The Feminine: A Mode of Jouissance, by Marie-Hélène Brousse (New York, Libretto, 2021)

 

Translated from the French by Janet Rachel

Dear G, 

Thanks so much for asking “Who is Janet Rachel?” when you saw her name as the translator of this book. 

Rachel turned up towards the end of the translation process and went on to steal the scene. She has been interested in the questions of femininity, feminine sexuality, and feminism since we first got together – that was in the early 1990s. I had cancelled my surname and was looking for a name of my own to start again with when she whispered in my ear. She had been sitting quietly between my first and last names for quite a long time at that point, and now she was asking to come out. 

Rachel is the name of an Old Testament matriarch who was remarkable for never having had a child of her own; when I registered that fact, it was simple to say yes to Rachel and get the new name written in all the right places. 

We went on to create performances and presentations, write poetry, and put on plays. Then we signed up for a Masters in Psychoanalysis at Brunel University; Rachel’s name is also written on that certificate. 

But when I decided to undertake my own personal analysis and to pursue a formation in order to practice, she cleared off – vanishing quicker than a Cheshire cat. 

She re-emerged when a pension with her name on it matured, and while she rooted around in my office for the paperwork, she became interested in what I was doing. She began reading over my shoulder as I was busy translating this book. 

It is a short book, but it is packed with ideas, including some brief descriptions from analytic cases. My desire ignited her desire and she became involved with the argument of the text. She was impressed by the turn things had taken since the early 1990s – here were new ways to speak about living with language, love, sexual difference and the body. New ways of coming to terms with how to live and speak in a body that is sexed like this. 

Next thing I knew, she had slipped into one of my analytic sessions and caught the attention of my analyst. Before I knew where I was, Rachel was carving out a channel that led to her name being written in the book. I now think of Rachel as a name for my symptom; it ties together something real, something symbolic, and something imaginary that lives with me. With this name, I can designate something that sometimes gets repressed, foreclosed, or disavowed. 

Rachel offers herself as a name for that mysterious thing I am always losing: “Where’s my …?” has now become “Where’s my Rachel?” This never fails to raise a smile and dissipate what would otherwise gather momentum and transform into frustration and hatred. 

I don’t idealise her but I won’t allow her to be slagged off. She is not the all-powerful female figure I searched for in the feminism of my youth, even if she is indeed stronger than me. 

I am making a new alliance with her. I have named my jouissance for her, and if she tries to duck out, flit away, vanish, hide, efface herself, or fall silent, I can whisper her name, become docile, soften my shape, lower my eyes, look aside.

These tactics remind me of Monty Roberts, whose memoir I read last week (The Man Who Listens to Horses, Arrow Books 1997). He uses these tactics as part of a process when he wants to start a new relation with a horse. So Rachel now emerges as a rather fine if flighty mare, a horse that, like many another horse, can be drawn into the field of human influence, my influence. I can make a lightweight halter out of language for her; I can weave a tether for her out of words. I can learn how to hold this in my hand, like a pen, and I can use it to influence her direction. 

If she bolts, bucks, naps, nips, or kicks – all of which she has been known to do – I can try to ride it out. If I fail, I can sit on the ground where I fall, sigh softly, and watch her disappear over the horizon. Then I can whisper her name, and start again.

Fail, then fail better, as Samuel Beckett once said.

See you soon,

Janet