The unexceptional schizophrenic: a post-postmodern introduction
Catherine Prendergast [1]
Postmodern theory has been indispensable to disability studies because it has challenged normativity and destabilized narratives of national progress, social order, and identity. The essay nevertheless contends that crucial texts of postmodern theory have only achieved such destabilizations by holding one identity stable: that of the schizophrenic. These texts base their understanding of schizophrenia (and, by extension, the postmodern condition) on the writing of a few, distinctly exceptional, schizophrenics. An explosion of civic writing in the mid-1990s by writers who mark themselves specifically as non-exceptional schizophrenics, however, interrogates the desire for the stable schizophrenic, easy to recognize and therefore incarcerate, or celebrate, as the occasion demands. Attention to such writing reveals schizophrenics to be an active and growing constituency arguing for their rights in the public sphere. The essay concludes that recognition of this constituency and the multitude of voices it represents could greatly inform future theoretical programs that invoke “the schizophrenic.”
Wasn’t it because they didn’t go far enough in listening to the insane that the great observers who drew up the first classifications impoverished the material they were given –to such an extent it appeared problematic and fragmentary to them?
Jacques Lacan
Postmodern theory owes a great debt to schizophrenics—and to cyborgs, border-crossers, and other figures culturally designated as hybrid. But most belatedly, and most significantly to disability studies, the debt is owed to schizophrenics, those people who bear the diagnosis of schizophrenia, along with its legal, social, and rhetorical consequences. Without schizophrenics, postmodernity would struggle to limn its boundaries, for the schizophrenic in postmodern theory marks the point of departure from the modern, the Oedipal, the referential, the old. Postmodern theory has been indispensable to disability studies because it has allowed not only for a challenge to normativity, but also for the destabilizing of narratives of national progress, social order, and identity (Corker and Shakespeare). However crucial texts of postmodern theory have only achieved these destabilizations by holding one identity stable: that of the schizophrenic.
“Someone asked us if we had seen a schizophrenic—no, no, we have never seen one,” Deleuze and Guattari assert in the final pages of Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia (380). While this claim, on its face, is somewhat unlikely for at least Guattari, the more immediate question is, how do they know? The schizophrenic is imagined here to be immediately recognizable with a disorder visible, and yet, because not seen, at the same time invisible and outside the social order. So distanced from the public domain, the schizophrenic is ripe for appropriation by Deleuze and Guattari who find in this figure their anti-Oedipus. It’s a peculiarly honorary position the schizophrenic seems to hold: “The schizophrenic is closest to the beating heart of reality,” (87), “the possessor of the most touchingly meager capital” (12). Rosi Braidotti, writing for The Deleuze Dictionary, aptly summarizes the importance of the schizophrenic to the anti-Oedipalproject: “[T]he image of thought implied by liberal individualism and classical humanism is disrupted in favour of a multi-layered dynamic subject. On this level schizophrenia acts as an alternative to how the art of thinking can be practiced” (239). And yet this dynamic subject, always seemingly in motion, ever demonstrating this new mode of thinking, is nonetheless in Deleuze and Guattari’s work to be sharply differentiated from “the schizo,” reduced by hospitalization, “deaf, dumb and blind,” cut off from reality, “occupying the void” (88). By One Thousand Plateaus, the schizophrenic has disappeared almost entirely, metaphorically consumed by the rhizome.
It is probable, that when Deleuze and Guattari proclaimed that “no, no,” they had never seen a schizophrenic, they were not expecting to be taken literally. As active readers we might try a thought experiment of our own and replace “schizophrenic” in that phrase with “woman,” or the designation for an individual of any racialized group. Such a statement would be so much less likely, because at the time Anti-Oedipus was published (originally in 1972, in French), the civil rights movement and the burgeoning women’s rights movements would have drained the resulting expression of any ironic value. In the wake of a formerly disadvantaged group’s clear entrée into the civic sphere, no purchase can be gained through claiming—even facetiously—never to have met a member of that group. That Deleuze and Guattari can make the claim to mediate schizophrenic experience while never having met a schizophrenic says a great deal about the lack of self-identifying schizophrenics in the public sphere one generation ago.
Deleuze and Guattari are hardly the only postmodern theorists to ground their analysis of the late capitalist order in a stereotypical portrayal of the schizophrenic. Frederic Jameson also delineates the position of the schizophrenic, analogizing the postmodern condition to the breakdown of the signifying chain that characterizes schizophrenic thought: “[T]he schizophrenic is reduced to an experience of pure material signifiers, or, in other words, a series of pure and unrelated presents in time,” (27). Jean Baudrillard, similarly, analogizes the experience of postmodern reality to the experience of schizophrenia, correcting modernist notions of the schizophrenic as he does so: “The schizophrenic is not, as generally claimed, characterized by his loss of touch with reality, but by the absolute proximity to and total instantaneousness with things, this overexposure to the transparency of the world.” (27). Reality is thus accessible to postmodern theory through the thought patterns of the schizophrenic. What is common in these moments of access is the certitude with which schizophrenics are discussed; the schizophrenic is allowed no change in position or in thinking, and no agenda of her or his own. In the wake of this certainty regarding how schizophrenics think and how they act, Petra Kuppers’s comment on her viewing of the work of artist and schizophrenic Martin Ramírez is very refreshing: “I can’t know Ramírez—that is the only firm knowledge I can take away from the images and their history of making, storing, display, and criticism” (189).
Postmodern theory has many roots, and in discussing Jameson, Baudrillard, and Deleuze and Guattari, those who have specifically drawn upon schizophrenia to elucidate postmodernity, I am not limiting postmodernism to those entities. Nor do I find reason to challenge the central insights of postmodern theory and their utility to much of disability studies. I do, however, believe that it is productive to consider postmodern attempts to ground the shared postmodern condition in the unshared position of the schizophrenic, and interrogate those attempts within the context of the disability rights and specifically mental disability rights movements. My examination of how one theoretical program can propose to liberate at the same time as it (certainly unwittingly) casts certain identities outside the social order—whether in celebratory fashion, as in Deleuze and Guattari or Jameson, or in pathologizing fashion, as in Baudrillard—draws inspiration from David T. Mitchell and Sharon L. Snyder’s recollection in Narrative Prosthesis that the identity work conducted by race and sexuality studies historically involved distancing people of color and women from the “real” abnormalities with which they had long been metaphorically associated:
As feminist, race, and sexuality studies sought to unmoor their identities from debilitating physical and cognitive associations, they inevitably positioned disability as the ‘real’ limitation from which they must escape….Formerly denigrated identities are ‘rescued’ by understanding gendered, racial, and sexual differences as textually produced, distancing them from the ‘real’ of physical or cognitive aberrancy projected onto their figures. (2-3)
Following Mitchell and Snyder, it is interesting to note that Deleuze and Guattari, to launch their critique of late capitalism, have to distance schizoanalysis from the “real” schizo, stuck in the void. This central displacement is necessary to allow for the metaphorizing of schizophrenia along the exclusively positive channels Deleuze and Guattari allow. However positive, this metaphorizing enacts what Susan Sontag would call a “rhetorical ownership” over schizophrenia. Sontag suggests that the “metaphorical trappings” that attach to diagnoses have very real consequences, in terms of how people seek treatment, or don’t, including what kind of treatment they seek. She writes: “it is highly desirable for a specific dreaded illness to come to be seen as ordinary….Much in the way of individual experience and social policy depends on the struggle for rhetorical ownership of the illness: how it is possessed, assimilated in argument and in cliché” (93-94).
Clichés are, by definition, metaphors that have become too stable. The appropriation of the schizophrenic by postmodern theory is a cliché, one that posits continually the rhetorical exceptionalism of schizophrenics. This stability mirrors the medicalized investment, which, as Snyder and Mitchell have observed in "Disability Haunting in American Poetics," finds disability to be “an organic predicament based on the common sense notion that disability status cannot be altered” (2). As a result of this common sense notion, Snyder and Mitchell argue, the disabled are not allowed to enter the history of U.S. social conflict as an active constituency arguing for their rights within the public sphere. Postmodern theory values schizophrenics precisely because it imagines them insulated from civic life. They are to remain the “exceptional, private citizenry” that Snyder and Mitchell identify as typical of the role given to the disabled. There is, however, an increasingly public citizenry of schizophrenics who claim the following: to speak publicly, particularly on issues that affect their lives; to self-identify as schizophrenic without having to embrace the stigma associated with the term nor undersign any medicalized investment; to found and use their own press organs to further their causes (in this way, very much the ‘bodies with organs’); to be considered in public addresses, and finally, to enjoy a rhetorical position and a life that is not predicated on complete absence of impairment. In short, they claim the right to unexceptional instability, which is not something postmodern theory has readily granted them.
The model schizophrenic
It is not surprising that the postmodern theory I have reviewed should hold the identity of schizophrenics so constant, because much of it is based on a few, rather exceptional schizophrenics. The history of perhaps the most exceptional I will turn to here: Judge Daniel Paul Schreber. As Rosemary Dinnage observes, Schreber’s 1903 Memoirs of My Nervous Illness, something of a self-report,is “the most written-about document in all psychiatric literature….Everyone has had something to say about Schreber” (xi). Schreber’s writings cannot help but come to us as metaphor, saturated with the resonances of his commentators: Freud, Jung, Lacan, and Deleuze and Guattari, chief among them. Equally exceptional as the reception of his work were Schreber’s life and the course of his illness. A prominent German judge, Schreber was the son of Moritz Schreber, an immensely influential though controversial German authority on child-rearing. That Moritz Schreber’s systems for parenting stressed nearly sadistic obedience and control is a fact about which analyzers of Daniel Schreber’s pathology make some hay.[2] Also well-noted is that Schreber’s schizophrenia did not manifest until he was in his forties in the midst of his career.[3] He recovered from his first breakdown only to be incarcerated for nearly a decade when he was in his fifties. While in the asylum, he recorded his observations of his body and his religious conceptions including those supernatural matters “which cannot be expressed in human language; they exceed human understanding” (Schreber 16). Schreber was keen to publish his manuscript (his family, fearing embarrassment, not so very keen), however, inmates of asylums were not permitted by law to publish their work. In 1902, after a protracted legal battle, Schreber secured his release entering into the public sphere physically, and soon after, rhetorically. His Memoirs, published the following year, were quickly recognized as a critical account of psychosis. He had become fully exceptional. Lacan, who analyzed Schreber through his Memoirs wrote: “That Schreber was exceptionally gifted, as he himself puts it, at observing phenomena of which he is the center and at searching for their truth, makes his testimony incomparably valuable” (233, emphasis Lacan’s).
Undeniably, however, what made Judge Schreber most exceptional to modern commentators including Lacan was Freud’s 1911 analysis of the Schreber case. Schreber might at first seem an unusual subject for Freud to analyze given that Freud considered schizophrenics unfit subjects for the talking cure. Colin McCabe records, “Any psychotic patient that presented him or herself in Freud’s consulting rooms would, by the very nature of their condition, swiftly either refuse treatment or be referred on to a hospital” (ix). McCabe puzzles why Freud did not read Schreber’s Memoirs until seven years after its publication, even though it had been a topic of great discussion in psychiatric circles. That Freud did eventually turn his attention to the Schreber case McCabe credits to Freud’s fear that psychoanalysis, particularly its tenets grounding the relationship between the unconscious and the conscious in sexuality, faced threats from competing biological and social theories of the psyche. Schreber, to Freud, then, was also exceptional; Freud’s location of Schreber’s psychosis in repressed homosexuality was to be the exception that proved his rule of neurosis.
Freud’s defensive and unconvincing analysis of Schreber through the Memoirs, (“very unsatisfactory” Jung would deem it),[4] made Schreber the perfect platform from which Deleuze and Guattari could launch their assault on psychoanalytic theory’s complicity with the capitalist order. Judge Schreber, along with the also exceptional Antonin Artaud, became their model schizophrenics. But it was Schreber who allowed for the most direct attack on Freud. Deleuze and Guattari declared that Freud had done Schreber a great disservice in his reading of Memoirs, cutting off Schreber rhetorically at the kneecaps. “Not one word is retained,” they complained, of Schreber’s original work in Freud’s treatment. Schreber, they wryly remarked, was not only sodomized by rays from heaven (as Schreber in his Memoirs describes), but was “posthumously oedipalized by Freud,” who, they point out, never met his “patient” in vivo (57).
The concern Deleuze and Guattari have for Schreber seems to be one of recuperating his rhetorical position; Schreber, thus rhetorically enabled, can become the agent who can trick Freud in the session that never occurred, breaking through “the simplistic terms and functions of the Oedipal triangle” (14). However, Deleuze and Guattari themselves evince less than total confidence in Schreber’s self-account. Their remark, “if we are to believe Judge Schreber’s doctrine” (19) suggests that Schreber occupies only a qualified rhetorical position in Anti-Oedipus, one that is valuable, but provisional, even on the subject of Schreber’s own experience. Deleuze and Guattari find in Schreber’s memoirs the seeds of the break from representation, but they can only access it through an act of representation, one that grants Schreber no firmer rhetorical ground than he enjoyed through Freud’s text.
Where Deleuze and Guattari find Schreber through Freud, Jameson finds him through Lacan: “I have found Lacan’s account of schizophrenia useful here not because I have any way of knowing whether it has clinical accuracy but chiefly because—as description rather than diagnosis—it seems to me to offer a suggestive aesthetic model” (26). Through Jameson’s formulation of Schreber’s condition, we can understand schizophrenia as that state which enacts disruptions of temporality. Jameson cites as further examples of such disruption the work of John Cage and Samuel Beckett, neither of whom were diagnosed schizophrenics. Cage and Beckett quickly, however, become metaphors of schizophrenia through Jameson’s analysis. In the end Jameson leaves us with an aestheticization of the schizophrenic experience. Schizophrenia is always/ already artistic, always/already literary, always/already metaphorical. What might usefully rescue schizophrenia from these metaphoric entrapments is a shift in focus toward a rhetorical exploration, one that examines the circumstances of publication of schizophrenic writing, situating that writing within, as Snyder and Mitchell have suggested, histories of conflict over who may take up space in the public sphere.
News from the void
Two publications by schizophrenics entering the public sphere in 1995 form an interesting juxtaposition in this regard. One will be familiar and widely recognizable as exceptional: the publication of Ted Kaczynski’s “Industrial Society and its Future” [commonly known as the “Unabomber manifesto”] in The New York Times, a 36,000 word rant against modernity Kaczynski would go so far as to kill to see published. The other publication is much less well known. In 1995 Editor-in-Chief Ken Steele released the inaugural edition of New York City Voices: A Consumer Journal for Mental Health. To appreciate the profundity of this publication, a short biography of Steele is appropriate. Steele began hearing voices in 1962 when he was fourteen years old. The voices urged him repeatedly to kill himself. After a few failed attempts to follow their orders, Steele ran away from home, and was shortly afterward diagnosed with schizophrenia by a physician. At age seventeen he took off for New York City and was quickly ushered into the world of male hustling. Over the next thirty years he would be homeless, raped, shuttled between several psychiatric hospitals, and he would attempt to end his life several more times. In 1995, then under treatment with a new medication, Ken Steele’s voices stopped. Five years later, Steele died of a heart attack, possibly related to obesity that has since been identified as a common side effect of the medication he had been taking.
Significantly, Steele had actually begun engaging in advocacy slightly before the end of his voices. In order to fulfill the mandated “structured activity” as part of his care, he decided to found a voter registration project for the mentally ill. He had become alarmed at growing threats to Social Security Disability and proposed cutbacks to a range of other services the mentally ill rely on: housing, mental health clinics, and research. While he was still coping with his voices, he took a folding table and voter registration cards to homeless shelters and mental health clinics to register mentally ill voters of any party. After his voices stopped, however, he decided not only to help the mentally ill enter the polity via the vote, but also to use rhetoric as a tool to increase their civic presence. He founded New York City Voices primarily as a journal to inform about legislative issues, but writing the journal itself served its own enfranchising purposes.
A typical example of a story from New York City Voices, written by Steele himself in the July/August 1999 issue, is not rhetorically exceptional in any of the ways postmodern theorists might expect:
Did you know that only one-half of one percent of those Americans with disabilities presently receiving Social Security Disability Insurance (SSDI) or Supplemental Security Income (SSI) are employed? How many more of us do you think would like to work but cannot, because we would lose cash benefits if we earn over $500 a month and Medicare and Medicaid health coverage if we work more than three years?
What follows is a plea to support the Ticket to Work and Self-Sufficiency Program. There is nothing distinctly disorganized about this opening of rhetorical questions, which lays out the false choice Steele sees between accepting work and accepting health coverage. I would even venture to say that were it not for Steele’s self-identification as mentally ill throughout the article (and his invocation of an audience of the mentally ill), there would be nothing to mark Steele as schizophrenic.
Another writer for the journal, Lisa Gibson, in an article advocating for insurance parity in the Jan/Feb 2000 issue, writes that her manic depression has been the most crucial element of her life, exceeding the force of other social categories to which she also belongs. She begins by describing the importance of narrative in self-identification:
Charles Dickens began his book David Copperfield with the words "I am born." If I were to write an autobiography, I would begin with the words "I am born with manic-depression," for this illness has been the single most defining factor of my life and my personality. No other factor -- being female, being southern, being the middle child -- has had such an impact on me as this disease.
As Steele notes in The Day the Voices Stopped, “Most striking about New York City Voices has been the inclusion of personal stories by people with mental illness, written in our own words and under our own bylines (often accompanied by a photograph of the contributor). A bold but necessary move, self-disclosure is a first step toward successfully addressing the stigma associated with being mentally ill” (221). This self-disclosure is a defining feature of a rhetoric self-conscious of the usual position of the schizophrenic rhetor; typically schizophrenics are considered beings with speech, but speech that is generally treated as an index of sanity or insanity, with referentiality only to diagnostic criteria, and without referentiality to the civic world. Self-disclosure is thus a necessary component of civic rhetoric for these authors, involving the investiture of the previously stigmatizing moniker schizophrenic with new meaning. These writers appropriate the term schizophrenic in much the same way as the gay community successfully appropriated the previously denigrating term queer.
Snyder and Mitchell have identified the 1970s as the moment disability memoirs began to be published en masse: “These first person stories interrupted several hundred years of inaccurate disability representation by interested professionals in medicine, rehabilitation, and other caring professions” (9). When we look back at the mid-1990s from a vantage point thirty years hence, we will see it as the moment mental disability narratives began appearing en masse—which explains why the most blatant appropriations of the schizophrenic seem to end in the late 1980s. There is little getting around the fact that the explosion of civic rhetoric by schizophrenics corresponds with the advent of atypical antipsychotic medications in the 1990s. The first mass-market magazine authored primarily by schizophrenics, Schizophrenia Digest, began in 1994, for example, and continues to this day to chronicle schizophrenics’ struggles with social discrimination, limited treatment options, and those medications that may have allowed for certain forms of expression, but with troubling and sometimes life-threatening side-effects. Within the Digest’s pages, schizophrenics write of the need to speak in order to break through the assumption of the normative audience that informs most published material. As Vicky Yeung writes of her experience reading personal finance books written from a normative perspective:
[T]he author assumes I’m not limited by my mind’s matter as to how much money I conceivably can make. These writers give tips that are unhelpful for me, like increasing my income through investing in mutual funds, working at several jobs, etc., as if I could do any of those things. Really, they’re writing for the ‘normal healthy mind’ audience.” (47)
In this passage Yeung elucidates her exclusion from the normative processes of late capitalism, incapable as those processes are of incorporating a non-incarcerated, non-revenue producing, non-exceptional subject. Her quotation marks around “normal healthy mind” indicate that she does not consider herself “exceptional,” except that normativity makes her so.
As Daniel Frey, successor to Steele as Editor-in-Chief of New York City Voices has observed of the erasure of this non-exceptional subject through the exceptionalizing of schizophrenics: “The extremes of schizophrenia get the most publicity, like the genius John Nash on the one hand and the subway killer Gary Goldstein on the other. Every day people like me get overlooked even though we compose the vast majority of schizophrenics. The mental health consumer movement is the last great civil rights movement in this country.” Frey asks here for a move away from both pathologized and vaulted genius/artist versions of schizophrenics; he suggests movement toward the vast middle ground of schizophrenics who hold unexceptional jobs, or move through multiple hospitalizations without either killing anyone or winning Nobel prizes. Frey’s speech does not ask for leaps of interpretation, does not mark itself as any more “everyday” than he marks himself. He simply heralds the end of the exemplar schizophrenic. He asks that schizophrenics be able to participate in, as well as critique, late capitalism; one wonders what Deleuze and Guattari would have made of schizophrenic Bill MacPhee, publisher of Schizophrenia Digest in which Vicky Yeung’s critique of capitalism appears, who affirmed that his life was changed in 1994 by the book “101 Ways to Start a Business with Little or No Capital.” His business? A magazine for schizophrenics.
To see the “ordinary” schizophrenic is, in short, to give up the stable schizophrenic. The identity of being a schizophrenic, because it is tied to a history of having been diagnosed with the condition, may remain constant, but impairments fluctuate in time. As Kuppers notes, “Mental health is a contested terrain: on the one hand, mental normalcy is a problematic concept given the malleability and changing nature of human mental and emotional states. On the other hand, certain permutations of mentality are severely policed and bracketed off into deviancy” (59). The public seemingly only desires the stable schizophrenic, easy to incarcerate, or easy to celebrate as the occasion requires. The public does not want to allow for fluctuation between states, and even less for the possibility that both states exist at once. A genuinely postmodern perspective would not insist that schizophrenic rhetoric be fixed, but rather would allow for Bill MacPhee, Lisa Gibson, Vicki Yeung, and Daniel Frey to continue to engage in civic rhetoric, while being schizophrenic. It would allow them to occupy the contested public sphere, bringing to it the force of their narratives.
The narrative power of fluctuations between mental states is perhaps best captured by Richard MacLean’s memoir Recovered, not Cured. MacLean begins the work on a past moment of impairment, set off in space and time: “Another World, August 1994. I am crouching in an alleyway. They can’t see me here, so for a moment I am safe. There must be hundreds of loudspeakers projecting secret messages, and umpteen video cameras tracking every move I make” (xi). The book ends in “The Present”: “Nowadays, I say that I am recovered, not cured. I have a job as a graphic designer and illustrator, I have a band in which I do vocals and guitar, I have my friends and my family. I pay my taxes and do the dishes; I’m independent. I have achieved a sense of normality and live with the knowledge that a couple of pills a day will keep me slightly lethargic yet ‘sane’ at the same time. I can live with that” (174). The actual structure of MacLean’s text belies the sense of progression that these two time points imply. Interspersed through MacLean’s narrative are his own illustrations, many created “years ago,” as well as numerous emails from schizophrenics he has received since beginning a life of public advocacy. This structure enacts a merging of all states in the present, a time when ‘sane’ appears only in quotation marks. MacLean acknowledges in a section entitled “A Kind of Closure,”: “If I had my way, of course, all this would never have happened. However, I hoped that by writing about it I might be able to seal off all the chaos I had experienced; seal it up with sealing wax, put it in a cupboard or throw it to the sea. It hasn’t worked out quite so simply. To this day, although my illness is at a manageable level, I am residually delusional and sometimes read odd meanings into things” (172). There is, MacLean asserts, no definitive closure for him.
I would like to return, in only provisional closing then, to the quote from Lacan I selected for the epigraph, a reflection on schizophrenic voice: “Wasn’t it because they didn’t go far enough in listening to the insane that the great observers who drew up the first classifications impoverished the material they were given –to such an extent it appeared problematic and fragmentary to them?” Lacan suggests that schizophrenics had not been listened to except metaphorically. The problem according to Lacan is that these great observers thought that what schizophrenics were saying could not really be what they were actually saying. It would have to be something else. Lacan was, ironically, talking about the much-observed Schreber, who died in an asylum four years after the publication of the Memoirs. Let us change Lacan’s “it,” though, so it no longer stands simply for the utterances of one schizophrenic at one moment in time. Let us have “it” stand in for all schizophrenic utterances at all points in time. That “it” should appear problematic. It should appear fragmentary. But it should appear, and once appearing, be considered unexceptional.[5]
Notes
[1] Catherine Prendergast, Department of English, University of Illinois at Urbana/Champaign
[2] See, for example, Soul Murder by Schatzman.
[3] Schreber was not diagnosed schizophrenic during his life (the diagnosis not then being in use), however, Deleuze and Guattari, typical of his modern commentators, ascribe him that condition.
[4] Jung’s response quoted in Dinnage, and further elaborated in McCabe.
[5] Many thanks to the JLD reviewers for their invaluable comments on an earlier version of this essay.
Works cited
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Deleuze, Gilles and Félix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Trans. Brian Massumi. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1987.
---. Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Trans. Robert Hurley, Mark Seem, and Lane R. Helen. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 2000.
Dinnage, Rosemary. Introduction. In Memoirs of My Nervous Illness by Daniel Paul Schreber, eds.
Ida Macalpine and Richard A. Hunter, xi-xxiv. New York: New York Review of Books, 2000.
Freud, Sigmund. The Schreber Case. Trans. Andrew Webber. New York: Penguin, 2002.
Frey, Daniel. "First Break: Three Years Later." New York City Voices, www.nycvoices.org, posted 2002.
Gibson, Lisa. "Parity Matters to Me." New York City Voices, www.nyvoices.org, posted 2000.
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Schatzman, Morton. Soul Murder: Persecution in the Family. New York: Random House, 1973.
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Snyder, Sharon L. and David T. Mitchell. . "Disability Haunting in American Poetics." Journal of Literary Disability 1.1 (2007): 1-12.
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---. Illness as Metaphor. New York: Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, 1978.
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Yeung, Vicky. "Born with a Gift and a Purpose." Schizophrenia Digest 5.3 (2007): 47.
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