Writings on Narcissism — Part 5

Rastinews — Even the crow thinks its fledgling is a falcon…

The baby was crawling, and for one moment it managed to stand. Moments later it fell, startled, most likely, by the fall itself. The father called out to the mother in excitement: "She's standing!" That burst of enthusiasm was hard for the child to make sense of. The mother came into the room, and together the parents tried to set the child back on its feet, eager to see the moment repeat itself. The child was caught between the fright of falling and its parents' exaggerated delight. Yet something else about the scene mattered more: the parents were investing the child's smallest movement with enormous significance, meeting it with an inflated sense of worth. Faced with such an intense, glowing response, the child began to sense that what it had done was no ordinary thing — every act felt extraordinary, singular. The parents, after all, did not treat comparable actions between themselves this way. They stood up too, they walked too, and none of it was an event. Yet the child's standing was received like a small miracle. That contrast produced a real shift in the child's perception: even where the action was identical, its own version of it began to seem more valuable, more meaningful.

At first the child is wholly dependent on its parents. But experiences like this reveal something else: dependence is not the whole story — the child also has influence. It discovers that its own behavior can shift its parents' emotions. In recognizing that, the child also grasps that it holds a kind of power. And there is another dimension to what the child experiences here.

Among adults, love and admiration usually rest on a principle of reciprocity — a balance, an exchange, within the relationship. For the child, it works differently. The child need not do anything extraordinary to be loved; simply existing is enough. From this grows a basic conviction: "I am worth loving simply because I am." The very feeling we criticize in adults as narcissism — "I am who I am, I don't need to do anything, you must love me" — is, in childhood, a natural and necessary stage of development. But this structure has to be transformed through contact with reality. In time, the child learns that existence alone is not enough — that relationships, effort and reciprocity matter too. When that transformation succeeds, the narcissistic structure takes on a more realistic and flexible shape: a person can feel valuable while also accepting that this value is not absolute. When the transition fails, though, the narcissistic structure that childhood required stays frozen in place. The person still believes they should be loved simply for existing, and struggles to recognize other people's expectations, limits and reality. This is where the difference between healthy and pathological narcissism becomes clear: healthy narcissism is the capacity to hold onto a sense of being lovable while still accepting reality. Pathological narcissism is the compulsion to deny reality in order to protect that same feeling.

This is one of the child's earliest narcissistic experiences. After a while, the child tries standing again. Fear dominates at first, but confidence gradually builds, and that confidence is what makes another attempt possible. Here lies the core function of healthy narcissism. The child's confidence in itself — often, seen from outside, wildly overblown — is the engine of development. Believing it can do things it actually cannot yet do, the child tries anyway. Picture a child in a park, running off, putting distance between itself and its mother.

This is not just a physical act; it is a psychological separation. And that separation can only happen if the child trusts itself. That is why the exaggerated self-confidence seen in childhood is not pathological but structurally necessary. Because the child perceives its own capacities as greater than they are, it takes risks, tries, falls, and gets up again. Yet this narcissistic structure has to be recalibrated through contact with reality. Over time, the child learns it cannot do everything. That lesson does not destroy its confidence — it grounds it in something more realistic. This is exactly where narcissistic balance is built: a person neither goes on believing they are all-powerful nor collapses under a sense of inadequacy. Healthy narcissism is the capacity to hold that middle ground. A person develops only by trusting themselves somewhat more than is warranted, yet matures only to the extent that they can meet reality. Sometimes, when the child fails at something, that self-trust is shaken. Some experiences are frightening enough that the child gives up on such attempts altogether. The fear left by falling blocks any new attempt; withdrawal is chosen over risk. But withdrawal does not mean the desire disappears. On the contrary, what cannot be done is often carried into the realm of fantasy. What the child cannot achieve in reality, it achieves again and again in a fantasy world — there it does not fall, there it lacks nothing, there it becomes a figure capable of anything. A split forms between the two domains: on one side, the real self that fails; on the other, the fantasy self that succeeds at everything. The distance between them can widen over time. As success in fantasy grows, inadequacy in reality becomes harder to bear. At this point, instead of accepting its own inadequacy, the child may take a different path:

It tries to carry that fantasy success into the outside world — presenting what it cannot actually do as though it were doing it, presenting what it is not as though it were, displaying failure as though it were success. This is not simple play or daydreaming; it is an attempt at narcissistic repair. Rather than transforming its own fragile self directly, the subject tries to compensate for it through representations. The gap between reality and representation never closes this way — it is only papered over.

And this is precisely where the fragile ground of narcissism forms: inadequacy on the inside, an image of success on the outside. The subject begins living between these two poles. It is exactly this split between failure and fantasy that lays the ground for shame. The child begins to feel ashamed not merely because it fails, but because it cannot become the person it believes it ought to be. As the distance widens between the powerful, capable, successful self of fantasy and the fragile, inadequate self of reality, that shame deepens further. And it is precisely to avoid this shame that the narcissistic structure is mobilized.

A baby's arrival in the world is the moment when narcissistic investment is at its most intense. Through the caregiver's gaze, voice and touch, the child experiences itself as the source of love. In this early stage, the subject builds being loved into something inherent to its own existence, assuming itself to be not the object of love but its source. This is the foundation of primary narcissism.

Idealizing messages a parent directs at a child — “you're the most beautiful, the smartest, one of a kind” — organize the child's self-image around a grandiose axis. This is structurally necessary in the early stages of development, because the construction of the self initially rests on an exaggerated sense of wholeness and worth. But this structure is bound to fracture under the intervention of the outside world. When the child moves from narcissistic mirroring within the family to the social sphere, they discover that the absolute centrality attributed to them is not universal. In a world where others are also “the most,” the child realizes their privileged position is relative. This encounter is, in the psychoanalytic sense, a narcissistic injury. The grandiose self-image is tested by reality and shatters. This fracture is not pathological — it is, in fact, constitutive. Only through this injury can the subject make contact with reality, recognize their own limits, and accept the existence of the other. In healthy development, narcissism does not disappear entirely; it transforms into a more realistic, more flexible, more relational form. The person still feels valuable, but that value no longer rests on a claim to absolute superiority — it rests on the acceptance of limitation. Yet in some family structures, this fracture is blocked or continually compensated for. Instead of confronting the child's grandiose fantasy with reality, the parent reaffirms it again and again. At times they even devalue the outside world to protect the child's sense of superiority. The child then passes the test of reality not through internal transformation, but through an external “trick.” This leaves the self structurally fragile. In such development, the subject cannot internalize their own limits; instead, they continually demand validation from the outside world. The goal is no longer to be valued within particular relationships, but to be recognized and approved of by the widest possible audience. The grandiose self feeds not on genuine competence but on constant performance and self-representation. The person is forced to “appear” rather than to “be.”

Narcissism, in this sense, is directly tied to the quality of one's relationship with reality. Reality is both the test and the regulator of narcissism. Fleeing from it hardens grandiose fantasies and leaves the subject more fragile. Ultimately, the message the parent gives the child early on — “you're special TO US (not to everyone)” — must be transformed. It matters that this statement gains meaning within a relational context, not as a universal truth. Otherwise the child keeps insisting on being “the most” for everyone, and that demand inevitably collides with reality. So the issue is not that the child thinks itself a falcon; it is whether the child can learn that being a falcon is contextual — the subject is valuable not to everyone, but within particular relationships. Psychological maturity lies in the capacity to tolerate this relative worth.

This is exactly where narcissism begins. Narcissism is often, mistakenly, understood as a subject loving themselves excessively. But the essence of narcissism is the capacity to feel one's own existence from within. Healthy narcissism means a person can sustain their sense of being without needing another's approval. Such a subject can feel their existence not only in another's gaze, but in their own inner experience. Here Salvatore's song regains its meaning: everyone being able to sing their own song, independently of everyone else.

Pathological narcissism arises precisely where this inner continuity breaks. The subject can no longer feel themselves from within. They need another's gaze to confirm their own existence. Another's approval becomes not merely an object of desire but the very guarantee of existence. When the applause stops, the subject's sense of self is shaken.

Narcissistic wholeness cannot be built from the outside.

The story of Narcissus

The mythological figure Narcissus is in love with himself. The suffering of those who love him — even the deaths of those who lose their lives for that love — hold no meaning for him. One day he encounters his reflection in the water and falls in love with the image. From that moment on, he no longer relates to himself, but to his own image. René Magritte's inscription beneath his painted pipe — “This is not a pipe” — offers an illuminating metaphor here. What Magritte wanted to show was this: the object seen in the painting is not the object itself, only its representation. A picture of a pipe is not a real pipe. You cannot touch it, cannot use it. It is only an image. Narcissus, likewise, falls in love not with himself but with his representation. The reflection in the water is not his body, only its visual projection. But Narcissus cannot make this distinction. He confuses the image with the being itself. The distance between subject and image collapses. What is loved is no longer a living, feeling, changing being, but a frozen, silent surface that gives nothing back.

But Narcissus's encounter is not only an encounter with an image. It is also an encounter with what others see in him. Until that day, Narcissus did not know why others fell in love with him. For himself, he existed only as something lived from within; he did not know how he appeared from without. The reflection in the water shows him, for the first time, the Narcissus that others see. The surface that others desired is presented, for the first time, to his own gaze.

For this reason, Narcissus's love is not simply love directed at himself. It is also love directed at the image that is the object of others' desire. Narcissus begins to love what others love. He internalizes the gaze of others and turns it upon himself. In this sense, his love is not direct but indirect; it forms not from within himself, but through the mediation of another's gaze.

Narcissism, in this sense, can also be thought of as a homoerotic love. Because the person is in love with himself — that is, with his own likeness, his own image. The loved object is not a radically different other, but the reflection of the subject's own being. Loving oneself as one would an other is, in fact, also an autoerotic story. But here, what is loved is not the living self experienced from within, but the form of the self visible from without. That is, the person falls in love with the version of himself that exists for another. For this reason, when Narcissus loves himself, he does not love only himself; he also loves what another loves in him. Another's gaze becomes a constitutive part of the relationship he forms with himself. Because a person first comes to know themselves not from within, but through an image given from without. Another's gaze grants the subject their own visibility. Narcissus, too, through his reflection in the water, sees for the first time what others see in him. But in this process a paradoxical transformation occurs. Another's gaze is at first necessary, because the image is only possible from the position of an outside gaze. But once that gaze is internalized, the other becomes unnecessary. Narcissus turns another's gaze into his own gaze. Now he can look at himself not only from within but also from without. He becomes at once subject and object, both the one who looks and the one who is looked at. Being able to look, at the same time, both as himself and as another…

So Narcissus does not look at himself only as himself; he also looks at himself as if he were another. Being himself for himself and being an image for another occur at once. A split opens within the subject: one part sees, the other is seen. One part desires, the other becomes the object of desire. For this reason, narcissism is not simply loving oneself; it is loving oneself from the position of another. It is the subject establishing another's place within itself. Love thus takes place not between two separate beings, but within this single being's internal split. Narcissus's solitude begins right here. Because now he can form a relationship without needing another — but that relationship is limited not to a living encounter, but to a frozen reflection. From this point on, the other can disappear. Narcissus no longer needs another. Because the other's function — to see him, to desire him, to give him an image — is now sustained within himself. Narcissus becomes at once the one who looks and the one who is looked at, the one who desires and the one who is desired. A split forms within the subject: an eye that looks at itself, and an image that is looked at. Thus the other becomes unnecessary. Because Narcissus now loves both himself and the version of himself that exists for another. Being himself for himself and being an image for another coincide. Inside and outside, subject and representation, being and appearance overlap. This reveals the basic structure of narcissism: narcissism eliminates the other not by rejecting the other, but by internalizing the other. The other's gaze is not destroyed; on the contrary, it is taken inside the subject and frozen there. Thus the subject, without needing another, reproduces the other's function within itself.

Yet this is also a closure. Because the other is no longer a real other. An other who could object, answer back, refuse, surprise — has vanished. Only a silent image remains. This is why Narcissus's love is not a union but a closing-off. Instead of turning toward another, he closes around himself, absorbing the other's gaze into his own interior. What is loved is no longer a living relation, but a fixed appearance.

Here a more general truth about the structure of love also comes to light: a person often knows themselves through what the other sees in them. One notices what is loved, desired, valued in oneself only through the other's gaze. The other's love hands a person an image of themselves. But this encounter does not always produce identity. Sometimes a person notices a gap between the person the other loves and the person they believe themselves to be. The other sees them as strong, while they feel fragile. The other sees them as whole, while they experience themselves as lacking. The other finds them desirable, while they feel inadequate. Love, then, is not only a relation between two people; it is also a transformation of the relation a person has with themselves.

Narcissus's tragedy deepens further here. For the first time, he sees what others love — but this loved thing is not a being he can inhabit. It is only a surface. Untouchable, unpossessable, unlivable. As Narcissus tries to reach what others love in him, he drifts away from his own living being. Perhaps this is why love always carries a slight alienation. When a person encounters themselves in the other's gaze, they both find themselves and become estranged from themselves. Because what they see there is both themselves and not themselves. This is why narcissism is often understood as loving oneself; the more accurate description, however, is falling in love with one's own image. Because what is loved here is not the subject's living, contradictory reality, but its idealized, whole and flawless-seeming representation.

This condition reveals the tension between the self and the self-image. The image is fixed; it cannot be wounded, does not abandon, does not object. The real self, by contrast, is fragile, lacking, changeable. Love directed at the image can also be seen as a form of escape from this fragility. This is why Narcissus's tragedy is not that he loves himself too much. The real tragedy is that he can never reach himself. Because what he loves is not himself, but merely his surface.

Narcissus does not know how to put himself in another's place, how to look from the other's perspective. This is one of the core features of narcissistic structures. The narcissist, like Narcissus, cannot settle into the other's gaze; for this reason he insists not on forming relationships but on returning to himself. This shows up in the realm of emotion too. The narcissist is not without feeling; on the contrary, he has emotions. But he does not know what to do with them, how to regulate them, or how to attune them to the feelings of others. So the issue is not the absence of emotion, but a failure to grasp its function. Emotions are not only inner experiences; they are also tools for meeting the other, forming relationships, and taking part in the social world. In the narcissistic structure, this function weakens. Emotions cease to be a field of richness and encounter — they are lived out either as excess or as an inward closure incapable of relating. In this sense the narcissist is not emotionally poor, but emotionally ignorant. A kind of emotional illiteracy is at work.

In his study Die Narzissmusfalle (The Narcissism Trap, 2017, 10th edition), Reinhard Haller explains Narcissus's self-love by his inability to find another equal to himself. That is, there is no object toward which his love could turn, because no one matches his worth. In this state, the subject closes in on himself. Haller stresses the importance of compassion as one of love's basic elements. For him, compassion makes possible the bond love forms with the other. But in the relation between man and god, there is no compassion, because god has nothing pitiable about him and needs no compassion. This relation is therefore a form of love independent of reciprocity and fragility. It is precisely at this point that the narcissistic structure approaches a divine model. The narcissist places himself in a position that requires no compassion. He denies his fragility, refuses to admit his lack. For this reason he can neither show compassion to another nor need another's compassion. And precisely for this reason, he cannot form genuine love either.

Compassion is good. It helps wounds heal faster. Compassion — the feeling of pity — is decisive in socialization. Infants are compassionate: when one baby hears another crying, it starts crying too. A kind of synchronization occurs. This is often witnessed in nurseries. Children, too, are compassionate. Sometimes we try to take something a child loves away from them; they clutch it tightly, unwilling to give it up. But if you pretend to cry, they may abandon that stance and hand over their most beloved possession. Compassion is one of the earliest conditions of socialization. Yet over time children learn cruelty. These infants and children can quickly lose their compassion within a corrupted culture. Rakel Dink's words capture this rupture strikingly: "Nothing can be done without questioning the darkness that turns a baby into a killer, my brothers and sisters."

Reinhard Haller says narcissists lack compassion, because the precondition of compassion is love. We wish to protect nature; if we feel compassion for a felled tree, for wolves and birds, an underlying love of nature lies beneath it. There is one exception here: in love of God, the servant's compassion is not at issue, because God has no condition that is pitiable or that requires compassion. God has no need of compassion. Narcissists are without compassion, because they are without love. For them, another's pain is merely a piece of news, a piece of information. In some cases they may appear to show compassion; but on closer inspection, this often turns out to be an abuse of compassion. Because compassion creates a positive effect on people, and compassionate people are viewed favorably. And it is precisely this favorable image that the narcissist pursues. This is why "displays of compassion," especially after natural disasters, are so often encountered. The narcissist's compassion is directed not at the other, but at his own image. Compassion is the first language that binds人 to person; its loss impoverishes not only the other but the person himself…