I noted in my previous article on Hölderlin’s poem “Remembrance” that the modern university is metaphysical in Plato’s sense.  We might see two political science students debate the abortion issue using two equally illustrative but mutually exclusive examples or analogies to support their positions (e.g., arguing pro-life vs pro-choice).  It is this metaphysical reading of Hölderlin’s poem Heidegger is going to be pushing back against.

Metaphysics in Plato’s sense means dividing Being into two realms for the purpose of removing ambiguity and hence facilitate learning.  For example, in literary theory you can do a psychoanalytic reading of a poem like The Tyger by William Blake.  The psychoanalytic interpretive paradigm is the “really real,” and the actual interpretation aims at being the paradigm incarnate, in the same way we say the mansion is “houseness” incarnate/personified.

Heidegger argues the metaphysical is a realm of thinking that dumbs everything down for the “everyperson (das Man)” by creating lenses through which ambiguity can be hidden under the carpet.  In section 3 of the lecture course of Heidegger we are currently looking at, in this regard, metaphysical interpretations of Hölderlin’s river poetry take the sensuous river image and have it stand for something non-sensuous, Plato’s distinction between the aistheton and the noeton, the sensuous and the spiritual.  There are many types of symbolic images, like allegories such as legends and fairy tales.  Allegory comes from allo agoreuein – agoreuein (agora) which signifies the place for the public gathering of people where simplistic proclamations are made that everyone can understand.  The sensuous is something familiar that is used for pointing at something else.  Examples, metaphors and analogies are further such cases of negating ambiguity to make the complex seem obvious and so implies the metaphysics of the deficient sensuous (aistheton) and really real non sensuous (noeton).  The sensuous imagery in the river poem does not exist for itself but for the noeton.  Metaphysical thinking in poetry is ideal for teacher grading purposes since you only have to ask if the student work embodies the paradigm, and is ideal for rote memorization because everything is analyzed into concepts and definitions, psychoanalytic concepts and definitions in the below case.  Let’s look at a simplistic example of a psychoanalytic reading of William Blakes The Tyger:     

The Tyger by William Blake

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night;

What immortal hand or eye,

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp,

Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spears

And water’d heaven with their tears:

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,

In the forests of the night:

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Let’s take a short, well-known poem and apply a psychoanalytic interpretation to it. I’ll use William Blake’s “The Tyger” as an example, since its vivid imagery and existential questions lend themselves well to this approach.

From a psychoanalytic perspective, rooted in Freudian theory, we could interpret “The Tyger” as an expression of the tension between the conscious and unconscious mind, with the tiger representing the primal, untamed forces of the id—the reservoir of instinctual desires and fears. The “burning bright” quality of the tiger suggests a fierce, almost uncontrollable energy, something that glows dangerously in the “forests of the night,” which could symbolize the dark, hidden depths of the unconscious.

The repeated questioning—“What immortal hand or eye, / Could frame thy fearful symmetry?”—might reflect the ego’s bewildered attempt to rationalize or contain this raw power. In Freudian terms, the ego seeks to mediate between the id’s wild impulses and the superego’s moral constraints. Here, the “immortal hand or eye” could be seen as the superego, a higher authority or creator figure (perhaps God, or even the poet’s own psyche), struggling to impose order and symmetry on something inherently chaotic and instinctual.

The “fearful symmetry” itself is a fascinating phrase psychoanalytically. Symmetry implies balance, a hallmark of conscious control, but its “fearful” nature hints at the terror of confronting what lies beneath—perhaps the repressed aggression, sexuality, or mortality that the tiger embodies. Blake’s fascination with the tiger’s creation might also suggest an Oedipal conflict: the speaker grappling with the awe and dread of a powerful, paternal “maker” who dares to unleash such a beast.

So, a psychoanalytic reading might argue that “The Tyger” is less about the literal animal and more about the poet’s internal struggle with his own primal urges, projected onto this majestic yet terrifying creature. The poem becomes a dialogue between the layers of the psyche: the id roars with untamed vitality, the ego questions its origins, and the superego looms as the distant, omnipotent framer of this unsettling harmony.

Let’s plunge deeper into a psychoanalytic interpretation of William Blake’s “The Tyger,” expanding on the initial framework and exploring more layers of the psyche, as well as Jungian elements that complement Freudian analysis.

Building on the idea of the tiger as the id, we can see it as more than just raw instinct—it’s the embodiment of the unconscious drives that both terrify and fascinate. The “burning bright” imagery evokes a fire that cannot be extinguished, suggesting the relentless energy of repressed desires—sexual, aggressive, or creative—that smolder beneath the surface. In Freudian terms, this fire might represent libido in its broadest sense: the life force that fuels both creation and destruction. The “forests of the night” amplify this, painting a scene of shadowy wilderness where the conscious mind (the ego) has little control. This is the domain of dreams and nightmares, where the id roams free.

Here, the focus on the tiger’s “sinews” and “heart” suggests a visceral, bodily vitality—an almost monstrous birth of instinctual life. Psychoanalytically, this could symbolize the moment when repressed urges break through repression, taking on a life of their own. The “dread hand” and “dread feet” might reflect the ego’s horror at losing mastery over these forces, as well as the superego’s punitive anxiety about their emergence. The physicality of the tiger’s creation mirrors the way unconscious impulses manifest in the body—through impulses, symptoms, or even somatic expressions of guilt.

The repeated questioning throughout the poem—“What immortal hand or eye?”—positions the speaker’s ego in a state of existential bewilderment. In Freudian theory, the ego is the mediator, constantly negotiating between the id’s demands and the superego’s rules. Here, the ego is confronted with something it cannot fully comprehend or subdue: the tiger’s “fearful symmetry.” This phrase is key—symmetry implies a constructed order, a product of conscious design, yet its “fearful” aspect betrays the ego’s unease. It’s as if the ego senses that this order is a fragile illusion, a thin veneer over the chaos of the id.

The poem introduces a cosmic dimension that deepens this crisis. The “stars” could symbolize the superego’s lofty ideals or societal norms, now in retreat (“threw down their spears”), overwhelmed by the tiger’s emergence. The tears suggest a mourning for lost control, while the question about the “Lamb” (often read as a symbol of innocence or Christ-like purity) reflects the ego’s struggle to reconcile opposites: how can the same psyche (or creator) produce both the gentle Lamb and the ferocious Tyger? This duality mirrors the internal split between civilized self and shadowy other—a classic psychoanalytic tension.

The “immortal hand or eye” and “he who made” point to a superego figure, a stern, godlike authority that both creates and judges. In Freudian terms, the superego internalizes parental and societal prohibitions, often manifesting as guilt or awe. Here, it’s ambiguous whether this creator is benevolent or malevolent—did he “smile his work to see?” This uncertainty might reflect the poet’s ambivalence toward authority, perhaps an Oedipal echo of the father figure who is both revered and feared. The act of “framing” the tiger’s symmetry suggests the superego’s attempt to impose moral structure on the id, yet the result is something “fearful,” hinting that repression has only amplified the threat.

To enrich this further with Jungian psychoanalysis, the tiger could be seen as an archetype—the Shadow, the dark, unacknowledged side of the self that holds both destructive power and creative potential. Unlike Freud’s id, which is purely instinctual, Jung’s Shadow includes repressed aspects of personality that yearn for integration. The “burning bright” tiger might represent Blake’s confrontation with his own Shadow, a force he both admires and dreads. The “immortal hand or eye” could then be the Self archetype—the totality of the psyche—striving to unify these opposites (Tyger and Lamb) in a process of individuation. The poem’s relentless questioning becomes a quest for wholeness, though one tinged with terror at the Shadow’s might.

The poem evokes a blacksmith’s forge, a potent symbol of transformation. Psychoanalytically, this could represent the process of sublimation—channeling the id’s raw energy into something structured (the tiger’s form). Yet the “furnace” and “deadly terrors” suggest that this repression is volatile, even explosive. The “chain” might symbolize the superego’s restraints, but the “dread grasp” implies that holding these forces in check is a perilous act. The tiger’s “brain” forged in fire could be the unleashed unconscious mind itself—brilliant, dangerous, and irreducible.

In this deeper psychoanalytic reading, “The Tyger” becomes a battlefield of the mind. The tiger is the id’s roar, a primal force that defies containment; the speaker’s questions are the ego’s desperate attempt to make sense of it; and the creator is the superego, an omnipotent yet ambiguous overseer. The “fearful symmetry” encapsulates the paradox: the psyche craves order, but its deepest truths are wild and untamable. For Blake, this might reflect his own creative genius—born of unconscious depths, shaped by conscious craft, and judged by an inner authority he both worships and challenges.

However …

As we can see, the psychoanalytic lens can be used to view the poem, but the fact that this framework “can” be used to make the poem neat and tidy for conceptualizing doesn’t imply this erasing of ambiguity means that poem isn’t inherently ambiguous. 

Alright, let’s play devil’s advocate and argue why William Blake’s “The Tyger” might not be a good fit for a psychoanalytic reading. While it’s tempting to dive into the psyche with this poem, here are a few reasons to push back against that approach:

1. It’s More Theological Than Psychological

Blake was a visionary poet steeped in mysticism and Christian symbolism, and “The Tyger” is arguably more about divine creation than inner psyche. The repeated questions—“What immortal hand or eye, / Could frame thy fearful symmetry?”—point to a cosmic creator, likely God, rather than a personal unconscious. The poem’s companion piece, “The Lamb,” reinforces this: the pairing suggests a meditation on innocence versus experience, or divine duality (good and evil), not a Freudian or Jungian battle of id, ego, and superego. Forcing a psychoanalytic lens might sidestep Blake’s intent to grapple with the nature of a deity who crafts both gentle and fierce beings, reducing a theological riddle to a secular mind-game.

2. The Imagery Is Too External and Symbolic

The tiger, with its “burning bright” presence and “fearful symmetry,” feels more like an archetypal symbol of nature’s power or a mythic entity than a stand-in for repressed drives. The “forests of the night” and the blacksmith imagery (“What the hammer? what the chain, / In what furnace was thy brain?”) evoke a primal, industrial creation process—almost Promethean—rather than the murky, internal landscape of the unconscious. A psychoanalytic reading risks over-anthropomorphizing the tiger into a personal demon, when Blake might have meant it as an external marvel, a thing crafted “out there” rather than a projection from “in here.” The poem’s focus on the act of making feels cosmic, not navel-gazing.

3. Psychoanalysis Imposes a Modern Framework on a Romantic Vision

Blake wrote in 1794, long before Freud (late 19th century) or Jung (20th century) developed their theories. Applying psychoanalysis to “The Tyger” could be anachronistic, grafting a clinical, modernist lens onto a Romantic poem rooted in imagination and spiritual rebellion. Blake’s tigers don’t need ids or Shadows—they’re products of his idiosyncratic mythology, where creation and destruction dance in a pre-psychological worldview. The “dread hand” and “dread feet” might signal awe at divine power, not Oedipal angst or repressed libido. A psychoanalytic take might strip away the poem’s historical texture, turning a fiery vision into a therapy session.

4. The Poem Resists Personal Interpretation

Psychoanalysis often hinges on individual psyche—personal traumas, desires, or conflicts—but “The Tyger” operates on a universal, almost impersonal plane. The speaker doesn’t reveal a “self” grappling with inner turmoil; instead, they marvel at an abstract, existential question: how can such a creature exist? There’s no hint of Blake confessing his own unconscious fears or urges here—it’s not a diary entry. The tiger’s “fearful symmetry” might dazzle as a philosophical paradox (order in chaos) rather than a coded cry from the id. A psychoanalytic reading could overpersonalize what’s meant to provoke collective wonder.

Counterpoint to Push Back

To really lean into the devil’s advocate role: sure, the tiger could symbolize untamed instincts, and the creator might echo a superego—but why stop there? Why not call it a Marxist critique of industrial labor (the forge!) or a feminist take on patriarchal creation? The point is, psychoanalysis might be just one of many ill-fitting modern overlays, diluting Blake’s raw, pre-theoretical intensity.

So, there’s the case: “The Tyger” might roar louder as a theological and symbolic enigma than as a psychoanalytic playground.