A phenomenological analysis of existential conscience in James Ivory's (1993) The Remains of the Day.
The idea that I am about to describe was first presented at a clinical workshop at the Royal Society of Medicine on November 24, 2012. The workshop, entitled Exploring Existential Conscience in Therapeutic Practice, was subsequently presented again on June 29, 2013. On both those occasions, I focused on the therapeutic applications of psychoanalytic and existential conceptions of guilt. However, in this paper I will set myself the more modest task of introducing only one original idea: the concept of existential conscience.
My manner of presentation will be as follows. To begin with, I will present Sigmund Freud's concept of the superego, and explain why it cannot be equated with conscience. To do this, I will draw on a neglected masterpiece of psychoanalytic literature. I am referring to Eli Sagan's (1988) Freud, Women and Morality: the Psychology of Good and Evil. I will then deepen my critique of psychoanalysis by delving into Martin Buber's distinction between guilt feelings and existential guilt. But I will also be critiquing and extending Buber's ideas using a distinctly Platonic approach. Finally, I will illustrate my concept of existential conscience through the unusual hermeneutic strategy of presenting a story in which this unique form of conscience is distinctly absent. The story in question is James Ivory's (1993) beautiful film rendition of Kazuo Ishiguro's (1989) novel, The Remains of the Day.
The Superego and Identification with the Aggressor
Sigmund Freud first introduced the concept of the superego in 1923 in a work entitled The Ego and the Id. In that work Freud described the superego as a psychological structure which develops around the age of three through the internalisation of the parental interpretations of cultural norms. One very interesting aspect of Freud's theory is that, to begin with, Freud believed that the superego represented what was best and highest about human beings. In support of this idea, he argued that the superego represents the capacity to observe and evaluate ourselves. The superego also contains a cognitive representation of our potential; a phenomenon which Freud referred to as the ego-ideal. But Freud also believed that the superego functions as a sense of conscience. In other words: the superego dictates what is right and wrong, how we should and should not behave, and what we could aspire to become.
However, seven years later, in 1930, in a book entitled Civilization and Its Discontents, Freud revised his early views on the superego. In this later work, Freud reported that he had discovered that morality contained a large component of destructiveness and irrational sadism. The superego, according to Freud's new theory, can be ruthlessly hyper-moral. It can torture us, humiliate us, ridicule us, and make us feel unworthy. Therefore it would be a mistake, says Freud, to believe that the superego stands in a moral relation to the ego. Freud's theoretical turnaround is, of course, remarkable and very interesting. But in order to understand how and why he changed his mind we must examine his views on the superego as summarised in his New Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis, published in 1933.
According to the New Introductory Lectures, the superego develops primarily through identification; through the desire to be like someone else. In psychoanalytic theory, identification is considered a form of attachment. However, Freud clarifies in Lecture 31 ('The Dissection of the Psychical Personality') that the superego evolves out of an attachment with a person who makes us feel uncomfortable. We identify, for example, with a person who expresses anger, or makes us feel angry; a person who is hostile, or arouses hostility or resentment in us. But why would we identify with someone who makes us feel uncomfortable? Why not identify with someone who loves us and treats us kindly? Freud's answer to this question, as presented in 1933, is that identification is a way of coming to terms with the uncomfortable feelings that are evoked in us. It is a way of taking control of an emotionally difficult situation.
Freud's views on the role of identification in the development of the superego were investigated further by his daughter Anna Freud in 1936, in a book entitled The Ego and the Mechanisms of Defense. In that classic work of psychoanalytic theory, Anna Freud referred to the above phenomenon as the identification with the aggressor. Moreover, she argued that the process of identifying, at a young age, with someone who makes us feel uncomfortable accounts for the punitive qualities of the superego. Unfortunately, what Anna Freud's theory cannot account for is the development of a healthy conscience, defined as the capacity to make realistic appraisals of one's responsibilities towards others. Admittedly, Sigmund Freud was aware of this theoretical lacuna, and, in an effort to overcome this problem he suggested, in Civilization and Its Discontents, that perhaps conscience emerges out of the ego's interaction with the ego-ideal. But, as clinicians since Freud have come to agree, the ego-ideal can also be a source of suffering; especially if the image of our perfected self is inflated and unrealistic. We must conclude then, that classical psychoanalysis failed to provide us with a convincing theory of the development of conscience.
Eli Sagan and Identification with the Nurturer
Ever since Freud presented his more pessimistic views on the role of the superego in the emotional life of human beings, psychoanalysts have sought to describe and explain how we come to care for others. Melanie Klein's (1957) concept of the depressive position, for example, with its emphasis on concern for others, is one such attempt at revision. But perhaps the most innovative critique of the Freudian theory of the superego was put forward by Eli Sagan (1988) in a book entitled Freud, Women and Morality: the Psychology of Good and Evil. The principal thesis of Sagan's book is that conscience has its own developmental trajectory, independent of the superego. Moreover, Sagan argues that conscience must appear early in life, or we would never go against the superego. This last statement is particularly enlightening, because it implies that one characteristic of conscience is the ability to override the rules and norms by which we have been living.
Though Sagan agrees with the Freudian view that the superego emerges out of identification with the aggressor, he believes that conscience is grounded in the infant's love for and identification with the nurturer. Moreover, says Sagan, identification with the person who loves us and treats us kindly is essential for our psychological well-being, because it is the only way to combat destructive impulses. This becomes evident when we express kindness to a person who is vulnerable or who has been victimized. When we come face-to-face with a human being who is in an unfortunate situation, we may respond in one of three ways. Firstly, we could withdraw from the victim because she is perceived as a loser, and we do not want to be associated with such a person. Secondly, we could take advantage of the other's helplessness, manipulating her to our advantage. Or, thirdly, we could empathize with the victim's pain and suffering, and offer our compassion. This third option, says Sagan, is the only one which can transform our aggression and destructive impulses into a capacity to be a comforter:
What is so powerful in the mechanism of identification with the victim is that it transforms an identification with the aggressor into an identification with the nurturer.
(Sagan, 1988: p 180)
Now, I believe that Eli Sagan's idea that conscience has its own developmental roots is immensely important, and that his book is an underrated classic of psychoanalysis. If Sagan were correct that identification with the aggressor can be transformed into identification with the nurturer, then we have a powerful therapeutic tool for transforming the severe guilt generated by the superego into a creative emotional experience. However, to evaluate both the Freudian and Saganian views on conscience, it becomes necessary at this point in our investigation to provide a critique of the psychoanalytic ideas presented thus far. My critique will be primarily philosophical, thus paving the way for an existential model of the emergence of conscience and ethical action.
Critique of the Psychoanalytic Ideas on Conscience
The first point to note regarding the psychoanalytic ideas described thus far is that they focus on a limited network of relationships; in particular, they focus on face-to-face relations with caregivers. But the social world is not restricted to face-to-face relations. We also forge important links with contemporaries; with persons that we have not met and perhaps may never meet. Equally, we may have important relations with predecessors (persons who died before we were born). Moreover, we can act in a way that affirms our successors; I'm referring to those persons who will live on after our death and who we perhaps may never know. But the Freudian and Saganian theories of conscience ignore these wider social spheres.
Psychoanalytic theories of conscience tend to focus on the moral dilemmas of our early years; but the moral dilemmas we encounter as adults are significantly more complex than those we face as children. To take this critique further, neither Freud nor Sagan refers to the world in the existential sense of the word, as the place where we suffer and where we belong. Their theories are not grounded in historicity; and yet, the lived experience of history is crucial to a developing sense of conscience. Finally, I would argue that conscience emerges out of an encounter with limit situations such as death and impermanence. So, though human conscience may begin in the nuclear world of the family and in the early experiences of love and nurturance, it gains in depth through significant existential insights: the world I live in is a shared world; I suffer and so do others; what others do or have done affects me; I grow old and so do others; I die; others die.
I believe that psychoanalytic investigations into the development of conscience are very important. But an existential model of conscience must encompass an understanding of the human condition. If the Saganian psychoanalytic model of conscience were correct, then it would suffice for a therapist to act in an empathic manner to awaken a sense of conscience in the client. An existential model, in contrast, would suggest that conscience emerges out of a very particular encounter with the world. In the history of philosophy, there have been thinkers who conceived conscience as a particular relation to the world and to others. Karl Jaspers, Gabriel Marcel, and Simone de Beauvoir, for example, have all contributed to the debate. But the philosopher I will focus on is Martin Buber; partly because he focused on guilt in relation to others; and partly because he introduced a distinction into existential philosophy which acts as a counterpoint to psychoanalytic theory. I'm referring to Martin Buber's distinction between guilt feelings and existential guilt.
Martin Buber on Guilt and Guilt Feelings
Martin Buber published his essay 'Guilt and Guilt Feelings' in a book entitled The Knowledge of Man in 1965; a book which represents his mature philosophical anthropology. In this work Buber makes a distinction between guilt feelings, which are subjective experiences within a person; and existential guilt, which he describes as an interhuman phenomenon. The term 'interhuman' does not refer to the social world; nor does it encompass the interpersonal. Buber uses the term to refer to an ontological dimension which is the source of authentic dialogue. Existential guilt, says Buber, does not reside within the human psyche; it is found between persons. To be precise, existential guilt resides in the failure to respond to the ethical call of the world. Moreover, it is a guilt that one takes upon oneself in recognition of this failure. In this respect, it represents a unique responsibility. Therefore, it cannot be equated with the demands of the superego; neither does it refer to compliance with societal norms. Indeed, Buber's definition of existential guilt is very specific:
Existential guilt occurs when someone injures an order of the human world whose foundations he knows and recognizes as those of his own existence and of all common human existence.
(Buber, 1988: p 117)
As the true significance of Buber's definition is easy to overlook, I would like to offer the following point of clarification. Existential practitioners often use the phrase 'existential guilt' to refer to a person's failure to fulfil his or her potentialities. But what Buber is describing is much more specific. Existential guilt, in Buber's ontology, is not just a failure to realize one's potentialities. It is the failure at a particular moment in time to bring one's potentialities into play when responding to the ethical call of the world. I invite the reader to imagine a unique individual in a unique historical situation. If the reader can also imagine that that person has been called upon to respond to the situation with a unique ethical act, then the reader has grasped the true import of Martin Buber's existential guilt.
Existential Conscience as Unique, Compassionate Action
Since Martin Buber conceives existential guilt as a responsibility one takes upon oneself in relation to the world, it would be interesting to explore the link between guilt and conscience and freedom. Plato wrote in his dialogue Phaedo that, in order to understand a particular phenomenon, we must identify the most excellent expression of that phenomenon. So what is the most excellent expression of our freedom? Simone de Beauvoir's (1976) unequivocal answer, as proposed in The Ethics of Ambiguity, is to protect, preserve and nurture the freedom of others. But Buber's notion of existential guilt is remarkably similar to de Beauvoir's conception of freedom. If we were to ask Buber what, in his opinion, would be the most excellent expression of conscience, I believe he would answer: the guilt one takes upon oneself in relation to another. But here I would like to raise a critical question: is it possible to refine Buber's notion of existential guilt? My answer to this question is yes, especially if we focus on Buber's phrase: 'when one injures an order of the human world.'
Buber's phrase, quoted above, implies there may have been a time when one had not, as yet, injured the world of the interhuman; it implies there may have been a time when one was free of existential guilt. But existential philosophy posits that suffering and conflict are universal, ever-present, and inevitable. One could say, then, that the order of the human world is perpetually wounded. Assuming this is an accurate description of the human condition, I may ask: what am I to do in the face of this eternal injury to the human order? Or, if I may rephrase the question: given that I am a unique individual in a unique historical situation, what then is my unique compassionate response going to be? In my view, a unique compassionate response to the eternal injury of the human world constitutes the most excellent expression of conscience. I call this phenomenon existential conscience; and I conceive this idea as an extension, or, if you will, a critical refinement of Martin Buber's notion of existential guilt.
Here I would like to make my idea as precise as possible; and I will do this by quoting from the paper I presented at the clinical workshops described above:
Existential conscience is the guilt one takes upon oneself when one vows to repair the human order of the Between through unique, compassionate action; an order which has always been injured and is always in the process of being injured; an order which is perceived primarily through the realisation of shared embodied vulnerabilities.
I am, of course, using the phrase 'the Between' interchangeably with Buber's term 'interhuman.' And now I would like to illustrate my very specific notion of existential conscience through a phenomenological analysis of James Ivory's (1993) remarkable film, The Remains of the Day. My hermeneutic strategy, in this instance, will be Socratic, for The Remains of the Day is the story of a man who faces an extraordinary, unique, historical test; but who fails to respond to the ethical call of the world.
A Phenomenological Analysis of The Remains of the Day
The Remains of the Day tells the story of Mr Stevens, a butler who serves Lord Darlington in the years leading up to the Second World War. Lord Darlington is an immensely wealthy and influential English gentleman who fought in World War One. However, he is a man consumed by guilt feelings. As Lord Darlington explains to his butler, the terms imposed on Germany by the victors of the First War were so harsh that Germany plunged into economic recession. As a result, one of Darlington's German friends was unable to find work after the war. The friend ultimately lost hope of ever finding economic security in post-war Germany; he shot himself in a railway carriage between Hamburg and Berlin. From that day forth, Darlington decides that he will use his influence to assist Germany in her economic recovery; even if that requires that he support the Nazis.
The Remains of the Day is not an easy film to summarize, partly because it does not have a plot. Instead, we are presented with a series of episodes which gradually reveal Mr Stevens' feelings for the three most important persons in his life. Indeed, one could say that the film has a tripartite structure. The first part of the film chronicles Mr Stevens' ambivalent feelings towards his father, who had once been a butler but is now relegated to the role of under-butler at Darlington Hall. Mr Stevens' admiration for his father blinds him to the fact that Mr Stevens Senior is old, even for the role of under-butler. Indeed, the first part of the film focuses on the older man's physical decline and eventual death. The third part of the film, in contrast, examines Mr Stevens' gradual realization that he is in love with the housekeeper, Miss Kenton. Miss Kenton reciprocates his love, but, as Mr Stevens fails to express his growing love for her, she accepts the marriage proposal of another servant, Mr Benn, and leaves Darlington Hall.
Most film critics have focused on Mr Stevens' tragic love for Miss Kenton. But in my view, the kernel of the story is to be found in the middle section of the film, which tells of Mr Stevens' unquestioned admiration for his employer. A psychoanalytic reading of this portion of the story would be that Mr Stevens identifies with Lord Darlington, and secretly aspires to be like him. There are, indeed, many scenes which support this interpretation. One evening, Mr Stevens confides his philosophy of life to Mr Benn. A man cannot call himself happy, says Mr Stevens, unless he has done everything in his power to serve his employer. Mr Stevens is quick to add that, of course, one must assume that one's employer is a superior being, both intellectually and morally. In a later scene, Mr Stevens travels west, driving a car that once belonged to Lord Darlington. When the car breaks down, Mr Stevens seeks help in a village pub. But his manners, his attire, his accent and the beautiful car deceive the villagers into thinking he is a wealthy man. In truth, he misleads the villagers into believing that he had once been an influential figure in politics 'in an unofficial capacity.'
I am not going to dispute the psychoanalytic reading described above; but I am going to argue that it is Mr Stevens' unquestioned admiration for Lord Darlington that, in part, restricts his capacity for ethical action. Stated in non-technical language, Mr Stevens disowns his responsibility towards the suffering of others by imbuing Lord Darlington with perfected qualities. So, when Lord Darlington decides to fire two young female servants because they are Jews, Mr Stevens accepts his employer's decision in the belief that Lord Darlington 'has studied the nature of Jewry.' Mr Stevens continues to ignore Lord Darlington's increasing involvement with the Nazis, until the situation reaches grave proportions. One evening, while Darlington is secretly meeting the British Prime Minister and the German Ambassador, Mr Stevens is approached by Mr Cardinal, Lord Darlington's godson. Mr Cardinal, who is a journalist by profession, informs Mr Stevens that Lord Darlington is in the process of entering into a pact with the Nazis. Mr Cardinal speaks to Stevens as if they were friends, and tries to convince the butler that he must do all he can to prevent Darlington from making a grave mistake.
In the context of the present discussion on conscience, Mr Stevens' conversation with Mr Cardinal represents a very important moment. Suddenly, we are struck by the realisation that, though Mr Stevens is a humble servant, he has, potentially, a very important role to play in the political events that are unfolding across Europe. As Lord Darlington's butler, he holds the possibility of entering into ethical dialogue with his employer. In other words, this scene, more than any other, illustrates the potential for existential conscience. Mr Stevens, as a unique human being, encounters a unique historical situation that demands from him a unique, compassionate response. Mr Stevens, however, tells Mr Cardinal that it is not his place to intervene or question his employer's political judgement. I have already argued above that Mr Stevens' lack of ethical action can be explained partly by his unquestioned admiration for Lord Darlington. However, what I propose to do now is to show that Mr Stevens' failure to heed the ethical call of the world goes much deeper than identification with his employer; and I will demonstrate this through phenomenological descriptions of Mr Stevens' relations to objects, time, others, history, and language.
What do we observe about Mr Stevens' relationship to objects? The immediate answer to this question seems to be that, apart from the clothes that he wears on a daily basis, he does not possess any objects. He is the custodian of another person's material universe. As the custodian of Lord Darlington's material world, it is his duty to ensure that objects are kept in their place, and that they remain free of dust. These two activities lend Darlington Hall the illusion of timelessness. (If one stumbled upon a place in the universe where objects never moved and dust never settled, one would have stumbled upon a timeless dimension). The illusion of timelessness is also achieved through the many routines of the other servants of the house; routines which Mr Stevens supervises with a critical eye. To deny time is to deny the human condition; but it also represents a denial of one's capacity for ethical action.
The link I have just made between Mr Stevens' attitude towards objects and his attitude towards time is well depicted in the scene where Miss Kenton points out to Mr Stevens that his father has misplaced the Chinaman. Up until then, Mr Stevens has been berating Miss Kenton for being unsure of what goes where. From an existential perspective, Mr Stevens' repeated demand on Miss Kenton that she keep objects in their place could be seen as a demand that she should fit in with, and support, his world-design (Binswanger, 1963). So when Miss Kenton informs him about the Chinaman, he ought to be pleased. After all, she is beginning to see the world in his way. But Mr Stevens is not at all pleased, because he is not prepared to accept that it is his father who has disrupted his world design. The father's mistake, therefore, announces the reality of time and old age; just as the father's illness will later announce the boundary situations of suffering and death.
Let us examine one more scene that illustrates Mr Stevens' world-design and his attitude towards material existence. The scene in question is the one where Mr Stevens has just broken a bottle of wine. As he comes out of the cellar, he hears Miss Kenton crying. What happens next is fascinating, and open to multiple interpretations. Mr Stevens enters Miss Kenton's room without knocking, walks up to her without making a sound, and berates her for not dusting the vase in the alcove. Earlier that evening, Miss Kenton had informed Mr Stevens that she had accepted Mr Benn's proposal of marriage. Thus, a psychological interpretation immediately comes to mind: Mr Stevens is venting his anger on Miss Kenton. But an existential view of the same scene would suggest that Mr Stevens is reminding Miss Kenton (in a pleading, child-like tone) of his project to construct a world without time; and a world without time must, inevitably, be a world without friendship or love. Love and friendship are, of course, expressions of being-with-others; so let us examine Mr Stevens' relationships in greater detail.
What do we observe about Mr Stevens' relations with others? The most striking characteristic of Mr Stevens' relations with others is that all human contact is mediated via status. Either a person is above Mr Stevens in rank, or a person is below him; but Mr Stevens does not have friends or peers or lovers. This aspect of Mr Stevens' being-in-the-world becomes especially evident if we look at the way he uses language. Mr Stevens' conversations are limited to giving orders or receiving orders or clarifying orders. We could say that all of Mr Stevens' conversations are aimed at conveying inequality of rank; but we could just as well conclude that he strips language of the possibility of authentic discourse. In order to make this point clearer, let us put aside for the moment Mr Stevens' relations with the inhabitants of the house; and instead let us turn our attention to his relations with those who live in the world beyond the confines of Darlington Hall. I am referring to Mr Stevens' relations with his contemporaries, and thus to the world of unfolding historical events.
What do we observe about Mr Stevens' attitude towards the political and social events occurring in Europe in the 1930s? It is clear that Mr Stevens has no understanding of world events, because he is not interested in anything that occurs outside of Darlington Hall. Expressed in its most striking form, we could say that Mr Stevens has disowned all connection to the world; he has disowned all responsibility towards his contemporaries. He is content to accept Lord Darlington's perceptions and opinions of the world who, he claims, 'understands the wider issues.' Stated in existential language, Mr Stevens denies the boundary situation of historicity. He has no notion of history as a phenomenon to which he belongs and which in turn belongs to him. In brief then, we may conclude that Mr Stevens has constructed a very remarkable world-design that denies time, suffering, death, old age, love, friendship, history, and the possibility of authentic speech.
A psychoanalytic reading of Mr Stevens' predicament would suggest that it is his excessive use of identification (first with his father, later with Lord Darlington) that constricts his capacity for ethical action. The existential perspective that I am describing, however, suggests that it is precisely because Mr Stevens denies so much of the human condition that he is insensitive to the suffering of others and incognisant of his own pain. This point is well illustrated in the scene where Miss Kenton informs Mr Stevens that his father has just died. Mr Stevens reacts to this news with a perfunctory thank you, but he continues to work, and he allows Miss Kenton to close his father's eyes. A psychoanalytic interpretation of his conduct would be that he is defending against loss. But from an existential perspective, Mr Stevens' behaviour is consistent with his world-design.
Conscience as Belonging-in-the-World
We come now to the point in our argument where we must raise a very important question. How are we to construe, then, the connection between the psychoanalytic concepts of the superego and conscience; and the existential understanding of the human condition? In a bold attempt at reconciling psychoanalysis with phenomenology, Hans Loewald (1980), in an essay entitled Superego and Time, put forward the idea that the superego functions as a future ego. According to Loewald, the superego represents the future ego's demands, ideals, hopes, and concerns. Parental authority, as internalized in the agency of the superego, is therefore related to the child as the representative of a particular future. Freud's genius was to have pointed out: every time we identify with someone we are changed by the process of identification. But Loewald takes this idea further: every time we identify with someone, that person becomes the embodiment of a very particular future. What I would like to do is to take this idea even further, into the realm of existential psychology.
I would argue that identification is a paradoxical phenomenon. On the one hand, to identify with someone may result in the appropriation of a particular future. But identification may just as well involve a severe restriction of one's freedom-towards-others. There can be no doubt from James Ivory's (1993) film version of The Remains of the Day that Mr Stevens had, at an early age, identified with his father. From one perspective, one could say that the father provided a role model for his son; or that the father 'inspired' the son to take up the same profession. But one could just as convincingly argue that Mr Stevens' identification with his father constricted his future possibilities; that it initiated the process of constructing a world-design that blinded him to the suffering of others.
As an existential psychologist, I reject the notion of a psychic agency that tells me what I can and cannot do. An existential analysis of the phenomenon of the superego leads me to conclude that the superego is a process that I choose; and that identification is a process that I bring about. Thus, if I were to describe in phenomenological language the psychoanalytic concept of the harsh superego, I would say that it represents a restricted sense of future possibilities, and a restricted sense of freedom-towards-others. From an ethical perspective I would also add that a severe superego represents a restricted sense of belonging-in-the-world. Conscience, in contrast, involves openness to experience and openness to time; and, above all, sensitivity to the suffering of others.
The workshops which I led in November 2012 and June 2013 were dedicated to exploring the therapeutic advantages of distinguishing between the psychoanalytic and existential conceptions of guilt. But in the present paper I have focused on theory because I wanted to introduce a new idea into existential psychology: the concept of existential conscience. And I have taken care to differentiate it from psychoanalytic notions of conscience; and from Martin Buber's description of existential guilt. I have described existential conscience as the most excellent form of conscience, and the most compassionate sense of belonging-in-the-world. In my view, it represents a person's most unique freedom-towards the eternal suffering of the human world.
Berguno, G. (2012). Exploring Existential Conscience in Therapeutic Practice. Workshop first presented at the Royal Society of Medicine on November 24, 2012.
Binswanger, L. (1963). Being-in-the-World. (Trans. Jacob Needleman). New York: Basic Books.
Buber, M. (1988). The Knowledge of Man. Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Humanities Press International. Original work published in 1965.
de Beauvoir, S. (1976). The Ethics of Ambiguity. New York: Citadel Press. Original work published in 1948.
Freud, A. (1936). The Ego and the Mechanisms of Defense. London: Hogarth.
Freud, S. (1923). The Ego and the Id. Standard Edition, 19, 1-66.
Freud, S. (1930). Civilization and Its Discontents. Standard Edition, 21, 59-145.
Freud, S. (1933). New Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis. Standard Edition, 22, 1-182.
Ishiguro, K. (1989). The Remains of the Day. London: Faber & Faber.
Ivory, J. (Director). The Remains of the Day. 1993.
Klein, M. (1957). Envy and Gratitude and Other Works: 1946-63. New York: Delacorte.
Loewald, H. W. (1980). Papers on Psychoanalysis. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.
Plato (2009). Phaedo. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sagan, E. (1988). Freud, Women and Morality: the Psychology of Good and Evil. New York: Basic Books.
George Berguno is an existential psychologist and phenomenological researcher; he is currently Professor of Psychology at Richmond American International University in London
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|Article Type:||Critical essay|
|Date:||Jan 1, 2014|
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