一狼或多狼 04

A Thousand Plateau by Deleuze and Guattari


One or Several Wolves


Thus it does not suffice to attribute molar multiplicities and mass machines to the preconscious, reserving another kind of machine or multiplicity for the unconscious.



For it is the assemblage of both of these that is the province of the unconscious, the way in which the former condition the latter, and the latter prepare the way for the former, or elude them or return to them: the libido suffuses everything.


Keep everything in sight at the same time—that a social machine or an organized mass has a molecular unconscious that marks not only its tendency to decompose but also the current components of its very operation and organization; that any individual caught up in a mass has his/her own pack unconscious, which does not necessarily resemble the packs of the mass to which that individual belongs; that an individual or mass will live out in its unconscious the

masses and packs of another mass or another individual.


What does it mean to love somebody? It is always to seize that person in a mass, extract

him or her from a group, however small, in which he or she participates, whether it be through the family only or through something else; then to find that person’s own packs, the multiplicities he or she encloses within himself or herself which may be of an entirely different nature.


To join them to mine, to make them penetrate mine, and for me to penetrate the other person’s. Heavenly nuptials, multiplicities of multiplicities.


Every love is an exercise in depersonalization on a body without organs yet to be formed, and it is at the highest point of this depersonalization that someone can be named, receives his or her family name or first name, acquires the most intense discernibility in the instantaneous apprehension of the multiplicities belonging to him or her, and to which he or she belongs.


A pack of freckles on a face, a pack of boys speaking through the voice of a woman, a clutch of girls in Charlus’s voice, a horde of wolves in somebody’s throat, a multiplicity of anuses in the anus, mouth, or eye one is intent upon. We each go through so many bodies in each other.


Albertine is slowly extracted from a group of girls with its own number, organization, code,

and hierarchy; and not only is this group or restricted mass suffused by an unconscious, but Albertine has her own multiplicities that the narrator, once he has isolated her, discovers on her body and in her lies—until the end of their love returns her to the indiscernible.


Above all, it should not be thought that it suffices to distinguish the masses and exterior groups someone belongs to or participates in from the internal aggregates that person envelops in himself or herself.


The distinction to be made is not at all between exterior and interior, which are always relative, changing, and reversible, but between different types of multiplicities that coexist, interpenetrate, and change places— machines, cogs, motors, and elements that are set in motion at a given moment, forming an assemblage productive of statements: “I love you” (or



For Kafka, Felice is inseparable from a certain social machine, and, as a representative of the firm that manufactures them, from parlograph machines; how could she not belong to that organization in the eyes of Kafka, a man fascinated by commerce and bureaucracy?


But at the same time, Felice’s teeth, her big carnivorous teeth, send her racing down other lines, into the molecular multiplicities of a becoming-dog, a becoming-jackal . ..


Felice is inseparable from the sign of the modern social machines belonging to her, from those belonging to Kafka (not the same ones), and from the particles, the little molecular machines, the whole strange becoming or journey Kafka will make and have her make

through his perverse writing apparatus.


There are no individual statements, only statement-producing machinic assemblages.


We say that the assemblage is fundamentally libidinal and unconscious. It is the unconscious in person.


For the moment, we will note that assemblages have elements (or multiplicities) of several kinds: human, social, and technical machines, organized molar machines; molecular

machines with their particles of becoming-inhuman; Oedipal apparatuses (yes, of course there are Oedipal statements, many of them); and counter-Oedipal apparatuses, variable in aspect and functioning.


We will go into it later. We can no longer even speak of distinct machines, only of types of interpenetrating multiplicities that at any given moment form a single machinic assemblage, the faceless figure of the libido.


Each of us is caught up in an assemblage of this kind, and we reproduce its statements

when we think we are speaking in our own name; or rather we speak in our own name when we produce its statement.


And what bizarre statements they are; truly, the talk of lunatics.


We mentioned Kafka, but we could just as well have said the Wolf-Man: a religious-military machine that Freud attributes to obsessional neurosis; an anal pack machine, an anal becoming- wolf or -wasp or -butterfly machine, which Freud attributes to the hysteric character; an Oedipal apparatus, which Freud considers the sole motor, the immobile motor that must be found everywhere; and a counter- Oedipal apparatus—incest with the sister, schizo-incest, or love with “people of inferior station”; and anality, homosexuality?—all that Freud sees only as Oedipal substitutes, regressions, and derivatives.


In truth, Freud sees nothing and understands nothing. He has no idea what a libidinal

assemblage is, with all the machineries it brings into play, all the multiple loves.


Of course, there are Oedipal statements. For example, Kafka’s story, “Jackals and Arabs,” is easy to read in that way: you can always do it, you can’t lose, it works every time, even if you understand nothing.


The Arabs are clearly associated with the father and the jackals with the mother; between the two, there is a whole story of castration represented by the rusty scissors.


But it so happens that the Arabs are an extensive, armed, organized mass stretching across the entire desert; and the jackals are an intense pack forever launching into the desert following lines of flight or deterritorialization (“they are madmen, veritable madmen”); between the

two, at the edge, the Man of the North, the jackal-man.


And aren’t those big scissors the Arab sign that guides or releases jackal-particles, both to accelerate their mad race by detaching them from the mass and to bring them back to the mass, to tame them and whip them, to bring them around?


Dead camel: Oedipal food apparatus. Counter-Oedipal carrion apparatus: kill animals to eat, or eat to clean up carrion.


The jackals formulate the problem well: it is not that of castration but of “cleanliness” (propret’e, also “ownness”), the test of desert-desire.


Which will prevail, mass territoriality or pack deterritorialization?


The libido suffuses the entire desert, the body without organs on which the drama is played out.


There are no individual statements, there never are. Every statement is the product of a machinic assemblage, in other words, of collective agents of enunciation (take “collective agents” to mean not peoples or societies but multiplicities).


The proper name (nom propre) does not designate an individual: it is on the contrary when the individual opens up to the multiplicities pervading him or her, at the outcome of the most severe operation of depersonalization, that he or she acquires his or her true proper name.


The proper name is the instantaneous apprehension of a multiplicity.


The proper name is the subject of a pure infinitive comprehended as such in a field of intensity.


What Proust said about the first name: when I said Gilberte’s name, I had the impression that I was holding her entire body naked in my mouth.


The Wolf-Man, a true proper name, an intimate first name linked to the becomings, infinitives, and intensities of a multiplied and depersonalized individual.


What does psychoanalysis know about multiplication?


The desert hour when the dromedary becomes a thousand dromedaries snickering in the sky.


The evening hour when a thousand holes appear on the surface of the earth. Castration!


Castration! cries the psychoanalytic scarecrow, who never saw more than a hole, a father or a

dog where wolves are, a domesticated individual where there are wild multiplicities.


We are not just criticizing psychoanalysis for having selected Oedipal statements exclusively.


For such statements are to a certain extent part of a machinic assemblage, for which they could serve as correctional indexes, as in a calculation of errors.


We are criticizing psychoanalysis for having used Oedipal enunciation to make patients believe they would produce individual, personal statements, and would finally speak in their own name.


The trap was set from the start: never will the Wolf-Man speak.


Talk as he might about wolves, howl as he might like a wolf, Freud does not even listen; he glances at his dog and answers, “It’s daddy.”


For as long as that lasts, Freud calls it neurosis; when it cracks, it’s psychosis.


The Wolf-Man will receive the psychoanalytic medal of honor for services rendered to the

cause, and even disabled veterans’ benefits.


He could have spoken in his own name only if the machinic assemblage that was producing particular statements in him had been brought to light.


But there is no question of that in psychoanalysis: at the very moment the subject is persuaded that he or she will be uttering the most individual of statements, he or she is deprived of all basis for enunciation.


Silence people, prevent them from speaking, and above all, when they do speak, pretend they haven’t said a thing: the famous psychoanalytic neutrality.


The Wolf-Man keeps howling: Six wolves! Seven wolves! Freud says, How’s that? Goats, you say? How interesting. Take away the goats and all you have left is a wolf, so it’s your father

狼人繼續嚎叫: 六隻狼! 七隻狼!佛洛伊德說,那又怎樣?山羊,你說呢?多麼有趣的事!假如你將山羊都帶走,你所剩餘的就是一隻狼,那就是你父親。

. . . That is why the Wolf-Man feels so fatigued: he’s left lying there with all his wolves in his throat, all those little holes on his nose, and all those libidinal values on his body without organs.


The war will come, the wolves will become Bolsheviks, and the Wolf-Man will remain suffocated by all he had to say.


All we will be told is that he became well behaved, polite, and resigned again, “honest and scrupulous.”


In short, cured. He gets back by pointing out that psychoanalysis lacks a truly zoological vision: “Nothing can be more valuable for a young person than the love of nature and a comprehension of the natural sciences, in particular zoology.”




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