Papas, patriarchy and primogeniture loom large in the life and work of Sigmund Freud, the founder of psychoanalysis.
In his exploration of psychosexual development, Freud proposed that 'a hero is a man who stands up manfully against his father and in the end victoriously overcomes him'. As we know, the ancient Greek myth of Oedipus fitted his hypothesis, and the eponymous 'complex’ cemented his reputation in the field of psychoanalysis and beyond.
Freud believed that each generation has a ‘psychical disposition’ to push back against authority, and so I am curious that he never gave much consideration to another father/son Greek myth, that of Icarus.
In this story, there is no 'overcoming', rather the father remains 'alive', dominant and powerful! What impact does a dominant father, even an absent dominant father, have on the developing psyche and in particular our adult sense of self?
The story of Icarus sheds light on the complexities that take place between in the father / son and the wounds that can happen in that relationship. But first, we need to unpick some of the more familiar interpretations of the myth.
Within Freudian psychology, Icarus does get assigned his own ‘complex’, but predictably it is used to describe an overly-ambitious character.
Icarus was the son of Daedalus, a Steve Jobs of the ancient world, who amongst his technological achievements, designed a labyrinth for King Minos of Crete to imprison the mythological beast known as the Minotaur. Daedalus was single-minded and driven. However, he lost favour with the King, and ended up being imprisoned, along with Icarus, in a tower used by roosting birds.
Daedalus hatched a plan of escape that involved constructing wings out of feathers and wax. In one version of the story, Icarus gets in the way of his father's work, ‘his play impeding his father in his labors’. In another, he shows no interest in his father’s endeavours until the wings are created, and then he cannot wait to try them on, brushing aside his father’s instructions about not flying too close to the sun, or too low to the sea. Icarus ignores his Father, and soaring upwards, the heat of the sun melts the wax causing Icarus to tumble out of the sky, and into the sea, where he is downed.
The story has become a metaphor for hubris, and a consequence of personal ambition. But I believe that there is so much more to it than that.
Daedalus is always portrayed as a benevolent father and predictably the message from the story is ‘father knows best.’
But there is an epitaph to this story which does not quite fit that narrative. Rather than being benevolent, Daedalus could also be controlling, vindictive and punishing. After Icarus’s death, Daedalus was entrusted with the apprenticeship of his sister’s son, Perdix. But rather than encouraging his protege, Daedalus became jealous of the boy’s apparent skills - Perdix invented the saw and the compass - and in a fury, Daedalus pushed Perdix off the edge of a tower to his death. There were no wings this time.
There is something of the 'malignant narcissist' about Daedalus, especially when we consider the story of Perdix. Daedalus angrily responds when his point of view is questioned, and an opposing opinion is seen as a direct attack. He experiences both his son and nephew as extensions of himself and when they challenge him by having their own ideas, they are challenging his fragile sense of self. The malignant narcissist is racked with self-doubt. In destroying Perdix and forcing Icarus to jump out of a tower with wax wings, he is destroying the part of himself he cannot tolerate.
This makes me wonder, was Daedalus really stricken with grief when his only son fell to his death? Or was he just disappointed by his own design failure?
Daedalus’s cruelty is the darkest shadow of the 'father complex'. At its most extreme, we see this with totalitarian leaders who cultivate an image of fatherly largesse whilst being jealous and vindictive towards anyone who rejects their support or control.
Even with well-meaning fathers, it can be hard for them to accept that their child is forging their own path, and in doing so, may surpass them and 'fly higher'.
Freud himself was not immune from this dynamic; his protege, Carl Jung, was known as the 'crown prince', however their relationship ended in rupture just as Jung found his own wings. The relationship was never repaired.
All sons want to impress their fathers, so goes the familiar trope, but maybe Icarus was sceptical about this escape plan? After all, even Leonardo da Vinci failed to design a set of human wings that could actually fly. What if Daedalus felt challenged and threatened by his son's doubt?
If Icarus's doubt was interpreted as disinterest or ambivalence, did this lead to him being told he was in the way, or useless, or not good enough? And what if his tears - and fear - were then ridiculed and dismissed?
As the writer David Sedaris puts it: 'what do fathers and sons talk about? I never asked, he never offered.'
If we follow the myth, the shame Icarus felt may explain why he did not listen to those important instructions. Flying towards the sun was not vanity or the need for approval, rather he was trying to escape his controlling Father.
This goes against the 'patriarchal pact', another of Freud's theories, about how patriarchy works and is maintained. When the pact is challenged, the whole structure of society is threatened. As we have seen over the past 100 years, Marxism, feminism, gay rights and civil rights to name but a few, have challenged patriarchy as the dominant structure. Icarus represents all of those battles and whilst he did not succeed, the fight continues.
Icarus is portrayed as an ungrateful son who is not particularly interested in his father’s engineering endeavours.
But perhaps it is not as simple as that.
Icarus is narcissistically wounded. Children who experience abuse, abandonment and a lack of care may refuse to remember the ugly facts of childhood. They may mask their disowned feelings with depression and/or grandiosity. The 'grandiose child', or 'the flying boy', will focus on status, materialism, and even spirituality. They do this to survive. The alternative is physical, emotional and spiritual collapse. But to heal the narcissistic wound they will need, at some point, to confront it. They will need to crash to earth. This is a terrifying prospect. There is no guarantee of survival. This is why in psychotherapy, working with narcissistic wounds is complicated and long-term.
There is an ancient sect that only begins to count a man’s age from the day his father died. This idea resonates through psychoanalysis too. When we come to therapy, our 'younger part' is often foreground. Ultimately, we are looking to develop the flow between our different 'ego states', the younger part, our more adult sense of self, and the part that can parent and hold benign authority.
As for Freud, he did eventually find his 'crown prince' in his daughter Anna.
One of the most famous depictions of the story of Icarus is by the 14th century Flemish painter Bruegel. It is a curious painting, as the focus is on the farmers in the foreground who continue to go about their daily work ploughing and minding their sheep as Icarus disappears under the waves in a corner of the painting.
There is a Flemish saying which Bruegel would have been familiar with, ‘and the farmer continues to plough’ (en de boer ... hij ploegde voort), which highlights how blind humans are to others' suffering. The narcissistic wound is often well hidden. Icarus, like many wounded people, has been dismissed as vain and self-obsessed, but his story tells us much more than that.
Landscape with the Fall of Icarus - Pieter Bruegel (ca. 1558)
Musees Royaux des Beaux-Arts de Belgique, Brussels, Belgium
Futher Reading:
Moses and Monotheism - Sigmund Freud, 1939
Under Saturn's Shadow: The Wounding and Healing of Men - James Hollis