The Case of Literature

Front matter

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Contents

Acknowledgments Introduction

Part I Making the Case around 1800 1. The Case of Werther and the Institution of Literature

2. “Observe, Write!”: Histories of Observation and the Psychological Novel Anton Reiser

Part II The Case between Psychiatry, Law, and Literature

5. Schmolling, Hoffmann, Hitzig, and the Problem of Legal Responsibility

6. The Drama of the Case: Making the Case of Woyzeck vil

71 93 vi Contents

7. Drama, Anecdote, Case: Wedekind’s Lulu

8. Conclusion: The Fiction of Authority

Part III Novelistic Casuistry

9. Freud’s Cases 10. Fantasy of Facts: Doblin’s Poetics of Uncertainty 11. The Man of Possibilities: Musil’s Moosbrugger

12. Conclusion: The Function of Fiction

Index

132 152

157 174 190 205

213 229

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For their support and friendship, I would like to thank my parents, Kirsten and Eitel Friedrich Hocker, and my friends and colleagues, whose encouragement has helped me to complete this book: Alison Cool, Riidiger Campe, Marco Clausen, Kijan Espahangizi, Christiane Frey, Patrick Greaney, Jason Groves, Wolf Kittler, Andrea Krauß, Jörg Kreienbrock, David Martyn, Peri Mason, Ulrich Plass, Tom Roberts, Matthias Rothe, Ann Schmiesing, Jochen Steinbicker, Davide Stimilli, Elisabeth Strowick, Ellwood Wiggins, Meredith Miller and my friends from the RCC Boulder. I am, indeed, particularly grateful to Paul Fleming for his generous support and advice, and to Helmut Müller-Sievers for being a diligent, critical, and generous reader of my manuscript, and for having pushed me to make this book better. It would not have been the same book without his ingenious advice.

An earlier version of chapter 3 appeared under the title “In Citation: ‘A Violation of the Law of Boundaries’ in Schiller and Kleist,” Germanic Review: Literature, Culture, Theory 89, no. 1: 60-75 viii Acknowledgments

(https://www.tandfonline.com). I am grateful to the press for allowing its reprinting here. I would also like to express my gratitude to the board and the editors of the Signale series at Cornell University Press, and to the two anonymous readers of my manuscript, whose advice and criticism has significantly contributed to its improvement.

THE CASE OF LITERATURE

Introduction

The Jerusalem Case

On October 29, 1772, Karl Wilhelm Jerusalem, a twenty-five-year-old lawyer in the town of Wetzlar, shot himself in the head in his apartment and died one day later.! Jerusalem, who came from a bourgeois background and had repeatedly come into conflict with the nobility and his superiors, did not find much satisfaction in his position as a legation secretary to the Principality of Brunswick- Wolfenbüttel. He was bullied, and his father had already arranged a new position for his son in Vienna when Jerusalem fell in love with the countess Elisabeth Herd, a married woman. Devastated and heartbroken after being rejected, Jerusalem decided to take

1. A collection of documents concerning the Jerusalem case can be found in Roger Paulin, Der Fall Wilhelm Jerusalem: Zum Selbstmordproblem zwischen Aufklärung und Empfindsamkeit (Göttingen: Wallstein, 1999).

his own life. Under false pretenses, he obtained a pistol from his acquaintance—Johann Christian Kestner, who was not aware of any of the unfortunate details—and shot himself. In a letter, Kestner told the story to his friend Johann Wolfgang Goethe, who had met Jerusalem as a student in Leipzig, and who also had settled in Wetzlar in May of the same year:

As Jerusalem was now alone, he appears to have made all his preparations for this terrible deed. He wrote two letters. One to a relative, the other to H. After these preparations, around toward 1 o’clock, he shot himself in the forehead above his right eye. The bullet could not be found anywhere. No one in the house heard the shot except the Franciscan Father Guardian, who also saw the powder flash but because there was no further sound, paid no attention to it. The servant had hardly slept the night before and has his room far out at the back. It appears to have been done as he was sitting in his armchair in front of his desk. The back of the seat of the chair was bloody, as well as the armrests. Thereupon he slumped down from the chair. There was still a lot of blood on the floor. He was fully dressed, his boots on and wearing a blue coat with a yellow waistcoat.”

Jerusalem’s body was found in the morning by one of the servants, and the doctor, who was called immediately, could not do anything for the young man, whose pulse was still beating. “The rumor of the event spread quickly,” Kestner continues in his letter:

The whole town was shocked and thrown into an uproar. I first heard about it at 9 o’clock, I remembered my pistols, and I don’t know, in a short time I was so very shocked. I got dressed and went there. He had been laid on the bed, his brow covered, his face already that of a dead man... . Here and there lay books and some of his own written essays. “Emilia Galotti,” its pages opened, lay on the desk at the window, next to it a manuscript, approximately the thickness of a finger, in quarto, of a philosophical nature. Part One or the first Letter had the title “On Freedom.” He died at noon. In the evening at 10:45 he was buried in the common churchyard in stillness with 12 lanterns and several persons ac-

2. Johann Christian Kestner, “Letter to Goethe Reporting on Jerusalem’s Suicide,” in Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, The Sufferings of Young Werther, trans. and ed. Stanley Corngold (New York: W. W. Norton, 2012), 103.

companying him; barber’s apprentices carried him; the cross was carried before him; no clergyman attended.’

The familiarity of these passages from Kestner’s letter is not a coincidence: Goethe modeled his first novel, The Sufferings of Young Werther (1774), after the Jerusalem case, and the final pages borrow verbatim from Kestner’s report on the suicide. The novel’s famous last line—“no clergyman attended”—is a direct quote from the letter, as is Werther’s signature dress, blue coat and yellow waistcoat.

The adaptation of an authentic case of suicide in Goethe’s Werther shows that by the end of the eighteenth century, literary fiction has abandoned its moralizing and didactic purpose and has instead begun to reach toward the uncommented depiction of individual histories. Werther can no longer be understood as a moral example; as an individual case it is organized as a narrative so as to make accessible “the heart of a sick, youthful delusion.”* A “true depiction,” Goethe writes in his autobiography regarding the Werther novel, does not have a didactic purpose, “it does not condone, it does not condemn; it develops sentiments and actions as they follow from one another, and in so doing it illuminates and instructs.” $ In a conversation with the Swiss poet Johann Kaspar Lavater, Goethe is said to have labeled his first novel a historia morbi, a story of an illness, thereby implying that Werther belonged to the tradition of medical cases and their interest in psychopathology.° The narrative presentation of an individual case based on contemporary events distinguishes Goethe’s novel from other literary works of his time. It is telling that the novel, which appeared without a desig-

4. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, “From My Life: Poetry and Truth,” in Werther, 115.

5. Goethe, “From My Life,” 118.

6. Hans Gerhard Gräf, “Nachträge zu Goethes Gesprächen, 1: Johann Kaspar Lavater,” Jahrbuch der Goethe-Gesellschaft 6 (1919): 283-285. For a detailed discussion of Goethe’s remark to Lavater, see Christiane Frey, “‘Ist das nicht der Fall der Krankheit?’ Der literarische Fall am Beispiel von Goethes Werther,” Zeitschrift fiir Germanistik 19 (2009): 317-329.

nation of authorship, was initially not even perceived as literary fiction; the opening fiction of the editor and the epistolary form contributed to this perception.” That Werther could also be read as a documentation of a real case of suicide indicates a significant change in the status of literary fiction toward the end of the eighteenth century. It also shows the emergence of interest in psychological abnormalities and, just as important, in the ability of narrative fiction to present psychological cases. Insofar as it eliminates any external interpretative frame, Werther does not provide a general rule or principle to which the case relates, as was the custom in older traditions of casuistry, and it does not subscribe to an identifiable norm that the novel would champion. Goethe’s novel absorbs the historical case into a narrative structure that retains the tension between the individual history and the general consequences that could be drawn from it. It is in reference to given cases that authors begin to display, to experiment, and to reflect on the conditions for the narrative appropriation of reality. The following pages will show that representing cases in fictional narrative became an important touchstone for the development of German literature.

What Is a Case?

The concept case refers to a particular way of thinking, administrating, and classifying that has gained epistemic relevance in various disciplinary and institutional settings.° In the most general terms, a case allows the making of connections between a specific, discrete incident that it reports and a general form of knowledge to

7. Regardless of the initial anonymous publication of the novel, Werther has been identified as the novel that inaugurates a new form of authorship, an author function, as Friedrich Kittler has argued, that regulates the hermeneutic interpretation of literary texts. (See Friedrich A. Kittler, “Autorschaft und Liebe,” in Austreibung des Geistes aus den Geisteswissenschaften, ed. Friedrich A. Kittler [Paderborn: Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh, 1980], 142-173.)

8. Most prominently, John Forrester, “If P, Then What? Thinking in Cases,” History of the Human Sciences 9, no. 3 (1996): 1-25.

which it contributes. The particular way a case fulfills its function depends on the disciplinary context in which it appears; criminal cases are used for purposes different from medical or psychological cases. To qualify as a case, the observation and record of a particular event requires a framework that attributes significance to it in regard to other possible cases, but not necessarily documented ones. Thus, a case can be defined as a distinctive set of references—even when it can be treated as a self-sufficient observation of a discrete and isolated event, it is functionally dependent.’

Historically, cases answer to a variety of moral, legal, and epistemic problems. They have been used to deduce general codes of conduct in moral theology, where they can also take on an illustrative and exemplary character. They can support legal arguments and become precedents against which other cases can be measured, evaluated, and used in legal processes of decision making. Finally, cases can be used to generate knowledge, such as in medical disciplines, where they were to be considered the primary method of informing therapeutic and—since the Renaissance—scientific practice.

The functional definition of the case varies with its disciplinary and institutional frame, whereas its formal definition is easier to apprehend: cases employ narrative—a sequential and coherently written account of events—as their principle of organization. Beyond this congruence, their form can vary significantly in focus, perspective, and length. Premodern collections of medical cases from the late sixteenth century onward, for example, were published as consilia or observationes; although they vary in focus, perspective, and narrative style, these collections were the first to make systematic use of cases and, therefore, are of particular relevance for the scientific formation of modern medical discourse.!? Consilia were printed for practical educational purposes, and observationes are precursors to the modern concept of case that coincided with the birth of the clinic and the training of the medical gaze in

9. See Christiane Frey, “Fallgeschichte,” in Literatur und Wissen: Ein interdisziplinäres Handbuch, ed. Roland Borgards, Harald Neumeyer, Nicolas Pethes, and Yvonne Wübben (Stuttgart: Metzler, 2013), 283.

10. See Robert Jütte, “Vom medizinischen Casus zur Krankengeschichte,” Berichte zur Wissenschaftsgeschichte 15 (1992): 50-52.

the late eighteenth century.!! In contrast to other forms of medical casuistry that often combine the description of symptoms with an anamnesis and diagnostic conclusions, observationes avoided any form of scholarly explanation and left open the relationship between an individual case and the sequence in which it appeared: “In the observationes, the hierarchy of case and commentary was reversed: no longer subordinate to the elucidation of doctrine, the case narrative became the primary object of attention.” t Observationes form their own “epistemic genre” that is directed toward the production of knowledge based on individual cases.!?

The premodern medical case remained an empirical genre with a decidedly pragmatic and practical orientation. Its popularity in the late sixteenth century was due to increasing frustration with the dominant Galenic medicine and its theoretical and speculative methods.'* More generally speaking, cases often seem to become important when conventional paradigms of knowledge and knowledge production become obsolete or their general validity is questioned. Inversely, this means that no standard for their

11. See Michel Foucault, The Birth of the Clinic: An Archaeology of Medical Perception, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Pantheon, 1973). On consilia as a casuistic genre, see Michael Stollberg, “Formen und Funktionen medizinischer Fallgeschichten in der Frühen Neuzeit (1500-1800),” in Fallstudien: Theorie, Geschichte, Methode, ed. Johannes Süßmann, Susanne Scholz, and Gisela Engel (Berlin: Trafo Verlag, 2007), 81-95.

12. Gianna Pomata, “The Medical Case Narrative: Distant Reading of an Epistemic Genre,” Literature and Medicine 32, no. 1 (2014): 15.

13. Gianna Pomata introduces the concept of epistemic genre to distinguish the case from literature and to characterize “those genres that are deliberately cognitive in purpose” (Pomata, “Medical Case Narrative,” 15). Texts that can be affiliated with epistemic genres, Pomata specifies, develop in direct connection to scientific practices, and the knowledge they produce is not a cultural side effect, but the result intended by an author. Pomata distinguishes sharply between epistemic and literary genre: “Historians of knowledge should identify epistemic genres as that specific kind of genre whose function is fundamentally cognitive, not aesthetic or expressive—that kind of genre whose primary goal is not the production of meaning but the production of knowledge” (2). Pomata admits that this distinction can and should not be drawn rigidly and that historians of knowledge have indeed shown that poetics and epistemology are often interconnected. She believes, however, that the literary and the epistemic must be distinguished from one another in order to study and understand their specific effects.

14. See Stollberg, “Formen und Funktionen,” 89.

composition exists and that one can attribute to them a liberating effect: “The adoption of case-related structures in literature as well as of narrative patterns in medical writing,” Nicolas Pethes writes, “always serves as an attempt to leave behind standardized modes of representation in favor of new ones beyond established general categories. In short, writing case histories always means writing against genre—at least in the traditional sense of general typological schemes.” !°

The reference to the medical use of cases is particularly important in the following investigation because it differs significantly from casuistic practices in moral theology and jurisprudence: medical practitioners do not observe the individual case from the perspective of doctrine but instead proceed from an individual history. The narrative form of cases is sometimes considered sufficient evidence for the epistemic productivity of literary forms; this should not, however, lead to the easy conclusion that these cases can be fully understood in literary terms without reference to their disciplinary practices and institutional frames.!° What is of interest in the following, rather, is the constitutive contribution of case narratives to the establishment of new scientific disciplines, in particular empirical psychology and, more important, the formation of an autonomous discourse of and about literary fiction from the late eighteenth century onward.

One of the earliest attempts to define the case as an essential mode of literary narrative, André Jolles’s often-quoted Simple Forms (1930), is instructive here, although it is still heavily indebted to the tradition of casuistry in theology and jurisprudence. Jolles does not understand the case simply as a narrative illustration of a norm or

15. Nicolas Pethes, “Telling Cases: Writing against Genre in Medicine and Literature,” Literature and Medicine 32, no. 1 (2014): 27.

16. Volker Hess strongly rejects any understanding of the case as a literary genre and instead proposes different perspectives on the form, organization, and function of the case. Hess does not see any generic uniformity of the case at all and instead focuses on the media techniques and social practices of notation, registration, and writing—which he calls paper technology. (Volker Hess, “Observation und Casus: Status und Funktion der medizinischen Fallgeschichte,” in Fall— Fallgeschichte—Fallstudie: Theorie und Geschichte einer Wissensform, ed. Susanne Diiwell and Nicolas Pethes [Frankfurt am Main: Campus Verlag, 2014], 37.)

a rule but as a negotiation of conflicts between norms. A case, he argues, raises a question without giving an answer; it is directed toward a decision without suggesting one.!” Jolles defines the case by assigning it a specific “mental disposition” (Geistesbeschäftigung), in contrast to understanding the case as a genre. Considering the breadth in variation of narrative and epistemic forms of casuistic reasoning in medicine, jurisprudence, and literature, Jolles’s definition of the case as a figure of thought rather than a set of narrative rules is indeed productive, as when he argues that the case has “a tendency to expand into an art form,...to become a novella.” !8 Cases, in this view, precede the standardization of narrative forms and their solidification into genres. This opens up new perspectives on the exchange between literary and epistemic forms and on the constitutive potential of casuistic modes of representation for the development of literary forms: writing cases means not only writing against genre but also writing toward genre, toward theory, and toward applicable knowledge.

Dependent on their disciplinary focus, historical studies of cases have followed different traditions and trajectories. Interestingly, historians of science have emphasized continuities in which literary scholars, in reference to Foucault’s history of modern biopolitics and the emergence of disciplinary and normalizing practices that center around the individual, have seen a paradigmatic shift.'” Most prominently, John Forrester has argued for a tradition of “thinking in cases” that has shaped various scientific disciplines from antiquity to modernity.” In contrast to Foucault, Forrester does not see any decisive transformation or shift in the direction of casuistic think-

17. “The special character of the case lies in the fact that it asks the question, but cannot give the answer; that it imposes the duty of judgment upon us, but does not itself contain the judgment—what becomes manifest in it is the act of weighing, but not the result of the weighing.” (André Jolles, Simple Forms: Legend, Saga, Myth, Riddle, Saying, Case, Memorabile, Fairytale, Joke, trans. Peter J. Schwartz [New York: Verso, 2017], 153.)

18. Jolles, Simple Forms, 153.

19. See Michel Foucault, The Birth of Biopolitics: Lectures at the Collége de France, 1978-1979, trans. Graham Burchell (New York: Picador, 2008).

20. See Forrester, “Thinking in Cases.”

ing and reasoning.*! Focusing on the development of narrative in cases, however, at the beginning of the eighteenth century we see medical case histories become increasingly more comprehensive in their description of individual circumstances.?* With a special focus on psychological aspects, these cases also attribute more relevance to biographical details and thus become increasingly complex as narratives. Karl Philipp Moritz’s Magazin zur Erfahrungsseelenkunde (1783-1793), often considered the birthplace of empirical psychology, is a decisive milestone in this tradition. Varying in length and narrative perspective, and following Moritz’s rule to abstain from drawing conclusions, the cases published in the Magazin mix medical classification, pedagogical observation, and biographical narrative, thereby creating a dynamic ensemble of forms of writing in which literary effects and epistemic interest are indistinguishable from one another. As a result of this hybridization, case narratives in the late eighteenth century began to contribute to a new conception of literature that captured the problem of individuality by narrative means in order to create a general and empirical knowledge of the human. What Moritz was the first to call “the psychological novel” developed out of this context and contributed to the establishment of a novelistic form with an explicitly stated epistemic purpose.

But it is not only the tradition of medical cases that contributed to the development of narrative fiction in the second half of the eighteenth century. The Causes célébres et interessantes, published by the French lawyer Francois Gayot de Pitaval in several volumes between 1734 and 1743, had an equally strong effect on German writers throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. In his footsteps, one of the leading legal scholars in the early nineteenth century, Anselm Ritter von Feuerbach, published a collection of criminal cases, Merkwürdige Kriminal-Rechtsfalle in aktenmäßiger Darstellung (1808-1829); Willibald Alexis and Eduard Hitzig

21. For a discussion of the case in Forester and Foucault, see Inka Miilder- Bach and Michael Ott, eds., “Einleitung,” in Was der Fall ist: Casus und Lapsus (Paderborn: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 2014), 9-31.

22. See also Frey, “Fallgeschichte,” 285.

initiated a Neue Pitaval that appeared from 1842 to 1890. Friedrich Schiller had already recognized the literary potential of the collection of remarkable and interesting criminal cases based on verifiable historical events. He so appreciated Pitaval that he became the editor of a German translation published between 1790 and 1792, and contributed an introduction.

The examples of Karl Philipp Moritz and Friedrich Schiller show that in the German context, modern literature—its practice and its theory—emerged in reference to casuistic traditions. Authors around 1800, guided by an abiding interest in the human individual, combined their interest in legal cases with medical and psychological perspectives. Both the legal and medical traditions rely on casuistic forms of reasoning and record-keeping, but they differ in their use of casuistic reference. In contrast to the medical case, which is used to induce empirical knowledge of the human body, legal forms of casuistic reasoning were predominantly deductive—considering cases in their specific relation to the law and the general legal framework. Thus, a difference remains between the deductive use of legal cases in classifying and regulating behavior and the medical case as a set of empirically observed symptoms that in concert with other, similar sets yields knowledge of ever-greater generality. It is in the negotiation of this difference between singularity and generality that narrative literature finds its place.

This book, then, is concerned with understanding the contribution of narrative fiction to a “thinking in cases,” and to the “history and philosophy of the case.” It shows that in the late eighteenth century, narrative literature begins to work out a mode of representing individual cases that exceeds singularity and novelty but stops short of generality and moral didacticism. Two questions guide my investigation: How does this new literature contribute to the establishment of casuistic forms of knowledge that have shaped the formation of psychological practices and legal decision making from the middle of the eighteenth century onward? And, inversely, how does the practice of casuistic writing contribute to the formation of a literary and aesthetic system commonly known as “German Litera-

23. Forrester, “If P, Then What?”

ture?” In seeking answers to these questions in the German-language canon, this book examines how we came to attribute to literature special formative and critical qualities that until today define our habits of reading, and more generally, our cultural self-conception.

A Case of Individuality

Endeavoring to contribute to a history of the literary case, this study builds on a solid foundation of recent scholarship that has discovered the case as an important genre for investigating the aesthetic and epistemological implications of narrative forms since the end of the eighteenth century. Particularly in German scholarship, the case has emerged as a prominent object for studying the intersections between literary forms and scientific knowledge. The larger context for this emergence is a reorientation of the humanities, which in recent decades have received important thematic and methodological impulses from institutional transformations of scientific cultures and knowledge production.”* Literary studies in particular have begun to reevaluate forms of representation and procedures of communication, and to redefine the institutional status of literature, literary writing, and texts.

Much of the shift in literary studies toward nonliterary objects is owed to the influence of Michel Foucault’s analysis of the human sciences and its general premise that societies from the 1750s onward established new disciplinary techniques for effectively controlling behavioral patterns and that they were able to do so based on knowledge derived from the observation of the individual. In a famous passage in Discipline and Punish, Foucault introduces the case as a new form of documentation by which an individual is made accessible as “an object for a branch of knowledge and as a hold for a branch of power.”** In Discipline and Punish, the case appears

24. See also Arne Höcker, Jeannie Moser, and Philippe Weber, eds., Wissen: Erzählen: Narrative der Humanwissenschaften (Bielefeld: transcript, 2006), 11-16.

25. Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Vintage, 1977), 191.

at a crucial historical moment when disciplinary measures of control begin to replace the majestic rituals of sovereignty, resulting in a complete reorganization of a society that from then on centers around the individual. Equally important, the case emerges at the intersection of what Foucault identifies as the three primary disciplinary techniques: hierarchical observation, normalizing judgment, and the examination. The latter, Foucault explains, combines “the techniques of an observing hierarchy and those of normalizing judgment.” It is accompanied by a complex system of registration and documentation, “a network of writing,” as Foucault puts it, that allows for the “constitution of the individual as a describable, analyzable object,” and at the same time, makes possible a comparative system for measuring the distance between individuals and the entirety of a population. Foucault refers to the specific form of the biographical reports and individual descriptions that dominate the new system of documentation as “a case”: “The case . . . is the individual as he may be described, judged, measured, compared with others, in his very individuality; and it is also the individual who has to be trained or corrected, classified, normalized, excluded, etc.”*® Foucault’s remarks on the case as the unity of the notational system of individuality remained cursory. Although they suggest comprehending the case in relation to biographical modes of writing and even briefly invoke the transition from the epic to the novel as an indicator of the formation of a new model of individuality, they do not engage any further with the literary and narrative composition of the case or case history. Foucault does not attend to the case as a particular genre or textual form, although he considers the procedures of writing records an important element. In Foucault, the case appears as a concept or figure of thought that, within specific administrative settings, allows for the registration and coordination of individuals. In this context, Foucault introduces an important distinction that further complicates the attempt to give a coherent definition of the case. In contrast to premodern casuistry, Foucault points out, the modern case is no longer embedded in an already established system of classifications through which every single event will be attributed to a general rule. The modern case, rather, is utterly individual, and it is precisely as such that it finds its measure of comparability: the case is the individual in his or her individuality and this is what he or she has in common with other cases.

One would have thought that this new and modern concept of the case on which the human sciences rely—from psychology and pedagogy around 1800 to sexology and psychoanalysis around 1900—would develop into some kind of standardized model in order to direct the representation of individual cases toward a common goal and to make them comparable. As one sorts through cases and their collections toward the end of the eighteenth century, however, it soon becomes obvious how unsystematic the composition of cases turns out to be in regard to narrative form. One only needs to think of Karl Philipp Moritz’s Magazin zur Erfahrungsseelenkunde as the most famous example from the late eighteenth century and consider the heterogeneity of its collected cases.*” Moritz’s very project of empirical psychology vitally depends on avoiding any restrictions regarding the composition of the solicited material. A full century later, sexological and criminological publications such as Richard von Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia sexualis (1886) still exhibit no standards for the composition of cases and rely heavily on the collection of so-called Beobachtungen (observations). The only genre definition that Sigmund Freud will evoke to characterize his case histories is, famously, the literary novella.

Generally speaking, the narrative form of the case seems to support the case’s individuality rather than providing a standardized framework for the purpose of scientific cognition. After all, one can only do justice to the absolute distinctiveness of an individual by making the individual’s life the only standard for its representation.

27. Following Foucault’s rendering of the case in Discipline and Punish, Andreas Gailus concludes his discussion of Karl Philipp Moritz and the Magazin zur Erfahrungsseelenkunde: “It is thus precisely Moritz’s casuistic approach to the writing of the soul—his willingness, that is, to consider cases that are not yet exemplary cases of something—that opens up the conceptual space for a new notion of the ‘individual’: the individual, understood not as a member of a species but as a self shaped by a particular life-history.” (Andreas Gailus, “A Case of Individuality: Karl Philipp Moritz and the Magazine for Empirical Psychology,” New German Critique 79 [2000]: 79.)

There is a literary genre, however, that in the German context in the final decades of the eighteenth century, shares certain similarities with the case because it, too, centers on the representation of an individual biography: the novel. The novel attempts to depict an individual life by disregarding all the poetic rules and standards that had previously dominated literary writing and poetic discourse. It distinguishes itself from other genres by transgressing genre definitions altogether in order to depict life as a struggle between necessity and contingency. The modern novel marks a fundamental turning point in the relationship between literature and knowledge because it requires a mode of understanding no longer governed by the traditional discourses of poetics and rhetoric. The novel, instead, requires a theory, a completely new discourse able to capture the novel’s critical potential and to make it accessible to aesthetics as the modern discourse concerned with artistic form in its relation to life.?* By necessity, then, this book also contributes to the theory and history of the novel as the preeminent form of narrative in modernity.