Teresa, My Love: An Imagined Life of the Saint of Avila

Chapter 1. PRESENT BY DEFAULT

The flung-back face of a woman asleep, or perhaps she has already died of pleasure, her open mouth the avid door to an empty body that fills before our eyes with a boiling of marble folds…You must recall that sculpture by Bernini, The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa?¹ The artist’s inspiration was Teresa de Cepeda y Ahumada (1515–1582), whose religious name was Teresa of Jesus, better known as Saint Teresa of Avila. At the height of the Renaissance, her love of God quivered with the intensity of the beatus venter that Meister Eckhart knew so well. Her ecstatic convulsions made her into a sumptuous icon of the Counter-Reformation. Though she was, in Dostoyevsky’s sense, possessed, she was bathed in the waters of desire rather than, like Mary Magdalene, in tears — for her body and soul were fused with the absent body of the Other. “Where is He, where have they taken Him?” fretted the holy women at Golgotha.²

Teresa loved to read; they made her write. In a style quick with emotion, yet firm and precise, she portrayed the blend of pain and jubilation she felt with an emphasis on the deft agent of her undoing: Eros, armed with a spear, the iron tip of God Himself. “Prudentia carnis inimica Deo” (Prudence of the flesh is inimical to the Lord), so the Church Fathers taught. In this spiritual, illusory marriage to the Other, the unreachable Father is relayed in the praying woman’s fantasy by a heavenly stripling, an undefiled brother, a male mirage of Teresa herself, whose voluptuous pride will never pierce her hymen.

Oh, how many times when I am in this state do I recall that verse of David: Quemadmodum desiderat cervus ad fontes aquarum [As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God. (Ps. 42:2)]…When this thirst is not too severe, it seems it can be appeased somewhat; at least the soul seeks some remedy.…At other times the pain becomes so severe that the soul can do neither penance nor anything else, for the whole body is paralyzed. One is unable to stir with either the feet or the arms. Rather, if one is standing, one sits down, like a person being carried from one place to another, unable even to breathe.…The Lord wanted me while in this state to see sometimes the following vision: I saw close to me toward my left side an angel in bodily form.…the angel was not large but small; he was very beautiful, and his face was so aflame that he seemed to be one of those very sublime angels that appear to be all afire. They must belong to those they call the cherubim.…I saw in his hands a large golden dart and at the end of the iron tip there appeared to be a little fire. It seemed to me that this angel plunged the dart several times into my heart and that it reached deep within me. When he drew it out, I thought he was carrying off with him the deepest part of me; and he left me all on fire with great love of God. The pain was so great that it made me moan, and the sweetness this greatest pain caused me was so superabundant that there is no desire capable of taking it away; nor is the soul content with less than God. The pain is not bodily but spiritual, although the body doesn’t fail to share in some of it, and even a great deal.…But when this pain I’m now speaking of begins, it seems the Lord carries the soul away and places it in ecstasy; thus there is no room for pain or suffering, because joy soon enters in [así no hay lugar de tener pena ni de padecer, porque viene luego el gozar].³

Desire existed before she did, and this woman knows it. Nevertheless she is consumed: a burning wound, a delightful pain. In the key of the Song of Songs, but by the hand for the first time of a European woman, pleasure unto death is conveyed with a sensual exactitude that defies decorum. Make no mistake: the fire that “carries off” the deepest part of her suggests that rather than capture the potency of the “large dart,” as in the male fantasy of the castrating female, Teresa gifts it to the angel. It is in dispossession and exile that she joins with the Other and becomes divine. In the same vein, at once a shooting star and a clap of thunder, she resumes her account in the “Sixth Dwelling Places” of The Interior Castle, her spiritual testament:

The soul dissolves with desire, and yet it doesn’t know what to ask for since clearly it thinks that its God is with it.

You will ask me: Well, if it knows this, what does it desire or what pains it? What greater good does it want? I don’t know. I do know that it seems this pain reaches to the soul’s very depths and that when He who wounds it draws out the arrow, it indeed seems, in accord with the deep love the soul feels, that God is drawing these very depths after Him. I was thinking now that it’s as though, from this fire enkindled in the brazier that is my God, a spark leapt forth and so struck the soul that the flaming fire was felt by it. And since the spark was not enough to set the soul on fire, and the fire is so delightful, the soul is left with that pain; but the spark merely by touching the soul produces that effect. It seems to me this is the best comparison I have come up with. This delightful pain — and it is not pain—is not continuous, although sometimes it lasts a long while; at other times it goes away quickly. This depends on the way the Lord wishes to communicate it, for it is not something that can be procured in any human way. But even though it sometimes lasts for a long while, it comes and goes. To sum up, it is never permanent. For this reason it doesn’t set the soul on fire; but just as the fire is about to start, the spark goes out and the soul is left with the desire to suffer again that loving pain the spark causes.⁴

Teresa’s body — as passionate and amorous as David’s or Esther’s, or that of the Sulamitess in the Song of Songs — falls back upon the Word. A gem of European memory, her text is steeped in Scripture, while her fiery verve rhythms a great movement in Catholic history: the baroque revolution. Might she also, unlikely as it may seem, be our contemporary?

Teresa’s “torment” is “beatific,” she experiences its ambivalence as “spiritual joy.” Such a fabulous autoeroticism, strained through Old Testament passions and sublimated by New Testament ideals, does not eschew “corporeal form.” “Christ’s humanity” was a theme of sixteenth-century piety; Erasmists, alumbrados (Spanish Illuminati), Jewish converts, and plenty of believing women embraced it. Thus Teresa’s ecstasies were immediately and indiscriminately formed of words, images, and physical sensations pertaining to both the spirit and the flesh: “the body doesn’t fail to share in some of it, and even a great deal,” she admitted. The experience, too, is a double one straightaway: while being the passive “object” of her transports, the nun is also the penetrating “subject,” who approaches “graces” and “raptures” with an astounding, unprecedented lucidity. Lost and found, inside and out and vice versa, this woman was a flux, a constant stream, and water would be the undulating metaphor of her thought: “I…am so fond of this element that I have observed it more attentively than other things.”⁵

I ran into her again on the cover of a Lacan Seminar, while doing my MA in psychology.⁶ I’d already admired Bernini’s sculpture, whose voluptuousness so stirred the susceptible Stendhal,⁷ in Santa Maria della Vittoria in Rome — long before this learned publication promised to tell us everything about female jouissance and its insatiable cry for “More!” Every summer, docile cultural tourists that we were, my small family spent vacations plowing up and down the Italian peninsula. I didn’t know very much in those days about the illustrious Carmelite nun, but at the La Procure bookshop, opposite the church of Saint-Sulpice, I had purchased her Collected Works—two onion-leafed volumes fat with unreadable prose. The kind of impulse buy you commit on the eve of a solitary weekend, instantly banished to the top of the bookcase and as soon forgotten.

I may as well tell you right away, I’m not a believer. I was christened as a matter of course, but Jesus was never a dinner-table topic at our house. My father was a general practitioner in the 13th arrondissement, and my mother taught literature at the lycée in Sceaux. Everyone worked too hard to see much of one another or to talk; it was a standard secular family of a kind very common in France, efficient and rational. Any discussions revolved, on Mother’s side, around literary prizes and the horrors of the world — much the same thing, perhaps. Whereas my father, who purported to be a left-leaning Gaullist, was forever grumbling about how France would never recover from the Algerian war, or how beggars were ruining the city center, or how some people believed in nothing but their doctor: a big mistake, as he was in a position to know. Anxious to spare Mother and me the “trials of life,” he’d made sure to give us “nothing but the best, my darlings.” That was his hobbyhorse, being more of an elitist than a republican, to put it mildly; he was proud of his success at providing for us, as he saw it. Meanwhile Mother, a fan of Colette and Françoise Sagan, was forever feeling let down by the latest Goncourt, Renaudot, or Femina book prizes, whose standards were so “dreadfully mediocre,” and pushing for the three of us to travel abroad, preferably to Italy, which was not a common destination in those days. I would listen with half an ear. I was pretty independent for an only child. It was May 1968, and my mind was elsewhere.

I love the night. I’m not an insomniac, but I’ve been regularly waking up around 2 A.M. ever since my father passed away, ten years ago this September. My mother faded away barely fifteen months after that, that’s apparently how it is when people love each other — not that love had been particularly noticeable in their case. I had never found them terribly interesting; you don’t when you’re a child, so it hadn’t occurred to me they might seem interesting to each other. Nowadays I listen to France Info and Jazz 89.9 or 88.2 as a cuddly toy substitute. Rocked by the sounds of the world, I doze without really dropping off, until the alarm clock rings.

I love the night, its furtive, underwater life of news flashes and rhythmic beats snagging memories at random, or semidreams, because a no-body opens up to nothing, and I only feel good when I’m rid of myself. Was my brain saturated by the latest dreary debate on the clash of civilizations, secularism versus head scarves? Or was it some dream that still escapes me? Anyhow, one night I fished up a word from my chance dives into the murky depths, the word “mystical,” which gave me such a stomach cramp that I rolled out of bed at first light. Where had that popped up from? I was hardly likely to have heard the word “mystical” on France Info, or Jazz point something.

I drank my tea over the first volume of the saint’s works, which I retrieved like a sleepwalker from the top of the bookcase, where I couldn’t remember having put it. It was quite an encounter. The kind of thing that gets under your skin and no one can figure out why. Teresa of what? Sylvia Leclercq reading Teresa of Avila, you’re kidding! After that sharp little book on Duras? No way! Maybe the silly goose thinks mysticism’s due for a revival, like she’s happened on a money-spinner!

They’ve got me all wrong. I’m not sharing my saint with anyone; I’m keeping her all to myself. She will be the roommate of my submarine nights, her name is Teresa of Avila.

Should conspicuous tokens of faith be allowed in schools, yes or no? Yet another committee that can’t manage without a psychologist, this time to discuss France’s constitutional secularism. Representatives of every brand of sensibility, profession, gender, and politics had been convened to guide a lawmaker through the issues. Unsurprisingly, we were at odds: some, like me, felt that religion is a private matter and public space shouldn’t be an arena for the contest of beliefs; others took our rigorous stance for an assault on the very right to believe, a disgraceful mark of intolerance. A young woman in a head scarf suddenly raised her voice above the noise: an IT engineer, pretty, clever, and adamant. She explained to us very forcefully that she and her God were one and that the veil was the immovable sign of this “union,” which she wished to publicize in order to definitively “fix it” in herself and in the eyes of others. Her desperate need to be fixed, defined, seen, was immediately obvious to the rest of us, especially the psychologists. Furthermore, should we deny her this “identity,” she was quite prepared to sacrifice herself — like those female suicide bombers on the other side of the world, and soon, perhaps, in our own suburbs. We had been warned. Hot-faced, voice spiking shrilly but full of eloquent resolve, she informed us that her veil was also a protective barrier, shielding her body from the lust of men, and visible proof “that I’m devoted to my work, that I’m a serious person, and that I don’t have the slightest interest in sex.”

“‘Neither whores nor submissives*’!” cried the woman on my left, incensed, and I clapped. [*Ni putes ni soumises: women’s rights movement founded by French Muslim women in 2002.—Trans.]

“She wears her veil like Saint Teresa wore a habit, she’ll get over it in a few hundred years,” snickered the man on my right.

“But that’s completely different!” Reproving stares pierced me from every side. Trapped, I said meekly: “Well, I think it is, anyway.” It was no time to be splitting hairs.

The spontaneity of my outburst surprised me. As if Teresa had just installed herself inside me, suddenly, by default, as the software manuals call it: from now on, automatically, as soon as your mental programs are booted up, before you’ve thought to modify this ineluctable presence by recustomizing your habits or traditions of thought, there something or someone is. In my case, there was Teresa, finally turning me away from a pointless, pretentious debate whose speakers were simply regurgitating the usual arguments and counterarguments as heard on TV. Should have expected it.

I fell into a kind of stupor, sucked into the abyss that separates the IT jihadi — protected from everything and then some by a scarf that strangles her worse than a convict’s neck iron — from the Golden Age visionary attempting to reconcile the faith of her desires with her loquacious reason. Was it really such an abyss? Sure. Not sure. Let’s see.

Teresa, as I read her, was able, by entering into ecstasy and writing down her raptures, not only to feel suffering and joy in both body and soul, but also to heal herself — almost — of her most salient symptoms: anorexia, fatigue, insomnia, fainting fits (desmayos), epilepsy (gota coral and mal de corazón), paralysis, strange bleedings, and terrible migraines. What is more, she succeeded in imposing her policies on the Church by reforming the Carmelite order. She founded seventeen monasteries in twenty years: Avila, Medina del Campo, Malagón, Valladolid, Toledo, Pastrana, Salamanca, Alba de Tormes, Segovia, Beas, Seville, Caravaca, Villanueva de la Jara, Palencia, Soria, Granada, and Burgos. In addition she wrote prolifically (her Collected Works run to nine volumes in the Spanish critical edition by Fr. Silverio de Santa Teresa); showed herself to be a most skillful metapsychologist, well before Freud, obviously; and emerged as a canny “businesswoman” within a Church that hadn’t asked for it. Unrepentantly carnal, she was moved by an insatiable desire for men and women, and naturally for the God-man Jesus Christ, never troubling to conceal her passions, even though she had taken vows, gone into seclusion, and hidden herself in a prickly woolen robe. Teresa used on the contrary to stoke her ecstasies to the limit, the better to savor their delights — sadomasochistic, of course — while analyzing them. And she bequeathed to us a masterpiece of self-observation and baroque rhetoric, not so much a Castle of the Soul, as it may be too hastily translated, but rather a kaleidoscope of “dwelling places,” moradas in Spanish: a “psychic apparatus” composed of multiple facets, plural transitions, in which the writer’s identity slips its moorings, is lost, is freed…with apologies to the head-scarfed engineer. Enough to make my colleagues, were they to go out of their way to visit this unlikely “castle,” turn green with envy.

Ever since she surfaced in the vagrancy of my submarine nights and imposed herself “by default” upon my discourse, Teresa hasn’t left me alone for a moment. This can be irritating, especially during the psychotherapy sessions with my analysands. For they are, male and female, one and all, sick with love, like Teresa, like Marguerite Duras, like the IT engineer, and plenty more. Like me, except that I have spent so many years analyzing myself and others that I lost the capacity for passion and it’s no longer that simple. Teresa wasn’t fooled either, in a way; at any rate she was far less gullible than some of my patients of either sex who revel in lovesickness and close their ears to my interpretations, no doubt because they love me too much.

But Teresa had no qualms about delving to the “root” of her “sins,” of her “boiling desires,” those “galloping horses” as she called them, nor about attacking the incompetence of her confessors, who did not understand her.

The whole trouble lay in not getting at the root of the occasions and with my confessors who were of little help. For had they told me of the danger I was in and that I had the obligation to avoid those friendships, without a doubt I believe that I would have remedied the matter.…

All these signs of fear of God came to me during prayer; and the greatest sign was that they were enveloped in love, for punishment did not enter my mind. This carefulness of conscience with respect to mortal sins lasted all during my illness. Oh, God help me, how I desired my health so as to serve Him more, and this health was the cause of all my harm.⁸

I take it that Teresa was implicating certain “friendships” and more precisely “prayer,” the practice of mental prayer for fusion with God: both of these presumably lay behind her “sins” and her indispositions. But I also see her as decomposing the internal shifts of her way of believing in God. If she, Teresa, loves God so much, it’s because she fears Him — punishment being the solidary inverse of love. Can love be a ruthless demand that punishes one to the point of illness? “These signs of fear of God…were enveloped in love.” Teresa points to the central knot of her malaise, a pernicious knot that the lovely engineer, fixed to her identity along with so many lovesick analysands, will take years to unpick. The earthly “punishment,” her symptoms but also her penances, derive from a mixture of love and fear, sex and terror. This weave that constitutes desire itself — desire for the Creator, as well as for His creatures — had hitherto eluded her, insightful though she was. In the sentence I am now reading, Teresa expresses herself like an analyst, or at least that is how I translate her. I feared, she says, that loving would be either meaningless or forbidden, and hence always culpable; and I contented myself with mobilizing all of my “conscience” (my moral sense, my superego). I remained “careful of conscience” so as to combat those unworthy desires, those sins. My very illnesses were punishments that I inflicted on myself out of fear of the Beloved, fear of not measuring up to Love. But by the time of writing these lines, she concludes, I’ve gone beyond that point: I have understood that such a conscientious longing for “health” in order to “serve,” were it even to serve God, can only cause me “harm.”

The future saint has just discovered what the superego enjoins: “Delight in suffering!” What to do? Without relinquishing that feminine stance—“A female I was and, for better or worse [pour en souffrir et pour en jouir], a female I find myself to be,” as Colette put it⁹—the Carmelite nun transforms it into a different position, for which she finds plenty of justifications in Scripture: as a garden lets itself be watered, so Teresa lets herself be loved, abandoning herself to the mingled waters of pleasure, sublimation, and a kind of self-analysis that she discovers as she writes. With no resistance or dread — no tyrannical superego, as my colleagues of the Parisian Psychoanalytic Society would interpret it.

Offered up, passive, defenseless, Teresa embraced the rite of prayer as preached by the Franciscan Francisco de Osuna¹⁰ in his Third Spiritual Alphabet, and passed down to her by her paternal uncle, Pedro Sánchez de Cepeda: silent rather than spoken prayer, submersion of the self in an infinite longing for the other, the absolute Other, the divine, as penetrating as a Spouse. This amorous state, heightened by the nun’s very account of it, engulfs its author and infects the reader with an imaginary pleasure so potent it makes itself felt and is embodied in each of the senses (mouth, skin, ears, eyes, guts). Teresa is a well, a Persian wheel, an underground stream, a downpour, the beloved Being impregnates her with His grace.

Delirium? Inebriation? That may well be, she doesn’t care, she prefers that to the love-fear that hounded her before. How dismal it is, that anxiety in which melancholics love to wallow! Their black bile can be left to the Lutherans, because La Madre wants no part of it, ever again! Unknown to herself Teresa is preparing a miracle, and she succeeds where Judge Schreber will fail. This celebrated jurist believed himself to be persecuted by a God who cared little for the living, the instigator of a plot to turn him into a woman who would redeem the human race. Fit to haunt the body and soul of any self-respecting psychology student! You know the case I mean? That’s right. Even outside psychology circles, it’s well known that the “Schreber Case” prompted the first psychoanalytic investigation into psychosis.¹¹ Teresa’s God, by contrast, has managed to split off from the vengeful Creator God of judgment and damnation, and His rays, notwithstanding their omnipotence, are wholly beneficial: He cannot do other than love and be loved, even when He is not responding. Over a few decades of monastic experience Teresa rewrote, after her fashion, the thousand-year-old story of God the Father, which Jesus had already done much to transfigure; but now the Spaniard will die of bliss in Him without dying. In her visions, through her pen, the tyrannical Beloved, the stern Father, Père-sévère, softens into a Father so tender as to become an ideal alter ego, kind and rewarding, who draws the ego out of itself: ek-static. Does He put her to the test? Teresa knows that He adores her, because He speaks to her, assures her of His unfailing presence by her side. What’s more, He is in her, He is her as she is Him. God, God-man, his body marked by five wounds, who suffered and rose again, whom Teresa embraces as he hangs on the Cross. An angel’s body, too, equipped with a long dart that can penetrate you, inflame you, then slake your thirst with water and sometimes, indeed, with mother’s milk:

Let us come now to speak of the third water by which this garden is irrigated, that is, the water flowing from a river or spring. By this means the garden is irrigated with much less labor, although some labor is required to direct the flow of the water. The Lord so desires to help the gardener here that He Himself becomes practically the gardener and the one who does everything.

This prayer is a sleep of the faculties; the faculties neither fail entirely to function nor understand how they function. The consolation, the sweetness, and the delight are incomparably greater than that experienced in the previous prayer. The water of grace rises up to the throat of this soul since such a soul can no longer move forward; nor does it know how; nor can it move backward. It would desire to enjoy this greatest glory [to revel in it: querría gozar de esta grandísima gloria]. It is like a person who is already holding the candle and for whom little is left before dying the death that is desired: such a one rejoices in that agony with the greatest delight describable. This experience doesn’t seem to me anything else than an almost complete death to all earthly things and an enjoyment of God [estar gozando de Dios].

I don’t know any other terms for describing it or how to explain it. Nor does the soul then know what to do because it doesn’t know whether to speak or to be silent, whether to laugh or to weep. This prayer is a glorious foolishness, a heavenly madness [Es un glorioso desatino, una celestial locura] where the true wisdom is learned; and it is for the soul a most delightful way of enjoying.

Often I had been as though bewildered and inebriated in this love, and never was I able to understand its nature.…

The soul would desire to cry out praises, and it is beside itself — a delightful disquiet. Now the flowers are blossoming; they are beginning to spread their fragrance. The soul would desire here that everyone could see and understand and understand its glory.…

It would want to be all tongues so as to praise the Lord.…

While I write this I am not freed from such holy, heavenly madness.…

Since [this soul] desires to live no longer in itself but in You, it seems that its life is unnatural.

…There is no reason sufficient to prevent me from this excess when the Lord carries me out of myself — nor since this morning when I received Communion do I think it is I who am speaking. It seems that what I see is a dream, and I would desire to see no other persons than those who are sick with this sickness I now have. I beg your Reverence that we may all be mad for love of Him who for love of us was called mad.¹²

My parents are dead, my partner left me, I don’t have children: I don’t have anyone. Nature is beautiful; the world situation is beyond help; life makes me laugh, because I never could do tears. My colleagues at the MPH (for the uninitiated, the Medical-Psychological House, my official base where I practice as a psychologist) think well of me: “Everything works out for Sylvia Leclercq, what a dynamo!” Not particularly discerning, as assessments go, but I’ll settle for it. What the ladies mean by that (and I say “ladies,” because in such an institution, the staff is invariably 99 percent female) is that they don’t resent me, that I do my job well enough. I socialize with them just as often as it takes to maintain my image, for I don’t look for truth in human contacts, apart from those undefinable relations that attach me to our inpatients and my own cases. Whether or not they can be called “bonds,” these are my greatest weakness, at any rate.

Paul is a “compensated autistic,” according to his medical records. He seldom speaks, his gaze wanders, and what sound like sentences from him are often no more than TV advertising slogans or snatches of a fable by La Fontaine. Paul’s memory and ear are faultless. He is an excellent piano player and spends much time listening to cassettes. He’s a teenager going on thirty, tall and lanky, slightly stooped, prone to losing his balance and passing out. Paul also likes hugging girls, who willingly reciprocate, having fallen for those feline eyes, which never rest on anyone. Yesterday, out of the blue, he came and flung his skinny arms round me and rocked me hard. “I don’t want you to die.” I must have looked pretty stupid, because for once he stared me straight in the eye. He went on repeating the same thing all day long. Was it in response to another sentence running through his head that he wasn’t telling me, along the lines of “You should die, I want you to die”? That evening, he decreed: “All things considered, I need you for my life. Understand?” I left the building under his catlike gaze, cheered by that “all things considered.” I hadn’t understood that Paul had understood everything, after all.

Élise is a tougher nut to crack. She is fifteen and incontinent, which people find quite trying. She has to be changed, dressed, the works. But she can’t stand nurses or nurses’ aides. “Not touch!” she shrieks in anguish. Furious outburst, dose of tranquilizers, and it starts all over again. Nobody wants to look after her. “Mrs. Leclercq, I know it’s not your responsibility, really I do, but as Élise seems to get along with you so well…” Dr. Toutbon, our director, can always be trusted to light upon the cheapest solution. “Don’t worry, I’ll see to her.” Because the life of the psyche lodges in unexpected places, there’s no reason a therapist shouldn’t change Élise’s diapers. I soap her, I scent her, I’ve found out she likes lavender. She draws fields of lavender for me, and I bring back fragrant blue armfuls of the stuff from my garden at Île de Ré.

“Quit acting like one of those old-school analysts: lavatory/lavender, is that it?”

Marianne Baruch, the MPH psychiatrist, my only friend in here or anywhere, sticks to prescribing slews of pills. She loathes all that Freudian — Lacanian mumbo jumbo, which it amuses her to attribute to me. Parapeted behind thick glasses, encased in faded jeans like a fifty-something teen, she’s a gruff character whose affection, on its rare outings, is mostly for me. But I was talking about Élise. Any exchanges between the young girl and myself serve only to help us arrive at the things that begin (with all due respect to Dr. Baruch) in the sphere of sensation. Lavender is odorous and tactile, it dampens and lubricates, it caresses. It does these things, not me. I improvise: I bring flowers, I play, she plays, savors, sniffs. And one thing leading to the next, Élise brings out some pieces of her ragged story. Her mother hasn’t been to see her for five years. She remarried and left Paris, she’s probably got other worries now. Only her father still takes my Élise out for the odd weekend. He is a sad, shriveled little man, impossible to seduce, no matter how much supermarket cologne or lavender essence his daughter pours over herself.

Nothing had predisposed me to do this job. I drifted for years between the couch and the library, but I was not cut out to teach, still less to teach literature. My salvation was Marguerite Duras: I never completed my thesis on her, because the more I thought about her the more depressed I got, but I did turn it into a slim volume, Duras, or the White Apocalypse, published by Zone.

“You’re a shrewd psychologist, Sylvia, and one might also spot a streak of theology in that apocalypse of yours,” remarked my publisher, Bruno Zonabend. This was hardly a compliment to the literary type I thought myself to be. Theology meant nothing to me in those days. I ditched my thesis and went back to school, this time to study psychology, and here I am: Sylvia Leclercq, clinical psychologist. Practicing part-time at the MPH, the rest with private patients. And, more lately, sharing my nights with Teresa of Avila.

On March 28, 1515, in the province of Avila, a third child was born to don Alonso Sánchez de Cepeda and his wife, doña Beatriz de Ahumada. It was a girl. Don Alonso was the son of Juan Sánchez, a “reconciled” convert from Judaism also known as Juan de Toledo, a wealthy tax collector and draper, and of doña Inés de Cepeda, from an Old Christian family of minor aristocratic rank. At her christening on April 4 in Avila, the infant was given the name of Teresa after her maternal grandmother, doña Teresa de las Cuevas, and her paternal great-grandmother, Teresa Sánchez. Her family name was a composite of her parents’ surnames: de Cepeda y Ahumada. The patronym Sánchez, perceived as Jewish, was gradually dropped in favor of the stalwart Catholicism of the Cepeda stock. Thus Teresa bore just one first name plus the last names of her only Catholic forbears (the Cepedas and the Ahumadas), all on the female side. Such an onomastic apparatus strikes me as perfectly tailored to the person in question.

But what of the Marrano status of her father’s line, the forced conversion to Catholicism? Had it become diluted, or did it, on the contrary, persist like an invisible magnet attracting Teresa’s faith to the inner, exploratory life, rather than to the facile schemas of established religion? Some scholars make much of the humiliation suffered by her merchant grandfather Juan Sánchez, condemned to wear the sambenito—the infamous yellow ruff that denoted a converted “swine” (Marrano) who had secretly relapsed into the old faith — for seven Fridays in a row, jeered by the Toledans who were not so fastidious when it came to using his financial services. Others cite the incident as evidence that Teresa’s ancestor could not have been a serious backslider, let alone a heretic, because the penance assigned by the Inquisition to obtain his “reconciliation” was distinctly moderate for a period when death sentences were handed out by the thousand. Besides, Alonso, Teresa’s father, regarded himself simply as a good Catholic. Could it be that this dissolution of Judaism into the intimacy of a new, ardent faith, rebelling against the exhaustion of tradition, provides a key to Teresa’s uncompromising, reforming spirit?

This view is taken by Michel de Certeau, who finds that a “strange alliance joins the ‘mystic’ spoken word to ‘impure blood.’”¹³ The crossing of two religious traditions, one repressed and hidden in the private realm, the other triumphant but “corrupt,” undoubtedly helped the “New Christians” to create a new discourse, freed from dogmatic reiteration and structured — like a spiritual marranismo—by the opposition of internal “purity” and external “falsehood.”

If on the one hand Teresa inherited, albeit unconsciously, this spiritual marranismo, it merged on the other hand with a sensibility dominated by Catholicism…in the feminine. For better or worse, for suffering or pleasure. Did that alone persuade the future saint that God was more generous to women, that women “make much more progress along this path [of mystical experience] than men do”?¹⁴

Teresa was four years old when the municipal authorities brought a fiscal suit against the Sánchez de Cepeda family, requiring them to prove in court that they possessed the rank of hidalgos, without fiefs or titles perhaps, but exempt from tax. In fact, they already enjoyed this privilege. Juan Sánchez and then his sons had earned it by their social success; they lived like nobles and served the king. Formal hidalgo status was legally granted four years later. Was this how Teresa learned that she was the granddaughter of a converso? Her writings give no indication of it. Nevertheless, the suspicion of a lack of honra, “honor,” tormented the future saint all her life. She harps tirelessly on this “point of honor,” this obligation to “sustentar la honra,” uphold the burden of honor and preserve one’s rank. It was a constant worry for the Sánchez de Cepeda family, as much when they were rich as when they were poor: could it be due to their marranismo? Most theologians and other interpreters of Teresa have studiously ignored the sociohistorical and political dimensions of this particular obsession.

In 1528 Alonso Sánchez de Cepeda was left with twelve children on his hands — two from a first marriage (María and Juan), ten from the second (Fernando, Rodrigo, Teresa, Juan, Lorenzo, Antonio, Pedro, Jerónimo, Agustín, and Juana) — when Teresa’s mother Beatriz de Ahumada died, possibly in the course of her tenth and final delivery. In July 1531, aged sixteen, Teresa entered the small Augustinian Convent of Our Lady of Grace in Avila. All of her brothers became soldiers, except for Juan. They emigrated: Fernando was the first to sail for the Indies (America), and the favorite, Rodrigo, embarked for the Plate estuary in 1535. Antonio, Pedro, Jerónimo, Lorenzo, and Agustín followed in their wake between 1540 and 1543, eager to acquire wealth and honors in the New World now that their father’s money had almost run out. Living exclusively off the land as a hidalgo was less profitable than selling silks or collecting taxes, and before long the Cepeda y Ahumada family was ruined.

On November 2, 1535, Teresa ran away from her father’s home to join the Carmel of the Incarnation. There she took her vows, after spending a year as a postulant. She was twenty years old. Her father died in December 1543, leaving considerable debts, over which some of his heirs would quarrel for two decades.

Teresa’s “conversion,” the beginning of her deep surrender to religion, dates from 1555. Her contemplative life intensified. A devotee of the orisons of the alumbrados, Teresa nonetheless strove to understand and elucidate them. Two years later she heard her first heavenly “words.”

In 1559, the Inquisition placed on its Index of Prohibited Books many of the spiritual books and chivalrous novels in Castilian that Teresa’s mother had taught her to enjoy. Christ appeared and reassured her: “Don’t be sad, for I shall give you a living book.”¹⁵ A vision of Christ in 1559, a vision of Hell the following year. First raptures. Disillusioned by the worldliness of the “calced” Carmelite order, she planned to found, with her fellow nuns, a convent that would reinstate the order’s original rule, the “discalced” Carmel. She would replace shoes with canvas sandals.

At the request of her confessor, the Dominican Pedro Ibáñez, in 1560–1561 she undertook to write her life story. Already in 1554, following the advice of her confessors Gaspar Daza and Francisco de Salcedo, she had embarked on an autobiographical work, marking in her copy of Ascent of Mount Zion, by Bernardino de Laredo, the passages that mirrored her experience.¹⁶ The confessors, somewhat skeptical, suggested she make confession to the Jesuit Diego de Cetina. It was for him that Teresa set down “as clear an account of my life as I knew how to give, without leaving anything out.”¹⁷ But no trace remains of that early text; Teresa or her confessors must have destroyed it. In 1562 Teresa finished the first version of the Book of Her Life, delivered to the Dominican García de Toledo and subsequently lost, and founded the first reformed Carmelite convent, Saint Joseph of Avila, thanks to, amongst other donations, 200 ducats sent from Peru by her younger brother, Lorenzo. She took the name Teresa of Jesus. García de Toledo and the inquisitor Francisco de Soto Salazar asked her to resume and complete her account, which she did between 1563 and 1565: this is the version that has come down to us. It testifies to the way in which Teresa’s experience was influenced by the spiritual teachers of her time: Juan de Ávila, the “Andalusian apostle” acknowledged by Ignatius Loyola as his sole spiritual father; and in the lineage of the Franciscan Francisco de Osuna, Bernabé de Palma; but also Bernardino de Laredo and Alonso de Madrid (The Art of Serving God). These practiced the mysticism of recollection and were regarded as recogidos, or contemplatives, but they were not ignorant of scholasticism. Such readings calmed the anguish provoked by the silent prayer of Francisco de Osuna and guided the nun toward a vocal prayer that began with reading, before turning into ecstatic meditation. Teresa met numerous Church dignitaries of various orders (Jesuits, Dominicans, Franciscans, Carthusians) who supported or challenged her, criticized or guided her. Her mysticism gained authority under the notable influence of the Franciscan and future saint Pedro de Alcántara, whose kindliness toward women and special trust in her she commends in a 1576 letter to her brother Lorenzo.¹⁸

Teresa of Jesus wrote The Book of Her Life at the age of fifty: a sum of familial and amorous memories that bares, without the least coyness, a body sick with desire and exultant in its affliction. If Teresa’s faith asserts itself as an expression of love, the coiling of this lover’s discourse upon itself would infuse her writing with devastating lucidity, continually redoubling the lover’s illusion without ever breaking away from it altogether. Doubtful, skeptical, frequently hostile, at last won over, her confessors instructed her to record the strange raptures she spoke of, those half mad, half rational states that so fascinated the letrados, learned churchmen of rank. Under their supervision the ecstatic seer became a writer: theologians pored over her notebooks, revising and correcting, while the ardent author, whose humility veiled a certain astuteness, soon got into her stride and, while never less than self-deprecating, poured out more and more onto the page. Self-analyses, constitutions, counsels, letters, poems: syncopated, in spurts and gusts, Teresa’s writing grew mentally and physically incessant. This scriptorial therapy deepened the confessional analysis of raptures and agonies — sensations that were appeased, if not effaced, beneath the torrent of texts and monastic foundations. Teresa founded herself in writing at the same time as she founded the Discalced Carmelite order.

A writer? She demurred, waved it away, forgot about it. Her confessors were the ones who got her started, after all; they supervised her output, they edited it, and now and then they censored it. Only one work was to be formally signed and authenticated by her, The Way of Perfection (1573).

A woman possessed by the devil? More than once Teresa doubted her visions, and took care to obtain endorsement from her spiritual guides. When she was suspected of Illuminism during the 1560s, the Dominican Pedro Ibáñez came to her defense with a highly favorable report. But matters were not always so simple. In February 1575, Teresa was the happiest of women: she had just met her “angel,” her “Elysium,” her “darling son,” Fr. Jerome Gratian of the Mother of God,* [*I have used the English version of Jerónimo Gracián’s name, as I have done with John of the Cross. Elsewhere I have kept the Spanish names. — Trans.] the apostolic visitor for Andalusia. He was thirty, she was sixty. They made up coded names for each other and loved under the Inquisition’s very nose: “I will never have better days than those I had there with my Paul.” As it happened, the Inquisition got onto La Madre’s case in 1575–1576. Thanks to the support of her confessor and spiritual director, the Dominican Domingo Báñez, doctor of theology and advisor to the Inquisition in Valladolid, they left Teresa alone but placed The Book of Her Life under lock and key: it could not be allowed to circulate among the populace. Recovering it in 1580, the next year she titled it, with wry humor, The Book of God’s Mercies. She no doubt held laughter to be next to love, and radiated both.

Although she was a great friend and accomplice of Saint John of the Cross (they met in 1567, when he was twenty-five and she was fifty-two) in both the Carmelite reformation and the life of the soul, Teresa eschewed the purgative asceticism of her “little Seneca”; she shared neither his endurance under flagellation nor his “privation of every kind of pleasure which belongs to the desire” (Ascent of Mount Carmel).¹⁹ The author of the Living Flame of Love would ultimately burn every single letter addressed to him by the sensual reformer.

After her death on October 4, 1582, in Alba de Tormes, Teresa was interred in the chapel of the dukes of Alba, under a heap of soil, stones, and lime. When her body was exhumed in 1586, its wondrously preserved state naturally encouraged the publication of the books. While she was alive, successive popes were at the very least wary of her: Paul IV, Pius V, and Gregory XIII (who recast the calendar) had no time for febrile mystics, especially female ones. La Madre was beatified a century after her birth, in 1614, in a festive Madrid of serpents, ships, and blazing castles. King Philip IV, the ambassadors, and the nobles paid homage to her in the cathedral adorned with her portrait: this depicted her holding a palm frond in one hand, the symbol of virginity, and a quill in the other, to represent literary genius. Lope de Vega himself presided over the poetic joust of sonnets composed in her honor. The Blessed Teresa was canonized by Gregory XV in 1622, in recognition of her “divine wisdom.” The Jesuits had supported her in life: Francisco Borgia, Baltasar Álvarez, Ripalda…The Council of Trent, inaugurating a new epoch for the Catholic faith, had need of someone like Teresa, whose experience fitted so well with the new outlook without being reducible to it.²⁰ For La Madre had patently prefigured, indeed embodied, the baroque. She had led the way in balancing ascetic rigor, rehabilitated by the Carmelite reformation, with the wonders of supernatural spiritual contemplation, legitimized by her genius. It was in this spirit that Luis de León and Jerome Gratian posthumously published and commented upon her works, to consecrate Teresa of Avila as the saint of the Counter-Reformation.

Why do I feel so sure that this Carmelite nun has slipped the leash of her time and her world, and stands beside us in the third millennium? Is Teresa the diarist a modern sensibility, revealing that the secrets of baroque civilization are female? Or is she a novelist who weaves romantic plots, the necessary love interest, around the mystical subject — man or woman, man and woman? Or perhaps the maverick thinker of the Self outside the Self? A Montaigne of extreme, borderline states? The first person to theorize the imaginary with the aid of its own specific tools?

Master of triumphant narcissism inasmuch as she was loving/loved, Teresa was not content to develop the Christ-centered revolution introduced into Judaism by a God-man of love, whose madness—lately called sadomasochistic passion — had touched Mary Magdalene, Saint Paul, Saint Augustine, and been passed on. Mel Gibson’s 2004 film The Passion of the Christ is simply the cinematographic mise-en-scène of these rejoicings, these shades of pleasure and pain that glimmer throughout the Bible and, for anyone still unenlightened, through Christ’s Calvary. But the ecstatic Madre was no less possessed of a rational mind, capable of paring down her extravagant but therapeutic “visions” and coupling the convulsions of the body with the shifting infinity of thought. Ten years after The Book of Her Life (whose definitive version was completed in 1565), The Dwelling Places of the Soul (1577) feels its way toward a “spiritual marriage” that is not so much a hallucinatory “vision” as a carnal thought, a pure joy of the mind inseparable from the body. It allows her to assess with considerable philosophical precision the difference between thought in motion, a turmoil of the imaginary, and the intellect loosed from the body:

The important thing is not to think much but to love much…I have been very afflicted at times in the midst of this turmoil of mind. A little more than four years ago I came to understand through experience that the mind [pensamiento] (or imagination, to put it more clearly) is not the intellect. I asked a learned man and he told me that this was so; which brought me no small consolation. For since the intellect is one of the soul’s faculties, it was an arduous thing for me that it should be so restless at times. Ordinarily the mind flies about quickly, for only God can hold it fast in such a way as to make it seem that we are somehow loosed from this body. I have seen, I think, that the faculties of my soul were occupied and recollected in God while my mind on the other hand was distracted. This distraction puzzled me.…It seems I myself wanted to take vengeance on myself.…And since our reading and the counsels we receive (that is, to pay no attention to these thoughts) don’t suffice, I don’t think that the time spent in explaining these things for those of you with little knowledge and consoling you in this matter is time lost.…Yet, it is necessary and His Majesty wishes us to take the means and understand ourselves; and let’s not blame the soul for what a weak imagination, human nature, and the devil cause.²¹

On the one hand, moral judgment, on the other, the imagination of the Bride, desirous without fear of being judged for it: “I would kiss thee, yea, I should not be despised” (Song of Songs 8:1). Teresa recognizes the legitimacy and advantage of the former, but nothing could induce her to give up the harrowing desires without which there is no path to the Beloved: “It isn’t good for us to be disturbed by our thoughts, nor should we be concerned”; “the pain is felt when suspension does not accompany the prayer. When suspension does accompany prayer, no pain is felt until the suspension passes.”²²

The point is neither to submit to the intellect, nor to substitute it with restless thought and imagination, but to construct a new expression that constitutes the Teresian discourse: suspension of the intellect, while also eluding that illusory, misleading, mystificatory imagination. A different imagination — let’s call it the imaginary—is ready to “fly about,” to soar free of Teresa, to free her in turn, to deliver her even from God; since God is in “the very deep and intimate part” of her, and it’s this that she seeks to liberate and be liberated from.

My sandal-wearer, who claimed to be so unschooled as not to “know who the Assyrians are,”²³ didn’t feel at all inferior to the learned doctors who guided her soul; she even took them down a peg in a burlesque homage of a type called vejamen, a comic-satirical critique penned in response to a solemn symposium (that’s right!) held in 1577.²⁴ The perplexing title of her riposte, “Seek Yourself in Me”—words the Other once addressed to her as she prayed — would have left Socrates,²⁵ Montaigne, and Descartes confounded. For Teresa’s formula has nothing to do with the Socratic “Know yourself,” that injunction to “Be wise!” that could have been engraved on the Delphic pediment like a greeting from Apollo to his devotees, which Plato examines in the Phaedrus and the Critias.²⁶ Nor must it be confused with the motto of her contemporary, Montaigne: “What do I know?” Because, although he did not lose his Christian faith, even while suspecting it of bounding “the power of God…by the rules of human language,” the sage of Bordeaux was happier rehabilitating the Pyrrhonian skeptics and replacing every affirmative proposition by doubts.²⁷ He chose the symbol of a pair of scales to represent this doubting Self, poles apart from Teresa’s ravished transports. Lastly, having arisen in dialogue and being derived from transference to the Other, Teresa’s phrase is equally unrelated to the “I think, therefore I am” reached by Descartes in his Discourse on the Method, because the latter is based on solipsistic certainty.²⁸

Not rationalistic, not skeptical, not isolated, not even “balanced,” and yet drawing on knowldge as much as on unknowing, Teresa’s Self is a twofold knowing from the start, born in the Other’s love and for the Other* [*“Le Moi de Thérèse est d’emblée co-naissant dans l’amour de l’Autre et pour l’Autre.” The author makes a pun on connaissant, knowing, and co-naissant, co-being born. — Trans.], ceaselessly inscribing itself in the spiral of call and response from I to you, between you and me. After the dialogical Socrates, before the doubting Montaigne and the cogitating Descartes, this woman had the idea — a biblical idea? baroque? psychoanalytical? — to invent a self-knowledge that can only be realized on condition of an inherent duplication: “you in me” and “me in you.” Her castle is interior inasmuch as it is infiltrated by the exterior Other, irreducible and yet included, body and soul; sensible and signifiable. This double knowing is a long way, too, from Rimbaud’s “illumination” (“I is another”)²⁹ and more an intuition of something close to Freudian transference: a clarified passion for seeking a self that is grounded in the bond with another, inevitably poignant and definitively jubilant. Does Teresa posit this “third kind of knowledge” in muffled resonance with Spinoza the Marrano?³⁰ Maybe, but from there to celebrating her as a scholar in theology was quite a step — one finally taken in 1970, in the aftermath of Vatican Council II, almost five centuries after she was born. Teresa of Avila and Catherine of Siena were proclaimed by Pope Paul VI the first women “Doctors of the Universal Church.”

On hearing me enthuse about the droll letters Teresa sent to her confessors (those secret or semiavowed loves, who no matter how erudite she often chided for their lack of what she called “experience”) my friend Dr. Baruch teases me: “Our Freudian Sylvia, lapsing into Catholicism, eh?”

Not a bit. Or no more so than Leibniz, whose company is nothing to be ashamed of. Indeed, the great rationalist who aspired to overcome the rifts within Christianity took La Madre seriously in his Discourse on Metaphysics, describing her as “a person of noble mind whose sanctity is greatly revered [and who] used to say that the soul must often think as if there were only God and it in the world. Now nothing makes immortality more completely comprehensible.”³¹ In a letter to André Morell, he is explicit about his debt to her: “And as for St. Teresa, you are right to esteem her works. One day I found in them this fine thought: that the soul ought to conceive things as if there were only God and itself in the world. This thought gives rise to an idea which is significant even in philosophy, and I have made good use of it in one of my hypotheses.”³²

Teresa’s soul incorporating its God, consubstantial with the Other: might this be the only possible immortality? Enough, surely, to mark down the Carmelite saint, the inspirer of Bernini, as the precursor of the infinite monad and Leibniz’s infinitesimal calculus!

Did I mention my former partner? I finally erased him altogether, it’s true. It’s all so long ago. We were fifteen in May 1968, we manned the barricades on rue Claude-Bernard, discovered sex and drugs at the Odéon, experimented with the whole gamut of erotic fantasy and power games. His name? Can’t remember, not a clue. Honestly. My friends, the few I still have from those days, are the same: they say “your ex,” “her ex.” My ex left no trace of himself in me, good or bad, which might seem strange for a psychologist, or perhaps it just shows how thoroughly I was psychoanalyzed. He claimed to like women and hate children; he made love like — and with — anybody else, but preferred me for sleeping with. When we were together he’d cross the road to avoid greeting an acquaintance, male or female. Was he ashamed of me? Ashamed of himself? Given that everything was or ought to be transparent, this hole-and-corner stuff made no sense to me, I couldn’t see why we had to play at secret lovers. So I asked him, I nagged him about it, and he’d fly into a temper and disappear for days. We carried on that way for ten years or so, I wanted to be up to date, but I was just a masochist. One day he didn’t come back. One of our friends, mine that is, I never met his, got some news via a mutual contact. “Seems your ex opened a holiday club in Thailand, can’t you just picture it! Did you know? I always thought he was in computing.” I could picture it alright, but I hadn’t believed in anything for quite a while. I’d been depressed. A spell in the Sainte-Anne psychiatric hospital, a lengthy analysis, the Duras book, the psychology degree, I did whatever it took to delete the whole thing. You can hiss as much as you like, the fact is that I came out unscathed, smooth as a pebble.

Love, the tritest business of our whole lives, as my mother used to say in evocation of her favorite authoress — Colette or Sagan? — love had ditched me for good. Free of it at last, I find life nicely open and varied, full of surprises. My patients offer unexpected gifts, my dear colleague Baruch buoys me up with her businesslike approval, and occasional affinities with the male of the species afford me occasional pleasures of the kind known as physical. With 9/11 and the rise of Islamic terrorism, I realized that religion is the only world — besides those of Paul and Élise — that can still rouse me to passion. For better and for worse.

It’s late, I’m in my apartment on Place d’Italie gazing out at the city lights. My father always loved this great window; the view would relax him after a strenuous day. I’m getting supper ready and listening to the news: from one folly to the next, Sky News, CNN, on goes the world.

The phone rings. It’s Zone Books.

Bruno doesn’t call very often, and why should he: sales of my Duras book were modest, except abroad. “There’s a Duras cult in the States, what do you expect, all those depressed women sucked in by feminism…Sorry, did I upset you?” Of course not: I wouldn’t kick up a fuss with my publisher. All he’s asked after that is to meet for a drink every two or three years, in case there’s something to be got out of the dingbat psychology circles I now move in, and which include Zone customers. Invariably he draws a blank: I’m not the mole he’s after. Let’s do it again soon? I’ll call you. That would be lovely…

Meanwhile, Zone switched niches. Seeing as everybody else was writing and publishing fiction, Zonabend slashed the literary list to the bone and went into contemporary nonfiction. “Essays are such a catch-all, ever since Montaigne and Rousseau, you know, essays have been great sellers.” But without spurning his old flames.

“The time has come for you to take up your pen once more, my dear! I need you, yes I do, I’m serious, surely you realize you’re cutting-edge? Come now, I’ve always known you had flair. Value crisis! Apocalypse now! The new sicknesses of the soul! How to become a suicide bomber so as not to go crazy when you’re crazy already! You are at the total front line of all that, my dear Sylvia, and plus you’ve got the inside story, with those fruitcakes of yours! You hold the key to the enigma, on the deep-down intimate level, I mean.”

Bruno is trying to flatter me: he dreams of a White Apocalypse Mark 2. I’m thrown, I’m not on the same wavelength as when he published me.

“Do you hear what I’m saying? Today’s Anne-Marie Stretters, Lol V. Steins, what are they doing? In France they’re singing on shows like Star Academy, or making a fortune as high-end escorts, like the one who tripped up Daniel Stern, what was her name? Anyway. So, think about it: suppose those same rather sordid heroines are Muslims, what choices do they have, between the Pill and the chador? Suicide bombers in the making. I’m rushing the transitions, ok, but here’s your theme: apocalypse, feminine case. What say you?”

“You mean the Hiroshima of love would only get more devastating?” I’m alluding to the subtitle of my book, which Zonabend has evidently forgotten. “And I’m supposed to be the expert in the field?” I say, feigning jokiness.

“The Hiroshima of love, excellent!” Bruno can already see me on TV, guesting on the Guillaume Durand show, or, why think small, on prime time with Patrick Poivre d’Arvor.

“I don’t know, but I do think there can be religious women in love. I happen to be reading one now who talks about nothing else.” Teresa, by default, again.

“Really? Well, why not…Let’s see. Not Diderot’s nun, she’s been done. A fundamentalist? A mystic?”

“A writer.”

“Not another writer! Ok, do me a synopsis.” My publisher goes quiet all of a sudden. He doesn’t seem very excited about my saint. “Religion is always a mystery for you psychologists as well, isn’t it? So that’s it…I’ll trust you. I want it. I’ll send the contract. And get your skates on.”

Bruno’s such a bore. I don’t feel like ticking boxes. I am steeped in Teresa, her faith and madness speak to me, and the faith I never had may not be so far distant. As for madness, well…A bonfire under my white apocalypse?

Hail Teresa, borderless woman, physical hysterical erotic epileptic, made word, made flesh, who unravels inside and outside herself, tides of images without pictures, tumults of words, cascades of florescence, a thousand tongues listening out for whom for what, listening to time etched in stone, eardrum larynx cry out write out, night and brightness, too much body yet disembodied, beyond matter, empty gaping matrix throbbing for the Beloved ever-present and yet never there, but there’s presence and presence, His in her, hers in Him, sensed felt buried, sensation without perception, dart or glass, pierced or transparent, that is the question, transverberated instead, and again inundated, La Madre being the most virile of monks,³³ most canny of the herders of souls, a veritable twin of Christ, she is He, He is she, the Truth is me, or Him in the deepest part of me, me Teresa, a successful paranoiac, God is myself and what of it, what’s the matter? A free-for-all, who can beat that? Certainly not Schreber, not even Freud, awfully serious chap from Vienna, gloomy rather, a woman finds it easier to talk about these things, what things, well, her of course, her beside herself, obviously, in the throes of dread and delight, little butterfly expiring with indelible joy because Jesus has become it or rather her, butterfly-Jesus, woman-Jesus, I know someone who though she’s not a poet composes poems without trying, novels that are poems with an extra something, extra movements, I wonder whether it is really I, Teresa, speaking, the path that is pain, the Nothingness of everything, that everything which is nothing, do what is in you to do, but gaily, be cheerful, my daughters, for twenty years I vomited every morning, now it’s in the evenings and it’s harder to bring up, I have to provoke it with a feather or some such thing, like a baby a baby girl if you prefer latched on to the Other’s teat, mystic or is it spiritual marriage, young John of the Cross³⁴ says there’s a difference, I don’t really see it, more like two sides of a coin, or like the Song of Songs, as always as ever she sings off-key but she writes true and carries on founding her convents, her girls, her Church, her own gestation, her game, a game of chess, games are allowed, oh yes, even in a cloister, especially in a cloister, God loves us to be playful, believe me, girls, Jesus loved women, what are the Doctors so scared of in us, yes, checkmate to God too, oh yes, Teresa or Molly Bloom, I am numb at last, I flow into the water of the garden, flow on by, all we do is feel pleasure, souls that love can see all the way into atoms, that’s right, for yes is all there is to souls like mine, mine sees as far as the infinite atoms that are atoms of love, the philosophers don’t have a clue, they become scholars, they recoil from your sensations, the best of them are mathematicians, tamers of infinity, and yet it’s as simple as that, oh yes, metaphors mutating into metamorphoses, or possibly the other way around, oh yes, Teresa, my sister, invisible, ecstatic, eccentric, beside yourself in you, beside myself in me, yes, Teresa, my love, yes.

Chapter 2. MYSTICAL SEDUCTION

It’s Christmas. People are buying trees, foie gras, oysters, gifts. Some will go to midnight Mass, millions are already clogging the freeways, apparently London is paralyzed by the weather (shame that the one destination that could tempt me is off limits due to global warming); there’s been a deadly pile-up in Gironde, three young people carjacked by a drunk in the 13th arrondissement, two dead, one critically injured. I’m staying put. The MPH ladies are of one mind for the vacation: they are trooping off for some thalassotherapy in Ouarzazate. For some unfathomable reason Morocco at Xmas is a magnet for the political class (“Of a right-wing bent,” my friend Dr. Marianne Baruch points out) and for women of a certain age.

Marianne is going as well, not looking forward to it much — but the alternative is “Not been there, not done that,” already the favorite expression of this Prozac-popping chronic depressive and proud of it. Ouarzazate wins: “Cheaper than Biarritz or Quiberon, and sure to be sunny, you know?” I do.

“So I guess Mme Leclercq will be staying put, as is her wont?” Our psychiatrist’s intent sympathy is trained on me. I must be looking even more oblivious than is my wont; Marianne is fishing for a smile.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

“I’m not the kind who says, ‘it’s nothing, just a woman drowning.’”

She doesn’t miss a trick, that one. When Dr. Baruch wants to please me, she fires off one of those Exocets I myself taught her to use, in this case a line from La Fontaine. We are supposed to chortle together. Not me so much, because I don’t agree with her in the slightest. For the moment Teresa is my entertainment, she’s a great deal more engaging than anything else, including thalassotherapy, and since my one vice is curiosity I’m currently devouring all I can get hold of that has to do with my saint in particular and mystics in general. I feel well within my rights to fire back: “I’m not drowning, darling, I’m allowing myself to be seduced!”

But I’ve underestimated her again.

“Not Bruno, is it?” she says, with a censorious sniff.

Well I never! Has she overheard a phone call, or gone into my e-mails? Unlikely, it’s not her style. Did she spot that old exhibition catalog of works by the Beguines, which Zonabend found in an antique bookshop and gave to me the other day?¹ “For company on your journey toward Teresa. Love, Bruno.” That surplus word “love” did not escape my notice. But Marianne can’t have seen the catalog or its inscription; I keep it at home, where I consult it religiously.

Got it: Bruno had Freud’s complete works delivered to me at the MPH address. The standard edition in English, twenty-four volumes accompanied by an “affectionate” note. A generous if somewhat ostentatious gift, and a peculiar one, because not only do I read English poorly, the MPH is also growing increasingly cognitivist, in line with the rest of our globalized planet, and disdainful of psychoanalysis. Zonabend decided to defy the international trend, he claimed, simply to “please me.”

Point noted. I got the message, and couldn’t help feeling a consequent twinge. My colleagues rapidly forgot about the anachronistic offering, except, as I now realize, for Dr. Baruch. In love and therefore jealous, my friend saw the whole thing in a flash, well before I woke up to the pickle I was in with my funny old publisher. Who has, sure enough, become rather more than that in recent days.

“Oh, stop fantasizing!” I stand up, to cut the conversation short. “Happy Christmas, happy hydrotherapy, happy New Year! Send me a card I might get before Easter!” I give her a warm, close hug, but I can sense that she’s not fooled.

Did I really seduce Bruno with my talk of saints? Or does mystical seduction itself make straight for its human target, publishers included, without need of assistance from me? Having lost, as the reader will recall, my faith in human relationships, I am inclined to favor the second hypothesis. Be that as it may, Bruno is a changed man since I mentioned Teresa to him. The Beguines catalog, the complete Freud; my middle-aged publisher is getting adventurous.

For he did not stop at “love” and efforts “to please me” with gifts of books. We were at the dinner-date stage. I accepted the invitation, just to see what he was after. Never in our long and intermittent history had I thought of him in any but a professional capacity, but pieces of his story started coming back to me as I sat opposite him, nursing my drink, in the Café Marly overlooking the sculpture courtyard at the Louvre. The erstwhile handsome rogue and shameless philanderer had been kicked out by his wife — what, five years ago? — because she couldn’t stand any more of his Monster Baby scenes. To the surprise of tout-Paris, that microcosm of media-savvy glitterati, his wife went and married a great but obscure biologist at the INSERM medical research institute, without either celebrity status or private income — not much of a playboy either, at best a boat in the marina of La Rochelle, thanks to which I numbered him among my summer acquaintances. As expected, the diffident scientist had found safe haven in the arms of Stéphanie formerly Zonabend, henceforth Coblence. He has found happiness, actually, if the beaming face of their little girl, nearly three, is anything to go by. She skips along the strand at the Île de Ré under the frankly spiteful glances of the readers — mostly women — who feign an interest in the output of Zone Books.

So Bruno found himself alone, not really noticing, rapidly swamped by feminine attentions as calculating as they were tiresome. At length, having escaped this enterprising harem “for the sake of liberty and the Enlightenment,” as he put it, he settled into a comfortable, carefree celibacy. His only ambition now, his great priority, was to consolidate his position as a tough businessman. “The only publisher who doesn’t lose money by reading books”: quite a feat, I must say, in our times of runaway illiteracy. It won him respect across the board in the trade. Meanwhile he kept a proud eye from afar on the education of his twin sons, students at a prestigious business school across the Atlantic.

I thought he seemed shy, for once. His soulful eyes, like those of a romantic youth, slid surreptitiously from my lips to my cleavage and back, but sought more often to plumb my own gaze in search of goodness knows what depths. He had not, however, shed his old go-getting energy, his knack for knowing when to push. On this occasion he made bold to tell me about his boys, signaling intimacy. They had jointly won the sought-after Humboldt Prize, involving a training course in India related to the famous microcredits system that had earned its deviser a Nobel Prize. At the same time (“and this, Sylvia, is what matters!”) the experience had led the pair to discover Buddhism.

“You see, Thomas and Michaël are staunch rationalists, like their father, whose agnosticism you can rely on.” He took a long sip of Château-Lagune, closing his eyes beatifically. “But then they get to visit all kinds of holy places, temples, and monasteries. They talk to gurus, how about that? They even met up with one of their Israeli cousins, the son of my aunt in Haifa. The guy’s living in an ashram in Pondicherry, for goodness sakes! Mind you, what with those violent God-squad crazies in the Middle East not to mention our precious ally Bush and his neocons, I don’t blame the Israelis for getting hung up on Eastern spirituality, do you? First India, then Japan, it’ll be China next…Not your field, you say? Sure, it’s not mine either, but I’ve started learning Sanskrit, did I tell you? Absolutely, been doing it for a while now. No, I didn’t rediscover my faith, the future belongs to ecumenism, it’s just a matter of intellectual curiosity. At the same time I’m keeping up my Hebrew, in order to follow the teaching of a spiritual master who looks at the great currents within Judaism and knows how to put them across to people like me…So when I hear you talk about mysticism…Do you know that book by Gershom Scholem, Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism?² Absolutely essential, my dear…Of course you have, but allow me to suggest you read it again, you know how these things mature with every reading, however many, in my experience…How about his Zohar? No? But that’s the very pinnacle, the ne plus ultra, you absolutely must, it’s all in there…Excuse me? I’m being ridiculous? But I thought you were letting me know that…well, that all that was important to you, and so I thought to myself I wasn’t so alone after all.” It was my turn to drain another glass of wine. Bruno wasn’t alluding merely to an exchange of spiritual intimations. “Of course, I mean, you approach the issue from a Christian perspective, and that interests me too…You must agree that Agamben’s book on Saint Paul is his best by far? I should have published that, don’t you think?…Oh, I can’t tell you anything, you’re so much more knowledgeable than I am, with your training and your female sensibility, goes without saying. And yet, how can I put this, a complicity between you and me is worth saying…I think so. A new alliance, if you like, in Hebrew they call it akeda, sacrificial alliance, or berit, over circumcision…Now you mustn’t feel that I’m trying to influence you, far from it, you write it your way, like you always have. For me it’s the diversity of approaches that counts, you know me, Mister Multi-pronged Attack…”

He floundered and flailed, absurdly and endearingly, and I felt he was being genuine. Was this really the same Bruno I had known ever since my Duras book? The cynical big shot with his marketing jargon, the wizard of publishing scoops with an air of the soixante-huitard recycled into a credible CEO? He wanted to talk and talk, certainly not to listen to me; his outpourings were rambling rather than erudite. I liked him better that way; I let him ramble on. When finally he got around to his Charolais steak I managed to slip in edgewise some details of Teresa’s life. Her Marrano grandfather, the court case over her father and uncles’ right to call themselves hidalgos, her ambiguous friendship with John of the Cross, her dalliance with Fr. Gratian. I’d unplugged my “Sigmund” antenna, it seemed more appropriate to bolster his male yearning for complicity.

“Absolutely, absolutely,” he nodded absently, as if in a dream, “that’s it, our subject. You don’t mind me calling it ours? But look here: what exactly did ‘love’ mean, to these people? We don’t know anymore, do we? And that’s the problem. The ‘Hiroshima of love,’ you said the other day, if I remember rightly? There you are: we don’t know the first thing about it, we’ve lost the taste for it…I hope you’re enjoying your fish?”

We had gone out into the Tuileries court. A biting wind drove snow against the steep glass of Pei’s Pyramid, blew white flakes into my hair, my shoes, in a giddy vortex of lights. Bruno drew me close to shield me from the blizzard breaking over Paris. Then he slowly turned my face toward his, found my lips, and I lost consciousness of all but the taste of his mouth. Fragrance of blond tobacco, enveloping saliva that dilates me. A burning sap creeps through my chest, flows into my belly, floods my sex, my thighs. My legs have gone. I want to gulp down everything, this man, the wind, the wine, the museum and its auspicious scars, I am pleasure open wide. Bruno feels it, feels me, comes closer still, his face vanishes, now the whirlwind of memory that raked it vaporizes it into a mist of sleet. His tongue is still inhabiting me, I am fluid, I will not cry out, I will not fall, I strain, I melt, he licks the roof of my mouth, my cheeks, he holds me back, we start again. Not me, not him, it isn’t us, this kiss belongs to nobody; someone or something beyond ourselves courses through it. Who is kissing whom? The Louvre itself participates in this exorbitant desire, and Notre Dame as well perhaps, and the Bernini sculpture of Louis XIV on horseback nearby, and the Pyramid, and definitely the Carrousel mall, and why not the Great Architect while we’re about it; and then there’s the Ganges, and my readings of La Madre, and the complete Freud, and Gershom Scholem, and Agamben, and the installations crafted by the Beguines — everything and nothing, in this snowstorm that’s painting the city white.

Unplanned and futureless, that strange, long embrace, outside of time, outside of place, had the tang of impossibility, and we both knew it. All the more reason not to let go, to cling on, with bodies on fire and bellies throbbing, in a weightless suspense that was neither erotic nor antierotic: more than perfect, pluperfect. As the pluperfect tense indicates an action completed before another action in the past, so must our ancient histories, Bruno’s and mine, have crossed in the far distant past, around follies and temerities that had been lived and left behind by others long before us. For a quick moment this past made as if to snatch us out of our skins before bringing us back, inevitably but undramatically, for once, to those pleasures we still call physical — according to Mother, Colette, or Sagan, I’m not sure which. All of a sudden our bodies felt pneumatic, impalpably light, drained of passion. Just a smile and a swarm of symbols and memories, a trail of exploding grenades.

Silence, taxi, “Take care of yourself,” “Work well,” “I’ll call you,” “I’m going away tomorrow.” Serenity.

He’s going away, I don’t know where or with whom, and I don’t care. Attempting to decipher Teresa’s experiences is pride and exhilaration enough. Now Bruno’s effervescent kiss makes me think that the headiness of it might be shared, like lonelinesses are shared that do not communicate but walk side by side into infinity. And it reminds me, if need be, that the most ideal quests keep me enthralled only insofar as they are wedded to the body. Alright, it’s my job to know that, I knew that. The extraordinary thing is that it took that silly, infuriating Bruno to remind me of it!

Build up a little database gleaned from the history of mysticism — now there’s an idea. After the Café Marly kiss plus the sensual details provided by my Teresa and avidly drunk in by me, I’ve lost my ability to classify, systemize, and synthesize. The useful oddments I come across in the works of theologians and other religious historians keep breaking up and scattering, before adhering like magnets to one another at the whim of my moods and fancies. I rearrange, I draw my Carte de Tendre,* my topography of feeling, in Teresa country. [*La Carte de Tendre: map of the emotions engraved in Madeleine de Scudéry’s Clélie, 1655–1661.—Trans.] Did I say country? “Continent” is a better word for that mystical universe that Teresa may not necessarily have understood or truly explored, but which precedes her, surrounds her, and nourishes her unawares. Yesterday it made her more intelligible to me; today, however, I feel it muddying her singular, boundless, scandalous trail.

Whereas in canonical faith all souls are divine and by the same token immortal, I use the word “mystical” to denote a psychosomatic experience that reveals the erotic secrets of that faith in a parlance that it either constructs or silently refuses. In the mystical experience an extraordinary union comes about — while the speaker is in life — between the soul and his or her God, the finite cleaving to the infinite in order to consummate its true eternity, “alone with God” in the most immediate, intimate sense of a successful incarnation and indwelling. The body wounded by desire experiences and signifies its unspeakable union with the “fundamental principle of being” (Lalande),³ with the Other (Lacan),⁴ with “Christ’s humanity” (Saint Teresa of Avila). The figures of this hierogamy, this sexual and sublimated osmosis with the absent Beloved may vary, but each inscribes a fracture in the sacral community to which they pertain, and by derivation often touch upon the social and political pact itself. Maximal singularity, rupture of links, recasting of the religious, or of the a-theological quest: mysticism is regarded by “ordinary people” as a form of inner, albeit extravagant, wisdom at odds with the official knowledge, whether ecclesiastic or secular, that so readily reveres it when unable to recuperate it retrospectively.

The impossible desire for a lacking love object is exaltation and pain that are hidden, reticent, at once thrilling and morbid. Excess or emptiness? Or both? The word mystery, from the Greek μυω, “to conceal,” to be closed up (like lips or eyes or sores) goes back to the Sanskrit mukham, “face,” “mouth,” “entrance.” But the mystics, nurturers of this most inner of interiorities inhabited by the All-Other (le Tout Autre), transmute it to the outside — and hiddenness becomes a path. Life bursts into fullness, absence into genuine presence, suffering into bliss, mortification into delight, Nothingness into ecstasy, and vice versa. Religious space is thus transformed into a stage for love, while the search for truth becomes a matter of body-to-body, spirit-to-spirit, body-to-spirit encounters. Mysticism, without distinction of “categories,” embarks on a genuine recasting of metaphysics.

The earliest instances of the word “mystic” appear during the first century, in Pseudo-Denys the Areopagite,⁵ sharpened to a fine point of Neoplatonism with Plotinus’s aphelepanta (“Leave everything behind!”)⁶ and even Aristotle’s theôria in contemplation of the One,⁷ separate from what can be apprehended by the senses.

And yet, far predating this lexical appearance, hints of “mysticism” abound throughout the Bible. Moses finding God in the midst of the burning bush,⁸ Ezekiel with a vision of God’s chariot, receiving a scroll he must eat in order to deliver its message;⁹ these are scenes in which reason is overturned in the clearest light of day. Indeed, mysticism filters into the apocalyptic scriptures (the books of Enoch and Esdras), into Essenian convents, the Pharisee world, and the thought of the Jewish Mishnah masters — all these being focused on the knowledge and contemplation of God and his throne (Merkabah), goal of the mystical progress through the heavenly palaces. Various aspects of the Torah (oral revelation) and the Talmud contain mystical tendencies. Thus the subtle reasonings, like “mountains hanging from a hair,” of the Torah’s inspired scribes; the thirty-two logical rules defining the ways of acceding to Talmudic wisdom and developing the dialectics of reason, aim to elicit visions with the supreme goal of man’s identification with God. Then, from the first century B.C.E. to the tenth C.E., the Kabbalah comes to swell this biblical and Talmudic initiation. It calls the earthly world into being through the operation of twenty-two originary letters in the air, creative entities whose permutations express every idea and every thing. Pharisees, Essenians, the journey through the Hekhalot—palaces of Heaven, which Teresa will call moradas, the seven dwelling places of her Castle — the mystical impulse reemerges in thirteenth-century Spain and Germany. Contemplation, based on a scriptorial combination and practiced by means of techniques recalling those of yoga (breathing, positions of the body, musical notes), culminates in prophetic ecstasy, supernatural illumination, identifying man with the Torah, with the Word, and with God. Cross-fertilization with Islam and Christianity enriches these mystical currents, while Islam and Christianity in turn absorb the wisdom of visionary Kabbalists, despite and throughout the vicious persecutions, expulsions, and exterminations suffered by the Jews.

During the Middle Ages, a full-blown “medieval Jewish philosophy” flourishes in counterpoint to Arab philosophy. Unacquainted with Greek metaphysics, Talmudic thought that could be described as a monism of thought and action nonetheless developed a rich ambivalence between abstract speculation and mystical experience. Theological ignorance of God, who is undefinable by definition, does not rule out a loving knowledge of Him based on the Alliance: through the concept of shekhinah, God accompanies the exiled Jew on earth. The medieval gaon—a spiritual master such as Saadia Gaon, the political leader of the eastern diaspora — links rationalistic interpretation with enthusiasm for revelation; the commentary on the Sefer Yetzirah,¹⁰ that germ of the Kabbalah, with the moderate religious philosophy followed by the Muslim Kalâm. As part of the same opening toward philosophical reflection, Jewish mysticism evolves with Judah Halevi¹¹ and Maimonides,¹² preceded by Ben Joseph of Fayum,¹³ Solomon Ibn Gabirol,¹⁴ who looks deep into his affinities with Plato,¹⁵ Philo of Alexandria,¹⁶ and Gnosticism. Not forgetting Bahya Ibn Paquda,¹⁷ who stands at the intersection of these tendencies, or Abraham Abulafia,¹⁸ who takes up the theory of the mystical power of the alphabet to explore the “unknotting of the soul” by means of musical experiments with arpeggios, transpositions, canons, and fugues. At last comes the surpassing step that is the Zohar, in the second half of the thirteenth century: the Sefer ha-Zohar, or Book of Splendor, whose presumed author, Moisés de León, insisted on attributing it to a second-century Mishnah scholar.¹⁹ Reprising the Sefer Yetzirah, the Zohar drops the distinction between “spirit” and “letter,” condensing them instead into an indivisible unit. And gathering the diverse components of Jewish mysticism into one harmonious structure, it graces the exile of Israel with the ultimate meaning of releasing the “divine sparks” and completing the work of redemption.²⁰ Translated into French by Jean de Pauly,²¹ the Zohar went on to influence no less a figure than Marcel Proust!²²

Such a wealth of tendencies, however, can never overshadow the Torah and the Talmud, writings that destined the Jewish people — committed to biblical exegesis and free of major mystical interferences — to a ceaseless study of the texts, so as to imbue themselves with the spirit of God’s Law and put it into practice, thus assuring the salvation of the chosen community.

Bruno is far away, it would be untrue to say I ever think about him, and yet I feel him alongside me, inside me, for example when I’m leafing through the Beguines catalog. My readings of the past few weeks are arranged in my mind like the surrealist collages of those bygone pious women who piled bits of string and handfuls of rose petals around the figure of Baby Jesus. The Sovereign Infant was liable to disappear altogether under the cumulative passion of those tender sisters. He merged with the huge heart they embroidered for him in cross-stitch or molded out of crushed, colorful butterfly wings, a heart that was the real theme and focus of the work. Was it Jesus’s heart, or was it theirs?

It would be wrong to assume that contemporary artists have transcended this kind of reiterative, magpie accumulation. I see a lot of it in the galleries, and most often the artist is a woman. One, Annette B., trusted me enough to lie down on my couch. Her wary, piercing eyes seem cloned from Picasso’s. As a rule her words do not get past her lips, or only in spurts of dulled, futile complaint, abruptly doused. A long, frozen silence ensues. When the artist can no longer bear her own speechlessness, she brings me some “beguinesques,” as she calls her confections of twisted threads, mounted letters, screws of paper, beads, buttons, leaves, and a series of tiny cut-up photographs, skillfully embedded in the vortices of this kaleidoscope of mega-significant nothings. Photographs of her dead children. Impossible icons of impossible loves. Annette’s “beguinesques” succeed in making such impossibilities visible. At least to people who enjoy looking. And who’ve been through a vortex like hers.

I cut out my data, I sort, I glue, I amass. My canvas is taking shape. No, it’s lost me. Later on I will set Teresa into it and she will resorb the picture, all that will be left is her very own heart, her style, her beat.

Might it be because Muslim mysticism slumbers in the form of “Koranic seeds” within the values, if not the formulations, of the dogma? Or is it down to the Neoplatonic influence? In any case, the first mystics appeared in eighth-century Iraq, as bands of ascetics who cultivated trust in God (tawakkol). They “repeated” God’s name and began to believe in a prior communication between God and His creature. A little later, clad in white woolen garments (suf), the Sufis gathered into spiritual circles and concerts, bent on a loving union with God. Schools sprang up in the cities of Basora and Baghdad, then across Afghanistan, India, and Egypt, until the advent of the Master, al-Hallaj, a mystic who was martyred in 922 C.E.²³ The Hellenic origins of this mystical experience, which took the form of a poetic quest, are not in doubt. It was a “science of the heart” that sought to transform the sensible body into pure “spirit” (in philosophical terminology) through the burning love that consumes the saint, disposed to “isolate himself before the One.” “Legal war” thus mutates into “inner war,” and the Seal of Saints embodied by Jesus is set against Muhammad’s Seal of Prophets; God is henceforth to be sought within, and the mystic, rather than overthrow the Law, transcends it. “I have become the One I love and the One I love has become me. We are two spirits infused in a single body,” wrote al-Hallaj.

Whether focused on reciprocal love (al-Nuri), private inspiration (Ibn Karram), or union with God (al-Hallaj), Sufism borrowed the spiritual methods of Christian monachism while influencing that movement in return. It also appropriated Hindu and Persian techniques.

Accused of heresy and impiety, stigmatized for its incompatibility with the Law of Islam, Sufism finally found a direction: the compromise between juridical authority and ecstasy paved the way for its esoteric brotherhoods. Notwithstanding some serious deviations that degenerated into opium clubs and sham whirling dervishes with dodgy morals, in the eighteenth century, philosophical Sufism became an “existential monism,” with the Andalusian Ibn al-Arabi: no distinction between the soul and God any longer subsists in the mystical union.²⁴ Committed to immanentism, eschewing neither literal meaning (anathema to the Shi’a) nor sacred meaning, this current believed that the Absolute cannot become conscious of itself other than through Man in the image of God. In Sufi thought, then, immanence and transcendence are not mutually exclusive, and opposite meanings (as in the “primitive words” studied by Freud) coincide, since the Unique is manifest in the All. “I mean that you absolutely do not exist, and never will exist by yourself alone, any more than by Him, in Him or with Him. You cannot cease to exist, because you do not exist. You are Him and He is you, without dependence or causality. If you accept that quality of your existence (which is to say, Nothingness), then you shall know Allah. Otherwise you shall not.” As a result, “the prayers of lovers are blasphemous.” There are five steps leading to this revelation of Being at the same time as the impossibility of Being: “there is of him only Him”; “there is of you only You”; “there is of me only Me”; “I-ness, you-ness, he-ness, all these are viewpoints that add to the eternal essence of the One.” Set in motion by God, the experience soars into the “limitless,” where it is vividly clear that only “he who is not in love sees his own face in a pool.”

Meanwhile, as of the eleventh century, mystical poetry had put down roots and thrived, feeding off profane, erotic, and bacchic poetry. The “sultan of lovers,” Ibn al-Farid was one such,²⁵ along with the Persian mystic Jalal ad-Din Rumi, founder of the whirling dervishes brotherhood,²⁶ and the Turkish poets Nesimi and Niyazi.

This adogmatic Muslim mysticism resisted integration into the Islamic mainstream, until the Sufi theologian and philosopher al-Ghazali proposed a “mystical orthodoxy” that would complete traditional knowledge with a “taste” or realization of God: an intimate knowledge that was gained through tempered asceticism.²⁷ Sufism went on to spread the cult of thaumaturgical saints — including al-Hallaj,²⁸ the most revered of all despite his excommunication — and became a “popular religion,” treating the Muslim faithful to that “taste” the jurists had denied them and so reinvigorating the moderate morality of that faith.²⁹

“Hello? Can you hear me, Sylvia? Where am I, I’m in Thailand! Told you, didn’t I? Okay, my mistake. The Phuket beaches, crawling with tourists…Fantastic. No sign of the tsunami…at least not around here…Me, scared?…Of course people have short memories, what do you expect, that’s life…Oh, the usual, swimming and sleeping. And I’ve been going to this Buddhist temple…Sylvia, please, the Muslims are in Indonesia…Actually no, I haven’t converted, or not yet. But I’m great chums with one of the bonzes. I’m approaching the Void. Go ahead, laugh! If you’re not wise to Nothingness, my dear, you may as well give up the mysticism game. Even your baroque saint must have known that…The Void is at the bottom of everything, you dig?…How do you mean, compatible with my lifestyle? These Buddhists are highly pragmatic fellows…Tomorrow I go to Banda Aceh with this NGO, old friends of mine, they’re building boats for the fishermen who lost everything in 2004, you know. We’re going to walk the sandbank in Lhoong…really beautiful…So you’re surprised to see me doing something humanitarian? That’s right, it’s got a lot to do with the boys and their gurus…They’re fine, thanks…And so’s Stéphanie, why do you ask. You know it’s finished…Just a stop-off in India…Yes, of course we’ll do a book, with photographs, it’s the trend, and besides it’s my job…That’s right, everything is connected. I don’t have to explain that to you of all people…Ciao, take care…kisses and all that, you know.”

Do I know or am I forgetting? Inimitable Bruno! He’s far away, and he’s who he is. Let him make his own discoveries in his own way. He can sort out his syncretism however he wants, I’m all for the great leap from Paris glitz to global compassion, but I’d rather he went into analysis, it would save so much time…Oh well. I guess I don’t always take the shortcuts either, I follow my own detours. With Teresa, for instance.

So, while it’s true that Judaism contains veins of mysticism, that the Upanishads relish sensual joys and annihilation in the sounds of the language, that Muslim Sufism reveals Being and its impossibility together, and that Zen koans are peerless propagators of the Void, it was in Christianity that mystics male and female were to find their royal road. Like Saul on the road to Damascus.

Are the mystical currents that flow through the three monotheisms the result of interferences, contaminations, influences, or structural coincidences? Did the Hassidim sway Meister Eckhart, Suso, and Tauler after introducing the thought of Maimonides into the ghetto of Worms? Or was it the other way around? Did the Arab peripatetics in the wake of al-Kindi³⁰ transmit the symphony of the two great philosophies of antiquity, Platonism and Aristotelianism, via Albert the Great³¹ to Eckhart himself? And in particular the theory of analogia entis that posits the paradoxical nature of creation as at once Being and Nothingness? The ebullience of Being as the negation of negation? Nobility as humility and detachment?

Whatever the channels and facets of this convergent experience, all of whose manifestations are regarded as “mystical,” it has to be acknowledged that the true “deification of the Christian,” or “theogenesis,” was the doing of Greek patristics and its thinkers such as Origen,³² Gregory of Nyssa,³³ and Pseudo-Denys the Areopagite. What Saint Augustine called abditum mentis, the “hidden place” of the soul, and its sequence of conversio/reformatio/conformatio, became tools for attaining ecstasy. Thus began a complex history during which the Church would bestow two complementary meanings on the expression corpus mysticum, the union with impossible, indispensable Love.

On the one hand the Eucharist invites each believer to incorporate the Body of God, for Christ is the one true love object: “This is my body, this is my blood.” Eat me, I am in you, and you can form part of the body of this ideal Subject, this single being who redeemed every member of humanity. A modest event during the early years, the Mass grew ever more sumptuous, performing its osmosis under cupolas ringing with music and naves lined with sculptures and frescoes: an erotic, purified, intense osmosis whereby men and women alike identified with the Body of Christ and its mortifications, death and resurrection. In Communion I swallow the bread and wine, Jesus’s flesh and blood, I introject the Christ, I am Him and He is me, we fuse in hierogamic union. I do not participate in, I partake of His Passion and resurrection, of Hell and Heaven, of Nothingness and bliss.

On the other hand and at the same time, the community of the faithful, which is to say the Church, is born of this sacramental communion and assures its continued social and political relevance.

Faced with those Christians who still take communion — scarcer in the West than on other continents — I follow Freud in wondering whether the Eucharist does not perhaps constitute a necessary psychodrama, one which allows participants to experience in a “closed space,” in the recondite security of the service, the ravages of desire in order to quench them and as far as possible preserve the community from them. I would like to think so. Or perhaps on the contrary, this sacrament slyly authorizes, if not brutally imposes, the sadomasochistic truth of human passions at the very heart of community and intercommunity relations. Persecutions, pogroms, purges, roundups of heretics, inquisitorial trials, all were unfailingly sealed by the sacrament of Communion…Christianity’s two thousand years of history bear witness to the vertiginous effects of this pendulum. Today, at last, we are surely justified in hoping that the time for stillness has arrived. Pope Benedict XVI plays Mozart, after all, while certain other faith leaders trumpet holy war. Not that this defuses the tensions of identity politics, or prevents the reaction against real or supposed aggressors from poisoning the very discourses that most flaunt their commitment to helping the less fortunate, or to defending human rights. Murderous violence answers violence, intolerance combats intolerance, and mindless fundamentalists, both Muslim and Christian, plan massacres bloodier than the Saint Bartholomew of Voltaire’s nightmares.

Throughout these vicissitudes, it is none other than the bodies of the mystics of both sexes, delivered through their writings, that offer themselves as the secret laboratory in which human beings have been able to reach maximum lucidity about the physical and psychic excesses of their fantasy-induced transports. In the wake of this solitary, perilous experimentation, reforms, foundations, and schisms arose to ensure, over the long term, the vitality of illusions and the renewal of both doctrine and institutions.³⁴

From the middle of the twelfth century on, the phrase corpus mysticum no longer denoted the Eucharist but simply the Church, and corpus verum was used for the osmosis with Jesus through Communion. The adjectives mysticum (“hidden”) and verum (“knowably real”) changed places, and a chiasmus appeared: from now on it was the Church, the social body of Christ, that would enclose the “hidden meaning” of the sacramental “true body,” rendered visible in the form of consecrated bread and wine. This meant that nothing in Catholicism was now hidden! With the Church presenting itself as ever more universal and inclusive, the mystery it celebrated and enshrined could no longer be a secret for anyone. It follows that the transubstantiation of the God-man into bread and wine was no longer a mystery properly speaking, but a “knowable reality” that invites communicants to immerse themselves in it, body and soul, desire and reason; to each his or her own journey within a truth susceptible of being universally acknowledged. The appeal to extreme individual experience was henceforth coupled to a wholesale communitarian, not to say pragmatic, concern.

The revolution undergone by the corpus mysticum entailed momentous consequences. Before, the body of Christ signified by the hidden sacrament (the mysterious, mystic Eucharist) linked apostolic history to the present Church. Now, the Church was the hidden signified of the visible signifier that is Christ’s body. Christian history and the sacrament stood connected to, yet separate from, the Church, which was entirely their extension: mysterious, mystical, and yet open to all. This curious topology could not but inscribe itself within the subjects who shared in it, for it was in the social and political reality of the present Church that the mystical third (the union) must be produced. The Church was therefore summoned to reform itself, its mystical body had to be constructed as a fusion of community and communion, of the social bond and the bond of desire for the Other. At that point two movements became possible: the Reformation, with its social imperatives, which was already underway (fourteenth to fifteenth centuries); but also, in a parallel counterpoint, the supernatural excesses, the fervid amorous transports, the ever more bizarre extremes that enacted the risks of subjective freedom and prefigured from afar the baroque faith of the Counter-Reformation (late sixteenth to late eighteenth centuries).

It was during the thirteenth century, then, that the peculiar profile of Christian mysticism took shape. Just as Thomas Aquinas³⁵ was applying Aristotelian philosophy to biblical and evangelical revelation in order to show that the unity of God was accessible to reason, a galaxy of mystics prepared to sound out and diffract this same reason. They infiltrated it with the logics of love and Nothingness, giving the Greek Logos a pre-Socratic slant, and, rather than seek to prove God’s existence philosophically, they anticipated the contemporary investigation into the very need to believe in the form of a polymorphous experience of love, excessive and inescapable.

Among the figures who illustrated these various currents and left a profound mark on European culture, I would underline — as does Teresa, my guide in this research — the “modern” devotion of the Flemish school, especially the lovelorn Jan van Ruysbroek³⁶ and the great poetess Hadewijch of Antwerp;³⁷ but above all the Rhenish mystics, first among them Meister Eckhart, the “unborn” (ungeboren), who begged God to leave him “free of God.” A “deep calling unto deep,”³⁸ “free of all things,” “creating emptiness,” the soul “begets God from within itself, where it has the color of God; there is the image of God.” The soul of the “nobleman” is, according to Eckhart, negative as much as unitive; a supreme Intellect, but also a superessential Nothingness.³⁹ It reaches the mystical state in Gelassenheit, the “abandonment” sung by Angelus Silesius in his The Cherubic Pilgrim,⁴⁰ after Henry Suso⁴¹ and John Tauler,⁴² Eckhart’s direct continuators, had managed to smuggle his message as far as Nicholas Krebs of Cusa⁴³ and into the stream of “speculative” mysticism that culminates in Jakob Böhme.⁴⁴

The mystical theology thus created, having fertilized Christianity with late classical thought and Neoplatonic techniques of spiritual purification, would furnish the whole vocabulary of German philosophy. “Here is what we were looking for!” exclaims Hegel⁴⁵ upon reading parts of Eckhart’s sermons 12 and 52, while Schopenhauer writes that Buddha, Eckhart, and himself “teach substantially the same thing.” Heidegger, for his part, constantly abandoning himself to the “abandonment” of Silesius,⁴⁶ modulates the analogia entis that enables the conception of Being and Nothingness.

Fanned by the Salamanca student, John of the Cross, did the Rheno-Flemish wind blow as far as Teresa of Avila? It takes nothing away from La Madre’s originality to admit that the answer is yes.

Indeed, women are the foremost architects of this new dwelling-place of the soul we call mystical experience: an erotic, lethal escalation propels them to the summit of excessus. In Hildegarde of Bingen, this takes the form of a fabulous anatomical perception of her own body.⁴⁷ It is enfeebled but sovereign in the cult of “nothing,” the apophatic thinking expressed by the “severed, immobile tongue” of Angela of Foligno.⁴⁸ It inflames the anorexic Catherine of Siena with sacrificial devotion when she licks the pus from a cancerous breast:⁴⁹ this fervent Dominican became the patron saint of Italy alongside Saint Francis of Assisi⁵⁰ and Saint Thomas Aquinas. She was made a doctor of the Church by Pope Paul VI, at the same time as Teresa of Avila.

Why is there such a female infatuation with mysticism? Modern scholars have outdone one another in fascinated hypotheses. Is it because a woman’s whole body is a sexual organ, because desire scorches her skin, her eyes, her ears, her tongue, her clitoris, her vagina, and her anus alike, and all her senses sweep her toward the object of her desire while he, like the Beloved in the Song of Songs, is always eluding her, a fleeing spouse or hidden God, absent, invisible, imaginary, unimaginable? If a woman’s whole body is a sexual organ, it can just as thoroughly repress desire to the point of sickness or vacate it into daydreams, words, sublimity.

The reasoned Protestant faith was quick to pour scorn on such deviations: “Visionen will ich nicht!” declared Luther.⁵¹ But the Golden Age Spanish Illuminati did not hesitate to draw on reformed humanism, and the Counter-Reformation seeded in its turn a new flowering of mysticism.

While reformed congregations put the accent on Scripture and the charitable vocation of a Christian community whose moral rigor was intended to quell and resorb the excesses of the desiring body, the Catholics, whose resistance to this formula was empowered by the Counter-Reformation, strove to make the secluded meanders of faith plain to see within the actual space of the Church — to infiltrate the corpus mysticum via the corpus verum.⁵² From then on, the more modulated meaning of the word mystic exhibited itself with forceful brilliance: it no longer denoted an inaccessible concealment, but beckoned what is concealed to come forth; it summoned the torments of flesh and spirit to emerge into the light and to seduce us. The corpus verum—Christ’s Passion, of which the subject partakes — was no longer a protected secret. By the grace of the mystics and of the Church that consecrated them, the seduction became universal.⁵³ Such was the context of Teresa’s experience.

This mutation would unfold through a long and patient labor of theology, ritual, and aesthetics, tending to invent an ecclesial mystical body to link the present of the ecclesial institution (the hierarchy) to its history (textual, scriptural), but also to couple the boundless intimacy of mystical experiences to the visibility of religious society. The hearing of confession had already broken down some social opaqueness. The elevation of the Host accompanied by its observed consumption made a spectacle of the sacramental body itself, exhibiting the mystery in public. All this contributed to manufacturing the paradox of a transparent intimate body. Private life was “individualized” by highly customized “spiritual guidance” and other “confidential” dialogues, leading to the dissemination of “Exemplary Lives” or “Exercises” for the edification of a fascinated populace. A radical transformation took place via this process of visualization of the sacred, which today we might call the mediatization of the sacred, in and through the new conception of the Church promoted by the third⁵⁴ and fourth Lateran councils⁵⁵ and given a radical twist by the Council of Trent⁵⁶ and the ensuing Counter-Reformation. Even prior to that, however, as the hidden became progressively “mediatized,” so the new mysticism became “epiphanic”: the corpus mysticum would be a placing in common, a transparent solidarity with the wretchedness of the “exiled” creatures that we are, and beyond: “Omnes…habebant omnia communia” (All the faithful together place everything in common).

The brilliant novelty of the Counter-Reformation, whose signature saint Teresa became, was its way of placing the turbulence of desire in full view and in common, thanks to the transparency at work since the twelfth century: a turbulence that was sacred inasmuch as it was representable, secret inasmuch as sensual, and, not least, rhetorical. Erotic, tortured carnality would be magnified by composers and painters, Vivaldi⁵⁷ and Tintoretto.⁵⁸ And the city of Venice turned corpus mysticum in its entirety would deploy its perpetual therapy, the real presence of the desiring body indefinitely reborn, a renaissance in every painting and at every concert. It has been labeled an aesthetic religion. But it’s more than that: the “mystical body” and the “real body” come together in the art of the Counter-Reformation into an unprecedented blossoming of representation alive to the infinity of bodies. Inside-outside bodies, supple, mobile, baroque, transitive, contagious, the very bodies conjured up by Teresa of Avila; a sacred apprehension of God’s presence in that part of the soul where the sensible melds with the highest spirit. The mystical experience (Teresa’s experience, the one that intrigues me here), whether it lets itself be influenced by the mutations of the corpus mysticum while influencing them, or whether it is also subject to the course of secular history, never fails to cultivate, steadily and tirelessly, that third place, that mystical third consistent in union with the divine, hic et nunc.

Imperceptibly, however, the content of this mystical union also mutated, in such a way that its protagonists (for me, here, Teresa) appear to us as the inventors of brand-new psychic spaces. Mysticism is the crucible of subjective diversities produced by the history of Christianity. With hindsight, several types of “interior castles” can be glimpsed, among which Teresa’s construction stands out for its extravagant originality: an unprecedented combination of total exile from self in the love match with the Other, acute lucidity, rhetorical exuberance, and staggering levels of social activity. This was before seventeenth-century medicine and investigative reason had neutered those firebrand negativists, those insurgents of the concept, those oxymoronic maniacs, the mystics, in order to install the empire of the cogito. Before eighteenth-century libertinism had cynically desecrated the innocent erotomania of nuns. Before today’s calculating mentality had stopped it up and shrunk it down, in benefit of the new maladies of the soul and the antipsychotics industry.

Turned into a laughingstock, jeered at on church squares during medieval carnivals, mysticism retreated for good as soon as Renaissance and Enlightenment eroticism prised the sexual body away from its secret enclave in the shadow of cathedrals and let it loose to gambol in drawing rooms and boudoirs, in paintings, music, and books. The libertine consciousness definitively silenced the mystics who had opened the gates of desire. By dint of overrefining physical delights alongside those of words, colors, and sounds, the incipient sexual liberation whose apogee was reached in the French eighteenth century was impatient to cut free from the polychromatic journeys Otherward of the soul, and soon began to shut the numberless doors of the interior castle.

Nowadays we might read the mystics much as we sniff the opium waft of moldy parchments, for they are merely the vestiges of a vanished humanity, fit to inspire some atavistic poet or a man like Heidegger,⁵⁹ that deconstructor of metaphysics who saw himself reflected in Meister Eckhart: “Pure Being and pure Nothing are therefore the same.” But in that case, why is it mysticism that attracts me, that attracts us, when we attempt to break free of instrumental rationality, or to loosen the vise of fundamentalist manipulation and analyze the insane logic of the terrorist’s ecstatic drive?

As he was finishing the Critique of Pure Reason, Kant hoped for, and glimpsed in a flash, the possibility of a world in compliance with moral law.⁶⁰ But the proclaimed universality of the rights of man has still not given our global village an exemplary code of ethics, and the rolling news of the postmodern age brings home the persistence of barbarity more cruelly than ever. Perhaps this is because the Kantian promise was not to be imagined as the fruit of some inconceivable “intelligible intuition”; it could only be that of the “world of sense” linked to “practical reason,” and more precisely, of the “corpus mysticum of rational beings in it.” By corpus mysticum Kant understood a universal “systematic unity” (that “unity-union” again!) informing “the liber arbitrum of the individual…under and by virtue of moral laws”; a systematic unity “both with itself, and with the freedom of all others.” “This is the answer to the first of the two questions of pure reason which relate to its practical interest — Do that which will render thee worthy of happiness.”

There is nothing to connect Kant with Teresa of Avila. And yet, notwithstanding the gulf between their times, cultures, vocabularies, and projects, this corpus mysticum appearing in the last pages of the Critique of Pure Reason doesn’t strike me as foreign to the saint’s experience, or even to my submarine nights. Where does this resonance come from?

If Kant’s ultimate aspiration to “reunite” morality and freedom speaks so strongly to me, it’s because the final metaphor of unity — the union with the self and with all others, the All-Other — cannot be understood merely in the present trite and bankrupt sense of solidarity, or even fraternity. Such a diminishment not only clips the wings of the adventure; too many heads have also rolled along the way. If freedom is synonymous with desire, how can I enter into union with the centrifugal, centripetal forces of my own desires, let alone with those of others? This question is still searching for an answer. “Seek yourself in Me,” said the Other to Teresa, and they never ceased answering each other. How? On the analyst’s couch? At a meeting of the UN Security Council? At a rock concert? At the Beijing Olympics? At a Gay Pride march? By playing Mozart operas at Ground Zero, in Tel Aviv, in Baghdad? Contrary to all rational expectation, Kant invites us to update an ancient European experience, the theology of the corpus mysticum. Is this possible? What if it were?

It would seem that at the dawn of the third millennium we are still waiting for this new “corpus mysticum of rational beings” to show up. But perhaps the old corpus mysticum of inordinate and excessive beings, alumbrados, lovers of the Absolute and of nothing, has not said its final word…Perhaps Teresa keeps some surprises up her sleeve.

Chapter 3. DREAMING, MUSIC, OCEAN

At the start of the twenty-first century, under the drones of the new crusades brought to us by globalized satellite TV, that Old Continent of godly lunatics whose memory Teresa is reawakening for me, far from disappearing into abstruse mists, appears strangely contemporary. The commodification of the sacred by various sects, alongside that of hard-core porn DVDs by an industry that does not blush to seek spiritual endorsement from the Moonies, Scientology, or Soka Gakkai, fail to discredit, for me, the regressus animae in search of true interiority. The language I inhabit like a curious foreigner bids to seep into the folds of the disparate writings known as “mystical” texts. My first move is to unify their polysemy under the generic term mysticism, ignoring the plural of its outlandish singularities for the time being. A common logic subtends those bodies in their exultant “meditations,” those “poems” and “narratives” unintelligible to today’s profane culture-mart and beyond the scope of religious competition. Later I will discern the suns and skies, the hills and gullies, the rivers and deserts, the plants and animals of this promised land of sacred lunacies: Teresa will guide me to them. For now, I survey the terrain from afar: another time, another space. My viewpoint is not that of a bird or the stars but chiefly that of psychoanalysis.

“The mystics, eh? You know the score, don’t you. A bunch of narcissists who get off on manque à être, on lack of being itself!” The speaker is a colleague who might be my alter ego on a guided tour of Mystic Country. He’s far more solid, intellectually speaking, than Bruno. I haven’t seen Bruno since he came back from Aceh. He sends me kisses by e-mail and over the phone but devotes most of his time to the NGO that helps tsunami-hit fishermen to build new boats, neglecting his editorial duties at Zone. Jérôme Tristan, on the other hand, has just published a piece in a journal specializing in the contemporary vicissitudes of mystical thought. I’m impressed!

“Hold on, slow down. Narcissists, yes, clearly they are: the withdrawal from the world of other people, the denial of external reality, the retreat into traumatic, therefore unnameable, desire. And the refusal of language — again, I’m with you — following hurt, separation, or bereavement. Unhappy Narcissus invents imaginary nuptials with lost Object, transformed into an ideal but just as imaginary Object, not even by now an ‘object’ separate from the ‘subject,’ but the Great Totality in which loser and lost are both subsumed. Whether you want to call it ‘fundamental principle of Being,’ Being, Other, God, Cosmos, Mother Goddess, Tao, God-man, who cares, it’s about ‘unbridled jouissance,’ as we used to say in ’68 on the way out of our Lacan seminar. No me, no you, communicating vessels, denial of separation, the interior swallowing the exterior in one gigantic orgasm. I know that stuff. And you? Vaguely, okay, but it rings a bell. Now. My problem is with the way you assume that they obtain jouissance from separation itself. You’d have to be more than ordinarily masochistic, wouldn’t you?” I try to sound naive.

“Think about it. To counter the fear of death, and the tiny deaths and losses of every kind that are the milestones of life, religions invented a major consolation: the afterlife, in a Beyond where the ideal Father awaits. More subtly, a space both radiant and eternal. This mystical location, we’ll call it Heaven, contains Daddy and Mommy reconciled at long last and granting me permission to enjoy immortal pleasure, because this is the point: pleasure for ever. Others prefer the cosmic breath of yin and yang, in their equally harmonious cohabitation. Why, people can reunite what they like, to stop the flight of time…But the mystics, you see, weren’t satisfied with this promise. Too easy. Not that they rejected it, either. You will concur, oh dearest”—my colleague can be a little precious at times; there are still plenty of his sort who want to sound like Lacan—“that they were given to piling up the most with the least, the same with its opposite. Refusing to choose, you see. ‘Apophatic’ thought, to use a fancy word, was extremely common among mystics, as the experts in the field will tell you. Because, not content with the mirage of Heaven, our seekers after the Holy Grail identify with separation itself, which Heaven will heal, even when they are not into death as such. As if lack, absence, Nothingness were the final, most secret and precious legacy offered by the elusive love-Object, the lost or inaccessible partner. Sinuous Nothingness is the absolute essence of the desire they felt, feel and always will feel for this unknown, unknowable, impossible object of desire, the Beloved.”

“You make them sound like psychoanalysts avant la lettre!” I’m being provocative here, I haven’t read his piece; he may as well explain it to me face to face.

“They were, in a way…” A meditative pause. “At any rate they never ceased to utter the insatiable truth of desire. That’s it: they knew that death or Nothingness make pleasure, tireless as it is, work harder, and unlike ordinary believers they weren’t content with the promise of a Beyond that would negate this negative machinery. What’s more they never failed to thoroughly annihilate themselves in death and Nothingness, against and because of which the promise of Heaven was constituted. But since they were apt to think in paradoxes, they didn’t miss out on the benefits of the promise, either. In short, the mystical perspective is nothing less than the corpse, which is no different from Nirvana! A splendid paradox! That’s why all their insights are built on antithesis. Like this outstanding phrase, wouldn’t you agree, from the Koran: ‘He is the First and the Last, the Manifest and the Hidden.’”¹

“All very interesting, but to get back to business, what are the psychic advantages for them in all this?” I have to remain pragmatic: our job as mind doctors is to treat people.

“Elementary, oh dearest! Man’s access to nonbeing is what achieves his divinization, according to theologians and to some philosophers, because the creature has got to be put to death so as to clear a space for reaching the Creator and dissolving into Him. But that’s not all. Let me explain the relevance to your everyday practice, although I suspect you’ve worked it out already and you’re just letting me talk: ah, women, flatterers vile! Where was I. Seen from our analytical bubble, this psychic disturbance, which reacts to the anguish of separation and death by identifying with the death that threatens it, is a way of detaching oneself from the Mother—because we all agree, yes, that the mother is the first object of separation? — without fixating exclusively on the ideal Father. Neither father nor mother: I settle on nothing, to preserve my desire for both. This trick of indefinitely prolonging the ‘depressive position,’ as Klein calls it — whom you’ve just discovered, and about time, too — allows the child to distance itself indefinitely from the mother while postponing, indefinitely, the merger with the father…You’re not vexed, I trust, you’re still on board? Delights of infantile omnipotence, perverse* [*French père-vers: Lacanian pun meaning toward-the-father. — Trans.] traps of a regression that only indulges in infantile behavior the better to merit the grace and power of the father! Well, then, the mystical solution is similar, but goes further. It succeeds in inhabiting, psychically and physically, the extreme tension that binds the subject to her and to him, the Mother and the Father, the feminine and the masculine, until the annihilation of that tension and with it of the loved objects and of the subject itself. They called it ‘peace.’ Or ‘serenity,’ if you prefer.”

“Of course I do…” I put on a compassionate smile.

I find myself wondering how Jérôme Tristan handles Mrs. Tristan, Aude Tristan to be precise, also a therapist, and a militant feminist. Couples in general are a mystery to me, I grant, but a couple of analysts defies comprehension. Shared monomania, complementary neuroses, hetero gender gap filled by some alleged “homo” harmony…Wisdom or tedium? My colleague looks uneasy and somewhat glum. Back to the mystics.

“Come on, Jérôme, these men and women must have been awfully vulnerable, besides possessing amazing psychic plasticity and towering strength of soul, in order to wrestle the terror of death into a triumph like that!”

“Yes, but the triumph is dogged by setbacks, from way-out mental derangement to being literally put to death, not to mention a paranoid hatred for the world that plainly overtakes many visionary individuals and groups whose ritual practices accentuate passivity, resentment, dolorism; in a word, castration. The Nazis themselves attempted to recruit the German mystics to ‘resist’ the ‘Syrian Yahweh’—on whom they blamed all Europe’s ‘misfortunes’—and launch a new religion stripped of every alien concept from Syria, Egypt, and Rome, as the National Socialist ideologue Alfred Rosenberg would have it.² Rosenberg actually claimed, in horribly twisted fashion, to be an admirer of Meister Eckhart!”

“But this loving exaltation of their status, as they see it, of chosen ones, how is it not downright hysterical erotomania, rather than narcissistic regression? If you’ll pardon my crudeness. Remember that eighteenth-century saint who projected herself so entirely into Christ’s holy foreskin that she experienced feverish fondlings, a burning in her breasts, and even the sensation of being fellated…”

“As you know, oh dearest, male mystical subjects perceive themselves as feminine. Look at Saint Bernard, who starts lactating beneath the loving rays of God. Whereas female mystics become masculinized, like Hildegarde of Bingen, Elisabeth von Schönau, Teresa of Avila herself…well, to a degree, correct me if I’m wrong…This psychic bisexuality, avowed and paraded, appears to me instead as a clear-eyed acceptance, also a traversing, of the common instability of the hysteric, always wondering which sex she belongs to. More than a common or garden hysteria, I’d say this is a hysteria mounted on a psychosis — mounted as befits these Amazons for God! — and prompting the outbreak of body symptoms like stigmata, convulsions, hallucinations, levitations, comas, and ‘resurrections.’”

My colleague’s admiration for the intrepid horsewomen is plain, as is his appreciation of their rare “hysterical” panache. Aude Tristan must be an ace at such defenses and illustrations of bisexuality! She must stalk him into every last recess of virility. I raise the stakes.

“Some practitioners manage to slow down their heartbeats and respiration, like in the heart prayer of the Orthodox Church, and even more clearly in yogic meditations. Subjects who have a long history of meditation can lower their metabolic rate, you know, carbon dioxide and oxygen, and alter an EEG reading of alpha rhythms — nine to seventeen cycles per second — to theta rhythms, six to seven cycles per second.” It’s my turn to impress him, with a flourish of very recently acquired knowledge.

“Without reducing mysticism to pathology — let’s be more nuanced, shall we? — you know as well as I do that the ‘unifying’ impulse of the mystic toward the Object, an effect that feels ‘obvious’ or like a ‘revelation’ to him or her, is also present in psychosis.” (Nothing doing. My scientific tidbits have only encouraged him to labor his point.) “And every self-respecting psychiatrist knows that this feeling of ‘union’ marks the symptomatic moment that in schizophrenics can herald either a cure or — should the feeling repeat itself — an aggravation of psychosis. In the same way, these modified perceptions, searing instants of an ‘altered’ consciousness of mystical experience, remind us of temporal seizures in epileptics. Allow me, however, to contradict you: neurological ‘diagnoses’ of pathogeny are of limited usefulness, because such states can only become mystical on condition of a background theological culture, or at the very least a mythological infrastructure, to lend them meaning over and above the pathological. I remain the analyst, you understand. And only on that condition can marginality — fruitful or destructive — become culturally transmissible, and museums, libraries, or churches start replacing hospitals. Do you see what I mean?”

“You’re right. The arts do seem to belong with those experiences, pathology included. Perhaps the only ones of their kind to survive in the modern world, however shakily, I agree. There’s no doubt about music and poetry, at least…What are they but sublimated transpositions of orgasmic sex, mutual penetrations of the artist’s universe and the world of the senses, encouraging further interpenetrations with the audience? Al-Hallaj said the same thing: ‘The eye with which you see me is the eye with which I see you.’”

I can tell Jérôme suspects me of overestimating the positive role of sublimation in these “extreme” cases. Aren’t I also being slightly hasty with countertransference?

“If you ask me, oh dearest, in our culture it’s the Song of Songs that provides the secret dramaturgy of great aesthetic adventures and mystical raptures. That said, merely to acknowledge the amorous dynamic that underlies artistic achievement explains nothing about how a particular individual actually got there! That remains an unknown, you see. A gap that scientific reason may never succeed in filling, no matter whether we’re talking about Mozart’s music or the very different but no less mysterious works of your Teresa. Ah, the unknown! Therein resides the tremendous pull we feel toward artists and mystics…” Phew, my colleague hasn’t taken against me. He drifts, almost humbly, into reverie.

To announce a method is to announce its limits. Tristan is happy to leave it at that, but I’m not. His generalizations about the mystic continent are so unsatisfactory that I’ve no choice but to gird myself for the patient auscultation of a text, a body. I don’t insist, there’d be no point. My colleague has just admitted that psychoanalysis, albeit more enlightening than other commentaries on the amorous logic of “God’s lunatics,” is a long way from flushing out its secrets. It edges nearer to them, though. Getting warmer, burning! Is not the unconscious a dynamic that breaches classical rationality and operates through the contradictory or “apophatic” logics with which mystical experience is studded? Or am I going too far, too fast?

First Bruno, now Jérôme. “You’re a man-eater,” snarled my ex before he disappeared. Not really. An eater of ideas, more like. I listen, read, absorb, appropriate, I tend my patch. There’s no denying I enjoy it. But I don’t steal, I steal away, at my own risk. Both faithful and unfaithful, and rather the latter. I linger in the company of the charming, the knowledgeable Jérôme Tristan during Parisian Psychoanalytical Society meetings and other after-dinner events. We are always the last to leave, sometime after midnight. He reassures me that I’m not the only one who thinks psychoanalysis could be poised, today, to recapture Freud’s audacity, the daring of his take on Moses, on monotheism, on civilization and its discontents…

“Thanks, but I really don’t need a lift, place d’Italie is very close and I feel like a walk.”

I pick up the morning papers at the kiosk in boulevard Saint-Michel, the moon is full, thin mist blurs the bare horse chestnuts of the Luxembourg gardens and wets my face. I veer toward Les Gobelins, different neighborhood, different style, different world, Paris is an always possible journey. No, I won’t follow the trail blazed by my colleague, I shall travel in my own way. A more personal way? Not only that, as we will see.

Freud knew how indebted he was to German philosophy and psychiatry, to Hartmann and Goethe, as much as to his hysterical female patients. Duchamp’s Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even.³ Wasn’t Freud the Dadaist of lovesickness? The analytical process that “perlaborates,” as he put it, the symptoms generated by the accidents of erotic and thanatic attachments, resembles the mystic “path”—or so said some caustic black book or other. It does? Only if you ignore the want of any transcendental consolation, as well as the elucidation of the sexual motive, both of which are pretty major differences. The analytic “path” remains amorous, that is, transferential. It involves silence and the verbalization of desire, certainly, but it does not “lead anywhere.” Except to the dissolution of the transferential bond itself, of that loving bond at last stripped bare, and to an understanding of the immemorial traditions of totem, taboo, and other disturbing oddities of a more or less devilish nature. Quite extraordinary, surely? Certain mystics got there too, in their fashion, when they confessed to being “free of God,” breaking with the religious community, or when they exposed themselves to Nothingness in all serenity.

And yet, if like David Bakan I can detect resonances between Freud’s discovery of the unconscious and Jewish mysticism, the founder of psychoanalysis refers more often to Judaism than to its mystical currents.⁴ In his rare allusions to mysticism at large, Freud is worse than suspicious: he is impervious. While identifying similarities between the logic of dreams and that of mystical discourse, he makes this abrupt confession to Romain Rolland: “To me mysticism is just as closed a book as music.”⁵ And at the very beginning of the twentieth century he writes to his friend Wilhelm Fliess,⁶ about Dionysiac lyricism in Nietzsche, “in whom I hope to find words for much that remains mute in me.”⁷

Could such reticence stem from the fact that the mystical outlook seeks to “restore unlimited narcissism,”⁸ which Freud compares to the “oceanic feeling” (ozeanische Gefühl) connected to the infantile need to depend, to be protected, indeed to be archaically alienated in the mother;⁹ a need he was careful to guard himself from, if not to cast off altogether? And might it also reflect his justified concern to shield the nascent science of psychoanalysis from the “black tide of mud of occultism”? His watchful rationality led him to classify mysticism as a branch of “falsehood,”¹⁰ to which he spontaneously opposed “logos and ananke, inflexible reason and necessary destiny.” He reiterated the point in 1932: “Mysticism, occultism — what is meant by these words? You must not expect me to make any attempt at embracing this ill-circumscribed region with definitions.”¹¹ And again: “Our god λόγος may not be particularly omnipotent, not able to perform more than a fraction of what his predecessors promised,” but “what would be an illusion would be to think we might obtain elsewhere that [which science] cannot give us.”¹²

Be that as it may, Freud’s reaction reveals a denial of oceanity that goes hand in hand with the denial of sensorial, preverbal dependency on the mother. And the logical consequence of this avoidance will be the return to an archaic experience of the mother — child bond conducted by Freud’s dissident successors, from Groddeck to Winnicott via Melanie Klein, the matricidal Orestian: all of them except Lacan! Against the Freudian model of an unconscious solely governed by the Law of the Father, a varyingly anti-Freudian “antimodel” appears, haunted by motherly jouissance and mystical apeiron…

In the course of his dispute with Jung (the occasion of dizzy spells and passionate swoonings when relations were severed for good), Freud wrote Jung a long letter on April 16, 1909, in which, after a long riff on numbers and death, he declared: “You will see in this another confirmation of the specifically Jewish nature of my mysticism.”¹³ We can read this to mean: I am not a mystic in the way you are, I have my own: my mysticism has to do with Judaism, which is “the temporal conception of life and the conquest of magic thought, the rejection of mysticism, both of which can be traced back to Moses himself.”¹⁴ Was Freud right or wrong about this? Notwithstanding his “resistance” to the “oceanic dream,” the ultimate developments of his theory of the unconscious betray some brilliant appropriations of mystical experience.

The founder of psychoanalysis, Aufklärer that he was, had nothing but contempt for the Schwärmer, the enthusiastic dreamer; but he did not reject “superstition” out of hand, as the French Enlightenment did, for he regarded mysticism as an intriguing intersection between knowledge, sense experience, and the suprasensible. He erected his own conception of psychic life as a rationalistic dualism, and his entire oeuvre opposes the “dark monsters” that abolish the difference between the spiritual and the corporeal. Freud was at once hostile to “conscientialist” rationalism, which refuses to deal with unconscious phenomena, and wary of the “elusive, intangible unconscious” of philosophers such as Eduard von Hartmann. After the turn his thinking took during the 1920s, however, the Viennese bequeathed to us an exploration of the psychic apparatus that, long after him and beyond his personal limitations, brings peerless insights to bear upon the mysteries of desire, including mystical desire.¹⁵

Without lowering their guard against the insanity of telepathy or occultism, the New Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis suggest that mysticism and psychoanalysis attack the “same point”: the “deep ego’s perception of the id”; and share the same goal: to expand the domain of the ego (and of language) by giving it access to the drives of the id, so that it may “translate” them and make them conscious, free of censorship by the superego, and thus able to be shared.

Are we therefore to understand that psychoanalysis is a “metapsychology of mysticism,” linking by means of transference the “unconscious representations of things” to the “representations of words,” or deeply buried unconscious desire (the mysterious id) to the deep ego?

There is no denying the affinities between mysticism and psychoanalysis. In both experiences, a reshuffle of schemas takes place, to borrow the language of the learned Jérôme Tristan; the psychic authorities id/ego/superego change places, and their functions are transformed. But these reshuffles differ radically. Freud takes great care to avoid any confusion, and remains watchful to the end. Thus, analytical perlaboration allows that “where id was, there ego shall be,” and reinforces the ego by elucidating the logics of the desire that is peculiar to the id. In a lengthy meditation upon the goals of psychoanalysis, Freud grants with reference to mysticism that “It is easy to imagine, too, that certain mystical practices may succeed in upsetting the normal relations between the different regions of the mind, so that, for instance, perception may be able to grasp happenings in the depth of the ego and in the id which were otherwise inaccessible to it.” But he goes straight on to say: “It may safely be doubted, however, whether this road will lead us to the ultimate truths from which salvation is to be expected. Nevertheless it may be admitted that the therapeutic efforts of psycho-analysis have chosen a similar line of approach. Its intention is, indeed, to strengthen the ego, to make it more independent of the superego, to widen its field of perception and enlarge its organization, so that it can appropriate fresh portions of the id. Where id was, there ego shall be. It is a work of culture — not unlike the draining of the Zuider Zee.”¹⁶ It could not have been stated more clearly.

The mystical path, by contrast, plunges the ego into the id by a kind of sensorial autoeroticism (“obscure self-perception”) that confers a certain omnipotence upon the id, which lies “outside” the ego, and by the same token underwrites the collapse of the knowing ego, in thrall to the darkness of the realm of the id: revelation and absence, jouissance and Nothingness. The mystic, then, revels in the visual or aural representation of the Thing or Object of desire, and this unspeakable delight can turn into a perverse or psychotic impasse. The final apophthegm of 1938 runs as follows: “Mysticism is the obscure self-perception of the realm outside the ego, of the id.”

The psychoanalytic cure, for its part, addresses the same pleasurable tryst between the ego and the id, but through uttering the transference allows them both to circulate, from id to ego and from ego to id. Even so, how many analytic cures have ever facilitated the full blooming of such states of grace? On the other hand, Teresa’s “reports” to her confessors, texts written in a situation of transference with their addressees, do allow a certain perlaboration of unspeakable delight: an elucidation of the “obscure self-perception of the id,” or, as she is fond of saying, a clarification of “imagination” by “understanding”?

Freud’s genius, marking the decomposition and recomposition of psychic personality, does not spare the mystical personality. Dream, music, ocean; neither cleaving to experience nor ignoring it, analytical listening gives meaning to its jouissance.

“Sylvia Leclercq, what a dynamo.” People notice a kind of optimism about me. Does that bother you?

Chapter 4. HOMO VIATOR

Some five hundred years stand between us, Teresa; your Catholic culture is foreign to me, and I have difficulty in reading your language, Castilian. But none of this is an obstacle. The two French editions of your works, by Marcelle Auclair and by the Carmelites of Clamart, are available to me, along with a wealth of scholarly works harking back to the Spanish source.¹

Across the centuries and languages and cultures you “speak” to me, because I translate you in my own way. Your moments of illumination, Teresa, my love, your raptures, your hallucinations, your deliriums, your style, your “thinking” that claims not to be an “understanding,” that wants no truck with that — I receive them through my filters, I gather them into meditations of my own, I shelter them in my body, I penetrate them with my own desires. Transformation, journey. Homo viator, wandering in search of sense and sensations in the language of psychoanalysis and fiction. My telescope (a seeing from afar), which is my microscope (magnifying the infinitesimal), brings you to me as an anguished, laughing woman whose harshness is born of generosity, a woman morbid and yet cheerful, a crazed but surprisingly lucid nun, who imposed on all the world the metamorphoses of her amorous body on the pretext of its desire for “Christ’s humanity.”

And you accomplished this at the height of the Golden Age, when Spain was discovering Erasmus, fearing and fighting the Lutherans, and enriching itself by sending fleets to the antipodes. Humbly I take the liberty of addressing you: for I know what store you set by your girls’ “effacement” or “dominion” of self, you, the practitioner of “abandonment” (dejamiento), and I will try simply to abandon myself to your pages and let your word be heard.

I am the kind of unbeliever who won’t accept that your body remained uncorrupted by death, as the Spanish king’s confessor thought when, at Alba de Tormes, on January 1, 1586, he found your remains intact — for their preservation was the less than miraculous work of stone and lime. However, I am convinced that your texts can and indeed must be read today and, why not, for centuries to come. And because your body had already been wholly decanted into your writings and monastic foundations — as I shall attempt to show in what follows — and since this apparent exterior, those external objects, those tools of battle are the one and only testimony to your most secret interior, that which sometimes you called “my jewel,” sometimes “divine center,” sometimes “bruised heart”—well, all things considered, I can’t really disagree with those who hold you to be immortal.

Your work seems deathless to me in the here and now, because through your faith, circumscribed by a particular civilization at one historical moment, you underwent an experience and developed a knowledge of human desire (male and female) that have a message for every speaking creature. Christianity made this knowledge and experience possible, no doubt, through the exorbitant hypostasis of loving passion that is its genius. After many a fantasy-infused wandering that encouraged, if not provoked, some grave pathologies, but without straying from the “illuminated” prayer inspired by the alumbrados, you finally clung fast to the plumb line of biblical, evangelical, and theological texts the better to deploy the freedom of your own desire, while elucidating its perils and joys.

Dare I appeal to your good cheer, your restless energy, your sparkling sense of mischief for the license to retrace your journey from the standpoint of my irreconcilable foreignness? Before anything else I have a major infidelity to confess, an impediment that may prove to be a handicap in your eyes: since God is unconscious and the unconscious shadows us, I contend that the Other dwells within, not in the Beyond, and that the transcendence you yearn for is an immanence. Indeed, I find evidence in your own writings to support this hypothesis, for that is where you get to in the end, isn’t it? God dwells inside you; you say so yourself.

Your path through the mansions of the interior castle is not a dead end, as in Kafka; this castle’s walls are permeable, and there is no closed door to bar access to the Master lodged in the innermost chamber of intimacy. You move through a maze of crossings, a stream of spaces, facets, and questions. The Other suffuses the opaque depths of body and soul, generating a real vaporization of the traveler, no less than of her Beloved. Your scandalous appropriation of the divine, the megalomania of your fantasy of being God’s spouse and moreover a polymorphous creature, indissociable from God Himself, whom you ingest and swallow with feigned humility while proclaiming to be “dying of not dying” in Him, when it is none other than He who faints into you in this unchaste embrace, well, is all this strictly Catholic on your part? It’s certainly baroque. It would be more exact to say that you both swoon at once, like two lovers possessed, who can only thus discard their proud identities. And that earthy, ardent Song of Songs that you push to its logical limit, what is it but a way, the only way, to end up…free of God? You don’t pray to God to leave you “free of God,” as Meister Eckhart does.² Out of love for Christ’s humanity, you receive your freedom from Him continually. Continually, without solution, without end, infinitely free. What if that was the definition of humanism?

Follow me. It was thought that there was another way to emancipate oneself from the supreme Being, the Creator God, supreme in majesty and in power of command: it sufficed to apply the equality principle, making others into our fellows and placing a “point of honor” on charming, serving, and helping them (you dislike that “point of honor” that ensnared you for so long, Teresa, you hate it in fact, you, a saint!). Compassion, in the guise of political solidarity, would eradicate faith for the benefit of short-haul democracy. This juridical humanism, whose great feat was to promise an existential collaboration between the various “social actors,” ran to ground in the impotence of the welfare state, when it did not degenerate into an atheist terror that was, sadly, just as bad as the wars and inquisitions of religion. Today, however, a new humanism seeks to emerge, one that cannot avoid paying attention to your delusions and bedazzlements. For this humanism, interaction with others, all the others — socially marginalized, racially discriminated, politically, sexually, biologically, or psychically persecuted others — is only possible on condition of immersing oneself in a new idea that I shall formulate as follows, translating into my language the ancient experience you took to its height: an irreducible otherness is conceivable, which, being plural, and the blazing pole of singular desires, makes us speak, reflect, enjoy: therefore it exists.

The self-perception of this otherness, as the founding moment of humanity, is what gradually transformed gangs of “great apes” into speaking, thinking societies. All religions celebrate this otherness in the form of a sacred figure or limit (a deity), ruling the desires of the vital flow while remaining separate from it or else by associating with it (as in the Chinese Tao, for example). To discover the frontier where that otherness dawns in me, to nurture and respect it in my dealings with other people will finally allow me, perhaps, to approach these others as beings of desire, rather than objects of need.

Your nuptials with God, that joyous reversal of your fears, your revulsions, like the horror of toads and sundry serpents of sexual-political persecution forever assailing you, this reconciliation with the impossible — not with this or that ideal, law, or institution, but with the impossibility of desire for the Other in other people — all of this seems to me to converge, like rippling watercourses (that was your element, was it not?), mingled in the mighty, troubled waters of that humanism in search of itself, a tide the earth is thirsting for, of which I dream.

Just one quibble, though: your effusive love for Christ’s wounds and the mortifications you inflicted on yourself rather obstruct the current that interests me, if I may insist on that point. Actually, had you lived two centuries later, reading the Marquis de Sade might have delivered your imaginary from its crudest and most morbid fantasies — the ones you dared not articulate but instead embodied, literally, until you almost died of epilepsy.

I will grant, however, that you were never the most assiduous at those exercises, and advised against them altogether, you wrote, for the more “nervous” and “melancholy” of your girls. John of the Cross himself went too far for your taste in terms of purgative zeal when he lived in the mountains at Duruelo. The Passion, by all means; Calvary, of course; but all of it cheerfully, if possible. “Be merry, my daughters”: may I take those words to sum up your vision of “Christ’s humanity” and…your own?

I am far from suggesting that only the Catholic Church is capable of realizing the corpus mysticum of modern humanity, unlike those theologians convinced that their own tradition meets all the requirements for ministering to humans without exception — whether they believe in the Eucharist, like the pope, or in nothing, whether they be Taoists in China, rabbis in Jerusalem, Buddhists in India, or psychoanalysts at the MPH who occasionally publish with Zone Books, like yours truly, Sylvia Leclercq. Extrapolating from your experience, Teresa, which led you from ecstasy into a blossoming that was political, pragmatic, and often downright humorous, despite its travails, I imagine a humanity that cares about the desire for the Other in every other, seeking itself through and in all our histories, Jews, Christians, Muslims, Confucians, Shintoists, the lot — without being blind to their antagonisms, or reduced to their divergences, or compliant with their institutions.

A pious hope? Perhaps; but then again, perhaps not. Because we agree that Otherness exists, don’t we, Teresa; such is the biblical message with which you, a Marrana in denial, tacitly keep faith. And if the principle that Otherness exists resides in us in various forms — Jewish, Catholic, Muslim, Confucian, Buddhist, Shintoist, and the rest — then our discourses are not necessarily prayers but certainly hopes and wishes, wagers, sharings-out.

I have to confess to another, even more radical infidelity that estranges me from your experience, and I say so “in all humility” (using this expression in the same way you do, I believe, to wit, with a hint of cheekiness, am I right?) I am out of love with love. After years of listening to my analysands, not to mention everybody else, I’ve come to the conclusion that crazy love is a disease if ever there was one. A sickness that the three monotheisms, much more explicitly than other religions, revealed to be the hidden core of wisdom as well as of the bellicose passions. It was Freud’s brain wave, once he had grasped this, to make his patient relive his or her malady on the couch, while he interpreted it by probing into the way “it” spoke.

Not only did he find that “yearning” or “craving” in love (Sehnsucht), whether thwarted or joyful, is the condition of all speech, but also that the listening that is able to receive its truth is the most disengaged and rational of all experiences.³ Listen to love, and you will hear a sickness the human brotherhood cannot dispense with. We psychoanalysts call it transference: lover melts into loved and loved into lover; you know all about that, Teresa. That is why there is no way to treat the lovesick except by listening lovingly, a response known as countertransference. The therapist in love with her patient embarks on it because only thus can she pick up the other’s truths. Now she must tell those truths back, return them to the patient, before disengaging from this countertransferential love (you know all about that too, Teresa, as we will see). And then she will start all over again, because there’s no end to this lovesickness, only eternal beginnings, for as long as “it” is speaking.

Thus felt and understood, not only is Eros (your cherub, the angel with the dart sculpted by Bernini) a self-analyzing jouissance, it also reveals its inseparable double, Thanatos, alias hate, alias the death drive that your “little Seneca” explored more deeply than you did, in Duruelo. Yet he forbade himself your sensuality, as you were quick to point out. How well he understood you all the same, your friend John of the Cross; we shall have much to say about him.

If we too unfold the speech of love for years on the couch, if we unearth its “carrier wave,” which is the death wish (remember the threat uttered by that young, veiled engineer at the secularism debate, eager to be a kamikaze, the Islamic brand today and tomorrow sold on any fundamentalism you care to name, for it’s not about Islam, you understand), what do we have left? I can see you coming, my honorable prioress. Who said anything to you about “left”? It’s not a question of getting rid of love and its twin, hate, in order to escape to the heights of “pure noetic joy” or into the grave of a spiritual marriage stripped of the scoria of sensation. In psychoanalysis there is no retreat into Nothingness, that bleached lining of Being, but simply (so to speak) a journeying through the self: not settling into any one dwelling place, but passing through them all, there being no other way to become infinitely familiar with the plasticity of the soul, of its peculiar “wax,” “flame,” or “fragrance,” its malleable desires and inconstant identities, the unbearable lightness of being and of the being; scatterbrained freedom. But you’d said all this already, Teresa, perhaps without knowing. Still, I like to believe that you weren’t fooled, given how restless, obstinate, and droll you were.

You relied on the sacred texts and on the counsel of your confessors. These doctors of the faith, while sensibly curbing the prayers, visions, and raptures that were making you so ill, were determined to guide you in your transports and hallucinations. The most inspired of them, in tune with you, the ones you loved the best, advised you to follow the teaching of Ignatius of Loyola: never overdo the praying, and above all pin it on Christ’s example — preferably during the Passion — as the best way to avoid an always dangerous surfeit of personal emotion.

To tell of your raptures, or better still, to write them down came to you with disconcerting ease, with amazing felicity, a success that startled you as much as it impressed your supervisors. And yet for them to confess sensitive women in the grip of demonic desires and channel their hysteria into writing was common in those days. Priestly wakes were aswirl with female lives, feelings, and secrets. In the twentieth century Freud could still inquire: “What do women want?” But he did not wonder about the wants of men. Maybe because, like the priest, he already knew the answer: female souls and bodies to guide.

But your genius was not only to make the most of that ecclesial strategy to restore your health. You took possession of the writerly space thus constituted, and your discourse was forged in perfect accord with that scriptorial dynamic whose quintessence you had extracted and into which you drew your scholarly directors of conscience. You confected a mobile idiom that took shape on the page at the same time as in your body.

Hence you were less intent upon what might make a book, and more concerned with the actual transformations this writing worked in your physiology and your relationships with other people: “I shall give you a living book,” as the Lord told you. That “living book” was yourself and your monastic foundations, in the wash of a text made incarnate in actions. Between the loss of your selfhood in a drive whose very frustration was gratifying, and the thought that absented itself from that regression at the moment of the event, only to join it again a moment later: such was the oscillation of your life in writing, a thinking that immersed itself in desire and nevertheless gained mastery over it.

You deployed the whole gamut of psychic capabilities. And you named the sufferings and the pleasures embedded in the palette of sensations — visual, aural, olfactory, tactile, motor — without omitting to bracket them with the intellect, that is, with the ideals of your family and religious upbringing. On the wings of exaltation or in the abyss of despond, you were illusion itself, and yet without illusions. Outside yourself, ek-static, you caught and recentered yourself once more by talking about it, sure that whatever you might have to report was better than the unspeakable. For it has not merely to do with Nothingness, and has certainly nothing to do with death, but rather concerns a “to die,” in the infinitive. Your infinitive dying endures in the range of perceptions that separate the Self from its Self in order to pour it into the Other, to make it become Other. It mutates into rebirth in this Other, but never once and for all, because this infinitive dying is spoken and written indefinitely, in the flux of time and waters. And so your written word paradoxically imbues Truth itself: a floating Truth, programmed but indefinite, infinite.

Such an ambition was folly in the sixteenth century, when many were burnt at the stake for far less. You dodged the Inquisition by persuading the Church that in order to comply, both with the reformed branch’s call for cleansing and with the yearning for miracles proper to an economically and sexually deprived congregation — in order to trim reason to fit faith, in other words — what this era of Lutheran heresy required was an ascetic, ideally female, who happened also to be a supernatural wonder.

You alone could satisfy this double requirement. You — that is to say, the talking and writing that refurbished your body and in which you yourself became embodied. Skillful, astute, indefatigable, energetic, you lobbied the entire Church hierarchy: alumbrados, Franciscans, Dominicans, Jesuits, Carmelites, naturally, the Vatican, obviously — nobody escaped, including the Spanish monarchy and its satellite nobles.

Transcending historical eras to beguile me today, your writing reaches us in the manner of that liquid matter you adored, in watery spurts and streams. The Spanish word agua flows freely from your pen. Water is not so much a metaphor as a sign for the metamorphoses of your supposed identity in the very act of writing: you cascade from one state into another, from convulsion to jubilation, from sensations to their comprehension, from Gospel stories and characters to the virtuosity of the next overwhelming insight, from disclaiming the understanding to claiming knowledge, from looking to listening, from savor to skin and thence to so delicate an intellectuality that it barely brushes the mind before eclipsing it. Movement, flux, dipping and diving, all the facets of a butterfly forever returning to its chrysalis are folded into the dwelling places of the garden: fragments of everything, flashes of nothing.

As a child you evoked “the nothingness of all things [todo nada],”⁴ now you say yes to this all which is nothing, this nothing which is all. Yes to your visionary opus, which is not an obra, an object, thing, or product, but a continual metamorphosis. Your writing, which prefigures and accompanies your commitment as a founder, is really an infiltration of words into things and things into words without collapsing the difference between them. By writing, you hold psychosis in suspense. Your love madness is nuanced, filtered through a mesh of perspicacity in the very midst of swoons and comas, with a clarity that’s infectious.

For all their subtleties, your interior and exterior experiences do not by any means make you into a precursor of psychoanalysis. Still, the precision with which you record your visions of the Beloved, that blend of sexual sensation and fragmentary thought, all dissected by the scalpel of your watchful intelligence and wit, have much to teach the stalkers of the unconscious. It could even instruct Lacanians, who already know a thing or two about those excesses of yours that defeat, I fear, most other colleagues — including Jérôme Tristan, if he will excuse me for saying so.

Indeed it was Jacques Lacan, himself born into the Roman and Apostolic Church, who first extolled the jouissance he thought he detected in you and defined it as other. For it twines around the paternal phallic axis a novel way of being aroused: sensory, forever unsatisfied, and for that very reason outside time, on a cosmic scale. You not only experienced this female jouissance but also, and more importantly, recorded it. Otherwise how should we have known? Your great exploit was not so much to feel rapture as to tell it; to write it. Lacan saw you less as a “case” than as the intrepid explorer of that desired, desiring otherness that used to be called the divine and is at work, according to psychoanalysts, in all human beings, believers and unbelievers alike, as soon as they speak or refrain from speaking.

Nevertheless, unlike some academic critics (such as the great Jean Baruzi) for whom the mystics were forerunners, giants- manqué of the metaphysics to come,⁵ I do not regard you as agiant- manqué of future psychoanalysis. In your “I live without living in myself,” the “psychic domains”—those constitutive spaces of the soul you so elegantly laid out into seven dwelling places of your “metapsychology”—were in reality more often crushed on top of one other.⁶ But though this collapsus plunged you into great mental confusion, catatonia, or coma, you proved capable of making your way through and lifting it up as a thought-body, in an unprecedented, exceptional body-thought. You rose there to a grandiose sublimation that most of us have only known in fragments, faltering words, hazy approximations. Few have ever achieved so complete a convergence of regression and reason.

You knew that sexuality is the carrier wave of love, especially the love of God, even if you only said so indirectly, through fiction, fable, and metaphor. You heard the Other whisper: “Seek yourself in Me.” This certainty, this truth was so enthralling that you no longer dared to think outside of Him, in your own name, alone: ego Teresa. Except for a handful of pages (that you cut from the final draft of The Way of Perfection), your thinking was always to unfold with Him and from Him, and that is why it is a love thinking, rather than reasoning pure and simple. You are not quite a Cartesian, God forbid, but your lucidity prefigures the love in transference and countertransference. And if the narrative of the moods of your soul hardly constitutes a novelistic plot, it is nonetheless a novel about the consciousness/unconsciousness of love.

I understand your qualms about thinking for yourself, as if no I could exist apart from Him. Anyone with the presumption to say “I think, therefore I am” (but only after 1637, with Descartes) is too apt to forget the Other whom I desire in thought, and who splits the thinker’s very being in two. The ego’s audacity risks turning into a simplification: highly convenient for purposes of cogitation but inadequate to tease out the delicious, pernicious unison of body and mind that it is the business of psychoanalysis to complicate, in its best moments taking a cue from your vow, Teresa, that there shall be no me without thee.

Never to cut the umbilical bond with the Other — such was your right, your frailty, and your charm. It’s also what enabled you to remake your body at the same time as you were fashioning your life’s work. You are neither a philosopher nor a psychoanalyst, Teresa, you are a writer, and writers are revealed by their propensity to be physically altered by the bare fact of writing. With one difference: I’ve never known a writer who brought off anything like the fakir’s tricks, if I may so describe them, attributed to you by the Carmelites (such as levitating upright, inches above the ground). Despite your vaunted humility you granted live performances in this vein to extramural audiences, too.

This metamorphosis troubles me a bit, so I shall try to approach it more closely by reading you. Reading the fabulous space of your body, between death (they were so sure you were dead, one time, they sealed your eyelids with wax and wrapped you in a shroud) and laughter (even the Inquisition, you wrote, “makes me laugh”), between paralysis and agitation, between suckling the Godhead and fleeing from toads, between plumbing inner depths with exquisite skill and manipulating your superiors, between the foundation of the Discalced Carmelite order and the invention of a way to be “outside oneself.” Not forgetting your bold, funny, forceful style in Castilian, the language Cervantes was to magnify a few years later and that engulfed Catholicism itself.

Your body is a paradoxical place, at once inward and outward, flesh and word, desire and Nothingness; a nonplace where I merges into you and is then referred in the third person, she, a nonperson in the feminine. A vision? Perhaps; but one that “sees” with something other than “the eyes of the body.” An inner, metaphorical vision, which turns you into Him:

She saw some visions and experienced revelations. She never saw anything, nor has seen anything, of these visions with her bodily eyes. Rather, the representation came like a lightning flash, but it left as great an impression upon her and as many effects as it would if she had seen it with her bodily eyes, and more so.⁷

A suffering — jubilant body turns into characters and visions, a cascade of third persons brought about by the grace of the Other, the better to know oneself in losing oneself.

You are attracted by the “jewel” whose sparkle is attenuated by a fold of fine linen, you say, and which lies in a reliquary as in an impenetrable stronghold.

But we do not dare look at it [the inner vision of the divine] or open the reliquary, nor can we, because the manner of opening this reliquary is known solely by the one to whom the jewel belongs.…

Well, let us say now that sometimes he wants to open the reliquary suddenly in order to do good to the one to whom he has lent it. Clearly, a person will afterward be much happier when he remembers the admirable splendor of the stone, and hence it will remain more deeply engrained in his memory.…And even though the vision happens so quickly that we could compare it to a streak of lightning, this most glorious image remains so engraved on the imagination…

Although I say “image” let it be understood that, in the opinion of the one who sees it, it is not a painting but truly alive…But you must understand that even though the soul is detained by this vision for some while, it can no more fix its gaze on the vision than it can on the sun. Hence this vision always passes very quickly, but not because its brilliance is painful, like the sun’s, to the inner eye. It is the inner eye that sees all of this.…The brilliance of this inner vision is like that of an infused light coming from a sun covered by something as transparent as a properly cut diamond. The garment seems made of a fine Dutch linen. Almost every time God grants this favor the soul is in rapture, for in its lowliness it cannot suffer so frightening a sight.⁸

You stumble against that nameless threshold where the erotic drive becomes meaning. You pass over to the other side, even though the third person, the non-person, she, has no idea of what this could possibly mean, because the sensorial meaning has not yet hardened into conceptual meaning. You stand on the edge of the originary repression, a psychoanalytic dictionary would say. Hovering in the place at which “most people” go mad. But not you, Teresa, for you seize on that dazzlement, the brilliance of the jewel, and dim it beneath a gauze of written language. And in the telling, the writing, your body changes.

Since your humanity is what fascinates me, as you might guess, and with apologies to your worshippers in the Lord, I shall begin by nosing into your background, your family, your friends, your loves: things you yourself bring up only to subordinate them to the events of your faith. Discreet to begin with, these epiphanies become steadily amplified in step with your metamorphoses. This is the subject matter of The Book of Her Life. You practice writing as a power of regression proper to desire, and as a power of desire over regression: this is, I consider, the experience in which you’re dying of not dying.

Being a busy woman, you weren’t always ready or able to commit your experience to paper, and this omission often pitched you into painful distress, rather than the death to self that would let you curl into the Other. In the end, the written word — as you explain it in the “Fourth Dwelling Places” of The Interior Castle—replaces suffering by the transubstantiation of sensual desire into the desire to formulate ideas. Yet the text as it has come down to us today (in a 1588 first edition of the Life revised by Ana de Jesús and Luis de León) seems to interest you less than the actual movement of writing. You write in a rush, seldom bothering to correct, caring more for the exploration than for its traces. What better proof than this lack of perfectionism of how little — while aspiring to simplicity and depth, like the humanists — you care about creating a “work”? Instead you avidly pursue transmutation in a stream of images that overwhelms you, overwhelms us! I hear you, and I hear us. It is written in the relish of your mother tongue, which in your hands sounds lively, cadenced, and muscular while being also dreamy, negligent, and relaxed. You keep an eye on your language, revisiting and correcting it. But this is far from the obsessive rituals of the professional writer, and I can well believe that the making of your books was spurred onward by the same élan with which you wrote to your brother: “You shouldn’t make the effort to read over [the letters] you send me. I never reread mine. If some word is missing, put it in, and I will do the same here with yours. The meaning is at once clear [que luego se entiende lo que quiere decir], and it is a waste of time to reread them unnecessarily.”⁹

Proud voluptuousness forbade you to engage in sexual intercourse, so far as we know, even though your letters and writings are oddly spiced with mild erotomania. But you were not a modern, by any stretch. Belying the ostentatious way you were clothed by the baroque spirit of Bernini’s sculpture, the writhing of your body and soul convey but one, infinite, possession: that of you by your own self, that of I by her own other. Your boudoir needs the Eucharist, but it is only in writing that you taste all the flavors of the divine and are drenched in all the waters of the Other.

Nevertheless, psychoanalysis maintains that the Heavenly Gardener who floods through you is unquestionably the heavenly Father, relayed in life by your father Alonso Sánchez de Cepeda, whose hidalguía court case turned him for you into a negative of Christ. I will suggest that the paternal image was reinforced by the far more internalized faith of your uncle, Pedro Sánchez de Cepeda, whose love of courtly novels and Franciscan — perhaps indeed Erasmist — manners perturbed your adolescent body.

But the Other was already locked into your own psychic virility by osmosis with a beloved brother, like a twin but two years older, the one you played at martyrs with: “Para siempre, Teresa — para siempre, Rodrigo.” Forever. And the four celestial waters you so avidly imbibe in the pages of your Life, what are they but allusions to an “idle seed” (Klossowski), their idle seeds, as much as to your intense and lonely pleasure inundated by the fantasy of the human masculinity of the divine? A great big masturbation session: some have not hesitated to say so in writing. The “spurts” of the Heavenly Youth are yours, it’s your body melting, relaxing from nun-like stiffness as your convulsive-hysterical juddering softens and trickles away through your nib. It’s the only way to appease your sexual tension while womb and vagina remain unnamed and unnameable, amid a bright ripple of words.

To modern consumers of guilt-free sex, to sadomasochistic role models who would rather beat themselves than know themselves, to fundamentalists swathed in hypocritical prudishness, to the casualties of the new soul sickness — if they have not already been destroyed by deadly enactments of fantasies or toxic psychosomatic pathologies — you offer the sumptuous halls of a flesh that throbs to imagined perceptions, embodied images, in an insatiable orgasm of impossibility. Is this spiritual wedding night anything but the peak of delusion? Indeed it is, for your successive rebirths, Teresa, my love, testify to the vivifying powers of the imaginary when it truly inhabits the desires that brought it forth.

Have your seasons and your castles* [*A reference to Arthur Rimbaud’s poem, “Ô saisons, Ô châteaux…”—Trans.] since been drowned? I fear they have, now that the imaginary has been killed off by the Spectacle: nothing is impossible in this increasingly virtual world, and so there’s nothing to desire. And yet my wager is to lift a corner of your habit — not just to display your body and works before the fetishistic curiosity of jaded spectators, but to invite them to a tryst with your metamorphic intensities. We are in want of such a thing, let’s take the risk.