, or become dizzards, neglecting
all worldly affairs and their own health ... to gain knowledge for
which, after all their pains, in this world's esteem they are
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accounted ridiculous and silly fools, idiots, asses, and (as oft they
are) rejected, contemned, derided, doting, and mad!" You have to
laugh, to keep from crying.
RECENT SCHOLARLY BOOKS ON EMOTIONS
Joseph Adamson and Hilary Clark, eds., Scenes of Shame:
Psychoanalysis, Shame, and Writing (State University of New
York Press, 1998)
Philip Fisher, The Vehement Passions (Princeton University Press,
2002)
Paul Gilbert and Bernice Andrews, Shame: Interpersonal
Behavior, Psychopathology, and Culture (Oxford University
Press, 1998)
Jeff Goodwin, James M. Jasper, and Francesca Polletta, eds.,
Passionate Politics: Emotions and Social Movements
(University of Chicago Press, 2001)
Margaret Graver, Cicero on the Emotions: Tusculan
Disputations 3 and 4 (Chicago, 2002)
William V. Harris, Restraining Rage: The Ideology of Anger
Control in Classical Antiquity (Harvard University Press, 2001)
Glenn Hendler, Public Sentiments: Structures of Feeling in
Nineteenth-Century American Literature (University of North
Carolina Press, 2001)
Arlie Russell Hochschild, The Managed Heart:
Commercialization of Human Feeling (University of California
Press, 1983)
George E. Marcus, The Sentimental Citizen: Emotion in
Democratic Politics (Penn State University Press, 2002)
George E. Marcus, W. Russell Neuman, and Michael Mackuen,
Affective Intelligence and Political Judgment (Chicago, 2000)
Deborah A. Martinsen, Surprised by Shame: Dostoevsky's Liars
and Narrative Exposure (Ohio State University Press, 2003)
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William Ian Miller, The Anatomy of Disgust (Harvard, 1997)
William Ian Miller, Humiliation and Other Essays on Honor,
Social Discomfort, and Violence (Cornell University Press, 1993)
Mihnea Moldoveanu and Nitin Nohria, Master Passions:
Emotion, Narrative, and the Development of Culture (MIT,
2002)
Martha Craven Nussbaum, Upheavals of Thought: The
Intelligence of Emotions (Cambridge University Press, 1991)
Stephen Pattison, Shame: Theory, Therapy, Theology
(Cambridge, 2002)
Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Touching Feeling: Affect, Pedagogy,
Performativity (Duke University Press, 2003)
Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick and Adam Frank, eds., Shame and Its
Sisters: A Silvan Tomkins Reader (Duke, 1995)
Robert C. Solomon, The Passions (University of Notre Dame
Press, 1983)
Carol Zisowitz Stearns and Peter N. Stearns, Anger: The
Struggle for Emotional Control in America's History (Chicago,
1986)
Peter N. Stearns and Jan Lewis, eds., An Emotional History of
the United States (New York University Press, 1998)
Rei Terada, Feeling in Theory: Emotion After the "Death of the
Subject" (Harvard, 2001)
Silvan S. Tomkins, Affect, Imagery, Consciousness (Springer
Publishing Company, 1962-92)
Jonathan H. Turner, On the Origins of Human Emotions: A
Sociological Inquiry in the Evolution of Human Affect
(Stanford University Press, 2000)
Robyn R. Warhol, Having a Good Cry: Effeminate Feelings
and Pop-Cultural Forms (Ohio State, 2003)
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