In Henry James’s fin-de-siècle tale The Turn of the Screw (1898) the nature of romantic love, language, and the human psyche are all subtly deconstructed by the author. The story’s central character—a governess—attempts to deal therapeutically with certain past unsettling incidents through her record of events at an English manor house. The account seems to hold close proximity with some original trauma she has undergone: throughout the tale the young woman continues to summon up the distressing experience by confronting it in an oblique manner and as a means of protecting herself against further psychological injury. Such recursion compels her to revisit the scene of the crime—whatever this “crime” is. In fact, the subsequent manuscript the governess produces documenting her experiences at Bly is demonstrative of just this kind of repetition as it moves through its circuitous manifestations first as primary document, and later as an account re-written and interpreted by various scribes. Assembled years after the related events, her narrative is a conscious attempt to recall what she is convinced “must-have-been.” Yet, as psychologist Julian Jaynes has pointed out, the nature of consciousness arises from the power of language to make metaphors and analogies and therefore cannot be relied on to copy experience exactly.1 The opening lines of the governess’s manuscript illustrate this succinctly when she states that: “I remember the whole beginning as a succession of flights and drops, a little see-saw of the right throbs and the wrong.”2 Jaynes terms this feature of consciousness “narratization” which is the analogic simulation of actual behavior. Consciousness, he explains, is “constantly fitting things into a story, putting a before and after around any event”: suppression, quite naturally, is part of such narrating in which we stop being conscious of disturbing thoughts and turn away from them in the physical world.3 The governess’s retelling of her experiences might be thought of as this kind of revisionist account of what actually happened at the isolated manor house: repetition becomes the locus of her repressed trauma—one to which she recurs in a way that continuously re-stages the event in psychic configurations. Largely unconscious, such activity takes on hallucinatory—and eventually supernatural—aspects that become more and more pervasive as the story unfolds. According to Freud (1914), such reenactments are necessary to resolve what is imperfectly remembered; disturbing material is repeated rather than reproduced as memory.4 James signals such a development for his governess in a scene early on in the novella in which she encounters her own full-length image in a mirror at Bly. Despite being confronted with her persona—or, in Lacanian formulations, her “proto-self”—the young woman’s retrospective manuscript reveals a clear absence of any self-reflection on the significance of the underlying dynamics of the experience, or what it might mean. Failure on the part of the governess to grasp the motive force behind her subsequent actions is in stark contrast to the influence of a past trauma that remains unconsciously operative and ultimately the mechanism behind her fragmented subjectivity.
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