“Biography” is a sober, precise and modern word. Like other words formed from a Greek root, it has a competent and knowing air. It makes a good appearance in the summary of reviews, on the platform at conferences, between “biology” and “bibliography,” between “necrology” and “radiography,” in that scientific elite of the lexicon that travels in “business” class from one language to another, always at home in the time belts, hotel lobbies, conference rooms or amphitheaters. Compared with this prosperity, the word “Life” is old-fashioned, a poor relative doomed to retirement homes. In the period between the two wars it disappeared from bookstore windows and book jackets. The hesitations of André Maurois, the author of Aspects de la biographie (1928), are characteristic of a transition: he wavered between La Vie de Disraeli (1927), Ariel ou la vie de Shelley (1923), Prométhée ou la vie de Balzac (1965) and Byron (1930). We sense that the title Vie was on the way out or had to yield to a proper name or an allegorical figure. However, it was a word in good standing, nobly Latin in origin, as great a signore in its class as those Massimi or Colonna who claimed their ancestors were mentioned by Titus Livy. Its genealogy is still more ancient, if we recall that its metonymic and literary meaning in Latin is a translation of the Greek word Bios, which the Hellenes, inventors of the genre and who had a more pedantic use of their language than we do, were content to use up until the end. “Biography,” according to Liddell-Scott, is not found in Antiquity except in a very late neo-Platonian, Damaskios, who put this humorless escogriffe into circulation when twilight was descending on the Roman Empire, between the 5th and 6th centuries A.D., at the dawn of the Middle Ages. It made its entrance into modern languages in the last quarter of the 17th century, when the humanism of the Renaissance was coming to an end, and the Enlightenment was beginning its rise. This late and ill-boding word began a slow ascension, long delayed: it did not come into usage outside the circles of antiquarians until the 19th century. The old word “Life” proudly kept its importance until the ‘20s of our era in the particularly conservative language of titles of works. Its definitive effacement to the profit of “biography” brought that of the word “memoirs” or the word “confessions,” which yielded to “autobiography,” while “hagiography” without being able to impose itself so well in usage, took much gravity and credibility away from the “Lives of the Saints.”

For some time it has been fashionable in literary circles to reject what is called scornfully the biographical method. It was inevitable. No mode lasts forever. Sooner or later, there is a change. This method was the law for too long. It had no rival. Under its tutelage the motto for teaching literature was “the man, his work”. It was by its authority that students were taught that La Fontaine was in charge of waterways and forests and master of the hunt before writing his Fables, that they had to learn by heart; or that Beaumarchais had been a clockmaker, musician, secret agent and business man before inventing the character of Figaro, proposed for their admiration. There has been a reaction. Our irreverent and contentious age has put an end to that absolute sovereignty. For a good quarter of a century this practice and the assumptions on which it rests has been on trial, in the name of the various and at times even contradictory conceptions and theories about the nature of literature. These have in common, however, the belief in the independence of literature with regard to the human being who was the instrument of its creation, as well as the anathema cast by this fact on what is commonly accepted as “referential illusion”.

All specialists who question the diverse components of the medieval universe stress that the ecclesiastical institution occupied a choice place within the sociocultural structure of that world. This is true because of the solidity of its implantation in the century and particularly because of the efficacity of its doctrinal function. In the cultural domain, the production and transmission of knowledge (in addition to the practice of indoctrination that it supposes), the Church was completely sovereign. The ecclesiastical institutions (from simple parish churches to cathedrals and episcopal sees, as well as convents and monasteries) were responsible for the foundation and rise of medieval schools, universities, the centers where books were produced—or more precisely, manuscripts—and the organization of libraries.

Although many people find fault with Freud, the horse that they flog is not yet dead. I should in fact maintain that we are all still under Freud's long shadow. Last autumn the American press reported a dreadful crime: a young man, egged on by his mother, murdered his father. The newspapers helpfully explained that the young man had a very prominent Oedipus complex. If we dismiss this as just a journalistic excess, we would do well to remember how hard it is to open our own mouths without registering the effect of Freud upon the language. We converse casually about the sexual proclivities of infants, about sibling rivalries, about dependency upon the mother, about sadomasochistic impulses. When we forget things, we suspect ourselves of having wanted to forget them. We may shun the technical vocabulary of Freud, words such as ego, superego, id, the pleasure principle and the reality principle, the anal, oral, and genital stages, yet we are hardly likely to do without such words as aggression, anxiety, compulsion, the unconscious, defense mechanism, narcissism, death wish, erogenous zones, fixation, guilt feeling, sublimation, wish fulfillment. Freud may not have invented most of these words, yet he connected them together and he gave them a special color and shape. And quite apart from terminology, Freud has given us the conviction that a secret life is going on within us that is only partly under our control.

We are again going through a period of expansion in biographical literature. There is an ever greater number of publications, demonstrating the libido biographica of the reading public and also showing the interest of authors for a genre that is often treated with a great deal of care and rigor. This is not the first time in the history of letters, and each of us can find in his library a quantity of ancient, classic or modern works proving the constancy of this production. However, the contemporary phenomenon takes on a different meaning. The appetite for the biographical seems to be directly linked to its value as testimony. We are living in an era of distrust with regard to rules and codes. Every individual is called on to organize his conduct and invent his existence, from which comes, it seems, this need for an example that also expresses a taste for history and a need for more truth than entertainment from the author of biographies.

Biography is a story, and a story is something that is meant to be told. It is thus quite evident that biography is the tale of a life: a life-story (Lebensgeschichte in German). But then the question arises as to what exactly is a story and how apt is it for representing life within the limits of this representation as compared to other representations of life: the painted or written portrait, the private diary, the oral or tape-recorded interview, the curriculum vitae, the anthropometric file or the epitaph, which at least has the merit of being concise.

These few pages will attempt to analyze the relationships created in the chronically delirious person between himself and his own biography, such as he knows and has experienced it, to which he attaches himself and which dominates him without his knowing it. A few remarks to clarify our vocabulary before getting into the development of this question. We prefer the expression “chronic deliria“, in the plural, to the word “psychosis”, used in the singular. The former term is clinical, and therefore empirical, whereas the second derives from theories; and, especially, the former does not immediately imply a unity of process as opposed to the effective diversity of semiotic appearances. Moreover, the nominal adjective “psychotic“ runs the risk of both clandestinely bringing in hidden presuppositions and of re-establishing the old presumed unity with mental alienation, which had, indeed, been exorcised by J. P. Falret by the middle of the nineteenth century.

Certain lives are transcribed like musical scores that compose themselves in a transparent register and whose traces—memories and written works—remain present, long-lasting or eternal. In a way, biography consists in deciphering them, then recomposing them through some process—condensation, for example—in modifying chronological time into writing-reading time or in shifting, regrouping certain facts or certain parameters. In some cases we discover that they give a dynamic and structure homologous or very near to those of narratives, epics or marvelous tales. The life of Lou Andreas-Salomé belongs to these cycles that are, in some respects, exceptional.