Lacan is always there with a twist, a spasm, a neat and terrifying paradox to unthink the stubbornly always-already thinkable, to make strange what is given, to shake up and reorder the relations among power, ethics and selfhood. For anger, this might be particularly useful. Imagine it along Lacanian lines, then, if you will, as a symptom:
My anger, a symptom, is not a twitch, or a spasm, but precisely a symptom, a sinthome, even, in that it is not about le vouloir-dire (“wanting to say”) but it speaks only in so far as space is made for it in the analytical situation, in so far as we believe in the believing…. That symptom, my anger (at what?), is thus without cause and is real: it is in itself without ontology and must be made to speak by an act if wilful symbolisation; speak it, say it, let it out, we might say. But that simple modality of outpouring, of ‘freeing’ of ‘opening’, of touching and feeling is circular and without usefulness here since it shortcircuits the coming to be of the symptom in a way altogether unhelpful for the broader analytical arch of the symptom. To ‘understand’ the symptom, one must certainly make room for it: bring it into speech, certainly, but also bring it into silence, allow it to swell, to fill and tremble; nurture it, hold it close, take it on, make it yours, because that is precisely what it is.
My anger is my own, my special, my exception.
It is here that the so-called blindspot (seeing red) seems to show itself as not quite right, not quite the place at which anger as symptom works, too reduced to a mere structural ‘is-not’, to mere emptiness. This is too clean, too pure, too neat. If anger as symptom is anything it is never neat, never clean, but always contaminated somehow, always beholden, always already thrown, always already become, too real, too material. Perhaps blindspot (seeing red, going ape), then, is too glib a shorthand: let’s think it differently again.
If anger is a state of exception, as we have already suggested, then it is also, as symptom, paradoxically, the repetition of that exception, the greying over-and over that makes it want to say, to vouloir dire, to show itself in the space we make for it. In repeating it, in becoming angry again and again, the symptom is given space to be and it announces itself to us. Here I am; your anger; let us embrace.
This anger is not the the place at which you hide yourself from me, but the place at which hiding and revealing are endlessly repeated.