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diff --git a/75810-0.txt b/75810-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..14cb458 --- /dev/null +++ b/75810-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,16646 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75810 *** + + + + + + INTRODUCTORY LECTURES + ON PSYCHO-ANALYSIS + + +[Illustration: + + _SCHWIND_, “THE PRISONER’S DREAM.” + + See p. 113 for analysis. +] + + + + + INTRODUCTORY LECTURES ON PSYCHO-ANALYSIS +A COURSE OF TWENTY-EIGHT LECTURES DELIVERED AT THE UNIVERSITY OF VIENNA + + BY + PROF. SIGM. FREUD, M.D., LL.D. + VIENNA + + AUTHORIZED ENGLISH TRANSLATION + BY + JOAN RIVIERE + + WITH A PREFACE + BY + ERNEST JONES, M.D. + _President of the International Psycho-Analytical Association_ + +[Illustration: [Logo]] + + LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN & UNWIN LTD. + RUSKIN HOUSE, 40 MUSEUM STREET, W.C. 1 + + + + + _First Published in Great Britain in 1922_ + + + (_All rights reserved_) + + + + + PREFACE + + +Among the many difficulties confronting those who wish to acquire a +knowledge of psycho-analysis, not the least has been the absence of a +suitable text-book with which they could begin their studies. They have +hitherto had their choice among three classes of book, against each of +which some objection could be urged from the point of view of the +beginner. They could pick their way through the heterogeneous collection +of papers, such as those published by Freud, Brill, Ferenczi, and +myself, which were not arranged on any coherent plan and were also for +the greater part addressed to those already having some knowledge of the +subject. Or they could struggle with more systematic volumes, such as +those by Hitschmann and Barbara Low, which suffer from condensation +because of the difficulty of having to compress so much into a small +space. Or, finally, it might be their fate to come across one of the +numerous books, which need not be mentioned by name, that purport to +give an adequate account of psycho-analysis, but whose authors have +neglected the necessary preliminary of acquiring a proper knowledge of +the subject themselves. The gap in the literature of psycho-analysis has +now been filled by the writer most competent of all to do it—namely, +Professor Freud himself, and the world of clinical psychology must be +grateful to him for the effort it must have cost to write such a book in +the midst of his other multitudinous duties. In the future we can +unhesitatingly deal with the question so often asked, and say: This is +the book with which to begin a study of psycho-analysis. + +Even here, however, the reader should be warned that it is necessary to +add a few modifications to the statement that the present volume is a +complete text-book of psycho-analysis. The circumstances of its +inception forbid its being so regarded. The book consists of three +separate courses of lectures delivered at the University of Vienna in +two winter sessions, 1915–1917. The first two of these presuppose +absolutely no knowledge of the subject, and the style in which they were +delivered constitute them an ideal introduction to the subject. But in +the third year Professor Freud, doubtless assuming that those of his +audience who had pursued their studies so far would by then have widened +their reading otherwise, decided to treat them no longer as mere +beginners, and so felt himself free to deal more technically with the +more difficult subject-matter of the third course—the psycho-analysis of +neurotic affections. The result is that the second half of the book is +of a much more advanced nature than the first, a fact which, it is true, +has the advantage that the author was able here and there to communicate +some of his latest conclusions on obscure points. Every student of +psycho-analysis, therefore, however advanced, will be able to learn much +from this volume. + +One must also remark that the book does not convey an adequate +impression of the extensive bearing that psycho-analysis has on other +humanistic studies than those here dealt with. Apart from a few hints +scattered here and there, there is little indication of the extent to +which psycho-analysis has already been applied, to sociology, to the +study of racial development, and above all, to the psychology of the +normal man. The book is definitely confined to its three topics of +psychopathology of everyday life, dreams, and neuroses, these having +been chosen as constituting the most suitable subject-matter with which +to effect the author’s purpose—namely, to introduce students to +psycho-analysis. + +An American translation of the book has already appeared, but, apart +from its deficiencies of style, it contained so many serious falsities +in translation—a passage, for instance, to the effect that _delusions_ +cannot be influenced is translated in such a way as to commit Professor +Freud, of all people, to the statement that _obsessions_ cannot be +cured—that it was decided to issue a fresh translation. This has been +carried out with scrupulous care by Mrs. Riviere, aided by drafts +carried out by Miss Cecil M. Baines of the eleven lectures in Part II. I +have compared the whole book with the original, and have discussed +doubtful and difficult points with Professor Freud and Mrs. Riviere. +Mrs. Riviere’s English translation will be its own recommendation: I can +give the reader the assurance that it is a faithful and exact rendering. + + ERNEST JONES. + + + _December 1921._ + + + + + CONTENTS + + + PAGE + PREFACE 5 + + + _PART I_ + + LECTURE + 1. INTRODUCTION 11 + 2. THE PSYCHOLOGY OF ERRORS 19 + 3. THE PSYCHOLOGY OF ERRORS (_continuation_) 31 + 4. THE PSYCHOLOGY OF ERRORS (_conclusion_) 47 + + + _PART II_ + + DREAMS + + 5. DIFFICULTIES AND PRELIMINARY APPROACH TO THE SUBJECT 67 + 6. PRELIMINARY HYPOTHESES AND TECHNIQUE OF INTERPRETATION 82 + 7. MANIFEST CONTENT AND LATENT THOUGHTS 94 + 8. CHILDREN’S DREAMS 105 + 9. THE DREAM-CENSORSHIP 114 + 10. SYMBOLISM IN DREAMS 125 + 11. THE DREAM-WORK 143 + 12. EXAMPLES OF DREAMS AND ANALYSIS OF THEM 155 + 13. ARCHAIC AND INFANTILE FEATURES IN DREAMS 168 + 14. WISH-FULFILMENT 180 + 15. DOUBTFUL POINTS AND CRITICAL OBSERVATIONS 193 + + + _PART III_ + + GENERAL THEORY OF THE NEUROSES + + 16. PSYCHO-ANALYSIS AND PSYCHIATRY 207 + 17. THE MEANING OF SYMPTOMS 218 + 18. FIXATION UPON TRAUMATA: THE UNCONSCIOUS 231 + 19. RESISTANCE AND REPRESSION 242 + 20. THE SEXUAL LIFE OF MAN 255 + 21. DEVELOPMENT OF THE LIBIDO AND SEXUAL ORGANIZATIONS 269 + 22. ASPECTS OF DEVELOPMENT AND REGRESSION. ÆTIOLOGY 285 + 23. THE PATHS OF SYMPTOM-FORMATION 300 + 24. ORDINARY NERVOUSNESS 316 + 25. ANXIETY 328 + 26. THE THEORY OF THE LIBIDO: NARCISSISM 344 + 27. TRANSFERENCE 360 + 28. THE ANALYTIC THERAPY 375 + INDEX 389 + + + + + _PART I_ + + + + + FIRST LECTURE + INTRODUCTION + + +I do not know what knowledge any of you may already have of +psycho-analysis, either from reading or from hearsay. But having regard +to the title of my lectures—Introductory Lectures on Psycho-Analysis—I +am bound to proceed as though you knew nothing of the subject and needed +instruction, even in its first elements. + +One thing, at least, I may presuppose that you know—namely, that +psycho-analysis is a method of medical treatment for those suffering +from nervous disorders; and I can give you at once an illustration of +the way in which psycho-analytic procedure differs from, and often even +reverses, what is customary in other branches of medicine. Usually, when +we introduce a patient to a new form of treatment we minimize its +difficulties and give him confident assurances of its success. This is, +in my opinion, perfectly justifiable, for we thereby increase the +probability of success. But when we undertake to treat a neurotic +psycho-analytically we proceed otherwise. We explain to him the +difficulties of the method, its long duration, the trials and sacrifices +which will be required of him; and, as to the result, we tell him that +we can make no definite promises, that success depends upon his own +endeavours, upon his understanding, his adaptability and his +perseverance. We have, of course, good reasons, into which you will +perhaps gain some insight later on, for adopting this apparently +perverse attitude. + +Now forgive me if I begin by treating you in the same way as I do my +neurotic patients, for I shall positively advise you against coming to +hear me a second time. And with this intention I shall explain to you +how of necessity you can obtain from me only an incomplete knowledge of +psycho-analysis and also what difficulties stand in the way of your +forming an independent judgement on the subject. For I shall show you +how the whole trend of your training and your accustomed modes of +thought must inevitably have made you hostile to psycho-analysis, and +also how much you would have to overcome in your own minds in order to +master this instinctive opposition. I naturally cannot foretell what +degree of understanding of psycho-analysis you may gain from my +lectures, but I can at least assure you that by attending them you will +not have learnt how to conduct a psycho-analytic investigation, nor how +to carry out a psycho-analytic treatment. And further, if anyone of you +should feel dissatisfied with a merely cursory acquaintance with +psycho-analysis and should wish to form a permanent connection with it, +I shall not merely discourage him, but I shall actually warn him against +it. For as things are at the present time, not only would the choice of +such a career put an end to all chances of academic success, but, upon +taking up work as a practitioner, such a man would find himself in a +community which misunderstood his aims and intentions, regarded him with +suspicion and hostility, and let loose upon him all the latent evil +impulses harboured within it. Perhaps you can infer from the +accompaniments of the war now raging in Europe what a countless host +that is to reckon with. + +However, there are always some people to whom the possibility of a new +addition to knowledge will prove an attraction strong enough to survive +all such inconveniences. If there are any such among you who will appear +at my second lecture in spite of my words of warning, they will be +welcome. But all of you have a right to know what these inherent +difficulties of psycho-analysis are to which I have alluded. + +First of all, there is the problem of the teaching and exposition of the +subject. In your medical studies you have been accustomed to use your +eyes. You see the anatomical specimen, the precipitate of the chemical +reaction, the contraction of the muscle as the result of the stimulation +of its nerves. Later you come into contact with the patients; you learn +the symptoms of disease by the evidence of your senses; the results of +pathological processes can be demonstrated to you, and in many cases +even the exciting cause of them in an isolated form. On the surgical +side you are witnesses of the measures by which the patient is helped, +and are permitted to attempt them yourselves. Even in psychiatry, +demonstration of patients, of their altered expression, speech and +behaviour, yields a series of observations which leave a deep impression +on your minds. Thus a teacher of medicine acts for the most part as an +exponent and guide, leading you as it were through a museum, while you +gain in this way a direct relationship to what is displayed to you and +believe yourselves to have been convinced by your own experience of the +existence of the new facts. + +But in psycho-analysis, unfortunately, all this is different. In +psycho-analytic treatment nothing happens but an exchange of words +between the patient and the physician. The patient talks, tells of his +past experiences and present impressions, complains, and expresses his +wishes and his emotions. The physician listens, attempts to direct the +patient’s thought-processes, reminds him, forces his attention in +certain directions, gives him explanations and observes the reactions of +understanding or denial thus evoked. The patient’s unenlightened +relatives—people of a kind to be impressed only by something visible and +tangible, preferably by the sort of ‘action’ that may be seen at a +cinema—never omit to express their doubts of how “mere talk can possibly +cure anybody.” Their reasoning is of course as illogical as it is +inconsistent. For they are the same people who are always convinced that +the sufferings of neurotics are purely “in their own imagination.” Words +and magic were in the beginning one and the same thing, and even to-day +words retain much of their magical power. By words one of us can give to +another the greatest happiness or bring about utter despair; by words +the teacher imparts his knowledge to the student; by words the orator +sweeps his audience with him and determines its judgements and +decisions. Words call forth emotions and are universally the means by +which we influence our fellow-creatures. Therefore let us not despise +the use of words in psycho-therapy and let us be content if we may +overhear the words which pass between the analyst and the patient. + +But even that is impossible. The dialogue which constitutes the analysis +will admit of no audience; the process cannot be demonstrated. One +could, of course, exhibit a neurasthenic or hysterical patient to +students at a psychiatric lecture. He would relate his case and his +symptoms, but nothing more. He will make the communications necessary to +the analysis only under the conditions of a special affective +relationship to the physician; in the presence of a single person to +whom he was indifferent he would become mute. For these communications +relate to all his most private thoughts and feelings, all that which as +a socially independent person he must hide from others, all that which, +being foreign to his own conception of himself, he tries to conceal even +from himself. + +It is impossible, therefore, for you to be actually present during a +psycho-analytic treatment; you can only be told about it, and can learn +psycho-analysis, in the strictest sense of the word, only by hearsay. +This tuition at second hand, so to say, puts you in a very unusual and +difficult position as regards forming your own judgement on the subject, +which will therefore largely depend on the reliance you can place on +your informant. + +Now imagine for a moment that you were present at a lecture in history +instead of in psychiatry, and that the lecturer was dealing with the +life and conquests of Alexander the Great. What reason would you have to +believe what he told you? The situation would appear at first sight even +more unsatisfactory than in the case of psycho-analysis, for the +professor of history had no more part in Alexander’s campaigns than you +yourselves; the psycho-analyst at least informs you of matters in which +he himself has played a part. But then we come to the question of what +evidence there is to support the historian. He can refer you to the +accounts of early writers who were either contemporaries or who lived +not long after the events in question, such as Diodorus, Plutarch, +Arrian, and others; he can lay before you reproductions of the preserved +coins and statues of the king, and pass round a photograph of the mosaic +at Pompeii representing the battle at Issus. Yet, strictly speaking, all +these documents only prove that the existence of Alexander and the +reality of his deeds were already believed in by former generations of +men, and your criticism might begin anew at this point. And then you +would find that not everything reported of Alexander is worthy of belief +or sufficiently authenticated in detail, but I can hardly suppose that +you would leave the lecture-room in doubt altogether as to the reality +of Alexander the Great. Your conclusions would be principally determined +by two considerations: first, that the lecturer could have no +conceivable motive for attempting to persuade you of something which he +did not himself believe to be true, and secondly, that all the available +authorities agree more or less in their accounts of the facts. In +questioning the accuracy of the early writers you would apply these +tests again, the possible motives of the authors and the agreement to be +found between them. The result of such tests would certainly be +convincing in the case of Alexander, probably less so in regard to +figures like Moses and Nimrod. Later on you will perceive clearly enough +what doubts can be raised against the credibility of an exponent of +psycho-analysis. + +Now you will have a right to ask the question: If no objective evidence +for psycho-analysis exists, and no possibility of demonstrating the +process, how is it possible to study it at all or to convince oneself of +its truth? The study of it is indeed not an easy matter, nor are there +many people who have thoroughly learned it; still, there is, of course, +some way of learning it. Psycho-Analysis is learnt first of all on +oneself, through the study of one’s own personality. This is not exactly +what is meant by introspection, but it may be so described for want of a +better word. There is a whole series of very common and well-known +mental phenomena which can be taken as material for self-analysis when +one has acquired some knowledge of the method. In this way one may +obtain the required conviction of the reality of the processes which +psycho-analysis describes, and of the truth of its conceptions, although +progress on these lines is not without its limitations. One gets much +further by submitting oneself to analysis by a skilled analyst, +undergoing the working of the analysis in one’s own person and using the +opportunity to observe the finer details of the technique which the +analyst employs. This, eminently the best way, is of course only +practicable for individuals and cannot be used in a class of students. + +The second difficulty you will find in connection with psycho-analysis +is not, on the other hand, inherent in it, but is one for which I must +hold you yourselves responsible, at least in so far as your medical +studies have influenced you. Your training will have induced in you an +attitude of mind very far removed from the psycho-analytical one. You +have been trained to establish the functions and disturbances of the +organism on an anatomical basis, to explain them in terms of chemistry +and physics, and to regard them from a biological point of view; but no +part of your interest has ever been directed to the mental aspects of +life, in which, after all, the development of the marvellously +complicated organism culminates. For this reason a psychological +attitude of mind is still foreign to you, and you are accustomed to +regard it with suspicion, to deny it a scientific status, and to leave +it to the general public, poets, mystics, and philosophers. Now this +limitation in you is undoubtedly detrimental to your medical efficiency; +for on meeting a patient it is the mental aspects with which one first +comes into contact, as in most human relationships, and I am afraid you +will pay the penalty of having to yield a part of the curative influence +at which you aim to the quacks, mystics, and faith-healers whom you +despise. + +I quite acknowledge that there is an excuse for this defect in your +previous training. There is no auxiliary philosophical science that +might be of service to you in your profession. Neither speculative +philosophy nor descriptive psychology, nor even the so-called +experimental psychology which is studied in connection with the +physiology of the sense-organs, as they are taught in the schools, can +tell you anything useful of the relations existing between mind and +body, or can give you a key to comprehension of a possible disorder of +the mental functions. It is true that the psychiatric branch of medicine +occupies itself with describing the different forms of recognizable +mental disturbances and grouping them in clinical pictures, but in their +best moments psychiatrists themselves are doubtful whether their purely +descriptive formulations deserve to be called science. The origin, +mechanism, and interrelation of the symptoms which make up these +clinical pictures are undiscovered: either they cannot be correlated +with any demonstrable changes in the brain, or only with such changes as +in no way explain them. These mental disturbances are open to +therapeutic influence only when they can be identified as secondary +effects of some organic disease. + +This is the lacuna which psycho-analysis is striving to fill. It hopes +to provide psychiatry with the missing psychological foundation, to +discover the common ground on which a correlation of bodily and mental +disorder becomes comprehensible. To this end it must dissociate itself +from every foreign preconception, whether anatomical, chemical, or +physiological, and must work throughout with conceptions of a purely +psychological order, and for this very reason I fear that it will appear +strange to you at first. + +For the next difficulty I shall not hold you, your training or your +mental attitude, responsible. There are two tenets of psycho-analysis +which offend the whole world and excite its resentment; the one +conflicts with intellectual, the other with moral and æsthetic, +prejudices. Let us not underestimate these prejudices; they are powerful +things, residues of valuable, even necessary, stages in human evolution. +They are maintained by emotional forces, and the fight against them is a +hard one. + +The first of these displeasing propositions of psycho-analysis is this: +that mental processes are essentially unconscious, and that those which +are conscious are merely isolated acts and parts of the whole psychic +entity. Now I must ask you to remember that, on the contrary, we are +accustomed to identify the mental with the conscious. Consciousness +appears to us as positively the characteristic that defines mental life, +and we regard psychology as the study of the content of consciousness. +This even appears so evident that any contradiction of it seems obvious +nonsense to us, and yet it is impossible for psycho-analysis to avoid +this contradiction, or to accept the identity between the conscious and +the psychic. The psycho-analytical definition of the mind is that it +comprises processes of the nature of feeling, thinking, and wishing, and +it maintains that there are such things as unconscious thinking and +unconscious wishing. But in doing so psycho-analysis has forfeited at +the outset the sympathy of the sober and scientifically-minded, and +incurred the suspicion of being a fantastic cult occupied with dark and +unfathomable mysteries.[1] You yourselves must find it difficult to +understand why I should stigmatize an abstract proposition, such as “The +psychic is the conscious,” as a prejudice; nor can you guess yet what +evolutionary process could have led to the denial of the unconscious, if +it does indeed exist, nor what advantage could have been achieved by +this denial. It seems like an empty wrangle over words to argue whether +mental life is to be regarded as co-extensive with consciousness or +whether it may be said to stretch beyond this limit, and yet I can +assure you that the acceptance of unconscious mental processes +represents a decisive step towards a new orientation in the world and in +science. + +As little can you suspect how close is the connection between this first +bold step on the part of psycho-analysis and the second to which I am +now coming. For this next proposition, which we put forward as one of +the discoveries of psycho-analysis, consists in the assertion that +impulses, which can only be described as sexual in both the narrower and +the wider sense, play a peculiarly large part, never before sufficiently +appreciated, in the causation of nervous and mental disorders. Nay, +more, that these sexual impulses have contributed invaluably to the +highest cultural, artistic, and social achievements of the human mind. + +In my opinion, it is the aversion from this conclusion of +psycho-analytic investigation that is the most significant source of the +opposition it has encountered. Are you curious to know how we ourselves +account for this? We believe that civilization has been built up, under +the pressure of the struggle for existence, by sacrifices in +gratification of the primitive impulses, and that it is to a great +extent for ever being re-created, as each individual, successively +joining the community, repeats the sacrifice of his instinctive +pleasures for the common good. The sexual are amongst the most important +of the instinctive forces thus utilized: they are in this way +sublimated, that is to say, their energy is turned aside from its sexual +goal and diverted towards other ends, no longer sexual and socially more +valuable. But the structure thus built up is insecure, for the sexual +impulses are with difficulty controlled; in each individual who takes up +his part in the work of civilization there is a danger that a rebellion +of the sexual impulses may occur, against this diversion of their +energy. Society can conceive of no more powerful menace to its culture +than would arise from the liberation of the sexual impulses and a return +of them to their original goal. Therefore society dislikes this +sensitive place in its development being touched upon; that the power of +the sexual instinct should be recognized, and the significance of the +individual’s sexual life revealed, is very far from its interests; with +a view to discipline it has rather taken the course of diverting +attention away from this whole field. For this reason, the revelations +of psycho-analysis are not tolerated by it, and it would greatly prefer +to brand them as æsthetically offensive, morally reprehensible, or +dangerous. But since such objections are not valid arguments against +conclusions which claim to represent the objective results of scientific +investigation, the opposition must be translated into intellectual terms +before it can be expressed. It is a characteristic of human nature to be +inclined to regard anything which is disagreeable as untrue, and then +without much difficulty to find arguments against it. So society +pronounces the unacceptable to be untrue, disputes the results of +psycho-analysis with logical and concrete arguments, arising, however, +in affective sources, and clings to them with all the strength of +prejudice against every attempt at refutation. + +But we, on the other hand, claim to have yielded to no tendency in +propounding this objectionable theory. Our intention has been solely to +give recognition to the facts as we found them in the course of +painstaking researches. And we now claim the right to reject +unconditionally any such introduction of practical considerations into +the field of scientific investigation, even before we have determined +whether the apprehension which attempts to force these considerations +upon us is justified or not. + +These, now, are some of the difficulties which confront you at the +outset when you begin to take an interest in psycho-analysis. It is +probably more than enough for a beginning. If you can overcome their +discouraging effect, we will proceed further. + + + + + SECOND LECTURE + THE PSYCHOLOGY OF ERRORS + + +We shall now begin, not with postulates, but with an investigation. For +this purpose we shall select certain phenomena which are very frequent, +very familiar and much overlooked, and which have nothing to do with +illness, since they may be observed in every healthy person. I refer to +the errors that everyone commits: as when anyone wishes to say a certain +thing but uses the wrong word (‘slip of the tongue’);[2] or when the +same sort of mistake is made in writing (‘slip of the pen’),[3] in which +case one may or may not notice it; or when anyone reads in print or +writing something other than what is actually before him +(‘misreading’);[4] or when anyone mis-hears[5] what is said to him, +naturally when there is no question of any disease of the auditory +sense-organ. Another series of such phenomena are those based on +forgetting[6] something temporarily, though not permanently; as, for +instance, when anyone cannot think of a name which he knows quite well +and is always able to recognize whenever he sees it; or when anyone +forgets to carry out some intention, which he afterwards remembers, and +has therefore forgotten only for a certain time. This element of +transitoriness is lacking in a third class, of which mislaying[7] things +so that they cannot be found is an example. This is a kind of +forgetfulness which we regard differently from the usual kind; one is +amazed or annoyed at it, instead of finding it comprehensible. Allied to +this are certain _mistakes_, in which the temporary element is again +noticeable, as when one believes something for a time which both before +and afterwards one knows to be untrue, and a number of similar +manifestations which we know under various names. + +Some inner relation between all these kinds of occurrences is indicated +in German, by the use of the prefix “_ver_” which is common to all the +words designating them.[8] These words almost all refer to acts of an +unimportant kind, generally temporary and without much significance in +life. It is only rarely that anything of the kind, such as the loss of +some object, attains any practical importance. For this reason little +attention is paid to such happenings and they arouse little feeling. + +I am now going to ask you to consider these phenomena. But you will +object, with annoyance: “There are so many tremendous puzzles both in +the wide world and in the narrower life of the soul, so many mysteries +in the field of mental disorder which demand and deserve explanation, +that it really seems frivolous to waste labour and interest on these +trifles. If you could explain to us how it is possible for anyone with +sound sight and hearing, in broad daylight, to see and hear things which +do not exist, or how anyone can suddenly believe that his nearest and +dearest are persecuting him, or can justify with the most ingenious +arguments a delusion which would seem nonsensical to any child, then we +might be willing to take psycho-analysis seriously. But if +psycho-analysis cannot occupy us with anything more interesting than the +question why a speaker uses a wrong word or why a _Hausfrau_ mislays her +keys and similar trivialities, then we shall find something better to do +with our time and our interest.” + +My reply is: Patience! Your criticism is not on the right track. It is +true that psycho-analysis cannot boast that it has never occupied itself +with trifles. On the contrary, the material of its observations is +usually those commonplace occurrences which have been cast aside as all +too insignificant by other sciences, the refuse, so to speak, of the +phenomenal world. But in your criticism are you not confounding the +magnitude of a problem with the conspicuous nature of its +manifestations? Is it not possible, under certain conditions and at +certain times, for very important things to betray themselves in very +slight indications? I could easily cite many instances of this. What +slight signs, for instance, convey to the young men in my audience that +they have gained a lady’s favour? Do they expect an explicit +declaration, a passionate embrace, or are they not content with a glance +which is almost imperceptible to others, a fleeting gesture, a handshake +prolonged by a second? Or suppose you are a detective engaged in the +investigation of a murder, do you actually expect to find that the +murderer will leave his photograph with name and address on the scene of +the crime? Are you not perforce content with slighter and less certain +traces of the person you seek? So let us not undervalue small signs: +perhaps from them it may be possible to come upon the tracks of greater +things. Besides, I think as you do that the larger problems of the world +and of science have the first claim on our interest. But on the whole it +avails little to form a definite resolution to devote oneself to the +investigation of this or that great problem. One is then often at a loss +how to set about the next step. In scientific work it is more profitable +to take up whatever lies before one whenever a path towards its +exploration presents itself. And then, if one carries it through +thoroughly, without prejudice or pre-conceptions, one may, with good +fortune and by virtue of the interrelationship linking each thing to +every other (hence, also, the small to the great), find, even in the +course of such humble labour, a road to the study of the great problems. + +It is from this point of view that I hope to enlist your interest in +considering the apparently trivial errors made by normal people. I +propose now that we question someone who has no knowledge of +psycho-analysis as to how he explains these occurrences. + +His first answer is sure to be: “Oh, they are not worth any explanation; +they are little accidents.” What does the man mean by this? Does he mean +to maintain that there are any occurrences so small that they fail to +come within the causal sequence of things, that they might as well be +other than they are? Anyone thus breaking away from the determination of +natural phenomena, at any single point, has thrown over the whole +scientific outlook on the world (_Weltanschauung_). One may point out to +him how much more consistent is the religious outlook on the world, +which emphatically assures us that “not one sparrow shall fall to the +ground” except God wills it. I think our friend would not be willing to +follow his first answer to its logical conclusion; he would give way and +say that if he were to study these things he would soon find some +explanation of them. It must be a matter of slight functional +disturbances, of inaccuracies of mental performance, the conditions of +which could be discovered. A man who otherwise speaks correctly may make +a slip of the tongue, (1) when he is tired or unwell, (2) when he is +excited, or (3) when his attention is concentrated on something else. It +is easy to confirm this. Slips of the tongue do indeed occur most +frequently when one is tired, or has a headache, or feels an attack of +migraine coming on. Forgetting proper names very often occurs in these +circumstances; many people are habitually warned of the onset of an +attack of migraine by the inability to recall proper names. In +excitement, too, one mixes up words or even things, one performs actions +erroneously[9]; and the forgetting of intentions, as well as a number of +other undesigned acts, comes to the fore when one is distracted, in +other words, when the attention is concentrated on other things. A +familiar instance of such distraction is the professor in _Fliegende +Blätter_ who forgets his umbrella and takes the wrong hat, because he is +thinking of the problems which are to be the subject of his next book. +We all know from our own experience how one can forget to carry out +intentions or promises when something has happened in the interval that +absorbs one very deeply. + +This seems so entirely comprehensible and also irrefutable. It is +perhaps not very interesting or not so much so as we expected. Let us +look at this explanation of errors more closely. The various conditions +which have been cited as necessary for the occurrence of these phenomena +are not all similar in kind. Illness and disorders of the circulation +afford a physiological basis for an affection of the normal functions; +excitement, tiredness, and distraction are conditions of a different +kind which could be described as psycho-physiological. These last could +easily be converted into a theory. Fatigue, as well as distraction, and +perhaps also general excitement, cause a dissipation of the attention +from which it may follow that the act in question has insufficient +attention devoted to it. It can then very easily be disturbed and +inexactly performed. Slight illness or a change in the distribution of +blood in the central organ of the nervous system can have the same +effect, by these conditions affecting the determining factor, the +distribution of attention, in a similar way. In all cases it would be a +question of the effects of a disturbance of the attention from organic +or psychical causes. + +But all this doesn’t seem to promise much of interest for a +psycho-analytic investigation. We might feel tempted to give up the +topic. To be sure, a closer inspection of the facts shows that they are +not all in accord with the ‘attention’ theory of errors of this sort, or +at least that not everything can be directly deduced from it. We find +that such errors and such forgetfulness also take place when people are +not fatigued or excited, but are in every way in their normal condition; +unless, just because of the errors, we were subsequently to attribute to +them a condition of excitement which they themselves did not +acknowledge. Nor can the matter be quite so simple as that the +successful performance of an act will be ensured by an intensification +of attention, or endangered by a diminution of it. For a great number of +actions may be carried out in a purely automatic way with very little +attention and yet quite successfully. In walking, a man may perhaps +scarcely know where he is going but keep to the right road and stop at +his destination without having gone astray. At least, this is what +usually happens. A practised pianist strikes the right notes without +thinking of them. He may of course also make an occasional mistake, but +if automatic playing increased the danger of errors the virtuoso, whose +constant practice has made his playing entirely automatic, would be the +most exposed to this danger. Yet we see, on the contrary, that many acts +are most successfully carried out when they are not the objects of +particularly concentrated attention, and that mistakes may occur just on +occasions when one is most eager to be accurate, that is, when a +distraction of the necessary attention is most certainly not present. +One could then say that this is the effect of the ‘excitement,’ but we +do not understand why the excitement does not rather intensify the +concentration on the end so much desired. So that if in an important +speech anyone says the opposite of what he intends, it can hardly be +explained according to the psycho-physiological or the attention theory. + +There are also many other minor features in connection with these errors +which we do not understand and which are not rendered more +comprehensible by these explanations. For instance, when one has +temporarily forgotten a name one is annoyed, one is determined to recall +it and cannot desist from the attempt. Why is it that despite this +annoyance the person so often cannot succeed, as he wishes, in directing +his attention to the word which, as he says, is “on the tip of his +tongue,” and which he instantly recognizes when it is supplied to him? +Or, to take another example, there are cases in which the errors +multiply, link themselves together or act as substitutes for one +another. The first time, one forgets an appointment; the next time, +after having made a special resolution not to forget it, one discovers +that one has made a mistake in the day or hour. Or one tries by devious +ways to remember a forgotten word, and in the course of so doing loses +track of a second name which would have been of use in finding the +first. If one then pursues the second name, a third gets lost, and so +on. It is notorious that the same thing happens with misprints, which +are of course errors on the part of the compositor. A stubborn error of +this sort is said once to have crept into a Social-Democratic newspaper, +where, in the account of a festivity, the following words were printed: +“Amongst those present was His Highness, the Clown Prince.” The next day +a correction was attempted. The paper apologized and said: “The sentence +should of course have read, ‘the Crow-Prince.’” Again, in a +war-correspondent’s account of meeting a famous general whose +infirmities were pretty well known, a reference to the general was +printed as “this battle-scared veteran.” Next day an apology appeared +which read “the words of course should have been ‘the bottle-scarred +veteran!’”[10] We like to attribute these occurrences to a devil in the +type-setting machine or to some malevolent goblin—figurative expressions +which at least imply something more than a psycho-physiological theory +of the misprint. + +I do not know if you are aware of the fact that slips of the tongue can +be provoked, called forth by suggestion, as it were. An anecdote will +serve to illustrate this. Once when a novice on the stage was entrusted +with the important part in _The Maid of Orleans_ of announcing to the +King: “The Constable sends back his sword,” the principal player, during +the rehearsal, played the joke of several times repeating to the timid +beginner, instead of the text, the following: “The _Komfortabel_ sends +back his steed.”[11] At the performance the unfortunate actor actually +made his début with this perverse announcement, though he had been amply +warned against so doing, or perhaps just because he had been. + +All these little characteristics of errors are not much illuminated by +the theory of diverted attention. But that does not necessarily prove +the theory wrong. There may be something missing, a link, by the +addition of which the theory might be made completely satisfactory. But +many of the errors themselves can be considered from another aspect. + +Let us select slips of the tongue, as the type of error best suited to +our purpose. We might equally well choose slips of the pen or of +reading. Now we must first remind ourselves that, so far, we have only +enquired when and under what conditions the wrong word is said, and have +received an answer on that point only. Interest may be directed +elsewhere, though, and the question raised why just this particular slip +is made and no other: one can consider the nature of the mistake. You +will see that so long as this question remains unanswered, and the +_effect_ of the mistake is not explained, the phenomenon remains a pure +accident on the psychological side, even if a physiological explanation +has been found for it. When it happens that I make a mistake in a word I +could obviously do this in an infinite number of ways, in place of the +right word substitute any one of a thousand others, or make innumerable +distortions of the right word. Now, is there anything which forces upon +me in a specific instance just this one special slip, out of all those +which are possible, or does that remain accidental and arbitrary, and +can nothing rational be found in answer to this question? + +Two authors, Meringer and Mayer (a philologist and a psychiatrist) did +indeed in 1895 make an attempt to approach the problem of slips of the +tongue from this side. They collected examples and first treated them +from a purely descriptive standpoint. This of course does not yet +furnish any explanation, but it may lead the way to one. They +differentiated the distortions which the intended phrase suffered +through the slip into: interchanges (in the positions of words, +syllables or letters), anticipations, perseverations, compoundings +(contaminations), and substitutions. I will give you examples of these +authors’ main categories. As an instance of an interchange (in the +position of words) someone might say “The Milo of Venus” instead of “The +Venus of Milo.” The well-known slip of the hotel-boy who, knocking at +the bishop’s door, nervously replied to the question “Who is it?” “The +Lord, my boy!” is another example of such an interchange in the position +of words.[12] In the typical Spoonerism the position of certain letters +is interchanged, as when the preacher said: “How often do we feel a +half-warmed fish within us!”[12] It is a case of anticipation if anyone +says: “The thought lies heartily...” instead of: “The thought lies +heavily on my heart.” A perseveration is illustrated by the well-known +ill-fated toast, “Gentlemen, I call upon (_auf_) you + + _hiccough_ (= _auf_zustossen) +to (_auf_) to the health of our Chief.” + (drink) (= _anz_ustossen) + +And when a member of the House of Commons referred to another as the +“honourable member for Central _Hell_,” instead of “Hull,” it was a case +of perseveration; as also when a soldier said to a friend “I wish there +were a thousand of our men _mortified_ on that hill, Bill,” instead of +“fortified.” In one case the _ell_ sound has perseverated from the +previous words “m_e_mber for C_e_ntra_l_,” and in the other the _m_ +sound in “_m_en” has perseverated to form “mortified.”[12] These three +types of slip are not very common. You will find those cases much more +frequent in which the slip happens by a compounding or contraction, as +for example when a gentleman asks a lady if he may _insort_ her on her +way (_begleit-digen_); this contraction is made up of _begleiten_ = to +escort, and _beleidigen_ = to insult. (And by the way, a young man +addressing a lady in this way will not have much success with her.) A +substitution takes place when a poor woman says she has an “incurable +_infernal_ disease,”[13] or in Mrs. Malaprop’s mind when she says, for +instance, “few gentlemen know how to value the _ineffectual_ qualities +in a woman.”[13] + +The explanation which the two authors attempt to formulate as the basis +of their collection of examples is peculiarly inadequate. They hold that +the sounds and syllables of a word have different values and that the +innervation of the sounds of higher value can interfere with those of +lower value. They obviously base this conclusion on the cases of +anticipation and perseveration which are not at all frequent; in other +forms of slips of the tongue the question of such sound priorities, even +if they exist, does not enter at all; for the most frequent type of slip +is that in which instead of a certain word one says another which +resembles it, and this resemblance is considered by many people +sufficient explanation of it. For instance, a professor may say in his +opening lecture, “I am not inclined (_geneigt_ instead of _geeignet_ = +fitted) to estimate the merits of my predecessor.” Or another professor +says, “In the case of the female genital, in spite of the _tempting_ ... +I mean, the _attempted_ ...” (_Versuchungen_ instead of _Versuche_). + +The commonest and also the most noticeable form of slip of the tongue, +however, is that of saying the exact opposite of what one meant to say. +These cases are quite outside the effect of any relations between sounds +or confusion due to similarity, and in default one may therefore turn to +the fact that opposites have a strong conceptual connection with one +another and are psychologically very closely associated. There are +well-known examples of this sort. For instance, the President of our +Parliament once opened the session with the words “Gentlemen, I declare +a quorum present and herewith declare the session _closed_.” + +Any other common association may work in a way as insidious as the +association of opposites and may on occasion lead to results as +inopportune. So there is a story to the effect that, at a festivity in +honour of the marriage of a child of H. Helmholtz with a child of the +well-known inventor and captain of industry, W. Siemens, the famous +physiologist Dubois-Reymond was asked to speak. He concluded his +doubtless brilliant speech with the toast “Success to the new +partnership, Siemens and _Halske_!” which was of course the name of the +old firm. The association of the two names must have been as familiar to +a resident in Berlin as “Crosse & Blackwell” to a Londoner. + +So the effect of word associations must be taken into account, as well +as that of sound-values and similarities between words. But even that is +not enough. In one type of case, before we can arrive at an adequate +explanation of the slip we must consider some phrase which had been +said, or perhaps only thought, previously. Again, that is, a case of +perseveration, as Meringer insists, but arising in a more distant +source.—I must confess that altogether I have the impression that we are +further than ever from comprehension of slips of the tongue. + +However, I hope I am not mistaken in thinking that in the course of our +examination of the above examples an impression has formed itself in us +which may be of a kind to repay further attention. We were considering +the general conditions under which slips of the tongue occur and then +the influences which determine the kind of distortion effected in the +slip, but so far we have not examined at all the result of the slip +itself, as an object of interest without regard to its origin. If we +bring ourselves to do this we shall in the end have to assert +courageously that in some of the examples the slip itself makes sense. +Now what does it mean when we say “it makes sense”? Well, it means that +the result of the slip may perhaps have a right to be regarded in itself +as a valid mental process following out its own purpose, and as an +expression having content and meaning. Hitherto we have only spoken of +errors, but now it appears as if the error could sometimes be quite a +proper act, except that it has intruded itself in the place of one more +expected or intended. + +In certain cases the sense belonging to the slip itself appears obvious +and unmistakable. When the President in his opening speech closes the +session of Parliament, a knowledge of the circumstances under which the +slip was made inclines us to see a meaning in it. He expects no good +result from the session and would be glad to be able to disperse +forthwith; there is no difficulty in discovering the meaning, or +interpreting the sense, of this slip. Or when a lady, appearing to +compliment another, says: “I am sure _you_ must have _thrown_ this +delightful hat together” instead of “sewn it together” (_aufgepatzt_ +instead of _aufgeputzt_), no scientific theories in the world can +prevent us from seeing in her slip the thought that the hat is an +amateur production. Or when a lady who is well known for her determined +character says: “My husband asked his doctor what sort of diet ought to +be provided for him. But the doctor said he needed no special diet, he +could eat and drink whatever _I_ choose,” the slip appears clearly as +the unmistakable expression of a consistent scheme. + +Now supposing it should turn out that not only a few cases of slips of +the tongue and errors in general, but the great majority of them, have a +meaning, then the meaning of the error, to which we have hitherto paid +no attention, would become the point of greatest interest to us and +would justifiably drive all other points of view into the background. +All physiological and psycho-physiological conditions could then be +ignored and attention could be devoted to the purely psychological +investigation of the _sense_, that is, the meaning, the intention, in +the errors. With this in view, therefore, we shall soon consider further +material. + +Before undertaking this, however, I should like to invite you to follow +up another clue with me. It often happens that a poet makes use of a +slip of the tongue or some other error as a means of artistic +expression. This fact in itself proves that he thinks the error, for +instance, a slip of the tongue, has a meaning; for he constructs it +intentionally. It could hardly happen that a poet accidentally made a +slip of the pen and then allowed his slip of the pen to stand as a slip +of the tongue of the character. He wishes to reveal something by means +of the slip and we may well enquire what that may be—whether perhaps he +wishes to indicate that the person in question is distracted or +overtired, or is expecting a headache. Of course we should not +exaggerate the importance of it if poets do make use of slips to express +their meaning. Slips might be in reality without meaning, accidents in +the mental world, or only occasionally have a meaning, and poets would +still be entitled to refine them by infusing sense into them for their +own purposes. However, it would not be surprising if more were to be +learned from poets about slips of the tongue than from philologists and +psychiatrists. + +There is an example of a slip of this kind in Schiller’s _Wallenstein_ +(Piccolomini, Act I, Scene 5). In the foregoing scene, young Max +Piccolomini had taken up Duke Wallenstein’s cause ardently, and had been +passionately describing the blessings of peace, which he had become +aware of in the course of a journey accompanying Wallenstein’s beautiful +daughter to the camp. As he leaves the stage, his father (Octavio) and +the courtier Questenberg are plunged in consternation. The fifth scene +continues:— + + QUESTENBERG. Alas! and stands it so? + Friend, do we let him go + In this delusion? let him go from us? + Not call him back at once, not + Open his eyes here and now? + + OCTAVIO (_recovering himself out of deep thought_). + He has now opened _mine_ + And I see more than pleases me. + + QUESTENBERG. What is it? + + OCTAVIO. A curse upon this journey! + + QUESTENBERG. But why so? What is it? + + OCTAVIO. Come, come, friend! I must up + And follow the ill-omened clue at once + And see with mine own eyes—come with me now! + + QUESTENBERG. What now? Where go you then? + + OCTAVIO (_hastily_). _To her, herself!_ + + QUESTENBERG. _To_ ... + + OCTAVIO (_corrects himself_). To the Duke! Come, let us go! + +Octavio meant to say: “To him, to the Duke,” but his tongue slips and he +betrays (to us, at least) by the words “_to her_” that he has clearly +recognized the influence at work behind the famous young warrior’s +rhapsodies in favour of peace. + +A still more impressive example was found by O. Rank in Shakespeare. It +occurs in the _Merchant of Venice_, in the famous scene in which the +fortunate suitor makes his choice among the three caskets; and I can +perhaps not do better than read to you now Rank’s short account of it. + +“A slip of the tongue which occurs in Shakespeare’s _Merchant of Venice_ +(Act III, Sc. 2) is exceedingly fine in the poetic feeling it shows and +in the brilliant way in which it is applied technically. Like the slip +in Wallenstein quoted by Freud in his _Psychopathology of Everyday +Life_, it shows that the poets well understand the mechanism and meaning +of such slips and assume that the audience will also understand them. +Portia, who by her father’s wish has been bound to the choice of a +husband by lot, has so far escaped all the unwelcome suitors by the luck +of fortune. Having at last found in Bassanio the suitor to whom she is +inclined, she fears that he too will choose the wrong casket. She would +like to tell him that even so he may rest assured of her love, but she +is prevented by her oath. In this inner conflict the poet makes her say +to her chosen suitor: + + I pray you tarry; pause a day or two, + Before you hazard: for, in choosing wrong, + I lose your company; therefore, forbear awhile: + There’s something tells me (but it is not love) + I would not lose you ... + ... I could teach you + How to choose right, but then I am forsworn; + So will I never be; so may you miss me; + But if you do you’ll make me wish a sin, + That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes, + They have o’erlooked me, and divided me; + _One half of me is yours, the other half yours,— + Mine own, I would say_; but if mine, then yours, + And so all yours. + +Just that which she only meant to indicate subtly to him because she +should really have concealed it from him altogether, namely, that even +before the lot she was his and loved him, this the poet with exquisite +fineness of psychological feeling causes to come to expression in her +slip; and is able, by this artistic device, to relieve the unbearable +uncertainty of the lover as well as the suspense of the audience as to +the issue of the choice.” + +And notice, at the end, how subtly Portia reconciles the two +declarations which are contained in the slip, how she resolves the +contradiction between them, and finally even justifies the slip. + + ... but if mine, then yours, + And so all yours. + +It has happened that other thinkers outside the field of medicine have +disclosed by an observation the meaning of some error and so anticipated +our efforts in this direction. You all know the witty satirist +Lichtenberg (1742–1799) of whom Goethe said: “Where he makes a joke, a +problem lies concealed.” And occasionally the solution of the problem is +revealed in the joke. Lichtenberg writes in his witty and satirical +_Notes_, “He always read ‘Agamemnon’ for ‘angenommen’ (verb meaning ‘to +take for granted’), so deeply versed was he in Homer.” This really +contains the whole theory of slips in reading. + +At the next lecture we will see whether we can agree with the poets in +their conception of the meaning of psychological errors. + + + + + THIRD LECTURE + THE PSYCHOLOGY OF ERRORS (_continuation_) + + +At the last lecture it occurred to us to consider the error by itself +alone, apart from its relation to the intended act with which it had +interfered, and we perceived that in certain cases it seemed to betray a +meaning of its own. We said to ourselves that if this conclusion, that +the error has its own meaning, could be established on a larger scale, +that meaning would soon prove more interesting to us than the +investigation of the conditions under which errors arise. + +Let us once more agree upon what we understand by the “meaning” of a +mental process. This is nothing else but the intention which it serves +and its place in a mental sequence. In most of the cases we examined we +could substitute for the word “meaning” the words “intention” and +“tendency.” Now was it only a deceptive appearance, or a poetic +glorification of the error, that led us to believe that we could see an +intention in it? + +Let us still keep to the examples of slips of the tongue and review a +larger number of such manifestations. We then find whole categories of +cases in which the intention, the meaning, of the slip is quite obvious, +particularly so in those instances in which the opposite of what was +intended is said. The President says in his opening speech: “I declare +the session _closed_.” That is surely not ambiguous. The meaning and +intention of this slip is that he wants to close the session. One might +well say, “he said so himself”; we only take him at his word. Please do +not interrupt me with the objection that this is impossible, that we +know quite well that he wished to open the session, not to close it, and +that he himself whom we have just recognized as the best judge of his +intention will affirm that he meant to open it. In doing so you forget +that we agreed to consider the error by itself; its relation to the +intention which it disturbs will be discussed later. _You_ would be +guilty of an error in logic, by which you would conveniently dispose of +the whole problem under discussion, which in English is called “begging +the question.” + +In other cases, where the form of the slip is not exactly the opposite +of what is intended, a contradictory sense may still often come to +expression. “I am not _inclined_ (_geneigt_) to appreciate my +predecessor’s merits.” “Inclined” is not the opposite of “in a position +to” (_geeignet_), but it is an open confession of a thought in sharpest +contradiction to the speaker’s duty to meet the situation gracefully. + +In still other cases the slip simply adds a second meaning to the one +intended. The sentence then sounds like a contraction, an abbreviation, +a condensation of several sentences into one. Thus the determined lady +who said: “He may eat and drink whatever _I_ choose.” That is as if she +had said: “He can eat and drink what he chooses, but what does it matter +what he chooses? It is for me to do the choosing!” Slips of the tongue +often give this impression of abbreviation; for instance, when a +professor of anatomy at the end of his lecture on the nasal cavities +asks whether his class has thoroughly understood it and, after a general +reply in the affirmative, goes on to say: “I can hardly believe that +that is so, since persons who can thoroughly understand the nasal +cavities can be counted, even in a city of millions, on _one finger_ ... +I mean, on the fingers of one hand.” The abbreviated sentence has its +own meaning: it says that there is only one person who understands the +subject. + +In contrast to these types in which the slip plainly discloses its +meaning are others in which the slip of the tongue conveys nothing +intelligible, and therefore directly controverts our expectations. The +mis-pronunciation by mistake of proper names, or the enunciation of +meaningless sounds, is such a frequent occurrence that this alone would +appear to dispose at once of the question whether all errors have a +meaning. Yet closer inspection of such examples discloses the fact that +it is easily possible to understand such distortions; indeed, that the +difference between these unintelligible cases and the previous more +comprehensible ones is not so very great. + +The owner of a horse, on being asked how it was, replied: “O, it may +_stad_—it may _take_ another month.”[14] Asked what he really meant to +say, he answered that he was thinking it was a _sad_ business, and the +words “sad” and “take” together gave rise to _stad_. (Meringer and +Mayer.) + +Another man was relating some objectionable incidents and went on: “and +then certain facts were _refilled_.”[15] He explained that he meant to +say these facts were “filthy.” “Revealed” and “filthy” together combine +to form _refilled_. (Meringer and Mayer.) + +You will recall the case of the young man who offered to “insort” an +unknown lady. We took the liberty of resolving this word into “insult” +and “escort,” and were quite convinced of this interpretation without +requiring proof of it.[16] From these examples you can see that even +these more obscure cases can be explained as the concurrence, or +_interference_, of two different intentions of speech with one another; +the differences arise only in that in the first type of slip the one +intention has entirely excluded the other, as when the opposite is said; +while in the second type the one intention only succeeds in distorting +or modifying the other, from which arise combinations of a more or less +senseless appearance. + +We believe that we have now discovered the secret of a large number of +slips of the tongue. If we keep this clear in mind we shall be able to +comprehend still further groups hitherto entirely mysterious. +Although, for instance, in a case of distortion of a name we cannot +suppose that it is always a matter of a contest between two similar +but different names, yet the second intention is easily perceived. +Distortions of names are common enough apart from slips of the tongue; +they are attempts to liken the name to something derogatory or +degrading, a common form of abuse, which educated persons soon learn +to avoid but nevertheless do not willingly give up. It may be dressed +up as a joke, although one of a very low order. To quote one gross and +ugly example of such a distortion of a name, the name of the President +of the French Republic, _Poincaré_, has lately been transformed into +“_Schweinskarré_.” It is not going much further to assume that some +such abusive intention may also be behind distortions of names +produced by a slip of the tongue. In pursuing our idea, similar +explanations suggest themselves for cases of slips where the effect is +comic or absurd. In the case of the member of parliament who referred +to the “honourable member for Central Hell,” the sober atmosphere of +the House is unexpectedly disturbed by the intrusion of a word that +calls up a ludicrous and unflattering image; we are bound to conclude +from the analogy with certain offensive and abusive expressions that +an impulse has interposed here, to this effect: “You needn’t be taken +in. I don’t mean a word of this. To hell with the fellow!” The same +applies to slips of the tongue which transform quite harmless words +into obscene and indecent ones.[17] + +We are familiar with this tendency in certain people intentionally to +convert harmless words into indecent ones for the sake of the amusement +obtained; it passes for wit, and in fact when one hears of a case one at +once asks whether it was intended as a joke or occurred unintentionally +as a slip of the tongue. + +Well, we seem to have solved the riddle of errors with comparatively +little trouble! They are not accidents; they are serious mental acts; +they have their meaning; they arise through the concurrence—perhaps +better, the mutual interference—of two different intentions. But now I +can well understand that you want to overwhelm me with a flood of +questions and doubts, which must be answered and resolved before we can +enjoy this first result of our efforts. I certainly do not want to press +any hasty conclusions upon you. Let us coolly consider everything in +turn. + +What would you like to say? Whether I think that this explanation +accounts for all cases of slips of the tongue or only for a certain +number? Whether this conception can be extended to the many other types +of errors, to misreading, slips of the pen, forgetting, wrongly +performed actions, mislaying things and so on? What part the factors of +fatigue, excitement, absent-mindedness and distraction of attention play +in regard to the mental nature of errors? Besides this, it is clearly +seen that of the two competing meanings in the slip one is always +manifest, but not always the other. How is one to arrive at the latter? +And if one believes that one has guessed it, how is one to find proof +that this is not merely a probability but the only true meaning? Is +there anything else you wish to ask? If not, then I myself will +continue. I will remind you that we are not really greatly concerned +with errors in themselves, but that we wished to learn from a study of +them something of value from the point of view of psycho-analysis. +Therefore I will put this question: What sort of purposes or tendencies +are these which thus interfere with other intentions, and what is the +relation between the interfering tendency and the other? Thus, as soon +as we have found the answer to the riddle, our efforts begin again. + +Very well then; is this the explanation of all cases of slips of the +tongue? I am very much inclined to think so, and for this reason, +because whenever one examines an instance of it this type of solution +may be found. Still, one cannot prove that a slip of the tongue cannot +come to pass without the agency of this mechanism. It may be so: for our +purposes it is a matter of indifference, theoretically; for the +conclusions which we wish to draw by way of an introduction to +psycho-analysis remain valid, even if only a small proportion of the +total incidence of slips of the tongue comes under our explanation, and +this is certainly not so. The next question, whether this explanation +extends to other forms of errors, may be answered by way of anticipation +in the affirmative. You can convince yourselves of it when we turn to +consider examples of slips of the pen, of wrongly performed acts, and so +on. I propose, however, for technical reasons that we should postpone +doing this until we have investigated the slip of the tongue itself more +thoroughly. + +The question what significance those factors, which some writers have +placed in the foreground, can now have for us—such factors as +disturbances of the circulation, fatigue, excitement, distraction, +disturbances of attention—demands a more exhaustive reply if we assume +the mental mechanism of slips described above. You will notice that we +do not deny these factors. Indeed, in general it doesn’t often happen +that psycho-analysis contests anything which is maintained in other +quarters; as a rule, psycho-analysis only adds something new to what has +been said; and it does certainly happen on occasion that what has +hitherto been overlooked, and is now supplied by psycho-analysis, is the +most essential part of the matter. The influence of such physiological +predispositions as arise in slight illness, circulatory disturbances and +conditions of fatigue, upon the occurrence of slips of the tongue is to +be admitted without more ado; everyday personal experience may convince +you of it. But how little is explained by this admission! Above all, +these are not necessary conditions of errors. Slips of the tongue may +just as well occur in perfect health and normal conditions. These bodily +factors, therefore, are merely contributory; they only favour and +facilitate the peculiar mental mechanism which produces slips of the +tongue. I once used an illustration for this state of things which I +will repeat here, as I know of no better. Just suppose that on some dark +night I am walking in a lonely neighbourhood and am assaulted by a rogue +who seizes my watch and money, whereupon, since I could not see the +robber’s face clearly, I make my complaint at the police-station in +these words: “Loneliness and darkness have just robbed me of my +valuables.” The police officer might reply to me: “You seem to carry +your support of the extreme mechanistic point of view too far for the +facts. Suppose we put the case thus: Under cover of darkness and +encouraged by the loneliness of the spot, some unknown thief has made +away with your valuables. It appears to me that the essential thing to +be done is to look about for the thief. Perhaps we shall then be able to +take the plunder from him again.” + +Psycho-physiological factors such as excitement, absent-mindedness, +distraction of attention, obviously provide very little in the way of +explanation. They are mere phrases; they are screens, and we should not +be deterred from looking behind them. The question is rather what has +here called forth the excitement or the particular diversion of +attention. The influence of sound-values, resemblances between words, +and common associations connecting certain words, must also be +recognized as important. They facilitate the slip by pointing out a path +for it to take. But if there is a path before me does it necessarily +follow that I must go along it? I also require a motive to determining +my choice and, further, some force to propel me forward. These +sound-values and word associations are, therefore, just like the bodily +conditions, the facilitating causes of slips of the tongue, and cannot +provide the real explanation of them. Consider for a moment the enormous +majority of cases in which the words I am using in my speech are not +deranged on account of sound-resemblance to other words, intimate +associations with opposite meanings, or with expressions in common use. +It yet remains to suppose, with the philosopher Wundt, that a slip of +the tongue arises when the tendency to associations gains an ascendance +over the original intention owing to bodily fatigue. This would be quite +plausible if experience did not controvert it by the fact that in a +number of cases the bodily, and in another large group the associative, +predisposing causes are absent. + +Particularly interesting to me, however, is your next question, namely, +by what means the two mutually disturbing tendencies may be ascertained. +You probably do not suspect how portentous this question is. You will +agree that one of these tendencies, the one which is interfered with, is +always unmistakable; the person who commits the slip knows it and +acknowledges it. Doubt and hesitation only arise in regard to the other, +what we have called the interfering, tendency. Now we have already +heard, and you will certainly not have forgotten, that in a certain +number of cases this other tendency is equally plain. It is evident in +the result of the slip if only we have the courage to let the slip speak +for itself. The President who said the opposite of what he meant—it is +clear that he wishes to open the session, but equally clear that he +would also like to close it. That is so plain that it needs no +interpreting. But in the other cases, in which the interfering tendency +merely distorts the original without itself coming to full +expression,—how can the interfering tendency be detected in the +distortion? + +In one group of cases by a very safe and simple method, by the same +method, that is, by which we establish the tendency that is interfered +with. We enquire of the speaker, who tells us then and there; after +making the slip he restores the word he originally intended. “O, it may +_stad_—no, it may _take_ another month.” Well, the interfering tendency +may be likewise supplied by him. We say, “Now why did you first say +stad?” He replies, “I meant to say it was a sad business”; and in the +other case in which “refilled” was said, the speaker informs you that he +first meant to say it was a filthy business, but controlled himself and +substituted another expression. The discovery of the disturbing tendency +is here as definitely established as that of the disturbed tendency. It +is not without intention that I have selected as examples cases which +owe neither their origin nor their explanation to me or to any supporter +of mine. Still, in both these cases, a certain intervention was +necessary in order to produce the explanation. One had to ask the +speaker why he made the slip, what explanation he could give. Without +that he might have passed it by without seeking to explain it. Being +asked, however, he gave as his answer the first idea that occurred to +him. And see now, this little intervention and the result of it +constitute already a psycho-analysis, a prototype of every +psycho-analytic investigation that we may undertake further. + +Now, should I be too suspicious if I were to surmise that, at the very +moment at which psycho-analysis begins to dawn upon you, a resistance to +it instantly raises itself within your mind? Are you not eager to object +that information supplied by the person enquired of, who committed the +slip, is not completely reliable evidence. He naturally wishes, you +think, to meet your request to explain his slip, and so he says the +first thing that he can think of, if it will do at all. There is no +proof that that is actually how the slip arose. It may have been so, but +it may just as well have been otherwise. Something else also might have +occurred to him that would have met the case as well or even better. + +It is remarkable how little respect you have, in your hearts, for a +mental fact! Imagine that someone had undertaken a chemical analysis of +a certain substance and had ascertained that one ingredient of it is of +a certain weight, so and so many milligrams. From this weight, thus +arrived at, certain conclusions may be drawn. Do you think now it would +ever occur to a chemist to discredit these conclusions on the ground +that the isolated substance might as well have had some other weight? +Everyone recognizes the fact that it actually had this weight and no +other, and builds further conclusions confidently on that fact. But when +it is a question of a mental fact, that it _was_ such an idea and no +other that occurred to the person when questioned, you will not accept +that as valid, but say that something else might as well have occurred +to him! The truth is that you have an illusion of a psychic freedom +within you which you do not want to give up. I regret to say that on +this point I find myself in sharpest opposition to your views. + +Now you will break off here only to take up your resistance at another +point. You will continue: “We understand that it lies in the peculiar +technique of psycho-analysis to bring the person analysed to give the +solution of its problems. Let us take another example, that in which the +after-dinner speaker calls upon the company to _hiccough_ to the health +of their guest. The interfering tendency is, you say, in this case to +ridicule; this it is which opposes the intention to do honour. But this +is a mere interpretation on your part, based on observations made +independently of the slip. If in this case you were to question the +perpetrator of the slip he would not confirm your view that he intended +an insult; on the contrary, he would vehemently deny it. Why do you not +abandon your undemonstrable interpretation in the face of this flat +denial?” + +Yes, this time you have lighted upon something formidable. I can picture +to myself that unknown speaker; he is probably an assistant of the guest +of honour, perhaps already a junior lecturer himself, a young man with +the brightest prospects. I will press him and ask whether he is sure he +did not perceive some feeling in himself antagonistic to the demand that +he should pay honour to his chief. A nice fuss there is! He becomes +impatient and suddenly bursts out at me: “Look here, enough of this +cross-examination, or I’ll make myself disagreeable! You will ruin my +career with your suspicions. I simply said “_aufstossen_” instead of +“_anstossen_,” because I’d already said “_auf_” twice before it. It’s +the thing that Meringer calls a perseveration, and there’s nothing else +to be read into it. Do you understand me? That’s enough.” H’m, this is a +startling reaction, a truly energetic repudiation. I see that there is +nothing more to be done with the young man, but I think to myself that +he betrays a strong personal interest in making out that his slip has no +meaning. You will perhaps agree too that he has no right to become so +uncivil over a purely theoretical investigation, but after all, you will +think, he must know what he wanted to say and what not. + +O, so he must? That is perhaps still open to question. + +Now you think you have me in a trap. “So that is your technique,” I hear +you say. “When the person who commits a slip gives an explanation which +fits your views then you declare him to be the final authority on the +subject. He says so himself! But if what he says does not suit your +book, then you suddenly assert that what he says does not count, one +need not believe it.” + +Certainly that is so. But I can give you another instance of a similarly +monstrous procedure. When an accused man confesses to a deed the judge +believes him, but when he denies it the judge does not believe him. Were +it otherwise the law could not be administered, and in spite of +occasional miscarriages you will admit that the system, on the whole, +works well. + +“Well, but are you a judge, and is the person who commits a slip to be +accused before you? Is a slip of the tongue a crime?” + +Perhaps we need not reject even this comparison. But see now to what +deep-seated differences our attempt to investigate the apparently +harmless problems of errors has brought us, differences which at this +stage we do not know in the least how to reconcile. I suggest that we +should make a temporary compromise on the basis of the analogy with the +judge and the prisoner. You shall grant me that the meaning of an error +admits of no doubt when the subject of the analysis acknowledges it +himself. I, in turn, will admit that a direct proof for the suspected +meaning cannot be obtained if the subject refuses us the information, +and, of course, this applies also when the subject is not present to +give us the information. As also in legal proceedings, we are then +thrown back upon indications in order to form a decision, the truth of +which is sometimes more and sometimes less probable. At law, for +practical reasons, guilt has to be declared also on circumstantial +evidence. There is no such necessity here; but neither are we bound to +refrain from considering such evidence. It is a mistake to believe that +a science consists in nothing but conclusively proved propositions, and +it is unjust to demand that it should. It is a demand only made by those +who feel a craving for authority in some form and a need to replace the +religious catechism by something else, even if it be a scientific one. +Science in its catechism has but few apodictic precepts; it consists +mainly of statements which it has developed to varying degrees of +probability. The capacity to be content with these approximations to +certainty and the ability to carry on constructive work despite the lack +of final confirmation are actually a mark of the scientific habit of +mind. + +But where shall we find a starting-point for our interpretations, and +the indications for our proof, in cases where the subject under analysis +says nothing to explain the meaning of the error? From various sources. +First, by analogy with similar phenomena not produced by error, as when +we maintain that the distortion of a name by mistake has the same +intention to ridicule behind it as intentional distortion of names. And +then, from the mental situation in which the error arose, from our +knowledge of the character of the person who commits it, and of the +feelings active in him before the error, to which it may be a response. +As a rule what happens is that we find the meaning of the error +according to general principles; and this, to begin with, is only a +conjecture, a tentative solution, proof being discovered later by an +examination of the mental situation. Sometimes it is necessary to await +further developments, which have been, so to speak, foreshadowed by the +error, before we can find confirmation of our conjecture. + +I cannot easily give you evidence of this if I have to limit myself to +the field of slips of the tongue, although even here I have a few good +examples. The young man who offered to “insort” the lady is in fact very +shy; the lady whose husband may eat and drink what _she_ likes I know to +be one of those managing women who rule the household with a rod of +iron. Or take the following case: At a general meeting of a club a young +member made a violent attack in a speech, in the course of which he +spoke of the officers of the society as “_Lenders_ of the Committee,” +which appears to be a substitute for _Members_ of the Committee.[18] We +should conjecture that against his attack some interfering tendency was +active which was itself in some way connected with the idea of +_lending_. As a matter of fact an informant tells us that the speaker is +in constant money difficulties and was actually attempting to raise +money at the time. So the interfering tendency really is to be +translated into the thought: “Be more moderate in your opposition: these +are the people whom you want to lend you money.” + +If I diverge into the field of other kinds of errors I can give you a +wide selection of examples of such circumstantial evidence. + +If anyone forgets an otherwise familiar proper name and has difficulty +in retaining it in his memory—even with an effort—it is not hard to +guess that he has something against the owner of the name and does not +like to think of him; consider in the light of this the following notes +on the mental situation in which an error of this kind was made. + +A Mr. Y. fell in love with a lady, who did not return the feeling and +shortly after married a Mr. X. Although Mr. Y. had already known Mr. X. +for some time, and even had business relations with him, he forgets his +name over and over again, so that he frequently has to ask someone the +man’s name when it is necessary to write to him.[19] Obviously Mr. Y. +wants to obliterate all knowledge of his fortunate rival. “Never thought +of shall he be.” + +Another example: a lady inquires of a doctor about a common +acquaintance, calling her by her maiden name. She has forgotten the +married name. She admits that she strongly objected to the marriage and +dislikes the husband intensely.[20] + +Later we shall have much to say in other connections in regard to the +forgetting of names; at the moment we are chiefly interested in the +‘mental situation’ in which the lapse of memory occurs. + +The forgetting of resolutions can in general be referred to an opposing +current of feeling which is against carrying out the intention. It is +not only we psycho-analysts who hold this view, however; it is the +ordinary attitude of everyone in their daily affairs, which they only +deny in theory. The protégé whose patron apologizes for having forgotten +his request is not pacified by such an apology. He thinks immediately: +“It’s evidently nothing to him; he promised, but he doesn’t mean to do +it.” Forgetting is therefore criticized even in life, in certain +connections, and the difference between the popular and the +psycho-analytic conception of these errors seems to be dispelled. +Imagine a hostess receiving a guest with the words: “What, is it to-day +you were coming? I quite forgot that I had asked you for to-day”; or a +young man confessing to his beloved that he had forgotten all about the +appointment they had arranged on the last occasion. He will never admit +it; he will rather invent on the spur of the moment the most wildly +improbable hindrances which prevented his coming and made it impossible +for him to communicate with her from that day to this. We all know that +in military service the excuse of having forgotten is worthless and +saves no one from punishment; the system is recognized as justifiable. +Here everyone is suddenly agreed that a certain mistake has a meaning +and what that meaning is. Why are they not consistent enough to extend +their insight to other errors and then openly acknowledge it? There is +naturally also an answer to this. + +If the meaning of forgetting resolutions is so little open to doubt in +the minds of people in general you will be the less surprised to find +that writers employ such mistakes in a similar sense. Those of you who +have seen or read Shaw’s _Cæsar and Cleopatra_ will recall that Cæsar, +when departing in the last scene, is pursued by the feeling that there +was something else he intended to do which he had now forgotten. At last +it turns out what it is: to say farewell to Cleopatra. By this small +device the author attempts to ascribe to the great Cæsar a feeling of +superiority which he did not possess and to which he did not at all +aspire. You can learn from historical sources that Cæsar arranged for +Cleopatra to follow him to Rome and that she was living there with her +little Cæsarion when Cæsar was murdered, whereupon she fled the city. + +The cases of forgetting resolutions are as a rule so clear that they are +of little use for our purpose, which is to discover in the mental +situation indications of the meaning of the error. Let us turn, +therefore, to a particularly ambiguous and obscure form of error, that +of losing and mislaying objects. It will certainly seem incredible to +you that the person himself could have any purpose in losing things, +which is often such a painful accident. But there are innumerable +instances of this kind: A young man loses a pencil to which he was much +attached. A few days before he had had a letter from his brother-in-law +which concluded with these words: “I have neither time nor inclination +at present to encourage you in your frivolity and idleness.”[21] Now the +pencil was a present from this brother-in-law. Had it not been for this +coincidence we could not of course have maintained that the loss +involved any intention to get rid of the gift. Similar cases are very +numerous. One loses objects when one has quarrelled with the giver and +no longer wants to be reminded of him, or again, when one has tired of +them and wants an excuse to provide oneself with something different and +better. Dropping, breaking, and destroying things of course serves a +similar purpose in regard to the object. Can it be considered accidental +when, just before his birthday, a child loses and damages his +possessions, for instance, his watch and his schoolbag? + +Anyone who has experienced often enough the annoyance of not being able +to find something which he has himself put away will certainly be +unwilling to believe that he could have had any intention in so doing. +And yet cases are not at all rare in which the circumstances attendant +on the act of mislaying point to a tendency to put the object aside +temporarily or permanently. Perhaps the best example of this kind is the +following. + +A young man told me this story: “A few years ago there were +misunderstandings between me and my wife; I thought her too cold, and +though I willingly acknowledged her excellent qualities we lived +together without affection. One day, on coming in from a walk, she +brought me a book which she had bought me because she thought it would +interest me. I thanked her for her little attention, promised to read +the book, put it among my things and never could find it again. Months +passed by and occasionally I thought of this derelict book and tried in +vain to find it. About six months later my dear mother, who lived some +distance away, fell ill. My wife left our house to go and nurse her +mother-in-law, who became seriously ill, giving my wife an opportunity +of showing her best qualities. One evening I came home full of +enthusiasm and gratitude towards my wife. I walked up to my writing desk +and opened a certain drawer in it, without a definite intention but with +a kind of somnambulistic sureness, and there before me lay the lost book +which I had so often looked for.” + +With the disappearance of the motive the inability to find the mislaid +object also came to an end. + +I could multiply this collection of examples indefinitely; but I will +not do so now. In my _Psycho-pathology of Everyday Life_ (first +published in 1901) you will find plenty of examples for the study of +errors.[22] All these examples demonstrate the same thing over and over +again; they make it probable to you that mistakes have a meaning and +they show you how the meaning can be guessed or confirmed from the +attendant circumstances. I restrict myself rather to-day, because our +intention here was limited to studying these phenomena with a view to +obtaining an introduction to psycho-analysis. There are only two groups +of occurrences into which I must still go, the accumulated and combined +errors, and the confirmation of our interpretations by subsequent +events. + +Accumulated and combined errors are certainly the finest flowers of the +species. If we were only concerned to prove that errors had a meaning, +we should have limited ourselves to them at the outset, for the meaning +in them is unmistakable, even to the dullest intelligence, and strong +enough to impress the most critical judgement. The repetition of the +occurrences betrays a persistence which is hardly ever an attribute of +chance, but which fits well with the idea of design. Further, the +exchanging of one kind of mistake for another shows us what is the most +important and essential element in the error; and that is, not its form, +or the means of which it makes use, but the _tendency_ which makes use +of it and can achieve its end in the most various ways. Thus I will give +you a case of repeated forgetting: Ernest Jones relates that he once +allowed a letter to lie on his writing desk for several days for some +unknown reason. At last he decided to post it, but received it back from +the dead-letter office, for he had forgotten to address it. After he had +addressed it he took it to post but this time without a stamp. At this +point he finally had to admit to himself his objection to sending the +letter at all. + +In another case, taking up a thing by mistake is combined with mislaying +it. A lady travelled to Rome with her brother-in-law, a famous artist. +The visitor was much fêted by the Germans living in Rome and received, +among other things, a present of an antique gold medal. The lady was +vexed because her brother-in-law did not appreciate the fine specimen +highly enough. After her sister had arrived she returned home and +discovered, upon unpacking, that she had brought the medal with her—how, +she did not know. She wrote at once to her brother-in-law telling him +that she would send the stolen property back to him the next day. But +the next day the medal was so cleverly mislaid that it could not be +discovered and could not be returned, and then it began to dawn upon the +lady what her “absent-mindedness” had meant, namely, that she wanted to +keep the work of art for herself.[23] + +I have already given you an example of a combination of forgetfulness +with an error, in the case in which someone forgets an appointment, and +a second time, with the firm intention of not forgetting it again, +appears at an hour which is not the appointed one. A quite analogous +case was told me from his own experience by a friend who pursues +literary as well as scientific interests. He said: “Some years ago I +accepted election to the Council of a certain literary society because I +hoped that the society might at some time be useful to me in getting a +play of mine produced; and, although not much interested, I attended the +meetings regularly every Friday. A few months ago I received an +assurance that my play would be produced at a theatre in F. and since +then it has invariably happened that I _forget_ to attend the meetings +of the society. When I read your writings on this subject, I reproached +myself with my meanness in staying away now that these people can no +longer be of use to me and determined on no account to forget on the +following Friday. I kept reminding myself of my resolution until I +carried it out and stood at the door of the meeting-room. To my +amazement it was closed and the meeting was already over! I had made a +mistake in the day of the week and it was then Saturday!” + +It would be tempting to collect more of these examples, but I will pass +on and, instead, let you glance at those cases in which interpretation +has to wait for confirmation in the future. + +The main condition in these cases is, as we might expect, that the +mental situation at the time is unknown or cannot be ascertained. At the +moment, therefore, our interpretation is no more than a supposition to +which we ourselves would not ascribe too much weight. Later, however, +something happens which shows us how well justified our previous +interpretation was. I was once the guest of a young married couple and +heard the young wife laughingly describe her latest experience, how the +day after the return from the honeymoon she had called for her sister +and gone shopping with her as in former times, while her husband went to +his business. Suddenly she noticed a man on the other side of the street +and, nudging her sister, said, “Look, there goes Mr. K.” She had +forgotten that this man had been her husband for some weeks. A shudder +went over me as I heard the story, but I dared not draw the inference. +Several years later the little incident came back to my mind after this +marriage had come to a most unhappy end. + +Maeder tells a story of a lady who had forgotten to try on her +wedding-dress the day before the wedding, to the despair of the +dressmaker, and remembered it only late in the evening. He connects it +with the fact that soon after the marriage she was divorced by her +husband. I know a woman now divorced from her husband who, in managing +her money-affairs, frequently signed documents with her maiden name, +many years before she really resumed it. I know of other women who lost +their wedding-rings on the honeymoon and know, too, that the course of +the marriage lent meaning to this accident. And now one striking example +more, with a better ending. It is told of a famous German chemist that +his marriage never took place because he forgot the hour of the ceremony +and went to the laboratory instead of to the church. He was wise enough +to let the matter rest with one attempt, and died unmarried at a ripe +age. + +Perhaps the idea has also come to you that in these examples mistakes +seem to have replaced the omens or portents of the ancients. And indeed, +certain kinds of portents were nothing but errors, for instance, when +anyone stumbled or fell down. It is true that another group of omens +bore the character of objective events rather than of subjective acts. +But you would not believe how difficult it is sometimes to decide +whether a specific instance belongs to the first category or to the +second. The act knows so often how to disguise itself as a passive +experience. + +Everyone of us who can look back over a fairly long experience of life +would probably say that he might have spared himself many +disappointments and painful surprises, if he had had the courage and +resolution to interpret as omens the little mistakes which he noticed in +his intercourse with others, and to regard them as signs of tendencies +still in the background. For the most part one does not dare to do this; +one has an impression that one would become superstitious again by a +circuitous scientific path. And then, not all omens come true, and our +theories will show you how it is that they need not all come true. + + + + + FOURTH LECTURE + THE PSYCHOLOGY OF ERRORS (_conclusion_) + + +That errors have a meaning we may certainly set down as established by +our efforts up to this point, and may take this conclusion as a basis +for our further investigations. Let me once more emphasize the fact that +we do not maintain—and for our purposes do not need to maintain—that +every single mistake which occurs has a meaning, although I think that +probable. It is enough for us to prove that such a meaning is relatively +frequent in the various forms of errors. In this respect, by the way, +the various forms show certain differences. Some cases of slips of the +tongue, slips of the pen, and so on, may be the effect of a purely +physiological cause, though I cannot believe this possible of those +errors which depend upon forgetfulness (forgetting of names or +intentions, mislaying, and so on); losing possessions is in all +probability to be recognized as unintentional in some cases; altogether +our conceptions are only to a certain extent applicable to the mistakes +which occur in daily life. These limitations should be borne in mind by +you when we proceed on the assumption that errors are mental acts +arising from the mutual interference of two intentions. + +This is the first result of our psycho-analysis. Hitherto psychology has +known nothing of such interferences or of the possibility that they +could occasion manifestations of this kind. We have widened the domain +of mental phenomena to a very considerable extent and have won for +psychology phenomena which were never before accredited to it. + +Let us dwell for a moment on the proposition that errors are “mental +acts.” Does this mean any more than our former statement, that they have +a meaning? I do not think so; on the contrary, it is a more indefinite +statement and one more open to misunderstanding. Everything that can be +observed in mental life will be designated at one time or another as a +mental phenomenon. It depends, however, whether the particular mental +phenomenon is directly due to bodily, organic or material agencies, in +which case it does not fall to psychology for investigation; or whether +it arose directly from other mental processes, behind which at some +point the succession of organic agencies then begins. We have in mind +the latter state of things when we describe a phenomenon as a mental +process, and it is therefore more expedient to put our statement in this +form: The phenomenon has meaning; and by meaning we understand +significance, intention, tendency and a position in a sequence of mental +concatenations. + +There is another group of occurrences which is very closely related to +errors but for which this name is not suitable. We call them +‘accidental’ and symptomatic acts. They also appear to be unmotivated, +insignificant and unimportant but, in addition to this, they have very +clearly the feature of superfluity. They are, on the one hand, +distinguishable from errors by the absence of any second intention to +which they are opposed and which they disturb; on the other hand, they +merge without any definite line of demarcation into the gestures and +movements which we regard as expressions of the emotions. To this class +of accidental performances belong all those apparently purposeless acts +which we carry out, as though in play, with clothing, parts of the body, +objects within reach; also the omission of such acts; and again the +tunes which we hum to ourselves. I maintain that all such performances +have meaning and are explicable in the same way as are errors, that they +are slight indications of other more important mental processes, and are +genuine mental acts. I propose, however, not to linger over this further +extension of the field of mental phenomena, but to return to the errors; +for by a consideration of them problems of importance in the enquiry +into psycho-analysis can be worked out much more clearly. + +Undoubtedly, the most interesting questions which we formulated while +considering errors, and have not yet answered, are the following: We +said that errors result from the mutual interference of two different +intentions, of which one may be called the intention interfered with, +and the other the interfering tendency. The intentions interfered with +give rise to no further questions, but concerning the others we wish to +know, first, what kind of intentions these are that arise as disturbers +of others, and secondly, what are the relations between the interfering +tendencies and those which suffer the interference? + +Allow me to take slips of the tongue again as representative of the +whole series, and to answer the second question before the first. + +The interfering tendency in the slip of the tongue may be connected in +meaning with the intention interfered with, in which case the former +contains a contradiction of the latter, or corrects, or supplements it. +Or, in other more obscure and more interesting cases, the interfering +tendency may have no connection whatever in meaning with the intention +interfered with. + +Evidence for the first of these two relationships can be found without +difficulty in the examples already studied and in others similar to +them. In almost all cases of slips of the tongue where the opposite of +what is meant is said the interfering tendency expresses the opposite +meaning to that of the intention interfered with, and the slip is the +expression of the conflict between two incompatible impulses. “I declare +the meeting open, but would prefer to have closed it” is the meaning of +the President’s slip. A political paper which had been accused of +corruption defends itself in an article meant to culminate with the +words: “Our readers will testify that we have always laboured for the +public benefit in the most _disinterested_ manner.” But the editor +entrusted with the composition of the defence wrote “in the most +_interested_ manner.” That is to say, he thinks, “I have to write this +stuff, but I know better.” A representative of the people, urging that +the Kaiser should be told the truth “_rückhaltslos_” (unreservedly), +hears an inner voice terrified at his boldness, and by a slip of the +tongue transforms _rückhaltslos_ into “_rückgratslos_” (without +backbone, ineffectually). + +In the examples already given, which produce an impression of +contraction and abbreviation, the process represents a correction, +addition, or continuation, in which a second tendency manifests itself +alongside the first. “Things were then revealed, but better say it +straight out, they were filthy, therefore,—things were then _refilled_.” +“The people who understand this subject may be counted on the fingers of +one hand, but no, there is really only one person who understands it, +very well then,—can be counted on _one finger_.” Or, “my husband can eat +and drink what he likes, but, you know, _I_ don’t permit him to like +this and that; so then,—he may eat and drink what _I_ like.” In all +these cases the slip arises from the content of the intention interfered +with, or is directly connected with it. + +The other kind of relationship between the two interfering tendencies +seems strange. If the interfering tendency has nothing to do with the +content of the one interfered with, whence comes it then, and how does +it happen to make itself manifest just at that point? Observation, which +alone can supply the answer to this, shows that the interfering tendency +proceeds from a train of thought which has occupied the person shortly +before and then reveals itself in this way as an after-effect, +irrespective of whether or not it has already been expressed in speech. +It is really therefore to be described as a perseveration, though not +necessarily a perseveration of spoken words. An associative connection +between the interfering tendency and that interfered with is not lacking +here either, though it is not found in the content but is artificially +established, sometimes with considerable “forcing” of the connections. + +Here is a simple example of this which I observed myself. Once in the +beautiful Dolomites I met two Viennese ladies who were starting for a +walking-tour. I accompanied them part of the way and we discussed the +pleasures, but also the trials, of this way of life. One of the ladies +admitted that spending the day like this entailed much discomfort. “It +certainly is very unpleasant to tramp all day in the sun till one’s +blouse ... and things are soaked through.” In this sentence she had to +overcome a slight hesitation at one point. Then she continued: “But +then, when one gets _nach Hose_ and can change....” (_Hose_ means +drawers: the lady meant to say _nach Hause_ which means _home_). We did +not analyse this slip, but I am sure you will easily understand it. The +lady’s intention had been to enumerate a more complete list of her +clothes, “blouse, chemise and drawers.” From motives of propriety, +mention of the drawers (_Hose_) was omitted; but in the next sentence, +the content of which is quite independent, the unuttered word came to +light as a distortion of the word it resembled in sound, _home_ +(_Hause_). + +Now we can turn at last to the main question which has been so long +postponed, namely, what kind of tendencies these are which bring +themselves to expression in this unusual way by interfering with other +intentions. They are evidently very various, yet our aim is to find some +element common to them all. If we examine a series of examples for this +purpose we shall soon find that they fall into three groups. To the +_first_ group belong the cases in which the interfering tendency is +known to the speaker and, moreover, was felt by him before the slip. +Thus, in the case of the slip “refilled,” the speaker not only admitted +that he had criticized the events in question as “filthy,” but further, +that he had had the intention, which he subsequently reversed, of +expressing this opinion in words. A _second_ group is formed by other +cases in which the interfering tendency is likewise recognized by the +speaker as his own, but he is not aware that it was active in him before +the slip. He therefore accepts our interpretation, but remains to some +extent surprised by it. Examples of this attitude are probably more +easily found in other errors than in slips of the tongue. In the _third_ +group the interpretation of the interfering tendency is energetically +repudiated by the speaker; not only does he dispute that it was active +in him before the slip, but he will maintain that it is altogether +entirely alien to him. Recall the case about hiccoughing and the +positively discourteous rebuff which I brought upon myself by detecting +the interfering tendency. You know that in our attitude towards these +cases you and I are still far from an agreement. I should make nothing +of the after-dinner speaker’s denial and hold fast to my interpretation +unwaveringly, while you, I imagine, are still impressed by his vehemence +and are wondering whether one should not forego the interpretation of +such errors and let them pass for purely physiological acts, as in the +days before analysis. I can imagine what it is that alarms you. My +interpretation includes the assumption that tendencies of which a +speaker knows nothing can express themselves through him and that I can +deduce them from various indications. You hesitate before a conclusion +so novel and so pregnant with consequences. I understand that, and admit +that up to a point you are justified. But let one thing be clear: if you +intend to carry to its logical conclusion the conception of errors which +has been confirmed by so many examples, you must decide to make this +startling assumption. If you cannot do this, you will have to abandon +again the understanding of errors which you had only just begun to +obtain. + +Let us pause a moment on that which unites the three groups and is +common to the three mechanisms of a slip of the tongue. Fortunately this +common element is unmistakable. In the first two groups the interfering +tendency is admitted by the speaker; in the first, there is the +additional fact that it showed itself immediately before the slip. But +in both cases _it has been forced back.[24] The speaker had determined +not to convert the idea into speech and then it happens that he makes a +slip of the tongue; that is to say, the tendency which is debarred from +expression asserts itself against his will and gains utterance, either +by altering the expression of the intention permitted by him, or by +mingling with it, or actually by setting itself in place of it._ This +then is the mechanism of a slip of the tongue. + +For my own part I can bring the process in the third group also into +perfect harmony with the mechanism here described. I need only assume +that these three groups are differentiated by the varying degrees to +which the forcing back of an intention is effective. In the first group, +the intention is present and makes itself perceptible before the words +are spoken; not until then does it suffer the rejection for which it +indemnifies itself in the slip. In the second group the rejection +reaches further back; the intention is no longer perceptible even before +the speech. It is remarkable that this does not hinder it in the least +from being the active cause of the slip! But this state of things +simplifies the explanation of the process in the third group. I shall be +bold enough to assume that a tendency can still express itself by an +error though it has been debarred from expression for a long time, +perhaps for a very long time, has not made itself perceptible at all, +and can therefore be directly repudiated by the speaker. But leaving +aside the problem of the third group, you must conclude from the other +cases that _a suppression (Unterdrückung) of a previous intention to say +something is the indispensable condition for the occurrence of a slip of +the tongue_. + +We may now claim to have made further progress in the understanding of +errors. We not only know them to be mental phenomena in which meaning +and purpose are recognizable, not only know that they arise from the +mutual interference of two different intentions, but in addition we know +that, for one of these intentions to be able to express itself by +interfering with another, it must itself have been subject to some +hindrance against its operation. It must first be itself interfered +with, before it can interfere with others. Naturally this does not give +us a complete explanation of the phenomena which we call errors. We see +at once further questions arising, and in general we suspect that as we +progress towards comprehension the more numerous will be the occasions +for new questions. We might ask, for instance, why the matter does not +proceed much more simply. If the intention to restrain a certain +tendency instead of carrying it into effect is present in the mind, then +this restraint ought to succeed, so that nothing whatever of the +tendency gains expression, or else it might fail so that the +restrained tendency achieves full expression. But errors are +_compromise_-formations; they express part-success and part-failure for +each of the two intentions; the threatened intention is neither entirely +suppressed nor, apart from some instances, does it force itself through +intact. We can imagine that special conditions must be present for the +occurrence of such interference (or compromise)-formations, but we +cannot even conjecture of what kind they may be. Nor do I think that we +could discover these unknown circumstances by penetrating further into +the study of errors. It will be necessary first to examine thoroughly +yet other obscure fields of mental life: only the analogies to be met +with there can give us courage to form those assumptions which are +requisite for a more searching elucidation of errors. And one other +point! To work from slight indications, as we constantly do in this +field, is not without its dangers. There is a mental disorder called +combinatory paranoia in which the practice of utilizing such small +indications is carried beyond all limits, and I naturally do not contend +that the conclusions which are built up on such a basis are throughout +correct. Only by the breadth of our observations, by the accumulation of +similar impressions from the most varied forms of mental life, can we +guard against this danger. + +So now we will leave the analysis of errors. But there is one thing more +which I might impress upon you: to keep in mind, as a model, the method +by which we have studied these phenomena. You can perceive from these +examples what the aim of our psychology is. Our purpose is not merely to +describe and classify the phenomena, but to conceive them as brought +about by the play of forces in the mind, as expressions of tendencies +striving towards a goal, which work together or against one another. We +are endeavouring to attain a _dynamic conception_ of mental phenomena. +In this conception, the trends we merely infer are more prominent than +the phenomena we perceive. + +So we will probe no further into errors; but we may still take a +fleeting glimpse over the breadth of this whole field, in the course of +which we shall both meet with things already known and come upon the +tracks of others that are new. In so doing, we will keep to the division +into three groups of slips of the tongue, made at the beginning of our +study, together with the co-ordinate forms of slips of the pen, +misreading, mis-hearing; of forgetting with its subdivisions according +to the object forgotten (proper names, foreign words, resolutions, +impressions); and of mislaying, mistaking, and losing, objects. +Mistakes, in so far as they concern us, are to be grouped partly under +the head of forgetting, partly under acts erroneously performed (picking +up the wrong objects, etc.). + +We have already treated slips of the tongue in great detail, yet there +is still something to add. There are certain small affective +manifestations related to slips of the tongue which are not entirely +without interest. No one likes to think he has made a slip of the +tongue; one often fails to hear it when made by oneself, but never when +made by someone else. Slips of the tongue are in a certain sense +infectious; it is not at all easy to speak of them without making them +oneself. It is not hard to detect the motivation of even the most +trifling forms of them, although these do not throw any particular light +on hidden mental processes. If, for instance, anyone pronounces a long +vowel as a short one, in consequence of a disturbance over the word, no +matter how motivated, he will as a result soon after lengthen a short +vowel and commit a new slip in compensation for the first. The same +thing occurs if anyone pronounces a diphthong indistinctly and +carelessly, for instance, “ew” or “oy” as “i”; he tries to correct it by +changing a subsequent “i” into “ew” or “oy.” Some consideration relating +to the hearer seems to be behind this behaviour, as though he were not +to be allowed to think that the speaker is indifferent how he treats his +mother-tongue. The second, compensating distortion actually has the +purpose of drawing the hearer’s attention to the first and assuring him +that it has not escaped the speaker either. The most frequent, +insignificant, and simple forms of slips consist in contractions and +anticipations in inconspicuous parts of the speech. In a long sentence, +for instance, slips of the tongue would be of the kind in which the last +word intended influences the sound of an earlier word. This gives an +impression of a certain impatience to be done with the sentence, and in +general it points to a certain resistance against the communication of +this sentence, or the speech altogether. From this we come to +border-line cases, in which the differences between the +psycho-analytical and the ordinary physiological conception of slips of +the tongue become merged. We assume that in these cases a disturbing +tendency is opposing the intended speech; but it can only betray its +presence and not what its own purpose is. The interference which it +causes follows some sound-influence or associative connection and may be +regarded as a distraction of attention away from the intended speech. +But neither in this distraction of attention, nor in the associative +tendency which has been activated, lies the essence of the occurrence; +the essence lies rather in the hint the occurrence gives of the presence +of some other intention interfering with the intended speech, the nature +of which cannot in this case be discovered from its effects, as is +possible in all the more pronounced cases of slips of the tongue. + +Slips of the pen, to which I now turn, are so like slips of the tongue +in their mechanism that no new points of view are to be expected from +them. Perhaps a small addition to our knowledge from this group will +content us. Those very common little slips of the pen, contractions, +anticipations of later words, particularly of the last words, point to a +general distaste for writing and to an impatience to be done; more +pronounced effects in slips of the pen allow the nature and intention of +the interference to be recognized. In general, if one finds a slip of +the pen in a letter one knows that the writer’s mind was not working +smoothly at the moment; what was the matter one cannot always establish. +Slips of the pen are frequently as little noticed by those who make them +as slips of the tongue. The following observation is striking in this +connection. There are, of course, some persons who have the habit of +always re-reading every letter they write before sending it. Others do +not do this; but if the latter make an exception and re-read a letter +they then always have an opportunity of finding and correcting a +striking slip of the pen. How is this to be explained? It almost looks +as if such people knew that they had made a slip in writing the letter. +Are we really to believe that this is so? + +There is an interesting problem connected with the practical +significance of slips of the pen. You may recall the case of the +murderer H. who managed, by asserting himself to be a bacteriologist, to +obtain cultures of highly dangerous disease-germs from scientific +institutions, but used them for the purpose of doing away in this most +modern fashion with people connected with him. This man once complained +to the authorities of one of these institutions about the +ineffectiveness of the cultures sent him, but committed a slip of the +pen and, instead of the words “in my experiments on mice and guinea-pigs +(_Mäusen und Meerschweinchen_)”, the words “in my experiments on people +(_Menschen_)” were plainly legible. This slip even attracted the +attention of the doctors at the institute but, so far as I know, they +drew no conclusion from it. Now, what do you think? Would it not have +been better if the doctors had taken the slip of the pen as a confession +and started an investigation so that the murderer’s proceedings might +have been arrested in time? In this case, does not ignorance of our +conception of errors result in neglect which, in actuality, may be very +important? Well, I know that such a slip of the pen would certainly +rouse great suspicion in me; but there is an important objection against +regarding it as a confession. The matter is not so simple. The slip of +the pen is certainly an indication but, alone, it would not have +justified an enquiry. It does indeed betray that the man is occupied +with the thought of infecting human beings; but it does not show with +certainty whether this thought is a definite plan to do harm or a mere +phantasy of no practical importance. It is even possible that a person +making such a slip will deny, with the soundest subjective +justification, the existence of such a phantasy in himself, and will +reject the idea as a thing utterly alien to him. Later, when we come to +consider the difference between psychical reality and material reality +you will be better able to appreciate these possibilities. But this +again is a case in which an error was found subsequently to have +unsuspected significance. + +Misreading brings us to a mental situation which is clearly different +from that of slips of the tongue or the pen. One of the two conflicting +tendencies is here replaced by a sensory excitation and is perhaps +therefore less tenacious. What one is reading is not a product of one’s +own mind, as is that which one is going to write. In the large majority +of cases, therefore, misreading consists in complete substitution. A +different word is substituted for the word to be read, without there +necessarily being any connection in the content between the text and the +effect of the mistake, and usually by means of a resemblance between the +words. Lichtenberg’s example of this, “_Agamemnon_” instead of +“_angenommen_,” is the best of this group. To discover the interfering +tendency which causes the mistake one may put aside the original text +altogether; the analytic investigation may begin with two questions: +What is the first idea occurring in free association to the effect of +the misreading (the substitute), and in what circumstances did the +misreading occur? Occasionally a knowledge of the latter is sufficient +in itself to explain the misreading, as, for instance, when someone +wandering about a strange town, driven by urgent needs, reads the word +“_Closethaus_” on a large sign on the first storey. He has just time to +wonder that the board has been fixed at that height when he discovers +that the word on it is actually “_Corsethaus_.” In other cases where +there is a lack of connection in content between the text and the slip a +thorough analysis is necessary, which cannot be accomplished without +practice in psycho-analytic technique and confidence in it. But it is +not usually so difficult to come by the explanation of a case of +misreading. In the example “_Agamemnon_,” the substituted word betrays +without further difficulty the line of thought from which the +disturbance arose. In this time of war, for instance, it is very common +for one to read everywhere names of towns, generals, and military +expressions, which are continually in one’s ears, wherever one sees a +word at all resembling them. Whatever interests and occupies the mind +takes the place of what is alien and as yet uninteresting. The shadows +of thoughts in the mind dim the new perceptions. + +Another kind of misreading is possible, in which the text itself arouses +the disturbing tendency, whereupon it is usually changed into its +opposite. Someone is required to read something which he dislikes, and +analysis convinces him that a strong wish to reject what is read is +responsible for the alteration. + +In the first-mentioned, more frequent cases of misreading two factors to +which we ascribed great importance in the mechanism of errors are +inconspicuous; these are, the conflict between two tendencies and the +forcing back of one of them which compensates itself by producing the +error. Not that anything contradictory of this occurs in misreading, but +nevertheless the importunity of the train of thought tending to the +mistake is far more conspicuous than the restraint which it may have +previously undergone. Just these two factors are most clearly observable +in the different situations in which errors occur through forgetfulness. + +The forgetting of resolutions has positively but one meaning; the +interpretation of it, as we have heard, is not denied even by the +layman. The tendency interfering with the resolution is always an +opposing one, an unwillingness, concerning which it only remains to +enquire why it does not come to expression in a different and less +disguised form; for the existence of this opposing tendency is beyond +doubt. Sometimes it is possible, too, to infer something of the motives +which necessitate the concealment of this antipathy; one sees that it +would certainly have been condemned if it declared its opposition +openly, whereas by craft, in the error, it always achieves its end. When +an important change in the mental situation occurs between the formation +of the resolution and its execution, in consequence of which the +execution would no longer be required, then if it were forgotten the +occurrence could no longer come within the category of errors. There +would be nothing to wonder at in the error, for one recognizes that it +would have been superfluous to remember the resolution; it had been +either permanently or temporarily cancelled. Forgetting to carry out a +resolution can only be called an error when there is no reason to +believe that any such cancellation has occurred. + +Cases of forgetting to carry out resolutions are usually so uniform and +transparent, that they are of no interest for our researches. There are +two points, nevertheless, at which something new can be learnt by +studying this type of error. We have said that forgetting and not +executing a resolution indicates an antagonistic tendency in opposition +to it. This is certainly true, but our own investigations show that this +‘counter-will’ may be of two kinds, either immediate or mediate. What is +meant by the latter is best explained by one or two examples. When the +patron forgets to say a good word for his protégé to some third person, +it may happen because he is actually not much interested in the protégé +and therefore has no great inclination to do it. This, in any case, will +be the protégé’s view of the patron’s omission. But the matter may be +more complicated. The antipathy against executing the resolution may +come from some other source in the patron and be directed to some other +point. It need have nothing at all to do with the protégé, but is +perhaps directed against the third person to whom the recommendation was +to be made. Here again, you see, what objections there are against +applying our interpretations practically. In spite of having correctly +interpreted the error, the protégé is in danger of becoming too +suspicious and of doing his patron a grave injustice. Again, if someone +forgets an appointment which he had promised and was resolved to attend, +the commonest cause is certainly a direct disinclination to meet the +other person. But analysis might produce evidence that the interfering +tendency was concerned, not with the person, but with the place of +meeting, which was avoided on account of some painful memory associated +with it. Or if one forgets to post a letter the opposing tendency may be +concerned with the contents of the letter; but this does not exclude the +possibility that the letter in itself is harmless and becomes the +subject of a counter-tendency only because something in it reminds the +writer of another letter, written previously, which did in fact afford a +direct basis for antipathy. It may then be said that the antipathy has +been _transferred_ from the earlier letter, where it was justified, to +the present one where it actually has no object. So you see that +restraint and caution must be exercised in applying our quite +well-founded interpretations; that which is psychologically equivalent +may in actuality have many meanings. + +That such things should be must seem very strange to you. Perhaps you +will be inclined to assume that the “indirect” counter-will is enough to +characterize the incident as pathological. But I can assure you that it +is also found within the boundaries of health and normality. And +further, do not misunderstand me; this is in no sense a confession on my +part that our analytic interpretations are not to be relied on. I have +said that forgetting to execute a plan may bear many meanings, but this +is so only in those cases where no analysis is undertaken and which we +have to interpret according to our general principles. If an analysis of +the person in the case is carried out it can always be established with +sufficient certainty whether the antipathy is a direct one, or what its +source is otherwise. + +The following is a second point: when we find proof in a large majority +of cases that the forgetting of an intention proceeds from a +counter-will, we gain courage to extend this solution to another group +of cases in which the person analysed does not confirm, but denies, the +presence of the counter-will inferred by us. Take as an example of this +such exceedingly frequent occurrences as forgetting to return borrowed +books or to pay bills or debts. We will be so bold as to suggest, to the +person in question, that there is an intention in his mind of keeping +the books and not paying the debts, whereupon he will deny this +intention but will not be able to give us any other explanation of his +conduct. We then insist that he has this intention but is not aware of +it; it is enough for us, though, that it betrays itself by the effect of +the forgetting. He may then repeat that he had merely forgotten about +it. You will recognize the situation as one in which we have already +been placed once before. If we intend to carry through, to their logical +conclusions, the interpretations of errors which have been proved +justified in so many cases, we shall be unavoidably impelled to the +assumption that tendencies exist in human beings which can effect +results without their knowing of them. With this, however, we place +ourselves in opposition to all views prevailing in life and in +psychology. + +Forgetting proper names, and foreign names and words, can be traced in +the same way to a counter-tendency aiming either directly or indirectly +against the name in question. I have already given you several examples +of such direct antipathy. Indirect causation is particularly frequent +here and careful analysis is generally required to elucidate it. Thus, +for instance, in the present time of war which forces us to forego so +many of our former pleasures, our ability to recall proper names suffers +severely by connections of the most far-fetched kind. It happened to me +lately to be unable to remember the name of the harmless Moravian town +of Bisenz; and analysis showed that I was guilty of no direct antagonism +in the matter, but that the resemblance to the name of the Palazzo +Bisenzi in Orvieto, where I had spent many happy times in the past, was +responsible. As a motive of the tendency opposing the recollection of +this name, we here for the first time encounter a principle which will +later on reveal itself to be of quite prodigious importance in the +causation of neurotic symptoms: namely, the aversion on the part of +memory against recalling anything connected with painful feelings that +would revive the pain if it were recalled. In this tendency towards +_avoidance of pain_ from recollection or other mental processes, this +flight of the mind from that which is unpleasant, we may perceive the +ultimate purpose at work behind not merely the forgetting of names, but +also many other errors, omissions, and mistakes. + +The forgetting of names seems, however, to be especially facilitated +psycho-physiologically, and therefore does occur on occasions where the +intervention of an unpleasantness-motive cannot be established. When +anyone has a tendency to forget names, it can be confirmed by analytic +investigation that names escape, not merely because he does not like +them or because they remind him of something disagreeable, but also +because the particular name belongs to some other chain of associations +of a more intimate nature. The name is anchored there, as it were, and +is refused to the other associations activated at the moment. If you +recall the devices of memory systems you will realize with some surprise +that the same associations which are there artificially introduced, in +order to save names from being forgotten, are also responsible for their +being forgotten. The most conspicuous example of this is afforded by +proper names of persons, which naturally possess quite different values +for different people. For instance, take a first name, such as Theodore. +For some of you it will have no particular significance; for others it +will be the name of father, brother, friend, or your own name. Analytic +experience will show you that the former among you will be in no danger +of forgetting that some stranger bears this name; whereas the latter +will be continually inclined to grudge to strangers a name which to them +seems reserved for an intimate relationship. Now let us assume that this +inhibition due to associations may coincide with the operation of the +“pain”-principle, and in addition with an indirect mechanism; you will +then be able to form a commensurate idea of the complexity, in +causation, of such temporary forgetting of names. An adequate analysis +that does justice to the facts will, however, completely disclose all +these complications. + +The forgetting of impressions and experiences shows the working of the +tendency to ward off from memory that which is unpleasant much more +clearly and invariably than the forgetting of names. It does not of +course belong in its entirety to the category of errors, but only in so +far as it appears to us remarkable and unjustified, judged by the +standard of general experience; as, for instance, where recent or +important impressions are forgotten, or where one memory is forgotten +out of an otherwise well-remembered sequence. How and why we have the +capacity of forgetting in general, particularly how we are able to +forget experiences which have certainly left the deepest impression on +us, such as the events of our childhood, is quite a different problem, +in which the defence against painful associations plays a certain part +but is far from explaining everything. That unwelcome impressions are +easily forgotten is an indubitable fact. Various psychologists have +remarked it; and the great Darwin was so well aware of it that he made a +golden rule for himself of writing down with particular care +observations which seemed unfavourable to his theory, having become +convinced that just these would be inclined to slip out of recollection. + +Those who bear for the first time of this principle of defence against +unpleasant memory by forgetfulness seldom fail to raise the objection +that, on the contrary, in their experience it is just that which is +painful which it is hard to forget, since it always comes back to mind +to torture the person against his will—as, for example, the recollection +of grievances or humiliations. This fact is quite correct, but the +objection is not sound. It is important to begin early to reckon with +the fact that the mind is an arena, a sort of tumbling-ground, for the +struggles of antagonistic impulses; or, to express it in non-dynamic +terms, that the mind is made up of contradictions and pairs of +opposites. Evidence of one particular tendency does not in the least +preclude its opposite; there is room for both of them. The material +questions are: How do these opposites stand to one another and what +effects proceed from one of them and what from the other? + +Losing and mislaying objects is of especial interest on account of the +numerous meanings it may have, and the multiplicity of the tendencies in +the service of which these errors may be employed. What is common to all +the cases is the wish to lose something; what varies in them is the +reason for the wish and the aim of it. One loses something if it has +become damaged; if one has an impulse to replace it with a better; if +one has ceased to care for it; if it came from someone with whom +unpleasantness has arisen; or if it was acquired in circumstances that +one no longer wishes to think of. Letting things fall, spoiling, or +breaking things, serves the same tendency. In social life it is said +that unwelcome and illegitimate children are found to be far more often +weakly than those conceived in happier circumstances. This result does +not imply that the crude methods of the so-called baby-farmer have been +employed; some degree of carelessness in the supervision of the child +should be quite enough. The preservation, or otherwise, of objects may +well follow the same lines as that of children. + +Then too it may happen that a thing will become destined to be lost +without its having shed any of its value—that is, when there is an +impulse to sacrifice something to fate in order to avert some other +dreaded loss. According to the findings of analysis, such conjurings of +fate are still very common among us, so that our losses are often +voluntary sacrifices. Losing may equally well serve the impulses of +spite or of self-punishment; in short, the more remote forms of +motivation behind the impulse to do away with something by losing cannot +easily be exhausted. + +Mistaking of objects, or erroneous performance of actions, like other +errors, is often made use of to fulfil a wish which should be denied; +the intention masquerades as a lucky chance. Thus, as once happened to +one of our friends, one has to take a train, most unwillingly, in order +to pay a visit in the suburbs and then, in changing trains at a +connection, one gets by mistake into one which is returning to town; or, +on a journey one would greatly like to make a halt at some +stopping-place, which cannot be done owing to fixed engagements +elsewhere, whereupon one mistakes or misses the connection, so that the +desired delay is forced upon one. Or, as happened to one of my patients +whom I had forbidden to telephone to the lady he was in love with, he +“by mistake” and “thoughtlessly” gave the wrong number when he meant to +telephone to me, so that he was suddenly connected with her. The +following account by an engineer is a pretty example of the conditions +under which damage to material objects may be done, and also +demonstrates the practical significance of directly faulty actions. + +“Some time ago I worked with several colleagues in the laboratory of a +High School on a series of complicated experiments in elasticity, a +piece of work we had undertaken voluntarily; it was beginning to take up +more time, however, than we had anticipated. One day, as I went into the +laboratory with my friend F., he remarked how annoying it was to him to +lose so much time to-day as he had so much to do at home; I could not +help agreeing with him and said half-jokingly, referring to an occasion +the week before: ‘Let us hope the machine will break down again so that +we can stop work and go home early.’ In arranging the work it happened +that F. was given the regulation of the valve of the press; that is to +say, he was, by cautiously opening the valve, to let the liquid pressure +out of the accumulator slowly into the cylinder of the hydraulic press. +The man who was conducting the experiment stood by the pressure gauge, +and, when the right pressure was reached, called out loudly, ‘Stop.’ At +this command F. seized the valve and turned with all his might—to the +left! (All valves without exception close to the right.) Thereby the +whole pressure in the accumulator suddenly came into the press, a strain +for which the connecting-pipes are not designed, so that one of them +instantly burst—quite a harmless accident, but one which forced us, +nevertheless, to cease work for the day and go home. It is +characteristic, by the way, that not long after, when we were discussing +the affair, my friend F. had no recollection whatever of my remark, +which I recalled with certainty.” + +So with this in mind you may begin to suspect that it is not always a +mere chance which makes the hands of your servants such dangerous +enemies to your household effects. And you may also raise the question +whether it is always an accident when one injures oneself or exposes +oneself to danger—ideas which you may put to the test by analysis when +you have an opportunity. + +This is far from being all that could be said about errors. There is +still much to be enquired into and discussed. But I shall be satisfied +if you have been shaken somewhat in your previous beliefs by our +investigations, so far as they have gone, and if you have gained a +certain readiness to accept new ones. For the rest, I must be content to +leave you with certain problems still unsolved. We cannot prove all our +principles by the study of errors, nor are we indeed by any means solely +dependent on this material. The great value of errors for our purpose +lies in this, that they are such common occurrences, may easily be +observed in oneself, and are not at all contingent upon illness. I +should like to mention one more of your unanswered questions before +concluding: “If, as we see from so many examples, people come so close +to understanding errors and so often act as if they perceived their +meaning, how is it possible that they should so generally consider them +accidental, senseless, and meaningless, and so energetically oppose the +psycho-analytic explanation of them?” + +You are right: this is indeed striking and requires an explanation. But +I will not give it to you; I will rather guide you slowly towards the +connections by which the explanation will be forced upon you without any +aid from me. + + + + + _PART II_ + DREAMS + + + + + FIFTH LECTURE + DIFFICULTIES AND PRELIMINARY APPROACH TO THE SUBJECT + + +One day the discovery was made that the symptoms of disease in certain +nervous patients have meaning.[25] It was upon this discovery that the +psycho-analytic method of treatment was based. In this treatment it +happened that patients in speaking of their symptoms also mentioned +their dreams, whereupon the suspicion arose that these dreams too had +meaning. + +However, we will not pursue this historical path, but will strike off in +the opposite direction. Our aim is to demonstrate the meaning of dreams, +in preparation for the study of the neuroses. There are good grounds for +this reversal of procedure, since the study of dreams is not merely the +best preparation for that of the neuroses, but a dream is itself a +neurotic symptom and, moreover, one which possesses for us the +incalculable advantage of occurring in all healthy people. Indeed, if +all human beings were healthy and would only dream, we could gather +almost all the knowledge from their dreams which we have gained from +studying the neuroses. + +So dreams become the object of psycho-analytic research—another of these +ordinary, under-rated occurrences, apparently of no practical value, +like “errors,” and sharing with them the characteristic of occurring in +healthy persons. But in other respects the conditions of work are rather +less favourable. Errors had only been neglected by science, people had +not troubled their heads much about them, but at least it was no +disgrace to occupy oneself with them. True, people said, there are +things more important but still something may possibly come of it. To +occupy oneself with dreams, however, is not merely unpractical and +superfluous, but positively scandalous: it carries with it the taint of +the unscientific and arouses the suspicion of personal leanings towards +mysticism. The idea of a medical student troubling himself about dreams +when there is so much in neuropathology and psychiatry itself that is +more serious, tumours as large as apples compressing the organ of the +mind, hæmorrhages, chronic inflammatory conditions in which the +alterations in the tissues can be demonstrated under the microscope! No, +dreams are far too unworthy and trivial to be objects of scientific +research. + +There is yet another factor involved which, in itself, sets at defiance +all the requirements of exact investigation. In investigating dreams +even the object of research, the dream itself, is indefinite. A +delusion, for example, presents clear and definite outlines. “I am the +Emperor of China,” says your patient plainly. But a dream? For the most +part it cannot be related at all. When a man tells a dream, has he any +guarantee that he has told it correctly, and not perhaps altered it in +the telling or been forced to invent part of it on account of the +vagueness of his recollection? Most dreams cannot be remembered at all +and are forgotten except for some tiny fragments. And is a scientific +psychology or a method of treatment for the sick to be founded upon +material such as this? + +A certain element of exaggeration in a criticism may arouse our +suspicions. The arguments brought against the dream as an object of +scientific research are clearly extreme. We have met with the objection +of triviality already in “errors,” and have told ourselves that great +things may be revealed even by small indications. As to the +indistinctness of dreams, that is a characteristic like any other—we +cannot dictate to things their characteristics; besides, there are also +dreams which are clear and well defined. Further, there are other +objects of psychiatric investigation which suffer in the same way from +the quality of indefiniteness, e.g. the obsessive ideas of many cases, +with which nevertheless many psychiatrists of repute and standing have +occupied themselves. I will recall the last case of the kind which came +before me in medical practice. The patient, a woman, presented her case +in these words: “I have a certain feeling, as if I had injured, or had +meant to injure, some living creature—perhaps a child—no, no, a dog +rather, as if perhaps I had pushed it off a bridge—or done something +else.” Any disadvantage resulting from the uncertain recollection of +dreams may be remedied by deciding that exactly what the dreamer tells +is to count as the dream, and by ignoring all that he may have forgotten +or altered in the process of recollection. Finally, one cannot maintain +in so sweeping a fashion that dreams are unimportant things. We know +from our own experience that the mood in which we awake from a dream may +last throughout the day, and cases have been observed by medical men in +which mental disorder began with a dream, the delusion which had its +source in this dream persisting; further, it is told of historical +persons that impulses to momentous deeds sprang from their dreams. We +may therefore ask: what is the real cause of the disdain in which dreams +are held in scientific circles? In my opinion it is the reaction from +the overestimation of them in earlier times. It is well known that it is +no easy matter to reconstruct the past, but we may assume with certainty +(you will forgive my jest) that as early as three thousand years ago and +more our ancestors dreamt in the same way as we do. So far as we know, +all ancient peoples attached great significance to dreams and regarded +them as of practical value; they obtained from them auguries of the +future and looked for portents in them. For the Greeks and other +Orientals, it was at times as unthinkable to undertake a campaign +without a dream-interpreter as it would be to-day without air-scouts for +intelligence. When Alexander the Great set out on his campaign of +conquest the most famous interpreters of dreams were in his following. +The city of Tyre, still at that time on an island, offered so stout a +resistance to the king that he entertained the idea of abandoning the +siege; then one night he dreamed of a satyr dancing in triumph, and when +he related this dream to his interpreters they informed him that it +foretold his victory over the city; he gave the order to attack and took +Tyre by storm. Among the Etruscans and Romans other methods of +foretelling the future were employed, but during the whole of the +Græco-Roman period the interpretation of dreams was practised and held +in high esteem. Of the literature on this subject the principal work at +any rate has come down to us, namely, the book of Artemidorus of Daldis, +who is said to have lived at the time of the Emperor Hadrian. How it +happened that the art of dream-interpretation declined later and dreams +fell into disrepute, I cannot tell you. The progress of learning cannot +have had very much to do with it, for in the darkness of the middle ages +things far more absurd than the ancient practice of the interpretation +of dreams were faithfully retained. The fact remains that the interest +in dreams gradually sank to the level of superstition and could hold its +own only amongst the uneducated. In our day, there survive, as a final +degradation of the art of dream-interpretation, the attempts to find out +from dreams numbers destined to draw prizes in games of chance. On the +other hand, exact science of the present day has repeatedly concerned +itself with the dream, but always with the sole object of illustrating +_physiological_ theories. By medical men, naturally, a dream was never +regarded as a mental process but as the mental expression of physical +stimuli. Binz in 1876 pronounced the dream to be “a physical process, +always useless and in many cases actually morbid, a process above which +the conception of the world-soul and of immortality stands as high as +does the blue sky above the most low-lying, weed-grown stretch of sand.” +Maury compares dreams with the spasmodic jerkings of St. Vitus’ dance, +contrasted with the co-ordinated movements of the normal human being; in +an old comparison a parallel is drawn between the content of a dream and +the sounds which would be produced if “someone ignorant of music let his +ten fingers wander over the keys of an instrument.” + +‘Interpretation’ means discovering a hidden meaning, but there can be no +question of attempting this while such an attitude is maintained towards +the dream-performance. Look up the description of dreams given in the +writings of Wundt, Jodl and other recent philosophers: they are content +with the bare enumeration of the divergences of the dream-life from +waking thought with a view to depreciating the dreams; they emphasize +the lack of connection in the associations, the suspended exercise of +the critical faculty, the elimination of all knowledge, and other +indications of diminished functioning. The single valuable contribution +to our knowledge about dreams for which we are indebted to exact science +relates to the influence upon the dream-content of physical stimuli +operating during sleep. We have the work of a Norwegian author who died +recently—J. Mourly Vold—two large volumes on experimental investigation +of dreams (translated into German in 1910 and 1912), which are concerned +almost entirely with the results obtained by change in the position of +the limbs. These investigations have been held up to us as models of +exact research in the subject of dreams. Now can you imagine what would +be the comment of exact science on learning that we intend to try to +find out the _meaning_ of dreams? The comment that has perhaps been made +already! However, we will not allow ourselves to be appalled at the +thought. If it was possible for errors to have an underlying meaning, it +is possible that dreams have one too; and errors have, in very many +cases, a meaning which has eluded the researches of exact science. Let +us adopt the assumption of the ancients and of simple folk, and follow +in the footsteps of the dream-interpreters of old. + +First of all, we must take our bearings in this enterprise, and make a +survey of the field of dreams. What exactly is a dream? It is difficult +to define it in a single phrase. Yet we need not seek after a +definition, when all we need is to refer to something familiar to +everyone. Still we ought to pick out the essential features in dreams. +How are we to discover these features? The boundaries of the region we +are entering comprise such vast differences, differences whichever way +we turn. That which we can show to be common to all dreams is probably +what is essential. + +Well then—the first common characteristic of all dreams would be that we +are asleep at the time. Obviously, the dream is the life of the mind +during sleep, a life bearing certain resemblances to our waking life +and, at the same time, differing from it widely. That, indeed, was +Aristotle’s definition. Perhaps dream and sleep stand in yet closer +relationship to each other. We can be waked by a dream; we often have a +dream when we wake spontaneously or when we are forcibly roused from +sleep. Dreams seem thus to be an intermediate condition between sleeping +and waking. Hence, our attention is directed to sleep itself: what then +is sleep? + +That is a physiological or biological problem concerning which much is +still in dispute. We can come to no decisive answer, but I think we may +attempt to define one psychological characteristic of sleep. Sleep is a +condition in which I refuse to have anything to do with the outer world +and have withdrawn my interest from it. I go to sleep by retreating from +the outside world and warding off the stimuli proceeding from it. Again, +when I am tired by that world I go to sleep. I say to it as I fall +asleep: “Leave me in peace, for I want to sleep.” The child says just +the opposite: “I won’t go to sleep yet; I’m not tired, I want more +things to happen to me!” Thus the biological object of sleep seems to be +recuperation, its psychological characteristic the suspension of +interest in the outer world. Our relationship with the world which we +entered so unwillingly seems to be endurable only with intermission; +hence we withdraw again periodically into the condition prior to our +entrance into the world: that is to say, into intra-uterine existence. +At any rate, we try to bring about quite similar conditions—warmth, +darkness and absence of stimulus—characteristic of that state. Some of +us still roll ourselves tightly up into a ball resembling the +intra-uterine position. It looks as if we grown-ups do not belong wholly +to the world, but only by two-thirds; one-third of us has never yet been +born at all. Every time we wake in the morning it is as if we were newly +born. We do, in fact, speak of the condition of waking from sleep in +these very words: we feel “as if we were newly born,”—and in this we are +probably quite mistaken in our idea of the general sensations of the +new-born infant; it may be assumed on the contrary that it feels +extremely uncomfortable. Again, in speaking of birth we speak of “seeing +the light of day.” + +If this is the nature of sleep, then dreams do not come into its scheme +at all, but seem rather to be an unwelcome supplement to it; and we do +indeed believe that dreamless sleep is the best, the only proper sleep. +There should be no mental activity during sleep; if any such activity +bestirs itself, then in so far have we failed to reach the true +pre-natal condition of peace; we have not been able to avoid altogether +some remnants of mental activity, and the act of dreaming would +represent these remnants. In that event it really does seem that dreams +do not need to have meaning. With errors it was different, for they were +at least activities manifested in waking life; but if I sleep and have +altogether suspended mental activity, with the exception of certain +remnants which I have not been able to suppress, there is no necessity +whatever that they should have any meaning. In fact, I cannot even make +use of any such meaning, seeing that the rest of my mind is asleep. It +can really then be a matter of spasmodic reactions only, of such mental +phenomena only as have their origin in physical stimulation. Hence, +dreams must be remnants of the mental activity of waking life disturbing +sleep, and we might as well make up our minds forthwith to abandon a +theme so unsuited to the purposes of psycho-analysis. + +Superfluous as dreams may be, however, they do exist nevertheless, and +we can try to account for their existence to ourselves. Why does not +mental life go off to sleep? Probably because there is something that +will not leave the mind in peace; stimuli are acting upon it and to +these it is bound to react. Dreams therefore are the mode of reaction of +the mind to stimuli acting upon it during sleep. We note here a +possibility of access to comprehension of dreams. We can now endeavour +to find out, in various dreams, what are the stimuli seeking to disturb +sleep, the reaction to which takes the form of dreams. By doing this we +should have worked out the first characteristic common to all dreams. + +Is there any other common characteristic? Yes, there is another, +unmistakable, and yet much harder to lay hold of and describe. The +character of mental processes during sleep is quite different from that +of waking processes. In dreams we go through many experiences, which we +fully believe in, whereas in reality we are perhaps only experiencing +the single disturbing stimulus. For the most part our experiences take +the form of visual images; there may be feeling as well, thoughts, too, +mixed up with them, and the other senses may be drawn in; but for the +most part dreams consist of visual images. Part of the difficulty of +reciting a dream comes from the fact that we have to translate these +images into words. “I could draw it,” the dreamer often says to us, “but +I do not know how to put it into words.” Now this is not exactly a +diminution in the mental capacity, as seen in a contrast between a +feeble-minded person and a man of genius. The difference is rather a +qualitative one, but it is difficult to say precisely wherein it lies. +G. T. Fechner once suggested that the stage whereon the drama of the +dream (within the mind) is played out is other than that of the life of +waking ideas. That is a saying which we really do not understand, nor do +we know what it is meant to convey to us, but it does actually reproduce +the impression of strangeness which most dreams make upon us. Again, the +comparison of the act of dreaming with the performances of an unskilled +hand in music breaks down here, for the piano will certainly respond +with the same notes, though not with melodies, to a chance touch on its +keys. We will keep this second common characteristic of dreams carefully +in view, even though we may not understand it. + +Are there any other qualities common to all dreams? I can think of none, +but can see differences only, whichever way I look, differences too in +every respect—in apparent duration, definiteness, the part played by +affects, persistence in the mind, and so forth. This is really not what +we should naturally expect in the case of a compulsive attempt, at once +meagre and convulsive, to ward off a stimulus. As regards the length of +dreams, some are very short, containing only one image, or very few, or +a single thought, possibly even a single word; others are peculiarly +rich in content, enact entire romances and seem to last a very long +time. There are dreams as distinct as actual experiences, so distinct +that for some time after waking we do not realize that they were dreams +at all; others, which are ineffably faint, shadowy and blurred; in one +and the same dream, even, there may be some parts of extraordinary +vividness alternating with others so indistinct as to be almost wholly +elusive. Again, dreams may be quite consistent or at any rate coherent, +or even witty or fantastically beautiful; others again are confused, +apparently imbecile, absurd or often absolutely mad. There are dreams +which leave us quite cold, others in which every affect makes itself +felt, pain to the point of tears, terror so intense as to wake us, +amazement, delight, and so on. Most dreams are forgotten soon after +waking; or they persist throughout the day, the recollection becoming +fainter and more imperfect as the day goes on; others remain so vivid +(as, for example, the dreams of childhood) that thirty years later we +remember them as clearly as though they were part of a recent +experience. Dreams, like people, may make their appearance once and +never come back; or the same person may dream the same thing repeatedly, +either in the same form or with slight alterations. In short, these +scraps of mental activity at night-time have at command an immense +repertory, can in fact create everything that by day the mind is capable +of—only, it is never the same. + +One might attempt to account for these diversities in dreams by assuming +that they correspond to different intermediate states between sleeping +and waking, different levels of imperfect sleep. Very well; but then in +proportion as the mind approached the waking state there should be not +merely an increase in the value, content, and distinctness of the +dream-performance, but also a growing perception that it _is_ a dream; +and it ought not to happen that side by side with a clear and sensible +element in the dream there is one which is nonsensical or indistinct, +followed again by a good piece of work. It is certain that the mind +could not vary its depth of sleep so rapidly as that. This explanation +therefore does not help; there is in fact no short cut to an answer. + +For the present we will leave the ‘meaning’ of the dream out of +question, and try instead, by starting from the common element in +dreams, to clear a path to a better understanding of their nature. From +the relationship of dreams to sleep we have drawn the conclusion that +dreams are the reaction to a stimulus disturbing sleep. As we have +heard, this is also the single point at which exact experimental +psychology can come to our aid; it affords proof of the fact that +stimuli brought to bear during sleep make their appearance in dreams. +Many investigations have been made on these lines, culminating in those +of Mourly Vold whom I mentioned earlier; we have all, too, been in a +position to confirm their results by occasional observations of our own. +I will choose some of the earlier experiments to tell you. Maury had +tests of this kind carried out upon himself. Whilst dreaming, he was +made to smell some eau de Cologne, whereupon he dreamt he was in Cairo, +in the shop of Johann Maria Farina, and this was followed by further +crazy adventures. Again, someone gave his neck a gentle pinch, and he +dreamt of the application of a blister and of a doctor who had treated +him when he was a child. Again, they let a drop of water fall on his +forehead and he was immediately in Italy, perspiring freely and drinking +the white wine of Orvieto. + +The striking feature about these dreams produced under experimental +conditions will perhaps become still clearer to us in another series of +“stimulus”-dreams. These are three dreams of which we have an account by +a clever observer, Hildebrandt, and all three are reactions to the sound +of an alarum-clock: + +“I am going for a walk on a spring morning, and I saunter through fields +just beginning to grow green, till I come to a neighbouring village, +where I see the inhabitants in holiday attire making their way in large +numbers to the church, their hymn-books in their hands. Of course! it is +Sunday and the morning service is just about to begin. I decide to take +part in it, but first as I am rather overheated I think I will cool down +in the churchyard which surrounds the church. Whilst reading some of the +epitaphs there I hear the bell-ringer go up into the tower, where I now +notice, high up, the little village bell which will give the signal for +the beginning of the service. For some time yet it remains motionless, +then it begins to swing, and suddenly the strokes ring out, clear and +piercing—so clear and piercing that they put an end to my sleep. But the +sound of the bell comes from the alarum-clock.” + +Here is another combination of images. “It is a bright winter day, and +the roads are deep in snow. I have promised to take part in a sleighing +expedition, but I have to wait a long time before I am told that the +sleigh is at the door. Now follow the preparations for getting in, the +fur rug is spread out and the foot-muff fetched and finally I am in my +place. But there is still a delay while the horses wait for the signal +to start. Then the reins are jerked and the little bells, shaken +violently, begin their familiar janizary music, so loudly that in a +moment the web of the dream is rent. Again it is nothing but the shrill +sound of the alarum-clock.” + +Now for the third example! “I see a kitchen-maid with dozens of piled-up +plates going along the passage to the dining-room. It seems to me that +the pyramid of china in her arms is in danger of overbalancing. I call +out a warning: ‘Take care, your whole load will fall to the ground.’ Of +course I receive the usual answer: that they are accustomed to carrying +china in that way, and so on; meanwhile I follow her as she goes with +anxious looks. I thought so—the next thing is a stumble on the +threshold, the crockery falls, crashing and clattering in a hundred +pieces on the ground. But—I soon become aware that that interminably +prolonged sound is no real crash, but a regular ringing—and this ringing +is due merely to the alarum-clock, as I realize at last on awakening.” + +These dreams are very pretty, perfectly sensible, and by no means so +incoherent as dreams usually are. We have no quarrel with them on those +grounds. The thing common to them all is that in each case the situation +arises from a noise, which the dreamer on waking recognizes as that of +the alarum-clock. Hence we see here how a dream is produced, but we find +out something more. In the dream there is no recognition of the clock, +which does not even appear in it, but for the noise of the clock another +noise is substituted; the stimulus which disturbs sleep is interpreted, +but interpreted differently in each instance. Now why is this? There is +no answer; it appears to be mere caprice. But to understand the dream we +should be able to account for its choice of just this noise and no other +to interpret the stimulus given by the alarum-clock. In analogous +fashion we must object to Maury’s experiments that, although it is clear +that the stimulus brought to bear on the sleeper does appear in the +dream, yet his experiments don’t explain why it appears exactly in that +form, which is one that does not seem explicable by the nature of the +stimulus disturbing sleep. And further, in Maury’s experiments there was +mostly a mass of other dream-material attached to the direct result of +the stimulus, for example, the crazy adventures in the eau de Cologne +dream, for which we are at a loss to account. + +Now will you reflect that the class of dreams which wake one up affords +the best opportunity for establishing the influence of external +disturbing stimuli. In most other cases it will be more difficult. We do +not wake up out of all dreams, and if in the morning we remember a dream +of the night before, how are we to assign it to a disturbing stimulus +operating perhaps during the night? I once succeeded in subsequently +establishing the occurrence of a sound-stimulus of this sort, but only, +of course, because of peculiar circumstances. I woke up one morning at a +place in the Tyrolese mountains knowing that I had dreamt that the Pope +was dead. I could not explain the dream to myself, but later my wife +asked me: “Did you hear quite early this morning the dreadful noise of +bells breaking out in all the churches and chapels?” No, I had heard +nothing, my sleep is too sound, but thanks to her telling me this I +understood my dream. How often may such causes of stimulus as this +induce dreams in the sleeper without his ever hearing of them +afterwards? Possibly very often: and possibly not. If we can get no +information of any stimulus we cannot be convinced on the point. And +apart from this we have given up trying to arrive at an estimation of +the sleep-disturbing external stimuli, since we know that they only +explain a fragment of the dream and not the whole dream-reaction. + +We need not on that account give up this theory altogether; there is +still another possible way of following it out. Obviously it is a matter +of indifference what disturbs sleep and causes the mind to dream. If it +cannot always be something external acting as a stimulus to one of the +senses, it is possible that, instead, a stimulus operates from the +internal organs—a so-called somatic stimulus. This supposition lies very +close, and moreover it corresponds to the view popularly held with +regard to the origin of dreams, for it is a common saying that they come +from the stomach. Unfortunately, here again we must suppose that in very +many cases information respecting a somatic stimulus operating during +the night would no longer be forthcoming after waking, so that it would +be incapable of proof. But we will not overlook the fact that many +trustworthy experiences support the idea that dreams may be derived from +somatic stimuli; on the whole it is indubitable that the condition of +the internal organs can influence dreams. The relation of the content of +many dreams to distention of the bladder or to a condition of excitation +of the sex-organs is so plain that it cannot be mistaken. From these +obvious cases we pass to others, in which, to judge by the content of +the dream, we are at least justified in suspecting that some such +somatic stimuli have been at work, since there is something in this +content which can be regarded as elaboration, representation, or +interpretation of these stimuli. Scherner, the investigator of dreams +(1861), emphatically supported the view which traces the origin of +dreams to organic stimuli, and contributed some excellent examples +towards it. For instance, he sees in a dream “two rows of beautiful +boys, with fair hair and delicate complexions, confronting each other +pugnaciously, joining in combat, seizing hold of one another, and again +letting go their hold, only to take up the former position and go +through the whole process again”; his interpretation of the two rows of +boys as the teeth is in itself plausible and seems to receive full +confirmation when after this scene the dreamer “pulls a long tooth from +his jaw.” Again, the interpretation of “long, narrow, winding passages” +as being suggested by a stimulus originating in the intestine seems +sound and corroborates Scherner’s assertion that dreams primarily +endeavour to represent, by like objects, the organ from which the +stimulus proceeds. + +We must therefore be prepared to admit that internal stimuli can play +the same rôle in dreams as external ones. Unfortunately, evaluation of +this factor is open to the same objections. In a great number of +instances the attribution of dreams to somatic stimuli must remain +uncertain or incapable of proof; not all dreams, but only a certain +number of them, rouse the suspicion that stimuli from internal organs +have something to do with their origin; and lastly, the internal somatic +stimulus will suffice no more than the external sensory stimulus to +explain any other part of the dream than the direct reaction to it. The +origin of all the rest of the dream remains obscure. + +Now, however, let us direct our attention to a certain peculiarity of +the dream-life which appears when we study the operation of these +stimuli. The dream does not merely reproduce the stimulus, but +elaborates it, plays upon it, fits it into a context, or replaces it by +something else. This is a side of the dream-work which is bound to be of +interest to us because possibly it may lead us nearer to the true nature +of dreams. The scope of a man’s production is not necessarily limited to +the circumstance which immediately gives rise to it. For instance, +Shakespeare’s _Macbeth_ was written as an occasional drama on the +accession of the king who first united in his person the crowns of the +three kingdoms. But does this historical occasion cover the whole +content of the drama, or explain its grandeur and its mystery? Perhaps +in the same way the external and internal stimuli operating upon the +sleeper are merely the occasion of the dream and afford us no insight +into its true nature. + +The other element common to all dreams, their peculiarity in mental +life, is on the one hand very difficult to grasp and on the other seems +to afford no clue for further inquiry. Our experiences in dreams for the +most part take the form of visual images. Can these be explained by the +stimuli? Is it really the stimulus that we experience? If so, why is the +experience visual, when it can only be in the very rarest instance that +any stimulus has operated upon our eyesight? Or, can it be shown that +when we dream of speech any conversation or sounds resembling +conversation reached our ears during sleep? I venture to discard such a +possibility without any hesitation whatever. + +If we cannot get any further with the common characteristics of dreams +as a starting-point, let us try beginning with their differences. Dreams +are often meaningless, confused, and absurd, yet there are some which +are sensible, sober, and reasonable. Let us see whether these latter +sensible dreams can help to elucidate those which are meaningless. I +will tell you the latest reasonable dream which was told to me, the +dream of a young man: “I went for a walk in the Kärntnerstrasse and +there I met Mr. X.; after accompanying him for a short time I went into +a restaurant. Two ladies and a gentleman came and sat down at my table. +At first I was annoyed and refused to look at them, but presently I +glanced across at them and found that they were quite nice.” The +dreamer’s comment on this was that the evening before he had actually +been walking in the Kärntnerstrasse, which is the way he usually goes, +and that he had met Mr. X. there. The other part of the dream was not a +direct reminiscence, but only bore a certain resemblance to an +occurrence of some time previously. Or here we have another prosaic +dream, that of a lady. “Her husband says to her: ‘Don’t you think we +ought to have the piano tuned?’ and she replies: ‘It is not worth it, +for the hammers need fresh leather anyhow.’” This dream repeats a +conversation which took place in almost the same words between herself +and her husband the day before the dream. What then do we learn from +these two prosaic dreams? Merely that there occur in them recollections +of daily life or of matters connected with it. Even that would be +something if it could be asserted of all dreams without exception. But +that is out of the question; this characteristic too belongs only to a +minority of dreams. In most dreams we find no connection with the day +before, and no light is thrown from this quarter upon meaningless and +absurd dreams. All we know is that we have met with a new problem. Not +only do we want to know what a dream is saying, but if as in our +examples that is quite plain, we want to know further from what cause +and to what end we repeat in dreams this which is known to us and has +recently happened to us. + +I think you would be as tired as I of continuing the kind of attempts we +have made up to this point. It only shows that all the interest in the +world will not help us with a problem unless we have also an idea of +some path to adopt in order to arrive at a solution. Till now we have +not found this path. Experimental psychology has contributed nothing but +some (certainly very valuable) information about the significance of +stimuli in the production of dreams. Of philosophy we have nothing to +expect, unless it be a lofty repetition of the reproach that our object +is intellectually contemptible; while from the occult sciences we surely +do not choose to borrow. History and the verdict of the people tell us +that dreams are full of meaning and importance, and of prophetic +significance; but that is hard to accept and certainly does not lend +itself to proof. So then our first endeavours are completely baffled. + +But unexpectedly there comes a hint from a direction in which we have +not hitherto looked. Colloquial speech, which is certainly no matter of +chance but the deposit, as it were, of ancient knowledge—a thing which +must not indeed be made too much of—our speech, I say, recognizes the +existence of something to which, strangely enough, it gives the name of +“day-dreams.” Day-dreams are phantasies (products of phantasy); they are +very common phenomena, are observable in healthy as well as in sick +persons, and they also can easily be studied by the subject himself. The +most striking thing about these ‘phantastic’ creations is that they have +received the name of “day-dreams,” for they have nothing in common with +the two universal characteristics of dreams. Their name contradicts any +relationship to the condition of sleep and, as regards the second +universal characteristic, no experience or hallucination takes place in +them, we simply imagine something; we recognize that they are the work +of phantasy, that we are not seeing but thinking. These day-dreams +appear before puberty, often indeed in late childhood, and persist until +maturity is reached when they are either given up or retained as long as +life lasts. The content of these phantasies is dictated by a very +transparent motivation. They are scenes and events which gratify either +the egoistic cravings of ambition or thirst for power, or the erotic +desires of the subject. In young men, ambitious phantasies predominate; +in women, whose ambition centres on success in love, erotic phantasies; +but the erotic requirement can often enough in men too be detected in +the background, all their heroic deeds and successes are really only +intended to win the admiration and favour of women. In other respects +these day-dreams show great diversity and their fate varies. All of them +are either given up after a short time and replaced by a new one, or +retained, spun out into long stories, and adapted to changing +circumstances in life. They march with the times, receiving as it were +“date-stamps” upon them which show the influence of new situations. They +form the raw material of poetic production; for the writer by +transforming, disguising, or curtailing them creates out of his +day-dreams the situations which he embodies in his stories, novels, and +dramas. The hero of a day-dream is, however, always the subject himself, +either directly imagined in the part or transparently identified with +someone else. + +Perhaps day-dreams are so called on account of their similar relation to +reality, as an indication that their content is no more to be accepted +as real than is that of dreams. But it is possible that they share the +name of dreams because of some mental characteristic of the dream which +we do not yet know but after which we are seeking. On the other hand, it +is possible that we are altogether wrong in regarding this similarity of +name as significant. That is a question which can only be answered +later. + + + + + SIXTH LECTURE + PRELIMINARY HYPOTHESES AND TECHNIQUE OF INTERPRETATION + + +We thus realize our need of a new way of approach, a definite method, if +we are to make any advance in our researches into dreams. I will now +offer an obvious suggestion: let us accept as the basis of the whole of +our further enquiry the following hypothesis—that dreams are not a +somatic, but a mental, phenomenon. You know what this means; but what is +our justification in making this assumption? We have none, but on the +other hand there is nothing to prevent us. The position is this: if the +dream is a somatic phenomenon it does not concern us; it can only be of +interest to us on the hypothesis that it is a mental phenomenon. So we +will assume that this hypothesis is true, in order to see what happens +if we do so. The results of our work will determine whether we may +adhere to the assumption, and uphold it in its turn as an inference +fairly drawn. Now what exactly is the object of this enquiry of ours, or +to what are we directing our efforts? Our object is that of all +scientific endeavour—namely, to achieve an understanding of the +phenomena, to establish a connection between them, and, in the last +resort, wherever it is possible to increase our power over them. + +So we continue our work on the assumption that dreams are a mental +phenomenon. In that event, they are a performance and an utterance on +the part of the dreamer, but of a kind that conveys nothing to us, and +which we do not understand. Now supposing that I give utterance to +something that you do not understand, what do you do? You ask me to +explain, do you not? Why may not we do the same—_ask the dreamer the +meaning of the dream_? + +Remember, we have already found ourselves in a similar position. It +was when we were enquiring into certain errors, and the instance we +took was a slip of the tongue. Someone had said: “Then certain things +were _refilled_,” and thereupon we asked—no, fortunately it was not +_we_ who asked, but other people who had nothing to do with +psycho-analysis—_they_ asked what he meant by this enigmatic +expression. He answered at once that what he had intended to say was: +“That was a filthy business,” but had checked himself and substituted +the milder words: “Things were revealed there.” I explained to you +then that this enquiry was the model for every psycho-analytic +investigation, and you understand now that psycho-analytic technique +endeavours as far as possible to let the persons being analysed give +the answer to their own problems. The dreamer himself then should +interpret his dream for us. + +That is not so simple with dreams, however, as we all know. Where errors +were concerned, this method proved possible in many cases; there were +others where the person questioned refused to say anything and even +indignantly repudiated the answer suggested to him. With dreams, +instances of the first type are entirely lacking; the dreamer always +says he knows nothing about it. He cannot very well repudiate our +interpretation, since we have none to offer him. Shall we have to give +up our attempt then? Since _he_ knows nothing, and _we_ know nothing, +and a third person can surely know nothing either, there cannot be any +prospect of finding the answer. Well, if you like, give up the attempt. +But if you are not so minded, you can accompany me. For I assure you +that it is not only quite possible, but highly probable, that the +dreamer really does know the meaning of his dream; _only he does not +know that he knows, and therefore thinks that he does not_. + +At this point you will probably call my attention to the fact that I am +again introducing an assumption, the second in quite a short context, +and that by so doing I greatly detract from the force of my claim to a +trustworthy method of procedure. Given the hypothesis that dreams are a +mental phenomenon, and given further the hypothesis that there are in +the minds of men certain things which they know without knowing that +they know them—and so forth! You have only to keep in view the intrinsic +improbability of both these hypotheses, and you may with an easy mind +abandon all interest in the conclusions to be drawn from them. + +Well, I have not brought you here either to delude you or to conceal +anything from you. True, I announced that I would give a course of +lectures entitled Introductory Lectures on Psycho-Analysis; but it was +no part of my purpose to play the oracle, professing to show you an easy +sequence of facts, whilst carefully concealing all difficulties, filling +up gaps, and glossing over doubtful points, so that you might +comfortably enjoy the belief that you have learnt something new. No, it +is the very fact that you are beginners that makes me anxious to show +you our science as it is, with all its excrescences and crudities, the +claims that it makes and the criticism to which it may give rise. I know +indeed that it is the same in every science and that, especially in the +beginnings, it cannot be otherwise. I know too that, in teaching other +sciences, an effort is made at first to hide these difficulties and +imperfections from the learner. But that cannot be done in +psycho-analysis. So I really have set up two hypotheses, the one within +the other; and anyone who finds it all too laborious, or too uncertain, +or who is used to higher degrees of certainty, or to more refined +deductions, need go no further with me. Only I should advise him to +leave psychological problems altogether alone, for it is to be feared +that this is a field in which he will find no access to such exact and +sure paths as he is prepared to tread. And, further, it is quite +superfluous for any science which can offer a real contribution to +knowledge to strive to make itself heard and to win adherents. Its +reception must depend upon its results, and it can afford to wait until +these have compelled attention. + +But I may warn those of you who are not to be deterred in this way that +my two assumptions are not of equal importance. The first, that dreams +are a mental phenomenon, is the hypothesis which we hope to prove by the +results of our work. The second has already been proved in a different +field, and I am merely taking the liberty of transferring it thence to +our problems. + +Where, and in what connection, is it supposed to have been proved that a +man can possess knowledge without knowing that he does so, which is the +assumption we are making of the dreamer? Surely that would be a +remarkable and surprising fact, which would change our conception of +mental life and would have no need of concealment. Incidentally, it +would be a fact belied in the very statement of it, which yet attempts +to be literally true—a contradiction in terms. There is not, however, +any attempt at concealment. We cannot blame the fact for people’s +ignorance of it, or lack of interest in it, any more than we ourselves +are to blame because all these psychological problems have been passed +in judgement by persons who have held aloof from all the observations +and experiments which alone can be conclusive. + +The proof to which I refer was found in the sphere of hypnotic +phenomena. In the year 1889 I was present at the remarkably impressive +demonstrations by Liébault and Bernheim, in Nancy, and there I witnessed +the following experiment. A man was placed in a condition of +somnambulism, and then made to go through all sorts of hallucinatory +experiences. On being wakened, he seemed at first to know nothing at all +of what had taken place during his hypnotic sleep. Bernheim then asked +him in so many words to tell him what had happened while he was under +hypnosis. The man declared that he could not remember anything. +Bernheim, however, insisted upon it, pressed him, and assured him that +he did know and that he must remember, and lo and behold! the man +wavered, began to reflect, and remembered in a shadowy fashion first one +of the occurrences which had been suggested to him, then something else, +his recollection growing increasingly clear and complete until finally +it was brought to light without a single gap. Now, since in the end he +had the knowledge without having learnt anything from any other quarter +in the meantime, we are justified in concluding that these recollections +were in his mind from the outset. They were merely inaccessible to him; +he did not know that he knew them but believed that he did not know. In +fact, his case was exactly similar to what we assume the dreamer’s to +be. + +I hope you are duly surprised that this fact is already established and +that you will ask me: “Why did you not refer to this proof before, when +we were considering errors and came to the point of ascribing to a man +who had made a slip of the tongue intentions behind his speech, of which +he knew nothing, and which he denied? If it is possible for a man to +believe that he knows nothing of experiences of which nevertheless he +does possess the recollection, it seems no longer improbable that there +should be other mental processes going on within him about which also he +knows nothing. We should certainly have been impressed by this argument +and should have been in a better position to understand about errors.” +Certainly, I might have brought forward this proof then, but I reserved +it for a later occasion when there would be more need for it. Some of +the errors explained themselves, others suggested to us that in order to +understand the connection between the phenomena it would be advisable to +postulate the existence of mental processes of which the person is +entirely ignorant. With dreams we are compelled to seek our explanations +elsewhere, and besides, I am counting on your being more ready to accept +in this connection a proof from the field of hypnosis. The condition in +which we perform errors must seem to you normal and, as such, to bear no +similarity to that of hypnosis. On the other hand there exists a clear +relationship between the hypnotic state and sleep, the essential +condition of dreaming. Hypnosis is actually called artificial sleep; we +say to the people whom we hypnotize: “Sleep,” and the suggestions made +to them are comparable to the dreams of natural sleep. The mental +situation is really analogous in the two cases. In natural sleep we +withdraw our interest from the whole outer world; so also in hypnotic +sleep, with the exception of the one person who has hypnotized us and +with whom we remain in rapport. Again, the so-called “nurse’s sleep” in +which the nurse remains in rapport with the child and can be wakened +only by him is a normal counterpart of hypnotic sleep. So it does not +seem so very audacious to carry over to natural sleep something which is +a condition in hypnosis. The assumption that some knowledge about his +dream exists in the dreamer and that this knowledge is merely +inaccessible to him, so that he himself does not believe he has it, is +not a wild invention. Incidentally, we observe here that a third way of +approaching the study of dreams is thus opened out for us; we may +approach it by the avenue of sleep-disturbing stimuli, by that of +day-dreams, and now by that of the dreams suggested during hypnosis. + +Now perhaps we shall return to our task with greater confidence. We see +it is very probable that the dreamer knows something about his dream; +the problem is how to make it possible for him to get at his knowledge +and impart it to us. We do not expect him immediately to tell us what +his dream means, but we do think he will be able to discover its source, +from what circle of thoughts and interests it is derived. With errors, +you will remember the man was asked how the slip of the tongue +“refilled” had come about, and his first association gave us the +explanation. The technique we employ in the case of dreams is very +simple and is modelled on this example. Here again we shall ask the +dreamer how he came to have the dream, and his next words must be +regarded as giving the explanation in this case also. It makes no +difference to us therefore, whether he thinks that he does or does not +know anything about it, and we treat both cases alike. + +This technique is certainly very simple, nevertheless I am afraid it +will provoke most strenuous opposition in you. You will say: “Another +assumption, the third! And the most improbable of all! When I ask the +dreamer what ideas come to him about the dream, do you mean to say that +his very first association will give the desired explanation? But surely +he might have no association at all, or heaven only knows what the +association might be. We cannot imagine upon what grounds such an +expectation is based. It really implies too much trust in Providence, +and this at a point where rather more exercise of the critical faculty +would better meet the case. Besides, a dream is not like a single slip +of the tongue but is made up of many elements. That being so, upon which +association is one to rely?” + +You are right in all the unessentials. It is true that a dream differs +from a slip of the tongue in the matter of its many elements as well as +in other points. We must take account of that in our technique. So I +suggest to you that we divide the dream up into its various elements, +and examine each element separately; then we shall have re-established +the analogy with a slip of the tongue. Again, you are right in saying +that the dreamer when questioned on the single elements of the dream may +reply that he has no ideas about them. There are cases in which we +accept this answer, and later I will tell you which these are; curiously +enough, they are cases about which we ourselves may have certain +definite ideas. But in general, when the dreamer declares that he has no +ideas, we shall contradict him, press him to answer, assure him that he +must have some idea and—shall find we are right. He will produce an +association, any one, it does not matter to us what it is. He will be +especially ready with information which we may term historical. He will +say: “That is something which happened yesterday” (as in the instance of +the two “prosaic” dreams quoted above) or: “That reminds me of something +which happened recently,” and in this way we shall come to notice that +dreams are much more often connected with impressions of the day before +than we thought at first. Finally, with the dream as his starting-point, +he will recall events which happened less recently, and at last even +some which lie very far back in the past. + +In regard to the main issue, however, you are wrong. When you think it +arbitrary to assume that the first association of the dreamer must give +us just what we are looking for, or at any rate lead to it, and further, +that the association is much more likely to be quite capricious and to +have no connection with what we are looking for, and that it only shows +my blind trust in Providence if I expect anything else—then you make a +very great mistake. I have already taken the liberty of pointing out to +you that there is within you a deeply-rooted belief in psychic freedom +and choice, that this belief is quite unscientific, and that it must +give ground before the claims of a determinism which governs even mental +life. I ask you to have some respect for the _fact_ that that one +association, and nothing else, occurs to the dreamer when he is +questioned. Nor am I setting up one belief against another. It can be +proved that the association thus given is not a matter of choice, not +indeterminate, and that it is not unconnected with what we are looking +for. Indeed, I have recently learnt—not that I attach too much +importance to the fact—that experimental psychology itself has brought +forward similar proofs. + +Because of the importance of the matter I ask you to pay special +attention to this. When I ask a man to say what comes to his mind about +any given element in a dream, I require him to give himself up to the +process of FREE ASSOCIATION _which follows when he keeps in mind the +original idea_. This necessitates a peculiar attitude of the attention, +something quite different from reflection, indeed, precluding it. Many +people adopt this attitude without any difficulty, but others when they +attempt to do so display an incredible inaptitude. There is a still +higher degree of freedom in association which appears when I dispense +with any particular stimulus-idea and perhaps only describe the kind and +species of association that I want; for example, ask someone to let a +proper name or a number occur to him. An association of this sort +should, one would say, be even more subject to choice and unaccountable +than the kind used in our technique. Nevertheless, it can be shown that +in every instance it will be strictly determined by important inner +attitudes of mind, which are unknown to us at the moment when they +operate, just as much unknown as are the disturbing tendencies which +cause errors, and those tendencies which bring about so-called “chance” +actions. + +I myself and many after me have repeatedly made an examination of names +and numbers called up without any particular idea as a starting-point; +some of these experiments have been published. The method is this: a +train of associations is stirred up by the name which occurred, and +these associations, as you see, are no longer quite free, but are +attached just so far as the associations to the different elements of +the dream are attached; this train of associations is then kept up until +the thoughts arising from the impulse have been exhausted. By that time, +however, you will have explained the motivation and significance of the +free association with a name. The experiments yield the same result +again and again; the information they give us often includes a wealth of +material and necessitates going far afield into its ramifications. The +associations to numbers that arise spontaneously are perhaps the most +demonstrative; they follow upon one another so swiftly and make for a +hidden goal with such astounding certainty that one is really quite +taken aback. I will give you just one example of a name-analysis of this +sort, because it happens to be one which does not involve the handling +of a great mass of material. + +Once, when I was treating a young man, I happened to say something on +this subject and to assert that in spite of our apparent freedom of +choice in such matters we cannot, in point of fact, think of any name +which cannot be shown to be narrowly determined by the immediate +circumstances, the idiosyncrasies, of the person experimented with and +his situation at the moment. As he was inclined to be sceptical, I +proposed that he should make the experiment himself then and there. I +knew that he had unusually numerous relationships of all sorts with +women and girls, so I told him that I thought he would have an +exceptionally large number to choose from if he were to let the name of +a woman occur to him. He agreed. To my surprise, or rather perhaps to +his own, he did not overwhelm me with an avalanche of women’s names, but +remained silent for a time, and then confessed that the only name which +came into his mind at all was “Albine.” “How curious! What do you +connect with this name? How many Albines do you know?” Strangely enough, +he knew no one of the name of Albine, and he found no associations to +the name. One might infer that the analysis had failed; but no, it was +already complete, and no further association was required. The man +himself was unusually fair in colouring, and whilst talking to him in +analysis I had often jokingly called him an _albino_; moreover, we were +just in the midst of tracing the _feminine_ element in his nature. So it +was he himself who was this female albino, the “woman” who interested +him most at the moment. + +In the same way, the tunes which suddenly come into a man’s head can be +shown to be conditioned by some train of thought to which they belong, +and which for some reason is occupying his mind without his knowing +anything about it. It is easy to show that the connection with the tune +is to be sought either in the words which belong to it or in the source +from which it comes: I must, however, make this reservation, that I do +not maintain this in the case of really musical people of whom I happen +to have had no experience; in them the musical value of the tune may +account for its suddenly emerging into consciousness. The first case is +certainly much more common; I know of a young man who for some time was +absolutely haunted by the tune (a charming one, I admit) of the song of +Paris in _Helen of Troy_, until his attention was drawn in analysis to +the fact that at that time an “Ida” and a “Helen” were rivals in his +interest. + +If then the associations which arise quite freely are determined in this +way and belong to some definite context, we are surely justified in +concluding that associations attached to one single stimulus-idea must +be equally narrowly conditioned. Examination shows as a fact that they +are not only attached in the first place to the stimulus-idea which we +have provided for them, but that they are also dependent, in the second +place, on circles of thoughts and interests of strong affective value +(_complexes_, as we call them) of whose influence at the time nothing is +known, that is to say, on unconscious activities. + +Associations attached in this way have been made the subject of very +instructive experiments, which have played a notable part in the history +of psycho-analysis. Wundt’s school originated the so-called +‘association-experiment,’ in which the subject of the experiment is +bidden to reply to a given ‘stimulus-word’ as quickly as possible with +whatever ‘reaction-word’ occurs to him. The following points may then be +noted: the interval which elapses between the sounding of the +stimulus-word and of the reaction-word, the nature of the latter, and +possibly any mistake which comes in when the same experiment is repeated +later, and so on. The Zurich School, under the leadership of Bleuler and +Jung, arrived at the explanation of the reactions to the +association-experiment by asking the person experimented upon to throw +light upon any associations which seemed at all remarkable, by means of +subsequent associations. In this way it became clear that these unusual +reactions were most strictly determined by the complexes of the person +concerned. By this discovery Bleuler and Jung built the first bridge +between experimental psychology and psycho-analysis. + +Having heard this you may possibly say: “We admit now that free +associations are subject to determination and not a matter of choice, as +we thought at first, and we admit this also in the case of associations +to the elements of dreams. But it is not this that we are bothering +about. You maintain that the association to each element in the dream is +determined by some mental background to this particular element, a +background of which we know nothing. We cannot see that there is any +proof of this. Naturally we expect that the association to the +dream-element will be shown to be conditioned by one of the complexes of +the dreamer, but what good is that to us? That does not help us to +understand the dream; it merely leads to some knowledge of these +so-called complexes, as did the association-experiment; but what have +these to do with the dream?” + +You are right, but you are overlooking an important point, the very +thing which deterred me from choosing the association-experiment as a +starting-point for this discussion. In this experiment the +stimulus-word, the single thing which determines the reaction, is chosen +by us at will, and the reaction stands as intermediary between this +stimulus-word and the complex aroused in the person experimented upon. +In the dream, the stimulus-word is replaced by something derived from +the mental life of the dreamer, from sources unknown to him, and hence +may very probably be itself a ‘derivative of a complex.’ It is not, +therefore, altogether fantastic to suppose that the further associations +connected with the elements of the dream are determined by no other +complex than that which has produced the particular element itself, and +that they will lead to the discovery of that complex. + +Let me give you another instance which may serve to show that, in the +case of dreams, the facts bear out our expectations. The forgetting of +proper names is really an excellent prototype of what happens in +dream-analysis, only that in the former case one person alone is +concerned, while in the interpretation of dreams there are two. When I +forget a name temporarily, I am still certain that I know it, and by way +of a détour through Bernheim’s experiment, we are now in a position to +achieve a similar certainty in the case of the dreamer. Now this name +which I have forgotten, and yet really know, eludes me. Experience soon +teaches me that no amount of thinking about it, even with effort, is any +use. I can, however, always think of another or of several other names +instead of the forgotten one. When such a substitute name occurs to me +spontaneously, only then is the similarity between this situation and +that of dream-analysis evident. The dream-element also is not what I am +really looking for; it is only a substitute for something else, for the +real thing which I do not know and am trying to discover by means of +dream-analysis. Again the difference is that when I forget a name I know +perfectly well that the substitute is not the right one, whereas we only +arrived at this conception of the dream-element by a laborious process +of investigation. Now there also is a way in which, when we forget a +name, we can by starting from the substitute, arrive at the real thing +eluding our consciousness at the moment, i.e. the forgotten name. If I +turn my attention to these substitute names and let further associations +to them come into my mind, I arrive after a short or a long way round at +the name I have forgotten, and in so doing I discover that the +substitutes I have spontaneously produced had a definite connection +with, and were determined by, the forgotten name. + +I will give you an instance of an analysis of this sort: one day I found +that I could not call to mind the name of the small country on the +Riviera, of which Monte Carlo is the capital. It was most annoying, but +so it was. I delved into all my knowledge about the country; I thought +of Prince Albert of the House of Lusignan, of his marriages, of his +passion for deep-sea exploration—in fact of everything I could summon +up, but all to no purpose. So I gave up trying to think and, instead of +the name I had lost, let substitute names come into my mind. They came +quickly: Monte Carlo itself, then Piedmont, Albania, Montevideo, Colico. +Albania was the first to attract my attention; it was immediately +replaced by Montenegro, probably because of the contrast between black +and white. Then I noticed that four of the substitute names have the +same syllable “mon,” and immediately I recalled the forgotten word and +cried out “Monaco.” You see the substitutes really originated in the +forgotten name; the four first came from the first syllable and the last +gave the sequence of the syllables and the whole of the final syllable. +Incidentally, I could quite easily find out what had made me forget the +name for the time being. Monaco is the Italian name for Munich, and it +was some thoughts connected with this town which had acted as an +inhibition. + +Now that is a very pretty example, but it is too simple. In other cases +you might have to take a longer succession of associations to the +substitute name, and then the analogy to dream-analysis would be +clearer. I have had experiences of that sort, too. A stranger once +invited me to drink some Italian wine with him, and in the inn he found +he had forgotten the name of the wine which he had meant to order on +account of his very pleasant recollections of it. A number of dissimilar +substitute names occurred to him, and from these I was able to infer +that the thought of someone called Hedwig had made him forget the name +of the wine. Sure enough, not only did he tell me that there had been a +Hedwig with him on the occasion when he first tasted the wine, but this +discovery brought back to him the name he wanted. He was now happily +married, and “Hedwig” belonged to earlier days which he did not care to +recall. + +What is possible in the case of forgotten names must be also possible in +the interpretation of dreams: starting from the substitute, we must be +able to arrive at the real object of our search by means of a train of +associations; and further, arguing from what happens with forgotten +names, we may assume that the associations to the dream-element will +have been determined not only by that element but also by the real +thought which is not in consciousness. If we could do this, we should +have gone some way towards justifying our technique. + + + + + SEVENTH LECTURE + MANIFEST CONTENT AND LATENT THOUGHTS + + +You see that our study of errors has not been fruitless. Thanks to our +exertions in that direction, we have—reasoning from the hypotheses with +which you are familiar—secured two results: a conception of the nature +of the dream-element and a technique of dream-interpretation. The +conception of the dream-element is as follows: it is not in itself a +primary and essential thing, a ‘thought proper,’ but a substitute for +something else unknown to the person concerned, just as is the +underlying intention of the error, a substitute for something the +knowledge of which is indeed possessed by the dreamer but is +inaccessible to him. We hope to be able to carry over the same +conception on to the dream as a whole, which consists of a number of +such elements. Our method is to allow other substitute-ideas, from which +we are able to divine that which lies hidden, to emerge into +consciousness by means of free association to the said elements. + +I am now going to propose that we introduce an alteration in our +nomenclature in order to make our terminology more flexible. Instead of +using the words “hidden,” “inaccessible,” or “proper,” let us give a +more precise description and say “inaccessible to the consciousness of +the dreamer” or “unconscious.” By that we mean nothing more than was +implied in the case of the forgotten word, or the underlying intention +responsible for the error; that is to say, _unconscious at the moment_. +It follows that in contradistinction we may call the dream-elements +themselves, and those substitute-ideas arrived at by the process of +association, _conscious_. No theoretical implication is so far contained +in these terms; no exception can be taken to the use of the word +“unconscious” as a description at once applicable and easy to +understand.[26] + +Now, transferring our conception from the single element to the dream as +a whole, it follows that the latter is the distorted substitute for +something else, something unconscious, and that the task of +dream-interpretation is to discover these unconscious thoughts. Hence +are derived three important rules which should be observed in the work +of dream-interpretation: + +1. We are not to trouble about the surface meaning of the dream, whether +it be reasonable or absurd, clear or confused; in no case does it +constitute the unconscious thoughts we are seeking. (An obvious +limitation of this rule will force itself upon us later.) + +2. We are to confine our work to calling up substitute-ideas for every +element and not to ponder over them and try to see whether they contain +something which fits in, nor to trouble ourselves about how far they are +taking us from the dream-element. + +3. We must wait until the hidden unconscious thoughts which we are +seeking appear of their own accord, just as in the case of the missing +word “Monaco” in the experiment which I described. + +Now we understand also how entirely indifferent it is whether we +remember much or little of our dreams, above all whether we remember +them accurately or not. The dream as remembered is not the real thing at +all, but _a distorted substitute_ which, by calling up other +substitute-ideas, provides us with a means of approaching the thought +proper, of bringing into consciousness the unconscious thoughts +underlying the dream. If our recollection was at fault, all that has +happened is that a further distortion of the substitute has taken place, +and this distortion itself cannot be without motivation. + +We can interpret our own dreams as well as those of others; indeed, we +learn more from our own and the process carries more conviction. Now if +we experiment in this direction, we notice that something is working +against us. Associations come, it is true, but we do not admit them all; +we are moved to criticize and to select. We say to ourselves of one +association: “No, that does not fit in—it is irrelevant,” and of +another: “That is too absurd,” and of a third: “That is quite beside the +point”; and then we can observe further that in making such objections +we stifle, and in the end actually banish, the associations before they +have become quite clear. So on the one hand we tend to hold too closely +to the initial idea, that is, the dream-element itself, and on the +other, by allowing ourselves to select, we vitiate the results of the +process of free association. If we are not attempting the interpretation +by ourselves, but are allowing someone else to interpret, we shall +clearly perceive another motive impelling us to this selection, +forbidden as we know it to be. We find ourselves thinking at times: “No, +this association is too unpleasant; I cannot, or will not, tell it to +him.” + +Clearly these objections threaten to spoil the success of our work. We +must guard against them when we are interpreting our own dreams by +resolving firmly not to yield to them, and, in interpreting those of +someone else, by laying down the hard and fast rule that he must not +withhold any association, even if one of the four objections I have +named rises up against it, namely, that it is too unimportant, too +absurd, too irrelevant or too unpleasant to speak of. He promises to +keep this rule, and we may well feel annoyed when we find how badly he +fulfils his promise later on. At first we account for this by imagining +that in spite of our authoritative assurance he is not convinced that +the process of free association will be justified by its results; and +perhaps our next idea will be to win him over first to our theory, by +giving him books to read or sending him to lectures so that he may be +converted to our views on the subject. But we shall be saved from any +such false steps by observing that the same critical objections against +certain associations arise even in ourselves, whom we surely cannot +suspect of doubt, and can only subsequently, on second thoughts as it +were, be overcome. + +Instead of being annoyed at the dreamer’s disobedience, we can turn this +experience to good account as a means of learning something new, +something which is the more important the more unprepared we were for +it. We realize that the work of dream-interpretation is encountering +opposition by a _resistance_ which expresses itself in this very form of +critical objections. This resistance is independent of the theoretical +conviction of the dreamer. We learn even more than this. Experience +shows that a critical objection of this nature is never justified. On +the contrary, the associations which people wish to suppress in this way +prove _without exception_ to be the most important, to be decisive for +the discovery of the unconscious thought. When an association is +accompanied by an objection of this sort it positively calls for special +notice. + +This resistance is something entirely new; a phenomenon which we have +found by following out our hypotheses, although it was not included in +them. We are not altogether agreeably surprised by this new factor which +we have to reckon with, for we suspect already that it will not make our +work any easier: it might almost tempt us to give up the effort with +dreams altogether. To take such a trivial subject and then to have so +much trouble, instead of spinning along smoothly with our technique! But +we might on the other hand find these difficulties fascinating and be +led to suspect that the work will be worth the trouble. Resistances +invariably confront us when we try to penetrate to the hidden +unconscious thought from the substitute offered by the dream-element. We +may suppose, therefore, that something very significant must be +concealed behind the substitute; for, if not, why should we meet with +such difficulties, the purpose of which is to keep up the concealment? +When a child will not open his clenched fist to show what is in it, we +may be quite certain that it is something which he ought not to have. + +As soon as we introduce into our subject the dynamic conception of +resistance, we must bear in mind that this factor is something +quantitatively variable. There are greater and lesser resistances, and +we are prepared to find these differences showing themselves in the +course of our work. Perhaps we can connect with this another experience +also met with in the process of dream-interpretation. I mean that +sometimes only a few associations—perhaps not more than one—suffice to +lead us from the dream-element to the unconscious thought behind it, +whilst on other occasions long chains of associations are necessary and +many critical objections have to be overcome. We shall probably think +that the number of associations necessary varies with the varying +strength of the resistances, and very likely we shall be right. If there +is only a slight resistance, the substitute is not far removed from the +unconscious thought; a strong resistance on the other hand causes great +distortions of the latter, and thereby entails a long journey back from +the substitute to the unconscious thought itself. + +Perhaps this would be a good moment to select a dream and try our +technique upon it, to see whether the expectations we have entertained +are realized. Very well, but what dream shall we choose? You do not know +how difficult it is for me to decide, nor can I make it clear to you yet +what the difficulties are. Obviously there must be dreams in which on +the whole there is very little distortion, and one would think it would +be best to begin with these. But which are the least distorted dreams? +Those which make good sense and are not confused, of which I have +already given you two examples? In assuming this, we should make a great +mistake, for examination shows that these dreams have undergone an +exceptionally high degree of distortion. Supposing then that I make no +special condition but take any dream at random, you would probably be +very much disappointed. We might have to observe and record such a vast +number of associations to the single dream-elements that it would be +quite impossible to gain any clear view of the work as a whole. If we +write the dream down and compare with it all the associations which it +produces, we are likely to find that they have multiplied the length of +the text of the dream many times. So the most practical method would +seem to be that of selecting for analysis several short dreams, each of +which can at least convey some idea to us or confirm some supposition. +This will be the course we shall decide to take, unless experience gives +us a hint where we ought really to look for slightly distorted dreams. + +But I can suggest another means of simplifying matters, one which lies +right before us. Instead of attempting the interpretation of whole +dreams, let us confine ourselves to single dream-elements and find out +by taking a series of examples how the application of our technique +explains them:— + +(_a_) A lady related that as a child she very often dreamt that _God had +a pointed paper cap on his head_. How are you going to understand that +without the help of the dreamer? It sounds quite nonsensical; but the +absurdity disappears when the lady says that as a little girl she used +to have a cap like that put on her head at table, because she wouldn’t +give up looking at the plates of her brothers and sisters to see whether +any of them had been given more than she. Evidently the cap was meant to +serve the purpose of blinkers; this piece of historical information was +given, by the way, without any difficulty. The interpretation of this +element and, with it, of the whole short dream becomes easy enough with +the help of a further association of the dreamer’s: “As I had been told +that God knew everything and saw everything, the dream could only mean +that I knew and saw everything as God did, even when they tried to +prevent me.” This example is perhaps too simple. + +(_b_) A sceptical patient had a longer dream, in which certain people +were telling her about my book on _Wit_ and praising it very highly. +Then something else came in about a _canal; it might have been another +book in which the word canal occurred, or something else to do with a +canal ... she did not know ... it was quite vague_. + +Now you will certainly be inclined to suppose that the _canal_ in the +dream will defy interpretation on account of its vagueness. You are +right in expecting difficulty, but the difficulty is not caused by the +vagueness; on the contrary, the difficulty in interpretation is caused +by something else, by the same thing that makes the element vague. The +dreamer had no association to the word “canal”; naturally I did not know +what to say either. Shortly afterwards, to be accurate, on the next day, +she told me that an association had occurred to her which _perhaps_ had +something to do with it. It was in fact a witty remark which some one +had told her. On board ship between Dover and Calais a well-known author +was talking to an Englishman who in some particular context quoted the +words: “Du sublime au ridicule il n’y a qu’un pas.” The author answered: +“Oui, le Pas-de-Calais,” meaning that he regarded France as sublime and +England as ridiculous. Of course, the Pas-de-Calais is a _canal_—that is +to say, the Canal la Manche—the English Channel. Now, you ask, do I +think that this association had anything to do with the dream? Certainly +I think so: it gives the true meaning of the puzzling dream-element. Or +are you inclined to doubt that the joke already existed before the dream +and was the unconscious thought behind the element “canal,” and to +maintain that it was a subsequent invention? The association reveals the +scepticism disguised under the obtrusive admiration, and resistance was +no doubt the cause both of the association being so long in occurring to +her, and of the corresponding dream-element being so vague. Observe here +the relation between the dream-element and the unconscious thought +underlying it: it is, as it were, a fragment of the thought, an allusion +to it; by being isolated in that way it became quite incomprehensible. + +(_c_) A patient had a fairly long dream, part of which was as follows: +_Several members of his family were seated at a table of a particular +shape_ ... etc. This table reminded the dreamer that he had seen one of +the same sort when he was visiting a certain family. From that his +thoughts ran on thus: in this family the relationship between father and +son was a peculiar one, and the patient presently added that his own +relationship to his father was, as a matter of fact, of the same nature. +So the table was introduced into the dream to indicate this parallelism. + +It happened that this dreamer had long been familiar with the demands of +dream-interpretation; otherwise he might have taken exception to the +idea of investigating so trivial a detail as the shape of a table. We do +literally deny that anything in the dream is a matter of chance or of +indifference, and it is precisely by enquiring into such trivial and +(apparently) unmotivated details that we expect to arrive at our +conclusion. You may perhaps still be surprised that the dream-work +should happen to choose the table, in order to express the thought “Our +relationship is just like theirs.” But even this is explicable when you +learn that the family in question was named “_Tischler_.” (_Tisch_ = +table.) In making his relations sit at this table the dreamer’s meaning +was that they too were “Tischler.”[27] And notice another thing: that in +relating dream-interpretations of this sort one is forced into +indiscretion. There you have one of the difficulties I alluded to in the +matter of choosing examples. I could easily have given you another +example instead of this one, but probably I should have avoided this +indiscretion only to commit another in its place. + +This seems to me a good point at which to introduce two new terms which +we might have used already. Let us call the dream as related _the +manifest dream-content_, and the hidden meaning, which we should come by +in following out the associations, _the latent dream-thoughts_. Then we +must consider the relation between the manifest content and the latent +thoughts, as shown in the above examples. There are many varieties of +these relations. In examples (_a_) and (_b_) the manifest dream-element +is also an integral part of the latent thoughts, but only a fragment of +them. A small piece of a great, composite, mental structure in the +unconscious dream-thoughts has made its way into the manifest dream +also, in the form of a fragment or in other cases as an allusion, like a +catch-word or an abbreviation in a telegraphic code. The interpretation +has to complete the whole to which this scrap or allusion belongs, which +it did most successfully in example (_b_). One method of the distorting +process in which the dream-work consists is therefore that of +substituting for something else a fragment or an allusion. In example +(_c_) we notice, moreover, another possible relation between manifest +content and latent thought, a relation which is even more plainly and +distinctly expressed in the following examples:— + +(_d_) _The dreamer was pulling a certain lady of his acquaintance out of +a ditch._ He himself found the meaning of this dream-element by means of +the first association. It meant: he “picked her out,” preferred her.[28] + +(_e_) Another man dreamt _that his brother was digging up his garden all +over again_. The first association was to deep-trenching for vegetables, +the second gave the meaning. The brother was _retrenching_. (Retrenching +his expenses).[29] + +(_f_) _The dreamer was climbing a mountain from which he had a +remarkably wide view._ This sounds most reasonable; perhaps no +interpretation is called for and we have only to find out what +recollection is referred to in the dream, and what had aroused it. No, +you are mistaken; it comes out that this dream needed interpretation +just as much as any other, more confused. For the dreamer remembers +nothing about mountain-climbing himself; instead, it occurs to him that +an acquaintance is publishing a _Rundschau_ (Review), on the subject of +our relations with the most distant parts of the earth: hence, the +latent thought is one in which the dreamer identifies himself with the +“_reviewer_” (lit. one who takes a survey). + +Here you come across a new type of relation between the manifest and the +latent element in dreams. The former is not so much a distortion of the +latter as a representation—a plastic, concrete piece of imagery, +originating in the sound of a word. It is true that this amounts in +effect to a distortion, for we have long forgotten from what concrete +image the word sprang, and hence fail to recognize it when that image is +substituted for it. When you consider that the manifest dream consists +of visual images in by far the greatest number of cases, and less +frequently of thoughts and words, you will easily realize that this kind +of relation between the manifest and the latent has a special +significance in the structure of dreams. You see too that in this way it +becomes possible for a long series of abstract thoughts to create +substitute-images in the manifest dream which do indeed serve the +purpose of concealment. This is how our picture-puzzles are made up. The +source of the semblance of wit which goes with this type of +representation is a special question which we need not touch on here. + +There is a fourth kind of relation between the manifest and the latent +elements which I will say nothing about until the time comes for it in +my account of our technique. Even then I shall not have given you a full +list of these possible relations, but we shall have sufficient for our +purpose. + +Now do you think you can summon up courage to venture on the +interpretation of a whole dream? Let us see whether we are adequately +equipped for the task. I shall not, of course, choose one of the most +obscure, but all the same it shall be one which shows the +characteristics of dreams in a well-marked form. + +A young woman who had already been married for a number of years dreamt +as follows: _She was at the theatre with her husband, and one side of +the stalls was quite empty. Her husband told her that Elise L. and her +fiancé also wanted to come, but could only get bad seats, three for a +florin and a half, and of course they could not take those. She replied +that in her opinion they did not lose much by that._ + +The first thing stated by the dreamer is that the occasion giving rise +to the dream is alluded to in the manifest content: her husband had +really told her that Elise L., an acquaintance of about her own age, had +become engaged, and the dream is the reaction to this piece of news. We +know already that in many dreams it is easy to point to some such +occasion occurring on the day before, and that this is often traced by +the dreamer without any difficulty. This dreamer supplies us with +further information of the same sort about other elements in the +manifest dream. To what did she trace the detail of one side of the +stalls being empty? It was an allusion to a real occurrence of the week +before, when she had meant to go to a certain play and had therefore +booked seats _early_, so early that she had to pay extra for the +tickets. On entering the theatre it was evident that her anxiety had +been quite superfluous, for one side of the stalls was almost empty. It +would have been time enough if she had bought the tickets on the actual +day of the performance and her husband did not fail to tease her about +having been in _too great a hurry_. Next, what about the one florin and +a half (1 fl. 50)? This was traced to quite another context which had +nothing to do with the former, but it again refers to some news received +on the previous day. Her sister-in-law had had a present of 150 florins +from her husband and had rushed off _in a hurry_, like a silly goose, to +a jeweller’s shop and spent it all on a piece of jewellery. What about +the number three? She knew nothing about that unless this idea could be +counted an association, that the engaged girl, Elise L., was only three +months younger than she herself who had been married ten years. And the +absurdity of taking three tickets for two people? She had nothing to say +to this and refused to give any more associations or information +whatever. + +Nevertheless, her few associations have provided us with so much +material that it is possible to discover the latent dream-thoughts. We +are struck by the fact that in her statements references to time are +noticeable at several points, which form a common basis for the +different parts of this material. She had got the theatre tickets _too +soon_, taken them in _too great a hurry_, so that she had to pay extra +for them; in the same way her sister-in-law had _hurried_ off to the +jeweller’s with her money to buy an ornament with it, as though she +might _miss something_. If the strongly emphasized points: “_too +early_,” “_too great a hurry_,” are connected with the occasion for the +dream (namely, the news that her friend, only three months _younger_ +than herself, had now found a good husband after all) and with the +criticism expressed in her asperity about her sister-in-law, that it was +_folly_ to be so precipitate, there occurs to us almost spontaneously +the following construction of the latent dream-thoughts, for which the +manifest dream is a highly-distorted substitute: + +“It was really _foolish_ of me to be in such a hurry to marry! Elise’s +example shows me that I too could have found a husband later on.” (The +over-haste is represented by her own conduct in buying the tickets and +that of her sister-in-law in buying the jewellery. Going to the theatre +is substituted for getting married.) This would be the main thought; +perhaps we may go on, though with less certainty because the analysis in +these passages ought not to be unsupported by statements of the dreamer: +“And I might have had one a hundred times better for the money!” (150 +florins is 100 times more than one florin and a half.) If we may +substitute the dowry for the money, it would mean that the husband is +bought with the dowry: both the jewellery and the bad seats would stand +for the husband. It would be still more desirable if we could see some +connection between the element “three tickets” and a husband; but our +knowledge does not as yet extend to this. We have only found out that +the dream expresses _depreciation_ of her own husband and regret at +having _married so early_. + +In my opinion we shall be more surprised and confused by the result of +this our first attempt at dream-interpretation than satisfied with it. +Too many ideas force themselves upon us at once, more than as yet we can +master. We see already that we shall not come to the end of what the +interpretation of this dream can teach us. Let us immediately single out +those points in which we can definitely see some new knowledge. + +In the first place: we note that in the latent thoughts the chief +emphasis falls upon the element of hurry; in the manifest dream that is +exactly a feature about which we find nothing. Without analysis we could +have had no suspicion that this thought entered in at all. It seems +possible, therefore, that precisely the main point round which the +unconscious thoughts centre does not appear in the manifest dream at +all. This fact must radically change the impression made upon us by the +whole dream. In the second place: in the dream there is a nonsensical +combination of ideas (three for one florin and a half); in the +dream-thoughts we detect the opinion: “It was folly (to marry so +early).” Can one reject the conclusion that this thought, “It was +_folly_,” is represented by the introduction into the manifest dream of +an _absurd_ element? In the third place: comparison shows us that the +relation between manifest and latent elements is no simple one, +certainly not of such a kind that a manifest always replaces a latent +element. The relation between the two is of the nature of a relation +between two different groups, so that a manifest element can represent +several latent thoughts or a latent thought be replaced by several +manifest elements. + +As regards the meaning of the dream and the dreamer’s attitude towards +it, here again we might find many surprising things to say. The lady +certainly admitted the interpretation, but she wondered at it; she had +not been aware that she had such disparaging thoughts of her husband; +she did not even know why she should so disparage him. So there is still +much that is incomprehensible about it. I really think that as yet we +are not properly equipped for interpreting a dream and that we need +further instruction and preparation first. + + + + + EIGHTH LECTURE + CHILDREN’S DREAMS + + +We had the impression that we had advanced too rapidly; let us therefore +retrace our steps a little. Before we made our last experiment in which +we tried to overcome the difficulty of dream-distortion by means of our +technique, we said that it would be best to circumvent it by confining +our attention to dreams in which distortion is absent or occurs only to +a very slight extent, if there are any such dreams. In doing this, we +are again departing from the actual course of development of our +knowledge; for in reality it was only after consistently applying our +method of interpretation, and after exhaustive analysis of dreams in +which distortion occurred, that we became aware of the existence of +those in which it is lacking. + +The dreams we are looking for are met with in children: short, clear, +coherent, and easy to understand, they are free from ambiguity and yet +are unmistakable dreams. You must not think, however, that all dreams in +children are of this type. Distortion in dreams begins to appear very +early in childhood, and there are on record dreams of children between +five and eight years old which already show all the characteristics of +the dreams of later life. But, if you confine yourselves to those +occurring in the period between the dawn of recognizable mental activity +and the fourth or fifth year of life, you will discover a series which +we should characterize as infantile, and, in the later years of +childhood, you may find single dreams of the same type; indeed, even in +grown-up people under certain conditions dreams appear which in no way +differ from the typically infantile. + +Now from these children’s dreams it is possible to obtain without any +difficulty trustworthy information about the essential nature of dreams, +which we hope will prove to be decisive and universally valid. + +1. In order to understand these dreams there is no need for any analysis +nor for the employment of any technique. It is not necessary to question +the child who relates his dream. But we must know something about his +life; in every instance there is some experience from the previous day +which explains the dream. The dream is the mind’s reaction in sleep to +the experience of the previous day. + +Let us consider some examples in order to base our further conclusions +upon them: + +(_a_) A boy of a year and ten months old had to present someone with a +basket of cherries as a birthday gift. He plainly did it very +unwillingly, although he had been promised some of them for himself. The +next morning he told his dream: “Hermann eaten all the cherries.” + +(_b_) A little girl of three and a quarter years went for the first time +for a trip on the lake. When they came to land, she did not wish to +leave the boat and cried bitterly; the time on the water had evidently +gone too quickly for her. Next morning she said: “Last night I was +sailing on the lake.” We may probably infer that this trip lasted +longer. + +(_c_) A boy five and a quarter years old was taken on an excursion to +the Escherntal near Hallstatt. He had heard that Hallstatt lay at the +foot of the Dachstein and had shown great interest in that mountain. +From the lodgings in Aussee there was a fine view of the Dachstein, and +with a telescope it was possible to make out the Simony Hut on top. The +child had repeatedly endeavoured to see the hut through the telescope, +but nobody knew whether he had succeeded. The excursion began in a mood +of joyful expectation. Whenever a new mountain came into sight, the +little boy asked: “Is that the Dachstein?” Every time his question was +answered in the negative he grew more out of spirits and presently +became silent and refused to climb a little way up to the waterfall with +the others. He was thought to be overtired, but the next morning he said +quite happily: “Last night I dreamt that we were in the Simony Hut.” So +it was with this expectation that he had taken part in the excursion. +The only detail he gave was one he had heard before: “You have to climb +up steps for six hours.” + +These three dreams will be enough to give us all the information we need +at this point. + +2. We see that these childhood dreams are not meaningless; they are +complete, comprehensible mental acts. Remember the medical verdict about +dreams, which I told you, and the comparison with unskilled fingers +wandering over the keys of the piano. You cannot fail to notice how +sharply this conception is contradicted by the children’s dreams I have +quoted. Now it would surely be most extraordinary if a child were able +to achieve the performance of complete mental acts during sleep, and the +grown-up person in the same situation contented himself with spasmodic +reactions. Besides, we have every reason for attributing better and +deeper sleep to a child. + +3. In these dreams there is no distortion and therefore they need no +interpretation: the manifest and the latent content is here identical. +From this we conclude that _distortion is not essential to the nature of +the dream_. I expect that this statement will take a weight off your +minds. Nevertheless, closer consideration forces us to admit that even +in these dreams distortion is present, though in a very slight degree, +that there is a certain difference between the manifest content and the +latent dream-thought. + +4. The child’s dream is a reaction to an experience of the previous day, +which has left behind a regret, a longing, or an unsatisfied wish. _In +the dream we have the direct, undisguised fulfilment of this wish._ Now +consider our discussion as to the part played by the external or +internal somatic stimuli as disturbers of sleep and begetters of dreams. +We learnt certain quite definite facts on this point, but this +explanation only held good in a small number of dreams. In these +children’s dreams there is nothing to indicate the influence of such +somatic stimuli; we can make no mistake about it, for the dreams are +perfectly comprehensible and each can easily be grasped as a whole. But +we need not on that account give up our notion of the stimulus as +causing the dream. We can only ask why we forget from the outset that +there are _mental_ as well as bodily sleep-disturbing stimuli; surely we +know that it is these which are mainly responsible for disturbing the +sleep of the grown-up person, in that they hinder him from bringing +about in himself the mental condition essential for sleep, i.e. the +withdrawal of interest from the outside world. He wishes not to have any +interruption in his life; he would prefer to continue working at +whatever occupies him, and that is the reason why he does not sleep. The +mental stimulus which disturbs sleep is therefore for a child the +unsatisfied wish, and his reaction to this is a dream. + +5. This takes us by a very short step to a conclusion about the function +of dreams. If dreams are the reaction to a mental stimulus their value +must lie in effecting a discharge of the excitation so that the stimulus +is removed and sleep can continue. We do not yet know how this discharge +through the dream is effected dynamically, but we notice already that +dreams are not disturbers of sleep (the accusation commonly brought +against them), but are guardians and deliverers of it from disturbing +influences. True, we are apt to think we should have slept better if we +had not dreamed, but there we are wrong: the truth is that without the +help of the dream we should not have slept at all, and we owe it to the +dream that we slept as well as we did. It could not help disturbing us a +little, just as a policeman often cannot avoid making a noise when +driving off disturbers of the peace who would wake us. + +6. That dreams are brought about by a wish and that the content of the +dream expresses this wish is one main characteristic of dreams. The +other equally constant feature is that the dream does not merely give +expression to a thought, but represents this wish as fulfilled, in the +form of an hallucinatory experience. “I should like to sail on the +lake,” runs the wish which gives rise to the dream; the content of the +dream itself is: “I am sailing on the lake.” So that even in these +simple dreams belonging to childhood there is still a difference between +the latent and the manifest dream, and still a distortion of the latent +dream-thought, _in the translation of the thought into an experience_. +In interpreting a dream, we must first of all undo this process of +alteration. If this is to be regarded as one of the most universal +characteristics of all dreams, we then know how to translate the +dream-fragment I quoted before: “I see my brother digging” does not mean +“my brother _is_ retrenching,” but “I wish my brother would retrench, he +_is to_ retrench.” Of the two universal characteristics here mentioned +the second is obviously more likely to be acknowledged without +opposition than the first. It is only by extensive investigations that +we can make sure that what produces the dream must always be a _wish_ +and cannot sometimes be a preoccupation, a purpose, or reproach; but the +other characteristic remains unaffected, namely, that the dream does not +merely reproduce this stimulus, but, by a kind of living it through, +removes it, sets it aside, relieves it. + +7. In connection with these characteristics of dreams we may take up +again our comparison between dreams and errors. In the latter we +distinguished between a disturbing tendency and one which is disturbed, +the error being a compromise between the two. Dreams fall into the same +category; the disturbed tendency can only, of course, be the tendency to +sleep, while the disturbing tendency resolves itself into the mental +stimulus which we may call the wish (clamouring for gratification), +since at present we know of no other mental stimulus disturbing sleep. +Here again the dream is the result of a compromise; we sleep, and yet we +experience the satisfaction of a wish; we gratify a wish and at the same +time continue to sleep. Each achieves part-success and part-failure. + +8. You will remember that at one point we hoped to find a path to an +understanding of the problems presented by dreams in the fact that +certain very transparent phantasy-formations are called “day-dreams.” +Now these day-dreams are literally wish-fulfilments, fulfilments of +ambitious or erotic wishes, which we recognize as such; they are, +however, carried out in thought, and, however vividly imagined, they +never take the form of hallucinatory experiences. Here, therefore, the +less certain of the two main characteristics of the dream is retained, +whereas the other, to which the condition of sleep is essential and +which cannot be realized in waking life, is entirely lacking. So in +language we find a hint that a wish-fulfilment is a main characteristic +of dreams. And further, if the experience we have in dreams is only +another form of imaginative representation, a form which becomes +possible under the peculiar conditions of the sleeping state—“a +nocturnal day-dream,” as we might call it—we understand at once how it +is that the process of dream-formation can abrogate the stimulus +operating at night and can bring gratification; for day-dreaming also is +a mode of activity closely linked up with gratification, which is in +fact the only reason why people practise it. + +Again, there are other linguistic expressions, besides this, which imply +the same thing. We are familiar with the proverbs: “The pig dreams of +acorns and the goose of maize.” “What do chickens dream of? Of millet.” +The proverb, you see, goes even lower in the scale than we do, beyond +the child to the animal, and asserts that the content of dreams is the +satisfaction of a want. And there are many phrases which seem to point +to the same thing: we say “as beautiful as a dream.” “I should never +have dreamt of such a thing.” “I never imagined that in my wildest +dreams.” Here colloquial speech is clearly partial in its judgement. Of +course there are also anxiety-dreams, and dreams the content of which is +painful or indifferent, but these have not given rise to any special +phrases. We do indeed speak of “bad” dreams, but by a “dream” pure and +simple common usage always understands some sort of exquisite +wish-fulfilment. Nor is there any proverb which attempts to assert that +pigs or geese dream of being slaughtered! + +It is, of course, inconceivable that this wish-fulfilling character of +dreams should have escaped the notice of writers on the subject. On the +contrary, they have very often remarked upon it; but it has not occurred +to any of them to recognize this characteristic as universal, and to +take it as the key to the explanation of dreams. We can easily imagine +what may have deterred them, and later we will discuss the question. + +Now see how much information we have gained, and that with hardly any +trouble, from our study of children’s dreams! We have learnt that the +function of dreams is to protect sleep; that they arise out of two +conflicting tendencies, of which the one, the desire for sleep, remains +constant, whilst the other endeavours to satisfy some mental stimulus; +that dreams are proved to be mental acts, rich in meaning; that they +have two main characteristics, i.e., they are wish-fulfilments and +hallucinatory experiences. And meanwhile we could almost have forgotten +that we were studying psycho-analysis. Apart from the connection we have +made between dreams and errors our work has not borne any specific +stamp. Any psychologist knowing nothing of the assumptions of +psycho-analysis could have given this explanation of children’s dreams. +Why has no one done so? + +If only all dreams were of the infantile type the problem would be +solved and our task already achieved, and that without questioning the +dreamer, referring to the unconscious or having recourse to the process +of free association. Clearly it is in this direction that we must +continue our work. We have already repeatedly found that characteristics +alleged to be universally valid have afterwards proved to hold good only +for a certain kind and a limited number of dreams. So the question we +now have to decide is whether the common characteristics revealed by +children’s dreams are any more stable than these, and whether they hold +also for those dreams whose meaning is not obvious and in whose manifest +content we can recognize no reference to a wish remaining from the day +before. Our idea is that these other dreams have undergone a good deal +of distortion and on that account we must refrain from immediate +judgement. We suspect too that to unravel this distortion we shall need +the help of psycho-analytic technique, which we could dispense with +while learning, as we have just now done, the meaning of children’s +dreams. + +There is yet one other class of dreams at least in which no distortion +is present and which, like children’s dreams, we easily recognize to be +wish-fulfilments. These are dreams which are occasioned all through life +by imperative physical needs—hunger, thirst, sexual desire—and are +wish-fulfilments in the sense of being reactions to internal somatic +stimuli. Thus I have on record the dream of a little girl, one year and +seven months old, which consisted of a kind of menu, together with her +name (Anna F ..., strawberries, bilberries, egg, pap), the dream being a +reaction to a day of fasting, enforced on account of indigestion due to +eating the fruit which appeared twice in the dream. At the same time her +grandmother—their combined ages totalled seventy—was obliged, owing to a +floating kidney, to go without food for a day and dreamt that night that +she had been invited out and had had the most tempting delicacies set +before her. Observations on prisoners who are left to go hungry, and on +people who suffer privations whilst travelling or on expeditions, show +that in these circumstances they regularly dream about the satisfaction +of their wants. Thus Otto Nordenskjöld in his book on the Antarctic +(1904) tells us of the band of men in whose company he spent the winter +(Vol. I, p. 336): “Our dreams showed very clearly the direction our +thoughts were taking. Never had we dreamt so frequently and so vividly +as at that time. Even those of our comrades who usually dreamt but +rarely had now long stories to tell in the mornings when we exchanged +our latest experiences in this realm of phantasy. All the dreams were +about that outside world now so far away, but often they included a +reference to our condition at the time ... eating and drinking were, +incidentally, the pivot on which our dreams most often turned. One of +us, who was particularly good at going out to large dinners in his +sleep, was delighted when he could tell us in the morning that he had +had a three-course dinner. Another dreamt of tobacco, whole mountains of +tobacco; another of a ship which came full sail over the water, at last +clear of ice. Yet another dream deserves mention: the postman came with +the letters and gave a long explanation of why they were so late; he +said he had made a mistake in delivering them, and had had great trouble +in getting them back again. Of course, things even more impossible +occupied our minds in sleep, but the lack of imagination in almost all +the dreams which I dreamt myself or heard the others tell was quite +striking. It would certainly be of great psychological interest if we +had a record of all these dreams. You can imagine how we longed for +sleep, when it offered each one of us all that he most eagerly desired.” +Another quotation, this time from Du Prel: “Mungo Park, when nearly +dying of thirst on a journey in Africa, dreamt continually of the +well-watered hills and valleys of his home. So Trenck, tormented with +hunger in the redoubt at Magdebourg, saw himself in his dreams +surrounded by sumptuous meals; and George Back, who took part in +Franklin’s first expedition, when on the point of dying of hunger owing +to their terrible privations, dreamt regularly of abundant food to eat.” + +Anyone who has made himself thirsty at night by eating highly-seasoned +dishes at supper is likely to dream of drinking. Of course it is not +possible to relieve acute hunger or thirst by dreaming; in that case we +awake thirsty and are obliged to drink real water. The service of the +dream is here of little practical account, but it is none the less clear +that it was called up for the purpose of protecting sleep from the +stimulus impelling us to wake up and act. Where the intensity of the +desire is less, ‘satisfaction’-dreams do often answer the purpose. + +In the same way, when the stimulus is that of sexual desire the dream +provides satisfaction, but of a kind which shows peculiarities worthy of +mention. Since it is a characteristic of the sexual impulse that it is a +degree less dependent on its object than are hunger and thirst, the +satisfaction in a pollution-dream can be real; and, in consequence of +certain difficulties in the relation to the object (which will be +discussed later), it particularly often happens that the real +satisfaction is yet connected with a vague or distorted dream-content. +This peculiarity of pollution-dreams makes them, as O. Rank has +observed, suitable objects for the study of dream-distortion. Moreover, +with adults, dreams of desire usually contain besides the satisfaction +something else, springing from a purely mental source and requiring +interpretation if it is to be understood. + +We do not maintain, by the way, that wish-fulfilment dreams of the +infantile type occur in adults solely as reactions to the imperative +desires I have mentioned. We are equally familiar with short clear +dreams of this type, occasioned by certain dominating situations and +unquestionably produced by mental stimuli. For example, there are +‘impatience’-dreams in which someone making preparations for a journey, +for a theatrical performance in which he is specially interested, or for +a lecture or a visit, has his expectations prematurely realized in a +dream, and finds himself the night before the actual experience already +at his journey’s end, at the theatre, or talking to the friend he is +going to visit. Or again, there is the ‘comfort’-dream, rightly +so-called, in which someone who wants to go on sleeping dreams that he +has already got up, that he is washing, or is at school, while all the +time he is really continuing his sleep, meaning that he would rather +dream of getting up than do so in reality. In these dreams the desire +for sleep, which we have recognized as regularly participating in +dream-formation, expresses itself plainly and appears as their actual +originator. The need for sleep ranks itself quite rightly with the other +great physical needs. + +I would refer you at this point to the reproduction of a picture by +Schwind in the Schack Gallery at Munich[30] and would ask you to notice +how correctly the artist has realized the way in which a dream arises +out of a dominating situation. The picture is called _The Prisoner’s +Dream_, and the subject of the dream must undoubtedly be his escape. It +is a happy thought that the prisoner is to escape by the window, for it +is through the window that the ray of light has entered and roused him +from sleep. The gnomes standing one above the other no doubt represent +the successive positions he would have to assume in climbing up to the +window; and, if I am not mistaken and do not attribute too much +intentional design to the artist, the features of the gnome at the top, +who is filing the grating through (the very thing the prisoner himself +would like to do), resemble the man’s own. + +I have said that in all dreams, other than those of children and such as +conform to the infantile type, we encounter the obstacle of distortion. +We cannot immediately say whether they too are wish-fulfilments, as we +are inclined to suppose, nor can we guess from their manifest content in +what mental stimulus they originate, or prove that they, like the +others, endeavour to remove or relieve the stimulus. They must, in fact, +be interpreted, i.e. translated; the process of distortion must be +reversed, and the manifest content replaced by the latent thought, +before we can make any definite pronouncement whether what we have found +out about infantile dreams may claim to hold good for all dreams alike. + + + + + NINTH LECTURE + THE DREAM-CENSORSHIP + + +Our study of children’s dreams has taught us how dreams originate, what +their essential character is, and what their function. Dreams are the +means of removing, by hallucinatory satisfaction, mental stimuli that +disturb sleep. It is true that with the dreams of adults we have been +able to explain one group only, those which we termed dreams of the +infantile type. We do not yet know how it may be with the others, +neither do we understand them. The result we have arrived at already is +one, however, of which the significance is not to be under-estimated. +Every time that we fully understand a dream it proves to be a +wish-fulfilment; and this coincidence cannot be accidental or +unimportant. + +Dreams of another type are assumed by us to be distorted substitutes for +an unknown content, which first of all has to be traced; we have various +grounds for this assumption, amongst others the analogy to our +conception of errors. Our next task is to investigate and understand +this _dream-distortion_. + +It is dream-distortion which makes dreams seem strange and +incomprehensible. There are several things we want to know about it: +first, whence it comes (its dynamics), secondly, what it does, and +finally, how it does it. Further, we can say that distortion is the +production of the _dream-work_. Let us describe the dream-work and trace +out the forces in it. + +Now let me tell you a dream recorded by a lady well-known in +psycho-analytical circles[31], who said that the dreamer was an elderly +woman, highly cultivated and held in great esteem. The dream was not +analysed and our informant observed that for psycho-analysts it needed +no interpreting. Nor did the dreamer herself interpret it, but she +criticized it and condemned it in such a way as though she knew what it +meant. “Imagine,” she said, “such abominable nonsense being dreamt by a +woman of fifty, whose only thought day and night is concern for her +child.” + +I will now tell you the dream, which is about “love service in +war-time.”[32] ‘She went to the First Military Hospital and said to the +sentinel at the gate that she must speak to the physician-in-chief +(giving a name which she did not know), as she wished to offer herself +for service in the hospital. In saying this, she emphasized the word +service in such a way that the sergeant at once perceived that she was +speaking of “love service.” As she was an old lady, he let her pass +after some hesitation, but instead of finding the chief physician, she +came to a large gloomy room, where a number of officers and army doctors +were standing or sitting around a long table. She turned to a staff +doctor and told him her proposal; he soon understood her meaning. The +words she said in her dream were: “I and countless other women and girls +of Vienna are ready for the soldiers, officers or men, to....” This +ended in a murmur. She saw, however, by the half-embarrassed, +half-malicious expressions of the officers that all of them grasped her +meaning. The lady continued: “I know our decision sounds odd, but we are +in bitter earnest. The soldier on the battlefield is not asked whether +he wishes to die or not.” There followed a minute of painful silence; +then the staff doctor put his arm round her waist and said: “Madam, +supposing it really came to this, that ... (murmur.)” She withdrew +herself from his arm, thinking: “They are all alike,” and replied: “Good +heavens, I am an old woman and perhaps it won’t happen to me. And one +condition must be observed: age must be taken into account, so that an +old woman and a young lad may not ... (murmur); that would be horrible.” +The staff doctor said: “I quite understand”; but some of the officers, +amongst them one who as a young man had made love to her, laughed +loudly, and the lady asked to be taken to the physician-in-chief, whom +she knew, so that everything might be put straight. It then struck her, +to her great consternation, that she did not know his name. The staff +doctor, however, with the utmost respect and courtesy, showed her the +way to the second floor, up a very narrow iron spiral staircase leading +direct from the room where they were to the upper storeys. As she went +up, she heard an officer say: “That is a tremendous decision, no matter +whether she is young or old; all honour to her!” With the feeling that +she was simply doing her duty, she went up an endless staircase.’ + +This dream was repeated twice within a few weeks, with alterations here +and there which, as the lady remarked, were quite unimportant and +entirely meaningless. + +The way in which this dream progresses corresponds to the course of a +day-dream; there are only a few places where an interruption occurs, and +many individual points in its content might have been cleared up by +enquiry: this, however, as you know, was not undertaken. But the most +striking and to us the most interesting thing about it is the occurrence +of many gaps, not in the recollection, but in the content. In three +places the latter is, as it were, blotted out; where these gaps occur +the speeches are interrupted by a _murmur_. As we did not analyse the +dream, we have, strictly speaking, no right to say anything about its +meaning; but there are certain indications from which we may draw +conclusions, e.g. the words “love service”; and, above all, the broken +speeches immediately preceding the murmurs require completion of a kind +which admits of only one construction. If we do so complete them a +phantasy results, in which the content is that the dreamer is ready at +the call of duty to offer herself to gratify the sexual needs of the +troops, irrespective of rank. This is certainly shocking, a model of a +shamelessly libidinous phantasy, but—the dream says nothing about this. +Just where the context demands this confession, there is in the manifest +dream an indistinct murmur: something has been lost or suppressed. + +I hope you recognize how obvious is the inference that it is just the +shocking nature of these passages which has led to their suppression. +Now where will you find a parallel to what has taken place here? In +these times you have not far to seek. Take up any political paper and +you will find that here and there in the text something is omitted and +in its place the blank white of the paper meets your eye: you know that +this is the work of the press censor. Where these blank spaces occur, +there originally stood something of which the authorities at the +censorship disapproved and which has been deleted on that account. You +probably think it a pity, for that must have been the most interesting +part, the “cream” of the news. + +On other occasions the censorship has not dealt with the sentence in its +completed form; for the writer, foreseeing which passages were likely to +be objected to by the censor, has forestalled him by softening them +down, making some slight modification or contenting himself with hints +and allusions to what he really wants to write. In this case there are +no blanks, but from the roundabout and obscure mode of expression you +can detect the fact that, at the time of writing, the author had the +censorship in mind. + +Now keeping to this parallel we say that those speeches in the dream +which were omitted or disguised by a murmur have also been sacrificed to +some form of censorship. We actually use the term DREAM-CENSORSHIP, and +ascribe part of the distortion to its agency. Wherever there are gaps in +the manifest dream we know that the censorship is responsible; and +indeed we should go further and recognize that wherever, amongst other +more clearly-defined elements, one appears which is fainter, more +indefinite or more dubious in recollection, it is evidence of the work +of the censorship. It is, however, seldom that it takes a form so +undisguised, so naïve, as we might say, as it does in the case of the +dream about “love service;” far more often the censorship makes itself +felt in the second way I mentioned: by effecting modifications, hints, +and allusions in place of the true meaning. + +There is a third way in which the dream-censorship works, to which the +ordinances of the Press censorship supply no parallel; but it happens +that I can demonstrate to you this particular mode of activity on the +part of the dream-censorship in the only dream hitherto analysed by us. +You will remember the dream of the “three bad theatre tickets, costing +one florin and a half.” In the latent thoughts underlying this dream, +the element “too great a hurry, too early” was in the foreground; the +meaning was: “It was folly to marry so _early_, it was foolish also to +take the tickets so _early_, it was ridiculous of the sister-in-law to +spend her money so _hurriedly_ on a piece of jewellery.” Nothing of this +central element of the dream-thoughts appeared in the manifest content, +where everything was focussed on going to the theatre and taking +tickets. By this displacement of the accent and regrouping of the +dream-elements, the manifest content was made so unlike the latent +thoughts that nobody would suspect the presence of the latter behind the +former. This _displacement of accent_ is one of the principal means +employed in distortion, and it is this which gives the dream that +character of strangeness which makes the dreamer himself reluctant to +recognize it as the product of his own mind. + +Omission, modification, regrouping of material—these then are the modes +of the dream-censorship’s activity and the means employed in distortion. +The censorship itself is the originator, or one of the originators, of +distortion, the subject of our present enquiry. Modification and +alteration in arrangement are commonly included under the term +‘_displacement_.’ + +After these remarks on the activities of the dream-censorship, let us +turn our attention to its dynamics. I hope you are not taking the +expression “censorship” in too anthropomorphic a sense, picturing to +yourselves the censor as a stern little manikin or a spirit, who lives +in a little chamber of the brain and there discharges the duties of his +office; and neither must you localize it too exactly, so that you +imagine a “brain-centre” whence there emanates a censorial influence, +liable to cease with the injury or disappearance of that centre. For the +present we may regard it merely as a useful term by which to express a +dynamic relationship. This need not hinder us from asking what sort of +tendencies exercise this influence and is it exercised upon; and +further, we must not be surprised to discover that we have already come +across the censorship, perhaps without recognizing it. + +Indeed this has actually happened. Remember a surprising experience we +had when we began to apply our method of free association: we discovered +that our efforts to penetrate from the dream-element to the unconscious +thought proper for which the former is a substitute encountered a +certain _resistance_. The strength of this resistance, we said, varies, +being sometimes enormous and at other times very slight. In the latter +case we need only a few connecting-links for the work of interpretation; +but where there is great resistance we are compelled to go through long +chains of associations, which carry us far from the initial idea, and on +the way we have to overcome all the difficulties of professedly critical +objections to associations arising. That which we encountered as +resistance in the work of interpretation we now meet again as the +censorship in the dream-work: the resistance is simply the censorship +objectified; it proves to us that the power of the censorship is not +exhausted in effecting distortion, being thereby extinguished, but that +the censorship remains as a permanent institution, the object of which +is to maintain the distortion when once it has been achieved. Moreover, +just as the strength of the resistance encountered during interpretation +varies with each element, so too the degree of distortion effected by +the censorship is different for each element of a whole dream. A +comparison of the manifest and the latent dream shows that certain +latent elements are completely eliminated, others more or less modified, +and others again appear in the manifest dream-content unaltered or +perhaps even intensified. + +Our purpose, however, was to find out which are the tendencies +exercising the censorship and upon which tendencies it is exercised. Now +this question, which is fundamental for the understanding of dreams and +perhaps of human life altogether, is easy to answer when we survey the +series of dreams which we have succeeded in interpreting. The tendencies +which exercise the censorship are those which are acknowledged by the +waking judgement of the dreamer and with which he feels himself to be at +one. You may be sure that when you repudiate any correctly-found +interpretation of a dream of your own, you do so from the same motives +as cause the censorship to be exercised and distortion effected, and +make interpretation necessary. Consider the dream of our lady of fifty: +her dream, although it had not been interpreted, struck her as shocking +and she would have been even more outraged if Dr. von Hug-Hellmuth had +told her something of its unmistakable meaning; it was just this +attitude of condemnation which caused the offensive passages in the +dream to be replaced by a murmur. + +Those tendencies against which the dream-censorship is directed must +next be described from the point of view of this inner critical +standard. When we do this, we can only say that they are invariably of +an objectionable nature, offensive from the ethical, æsthetic or social +point of view, things about which we do not dare to think at all, or +think of only with abhorrence. Above all are these censored wishes, +which in dreams are expressed in a distorted fashion, manifestations of +a boundless and ruthless egoism; for the dreamer’s own ego makes its +appearance in every dream, and plays the principal part, even if it +knows how to disguise itself completely as far as the manifest content +is concerned. This _sacro egoismo_ of dreams is certainly not +unconnected with the attitude of mind essential to sleep: the withdrawal +of interest from the whole outside world. + +The ego which has discarded all ethical bonds feels itself at one with +all the demands of the sexual impulse, those which have long been +condemned by our æsthetic training and those which are contrary to all +the restraints imposed by morality. The striving for pleasure—the +libido, as we say,—chooses its objects unchecked by any inhibition, +preferring indeed those which are forbidden: not merely the wife of +another man, but, above all, the incestuous objects of choice which by +common consent humanity holds sacred—the mother and the sister of men, +the father and the brother of women. (Even the dream of our +fifty-year-old lady is an incestuous one, the libido being unmistakably +directed towards the son.) Desires which we believe alien to human +nature show themselves powerful enough to give rise to dreams. Hate, +too, rages unrestrainedly; wishes for revenge, and death-wishes, against +those who in life are nearest and dearest—parents, brothers and sisters, +husband or wife, the dreamer’s own children—are by no means uncommon. +These censored wishes seem to rise up from a veritable hell; when we +know their meaning, it seems to us in our waking moments as if no +censorship of them could be severe enough. Dreams themselves, however, +are not to blame for this evil content; you surely have not forgotten +that their harmless, nay, useful, function is to protect sleep from +disturbance. Depravity does not lie in the nature of dreams; in fact, +you know that there are dreams which can be recognized as gratifying +justifiable desires and urgent bodily needs. It is true that there is no +distortion in these dreams, but then there is no need for it, they can +perform their function without offending the ethical and æsthetic +tendencies of the ego. Remember, too, that the degree of distortion is +proportionate to two factors: on the one hand, the more shocking the +wish that must be censored, the greater will be the distortion; but it +is also great in proportion as the demands of the censorship are severe. +Hence in a strictly brought up and prudish young girl, a rigid +censorship will distort dream-excitations which we medical men would +have recognized as permissible and harmless libidinous desires, and +which the dreamer herself would judge in the same way ten years later. + +Besides, we are still not nearly far enough advanced to allow ourselves +to be outraged at the result of our work of interpretation. I think we +still do not understand it properly; but first of all it is incumbent +upon us to secure it against certain possible attacks. It is not at all +difficult to detect weak points in it. Our interpretations were based on +hypotheses which we adopted earlier: that there really is some meaning +in dreams; that the idea of mental processes being unconscious for a +time, which was first arrived at through hypnotic sleep, may be applied +also to normal sleep; and that all associations are subject to +determination. Now if, reasoning from these hypotheses, we had obtained +plausible results in our dream-interpretation we should have been +justified in concluding that these hypotheses were correct. But what if +these discoveries are of the kind I have described? In that case, surely +it seems natural to say: “These results are impossible, absurd, at the +very least highly improbable, so there must have been something wrong +about the hypotheses. Either the dream is after all not a mental +phenomenon, or there is nothing which is unconscious in our normal +condition, or there is a flaw somewhere in our technique. Is it not +simpler and more satisfactory to assume this than to accept all the +abominable conclusions which we profess to have deduced from our +hypotheses?” + +Both! it is both simpler and more satisfactory, but not on that account +necessarily more correct. Let us give ourselves time: the matter is not +yet ripe for judgement. First of all, we can make the case against our +interpretations even stronger. The fact that our results are so +unpleasant and repellent would not perhaps weigh so very heavily with +us; a stronger argument is the emphatic and well-grounded repudiation by +dreamers of the wish-tendencies which we try to foist upon them after +interpretating their dreams. “What?” says one, “You want to prove to me +from my dream that I grudge the money I have spent on my sister’s dowry +and my brother’s education? But it is out of the question; I spend my +whole time working for my brothers and sisters and my only interest in +life is to do my duty by them, as, being the eldest, I promised our dead +mother I would.” Or a woman says: “I am supposed to wish that my husband +were dead? Really that is outrageous nonsense! Not only is our married +life very happy, though perhaps you won’t believe that, but if he died I +should lose everything I possess in the world.” Or someone else will +reply: “Do you mean to suggest that I entertain sexual desires towards +my sister? The thing is ludicrous; she is nothing to me; we get on badly +with one another, and for years I have not exchanged a word with her.” +We still might not be much impressed if these dreamers neither admitted +nor denied the tendencies attributed to them; we might say that these +are just the things of which they are quite unconscious. But when they +detect in their own minds the exact opposite of such a wish as is +interpreted to them, and when they can prove to us by their whole +conduct in life that the contrary desire predominates, surely we must be +nonplussed. Is it not about time now for us to discard our whole work of +dream-interpretation as something which has led to a _reductio ad +absurdum_? + +No, not even now. Even this stronger argument falls to pieces when +subjected to a critical attack. Assuming that unconscious tendencies do +exist in mental life, the fact that the opposite tendencies predominate +in conscious life goes to prove nothing. Perhaps there is room in the +mind for opposite tendencies, for contradictions, existing side by side; +indeed, possibly the very predominance of the one tendency conditions +the unconscious nature of the opposite. So the first objections raised +only amount to the statement that the results of dream-interpretation +are not simple and are very disagreeable. To the first charge we may +reply that, however much enamoured of simplicity you may be, you cannot +thereby solve one of the problems of dreams; you have to make up your +mind at the outset to accept the fact of complicated relations. And, as +regards the second point, you are manifestly wrong in taking the fact +that something pleases or repels yourself as the motive for a scientific +judgement. What does it matter if you do find the results of +dream-interpretation unpleasant, or even mortifying and repulsive? _Ça +n’empêche pas d’exister_—as I, when a young doctor, heard my chief, +Charcot, say in a similar case. We must be humble and put sympathies and +antipathies honourably in the background if we would learn to know +reality in this world. If a physicist could prove to you that organic +life on the earth was bound to become extinct before long, would you +venture to say to him also: “That cannot be so; I dislike the prospect +too much.” I think you would say nothing, until another physicist came +along and convicted the first of a mistake in his premises or his +calculations. If you repudiate whatever is distasteful to you, you are +repeating the mechanism of a dream structure rather than understanding +and mastering it. + +Perhaps, then, you will undertake to overlook the offensive nature of +the censored dream-wishes and will fall back upon the argument that it +is surely very improbable that we ought to concede so large a part in +the human constitution to what is evil. But do your own experiences +justify you in this statement? I will say nothing of how you may appear +in your own eyes, but have you met with so much goodwill in your +superiors and rivals, so much chivalry in your enemies and so little +envy amongst your acquaintances, that you feel it incumbent on you to +protest against the idea of the part played by egoistic baseness in +human nature? Do you not know how uncontrolled and unreliable the +average human being is in all that concerns sexual life? Or are you +ignorant of the fact that all the excesses and aberrations of which we +dream at night are crimes actually committed every day by men who are +wide awake? What does psycho-analysis do in this connection but confirm +the old saying of Plato that the good are those who content themselves +with dreaming of what others, the wicked, actually do? + +And now look away from individuals to the great war still devastating +Europe: think of the colossal brutality, cruelty and mendacity which is +now allowed to spread itself over the civilized world. Do you really +believe that a handful of unprincipled place-hunters and corrupters of +men would have succeeded in letting loose all this latent evil, if the +millions of their followers were not also guilty? Will you venture, even +in these circumstances, to break a lance for the exclusion of evil from +the mental constitution of humanity? + +You will accuse me of taking a one-sided view of war, and tell me that +it has also called out all that is finest and most noble in mankind, +heroism, self-sacrifice, and public spirit. That is true; but do not now +commit the injustice, from which psycho-analysis has so often suffered, +of reproaching it that it denies one thing because it affirms another. +It is no part of our intention to deny the nobility in human nature, nor +have we ever done anything to disparage its value. On the contrary, I +show you not only the evil wishes which are censored but also the +censorship which suppresses them and makes them unrecognizable. We dwell +upon the evil in human beings with the greater emphasis only because +others deny it, thereby making the mental life of mankind not indeed +better, but incomprehensible. If we give up the one-sided ethical +valuation then, we are sure to find the truer formula for the relation +of evil to good in human nature. + +Here the matter rests. We need not give up the results of our work of +dream-interpretation, even though we cannot fail to find them strange. +Perhaps later we shall be able to come nearer to understanding them by +another path. For the present let us hold fast to this: dream-distortion +is due to the censorship exercised, by certain recognized tendencies of +the ego, over desires of an offensive character which stir in us at +night during sleep. Obviously, when we ask ourselves why it is just at +night that they appear and what is the origin of these reprehensible +wishes, we find that there is still much to investigate and many +questions to answer. + +It would, however, be wrong if we neglected to give due prominence at +this point to another result of these investigations. The dream-wishes +which would disturb our sleep are unknown to us; we first learn about +them by dream-interpretation; they are therefore to be designated +“unconscious at the moment” in the sense in which we have used the term. +But we must recognize that they are also more than unconscious at the +moment; for the dreamer denies them, as we have so frequently found, +even after he has learnt of them through the interpretation of his +dream. Here we have a repetition of the case which we first met with +when interpreting the slip of the tongue “hiccough,” where the +after-dinner speaker indignantly assured us that neither then nor at any +time had he been conscious of any feeling of disrespect towards his +chief. We ventured even then to doubt the value of this assertion and +assumed instead that the speaker was permanently ignorant of the +existence of this feeling within him. We meet with the same situation +every time we interpret a dream in which there is a high degree of +distortion, and this lends an added significance to our conception. We +are now prepared to assume that there are processes and tendencies in +mental life, of which we know nothing; have known nothing; have, for a +very long time, perhaps even never, known anything about at all. This +gives the term _unconscious_ a fresh meaning for us: the qualification +“at the moment” or “temporary” is seen to be no essential attribute, the +term may also mean _permanently unconscious_, not merely “latent at the +moment.” You see that later on we shall have to discuss this point +further. + + + + + TENTH LECTURE + SYMBOLISM IN DREAMS + + +We have found out that the distortion in dreams which hinders our +understanding of them is due to the activities of a censorship, directed +against the unacceptable, unconscious wish-impulses. But of course we +have not asserted that the censorship is the only factor responsible for +the distortion, and as a matter of fact a further study of dreams leads +to the discovery that there are yet other causes contributing to this +effect; that is as much as to say, if the censorship were eliminated we +should nevertheless be unable to understand dreams, nor would the +manifest dream be identical with the latent dream-thoughts. + +This other cause of the obscurity of dreams, this additional +contribution to distortion, is revealed by our becoming aware of a gap +in our technique. I have already admitted to you that there are +occasions when persons being analysed really have no associations to +single elements in their dreams. To be sure, this does not happen as +often as they declare that it does; in very many instances the +association may yet be elicited by perseverance; but still there remain +a certain number of cases where association fails altogether or, if +something is finally extorted, it is not what we need. If this happens +during psycho-analytic treatment it has a certain significance which +does not concern us here; but it also occurs in the course of +interpretation of dreams in normal people, or when we are interpreting +our own. When we are convinced in such circumstances that no amount of +pressing is of any use, we finally discover that this unwelcome +contingency regularly presents itself where special dream-elements are +in question; and we begin to recognize the operation of some new +principle, whereas at first we thought we had only come across an +exceptional case in which our technique had failed. + +In this way it comes about that we try to interpret these “silent” +elements, and attempt to translate them by drawing upon our own +resources. It cannot fail to strike us that we arrive at a satisfactory +meaning in every instance in which we venture on this substitution, +whereas the dream remains meaningless and disconnected as long as we do +not resolve to use this method. The accumulation of many exactly similar +instances then affords us the required certainty, our experiment having +been tried at first with considerable diffidence. + +I am presenting all this somewhat in outline, but that is surely +allowable for purposes of instruction, nor is it falsified by so doing, +but merely made simpler. + +We arrive in this way at constant translations for a series of +dream-elements, just as in popular books on dreams we find such +translations for everything that occurs in dreams. You will not have +forgotten that when we employ the method of free association such +constant substitutions for dream-elements never make their appearance. + +Now you will at once say that this mode of interpretation seems to you +far more uncertain and open to criticism than even the former method of +free association. But there is still something more to be said: when we +have collected from actual experience a sufficient number of such +constant translations, we eventually realize that we could actually have +filled in these portions of the interpretation from our own knowledge, +and that they really could have been understood without using the +dreamer’s associations. How it is that we are bound to know their +meaning is a matter which will be dealt with in the second half of our +discussion. + +We call a constant relation of this kind between a dream-element and its +translation a _symbolic_ one, and the dream-element itself a _symbol_ of +the unconscious dream-thought. You will remember that some time ago, +when we were examining the different relations which may exist between +dream-elements and the thoughts proper underlying them, I distinguished +three relations: substitution of the part for the whole, allusion, and +imagery. I told you then that there was a fourth possible relation, but +I did not tell you what it was. This fourth relation is the symbolic, +which I am now introducing; there are connected with it certain very +interesting points for discussion, to which we will turn attention +before setting forth our special observations on this subject. Symbolism +is perhaps the most remarkable part of our theory of dreams. + +First of all: since the relation between a symbol and the idea +symbolized is an invariable one, the latter being as it were a +translation of the former, symbolism does in some measure realize the +ideal of both ancient and popular dream-interpretation, one from which +we have moved very far in our technique. Symbols make it possible for us +in certain circumstances to interpret a dream without questioning the +dreamer, who indeed in any case can tell us nothing about the symbols. +If the symbols commonly appearing in dreams are known, and also the +personality of the dreamer, the conditions under which he lives, and the +impressions in his mind after which his dream occurred, we are often in +a position to interpret it straightaway; to translate it at sight, as it +were. Such a feat flatters the vanity of the interpreter and impresses +the dreamer; it is in pleasing contrast to the laborious method of +questioning the latter. But do not let this lead you away: it is no part +of our task to perform tricks nor is that method of interpretation which +is based on a knowledge of symbolism one which can replace, or even +compare with, that of free association. It is complementary to this +latter, and the results it yields are only useful when applied in +connection with the latter. As regards our knowledge of the dreamer’s +mental situation, moreover, you must reflect that you have not only to +interpret dreams of people whom you know well; that, as a rule, you know +nothing of the events of the previous day which stimulated the dream; +and that the associations of the person analysed are the very source +from which we obtain our knowledge of what we call the mental situation. + +Further, it is especially remarkable, particularly with reference to +certain considerations upon which we shall touch later, that the most +strenuous opposition has manifested itself again here, over this +question of the existence of a symbolic relation between the dream and +the unconscious. Even persons of judgement and standing, who in other +respects have gone a long way with psycho-analysis, have renounced their +adherence at this point. This behaviour is the more remarkable when we +remember two things: first, that symbolism is not peculiar to dreams, +nor exclusively characteristic of them; and, in the second place, that +the use of symbolism in dreams was not one of the discoveries of +psycho-analysis, although this science has certainly not been wanting in +surprising discoveries. If we must ascribe priority in this field to +anyone in modern times, the discoverer must be recognized in the +philosopher K. A. Scherner (1861); psycho-analysis has confirmed his +discovery, although modifying it in certain important respects. + +Now you will wish to hear something about the nature of dream-symbolism +and will want some examples. I will gladly tell you what I know, but I +confess that our knowledge is less full than we could wish. + +The symbolic relation is essentially that of a comparison, but not any +kind of comparison. We must suspect that this comparison is subject to +particular conditions, although we cannot say what these conditions are. +Not everything with which an object or an occurrence can be compared +appears in dreams as symbolic of it, and, on the other hand, dreams do +not employ symbolism for anything and everything, but only for +particular elements of latent dream-thoughts; there are thus limitations +in both directions. We must admit also that we cannot at present assign +quite definite limits to our conception of a symbol; for it tends to +merge into substitution, representation, etc., and even approaches +closely to allusion. In one set of symbols the underlying comparison may +be easily apparent, but there are others in which we have to look about +for the common factor, the _tertium comparationis_ contained in the +supposed comparison. Further reflection may then reveal it to us, or on +the other hand it may remain definitely hidden from us. Again, if the +symbol is really a comparison, it is remarkable that this comparison is +not exposed by the process of free association, and also that the +dreamer knows nothing about it, but makes use of it unawares; nay, more, +that he is actually unwilling to recognize it when it is brought to his +notice. So you see that the symbolic relation is a comparison of a quite +peculiar kind, the nature of which is as yet not fully clear to us. +Perhaps some indication will be found later which will throw some light +upon this unknown quantity. + +The number of things which are represented symbolically in dreams is not +great. The human body as a whole, parents, children, brothers and +sisters, birth, death, nakedness—and one thing more. The only typical, +that is to say, regularly occurring, representation of the human form as +a whole is that of a _house_, as was recognized by Scherner, who even +wanted to attribute to this symbol an overwhelming significance which is +not really due to it. People have dreams of climbing down the front of a +house, with feelings sometimes of pleasure and sometimes of dread. When +the walls are quite smooth, the house means a man; when there are ledges +and balconies which can be caught hold of, a woman. Parents appear in +dreams as _emperor_ and _empress_, _king_ and _queen_ or other exalted +personages; in this respect the dream attitude is highly dutiful. +Children and brothers and sisters are less tenderly treated, being +symbolized by _little animals_ or _vermin_. Birth is almost invariably +represented by some reference to _water_: either we are falling into +water or clambering out of it, saving someone from it or being saved by +them, i.e. the relation between mother and child is symbolized. For +dying we have setting out upon a _journey_ or _travelling_ by train, +while the state of death is indicated by various obscure and, as it +were, timid allusions; _clothes_ and _uniforms_ stand for nakedness. You +see that here the dividing line between the symbolic and the allusive +kinds of representation tends to disappear. + +In comparison with the poverty of this enumeration, it cannot fail to +strike us that objects and matters belonging to another range of ideas +are represented by a remarkably rich symbolism. I am speaking of what +pertains to the sexual life—the genitals, sexual processes and +intercourse. An overwhelming majority of symbols in dreams are sexual +symbols. A curious disproportion arises thus, for the matters dealt with +are few in number, whereas the symbols for them are extraordinarily +numerous, so that each of these few things can be expressed by many +symbols practically equivalent. When they are interpreted, therefore, +the result of this peculiarity gives universal offence, for, in contrast +to the multifarious forms of its representation in dreams, the +interpretation of the symbols is very monotonous. This is displeasing to +everyone who comes to know of it: but how can we help it? + +As this is the first time in the course of these lectures that I have +touched upon the sexual life, I owe you some explanation of the manner +in which I propose to treat this subject. Psycho-Analysis sees no +occasion for concealments or indirect allusions, and does not think it +necessary to be ashamed of concerning itself with material so important; +it is of opinion that it is right and proper to call everything by its +true name, hoping in this way the more easily to avoid disturbing +suggestions. The fact that I am speaking to a mixed audience can make no +difference in this. No science can be treated as an oracular mystery, or +in a manner adapted to school-girls; the women present, by appearing in +this lecture-room, have tacitly expressed their desire to be regarded on +the same footing as the men. + +The male genital organ is symbolically represented in dreams in many +different ways, with most of which the common idea underlying the +comparison is easily apparent. In the first place, the sacred number +_three_ is symbolic of the whole male genitalia. Its more conspicuous +and, to both sexes, more interesting part, the penis, is symbolized +primarily by objects which resemble it in form, being long and +upstanding, such as _sticks_, _umbrellas_, _poles_, _trees_ and the +like; also by objects which, like the thing symbolized, have the +property of penetrating, and consequently of injuring, the body,—that is +to say, pointed weapons of all sorts: _knives_, _daggers_, _lances_, +_sabres_; fire-arms are similarly used: _guns_, _pistols_ and +_revolvers_, these last being a very appropriate symbol on account of +their shape. In the anxiety-dreams of young girls, pursuit by a man +armed with a knife or rifle plays a great part. This is perhaps the most +frequently occurring dream-symbol: you can now easily translate it for +yourselves. The substitution of the male organ by objects from which +water flows is again easily comprehensible: _taps_, _watering-cans_, or +_springs_; and by other objects which are capable of elongation, such as +_pulley lamps_, _pencils which slide in and out of a sheath_, and so on. +_Pencils_, _penholders_, _nail-files_, _hammers_ and other _implements_ +are undoubtedly male sexual symbols, based on an idea of the male organ +which is equally easily perceived. + +The peculiar property of this member of being able to raise itself +upright in defiance of the law of gravity, part of the phenomena of +erection, leads to symbolic representation by means of _balloons_, +_aeroplanes_, and, just recently, _Zeppelins_. But dreams have another, +much more impressive, way of symbolizing erection; they make the organ +of sex into the essential part of the whole person, so that the _dreamer +himself flies_. Do not be upset by hearing that dreams of flying, which +we all know and which are often so beautiful, must be interpreted as +dreams of general sexual excitement, dreams of erection. One +psycho-analytic investigator, P. Federn, has established the truth of +this interpretation beyond doubt; but, besides this, Mourly Vold, a man +highly praised for his sober judgement, who carried out the experiments +with artificial postures of the arms and legs, and whose theories were +really widely removed from those of psycho-analysis (indeed he may have +known nothing about it), was led by his own investigations to the same +conclusion. Nor must you think to object to this on the ground that +women can also have dreams of flying; you should rather remind +yourselves that the purpose of dreams is wish-fulfilment, and that the +wish to be a man is frequently met with in women, whether they are +conscious of it or not. Further, no one familiar with anatomy will be +misled by supposing that it is impossible for a woman to realize this +wish by sensations similar to those of a man, for the woman’s sexual +organs include a small one which resembles the penis, and this little +organ, the clitoris, does actually play during childhood and in the +years before sexual intercourse the same part as the large male organ. + +Male sexual symbols less easy to understand are certain _reptiles and +fishes_: above all, the famous symbol of the _serpent_. Why _hats and +cloaks_ are used in the same way is certainly difficult to divine, but +their symbolic meaning is quite unquestionable. Finally, it may be asked +whether the representation of the male organ by some other member, such +as the _hand_ or the _foot_, may be termed symbolic. I think the context +in which this is wont to occur, and the female counterparts with which +we meet, force this conclusion upon us. + +The female genitalia are symbolically represented by all such objects as +share with them the property of enclosing a space or are capable of +acting as receptacles: such as _pits_, _hollows and caves_, and also +_jars and bottles_, and _boxes_ of all sorts and sizes, _chests_, +_coffers_, _pockets_, and so forth. _Ships_ too come into this category. +Many symbols refer rather to the uterus than to the other genital +organs: thus _cupboards_, _stoves_ and, above all, _rooms_. Room +symbolism here links up with that of houses, whilst _doors and gates_ +represent the genital opening. Moreover, material of different kinds is +a symbol of woman,—_wood_, _paper_, and objects made of these, such as +_tables_ and _books_. From the animal world, _snails and mussels_ at any +rate must be cited as unmistakable female symbols; of the parts of the +body, the _mouth_ as a representation of the genital opening, and, +amongst buildings, _churches and chapels_ are symbols of a woman. You +see that all these symbols are not equally easy to understand. + +The breasts must be included amongst the organs of sex; these, as well +as the larger hemispheres of the female body, are represented by +_apples, peaches and fruit_ in general. The pubic hair in both sexes is +indicated in dreams by _woods and thickets_. The complicated topography +of the female sexual organs accounts for their often being represented +by a _landscape_ with rocks, woods and water, whilst the imposing +mechanism of the male sexual apparatus lends it to symbolization by all +kinds of complicated and indescribable _machinery_. + +Yet another noteworthy symbol of the female genital organ is a +_jewel-case_, whilst “jewel” and “treasure” are used also in dreams to +represent the beloved person,[33] and _sweetmeats_ frequently stand for +sexual pleasures. Gratification derived from a person’s own genitals is +indicated by any kind of _play_, including playing the piano. The +symbolic representation of onanism by _sliding or gliding_ and also by +_pulling off a branch_ is very typical. A particularly remarkable +dream-symbol is the _falling out_ or _extraction of teeth_; the primary +significance of this is certainly castration as a punishment for +onanism. Special representations of sexual intercourse are less frequent +in dreams than we should expect after all this, but we may mention in +this connection rhythmical activities such as _dancing_, _riding_ and +_climbing_, and also _experiencing some violence_, e.g. being run over. +To these may be added certain manual occupations, and of course being +threatened with weapons. + +You must not imagine that these symbols are either employed or +translated quite simply: on all sides we meet with what we do not +expect. For instance, it seems hardly credible that there is often no +sharp discrimination of the different sexes in these symbolic +representations. Many symbols stand for sexual organs in general, +whether male or female: for instance, a _little_ child, or a _little_ +son or daughter. At another time a symbol which is generally a male one +may be used to denote the female sexual organ, or vice versa. This is +incomprehensible until we have acquired some knowledge of the +development of conceptions about sexuality amongst human beings. In many +cases this ambiguity of the symbols may be apparent rather than real; +and moreover, the most striking amongst them, such as weapons, pockets +and chests, are never used bisexually in this way. + +I will now give a brief account, beginning with the symbols themselves +instead of with the objects symbolized, to show you from what spheres +the sexual symbols have for the most part been derived, and I will add a +few remarks relating particularly to those in which the attribute in +common with the thing symbolized is hard to detect. An instance of an +obscure symbol of this kind is the _hat_, or perhaps head-coverings in +general; this usually has a masculine significance, though occasionally +a feminine one. In the same way a _cloak_ betokens a man, though perhaps +sometimes without special reference to the organs of sex. It is open to +you to ask why this should be so. A _tie_, being an object which hangs +down and is not worn by women, is clearly a male symbol, whilst +_underlinen_ and _linen_ in general stands for the female. _Clothes and +uniforms_, as we have heard, represent nakedness or the human form; +_shoes and slippers_ symbolize the female genital organs. _Tables and +wood_ we have mentioned as being puzzling, but nevertheless certain, +female symbols; the _act of mounting_ ladders, steep places or stairs is +indubitably symbolic of sexual intercourse. On closer reflection we +shall notice that the rhythmic character of this climbing is the point +in common between the two, and perhaps also the accompanying increase in +excitation—the shortening of the breath as the climber ascends. + +We have already recognized that _landscapes_ represent the female sexual +organs; mountains and rocks are symbols of the male organ; _gardens_, a +frequently occurring symbol of the female genitalia. _Fruit_ stands for +the breasts, not for a child. _Wild animals_ denote human beings whose +senses are excited, and, hence, evil impulses or passions. _Blossoms and +flowers_ represent the female sexual organs, more particularly, in +virginity. In this connection you will recollect that the blossoms are +really the sexual organs of plants. + +We already know how rooms are used symbolically. This representation may +be extended, so that _windows and doors_ (entrances and exits from +rooms) come to mean the openings of the body; the fact of rooms being +_open or closed_ also accords with this symbolism: the _key_, which +opens them, is certainly a male symbol. + +This is some material for a study of dream-symbolism. It is not +complete, and could be both extended and made deeper. However, I think +it will seem to you more than enough; perhaps you may dislike it. You +will ask: “Do I then really live in the midst of sexual symbols? Are all +the objects round me, all the clothes I wear, all the things I handle, +always sexual symbols and nothing else?” There really is good reason for +surprised questions, and the first of these would be: How do we profess +to arrive at the meaning of these dream-symbols, about which the dreamer +himself can give us little or no information? + +My answer is that we derive our knowledge from widely different sources: +from fairy tales and myths, jokes and witticisms, from folk-lore, i.e. +from what we know of the manners and customs, sayings and songs, of +different peoples, and from poetic and colloquial usage of language. +Everywhere in these various fields the same symbolism occurs, and in +many of them we can understand it without being taught anything about +it. If we consider these various sources individually, we shall find so +many parallels to dream-symbolism that we are bound to be convinced of +the correctness of our interpretations. + +The human body is, we said, according to Scherner frequently symbolized +in dreams by a house; by an extension of this symbolism, windows, doors +and gates stand for the entrances to cavities in the body, and the +façades may either be smooth or may have balconies and ledges to hold on +to. The same symbolism is met with in colloquialisms; for instance, we +speak of “a thatch of hair,” or a “tile hat,” or say of someone that he +is not right “in the upper storey.”[34] In anatomy, too, we speak of the +openings of the body as its “portals.”[35] + +We may at first find it surprising that parents appear in our dreams as +kings and emperors and their consorts, but we have a parallel to this in +fairy tales. Does it not begin to dawn upon us that the many fairy tales +which begin with the words “Once upon a time there were a king and +queen” simply mean: “Once upon a time there were a father and mother?” +In family life the children are sometimes spoken of jestingly as +princes, and the eldest son as the crown prince. The king himself is +called the father of his people.[36] Again, in some parts, little +children are often playfully spoken of as little animals, e.g. in +Cornwall, as “little toad,” or in Germany as “little worm,” and, in +sympathizing with a child, Germans say “poor little worm.” + +Now let us return to the house symbolism. When in our dreams we make use +of the projections of houses as supports, does that not suggest a +well-known, popular German saying, with reference to a woman with a +markedly developed bust: “She has something for one to hold on to” (_Die +hat etwas zum Anhalten_), whilst another colloquialism in the same +connection is: “She has plenty of wood in front of her house” (_Die hat +viel Holz vor dem Hause_), as though our interpretation were to be borne +out by this when we say that wood is a female maternal symbol. + +There is still something to be said on the subject of wood. It is not +easy to see why wood should have come to represent a woman or mother, +but here a comparison of different languages may be useful to us. The +German word _Holz_ (wood) is said to be derived from the same root as +the Greek ὔλη, which means stuff, raw material. This would be an +instance of a process which is by no means rare, in that a general name +for material has come finally to be applied to a particular material +only. Now, in the Atlantic Ocean, there is an island named Madeira, and +this name was given to it by the Portuguese when they discovered it, +because at that time it was covered with dense forests; for in +Portuguese the word for wood is _madeira_. But you cannot fail to notice +that this _madeira_ is merely a modified form of the Latin _materia_, +which again signifies material in general. Now _materia_ is derived from +_mater_ = mother, and the material out of which anything is made may be +conceived of as giving birth to it. So, in the symbolic use of wood to +represent woman or mother, we have a survival of this old idea. + +Birth is regularly expressed by some connection with water: we are +plunging into or emerging from water, that is to say, we give birth or +are being born. Now let us not forget that this symbol has a twofold +reference to the actual facts of evolution. Not only are all land +mammals, from which the human race itself has sprung, descended from +creatures inhabiting the water—this is the more remote of the two +considerations—but also every single mammal, every human being, has +passed the first phase of existence in water—that is to say, as an +embryo in the amniotic fluid of the mother’s womb—and thus, at birth, +emerged from water. I do not maintain that the dreamer knows this; on +the other hand, I contend that there is no need for him to know it. He +probably knows something else from having been told it as a child, but +even this, I will maintain, has contributed nothing to symbol-formation. +The child is told in the nursery that the stork brings the babies, but +then where does it get them? Out of a pond or a well—again, out of the +water. One of my patients who had been told this as a child (a little +count, as he was then) afterwards disappeared for a whole afternoon, and +was at last found lying at the edge of the castle lake, with his little +face bent over the clear water, eagerly gazing to see whether he could +catch sight of the babies at the bottom of the water. + +In the myths of the births of heroes, a comparative study of which has +been made by O. Rank—the earliest is that of King Sargon of Akkad, about +2800 B.C.—exposure in water and rescue from it play a major part. Rank +perceived that this symbolizes birth in a manner analogous to that +employed in dreams. When anyone in his dream rescues somebody from the +water, he makes that person into his mother, or at any rate _a_ mother; +and in mythology, whoever rescues a child from water confesses herself +to be its real mother. There is a well-known joke in which an +intelligent Jewish boy, when asked who was the mother of Moses, answers +immediately: “The Princess.” He is told: “No, she only took him out of +the water.” “That’s what _she_ said,” he replies, showing that he had +hit upon the right interpretation of the myth. + +Going away on a journey stands in dreams for dying; similarly, it is the +custom in the nursery, when a child asks questions as to the whereabouts +of someone who has died and whom he misses, to tell him that that person +has “gone away.” Here again, I deprecate the idea that the dream-symbol +has its origin in this evasive reply to the child. The poet uses the +same symbol when he speaks of the other side as “the undiscovered +country from whose bourne _no traveller_ returns.” Again, in everyday +speech it is quite usual to speak of the “last journey,” and everyone +who is acquainted with ancient rites knows how seriously the idea of a +journey into the land of the dead was taken, for instance, in ancient +Egyptian belief. In many cases the “Book of the Dead” survives, which +was given to the mummy, like a Baedeker, to take with him on the last +journey. Since burial-grounds have been placed at a distance from the +houses of the living, the last journey of the dead has indeed become a +reality. + +Nor does sexual symbolism belong only to dreams. You will all know the +expression “a baggage” as applied contemptuously to a woman, but perhaps +people do not know that they are using a genital symbol. In the New +Testament we read: “The woman is the weaker _vessel_.” The sacred +writings of the Jews, the style of which so closely approaches that of +poetry, are full of expressions symbolic of sex, which have not always +been correctly interpreted and the exegesis of which, e.g. in the Song +of Solomon, has led to many misunderstandings.[37] In later Hebrew +literature the woman is very frequently represented by a house, the door +standing for the genital opening; thus a man complains, when he finds a +woman no longer a virgin, that “he has found the door open.” The symbol +“table” for a woman also occurs in this literature; the woman says of +her husband “I spread the table for him, but he overturned it.” Lame +children are said to owe their infirmity to the fact that the man +“overturned the table.” I quote here from a treatise by L. Levy in +Brünn: _Sexual Symbolism in the Bible and the Talmud_. + +That ships in dreams signify women is a belief in which we are supported +by the etymologists, who assert that “ship” (_Schiff_) was originally +the name of an earthen vessel and is the same word as _Schaff_ +(_schaffen_ = to make or produce). That an oven stands for a woman or +the mother’s womb is an interpretation confirmed by the Greek story of +Periander of Corinth and his wife Melissa. According to the version of +Herodotus, the tyrant adjured the shade of his wife, whom he had loved +passionately but had murdered out of jealousy, to tell him something +about herself, whereupon the dead woman identified herself by reminding +him that he, Periander, “had put his bread into a cold oven,” thus +expressing in a disguised form a circumstance of which everyone else was +ignorant. In the _Anthropophyteia_, edited by F. S. Kraus, a work which +is an indispensable text-book on everything concerning the sexual life +of different peoples, we read that in a certain part of Germany people +say of a woman who is delivered of a child that “her oven has fallen to +pieces.” The kindling of fire and everything connected with this is +permeated through and through with sexual symbolism, the flame always +standing for the male organ, and the fireplace or the hearth for the +womb of the woman. + +If you have chanced to wonder at the frequency with which landscapes are +used in dreams to symbolize the female sexual organs, you may learn from +mythologists how large a part has been played in the ideas and cults of +ancient times by “Mother Earth” and how the whole conception of +agriculture was determined by this symbolism. The fact that in dreams a +room represents a woman you may be inclined to trace to the German +colloquialism by which _Frauenzimmer_ (_lit._ “woman’s room”) is used +for _Frau_, that is to say, the human person is represented by the place +assigned for her occupation. Similarly we speak of the Porte, meaning +thereby the Sultan and his government, and the name of the ancient +Egyptian ruler, Pharaoh, merely means “great court.” (In the ancient +Orient the courts between the double gates of the city were places of +assembly, like the market-place in classical times.) But I think this +derivation is too superficial, and it strikes me as more probable that +the room came to symbolize woman on account of its property of enclosing +within it the human being. We have already met with the house in this +sense; from mythology and poetry we may take towns, citadels, castles +and fortresses to be further symbols for women. It would be easy to +decide the point by reference to the dreams of people who neither speak +nor understand German. Of late years I have mainly treated foreign +patients, and I think I recollect that in their dreams rooms stand in +the same way for women, even though there is no word analogous to our +_Frauenzimmer_ in their language. There are other indications that +symbolism may transcend the boundaries of language, a fact already +maintained by the old dream-investigator, Schubert, in 1862. +Nevertheless, none of my patients were wholly ignorant of German, so +that I must leave this question to be decided by those analysts who can +collect instances in other countries from persons who speak only one +language.[38] + +Amongst the symbols for the male sexual organ, there is scarcely one +which does not appear in jests, or in vulgar or poetic phrases, +especially in the old classical poets. Here, however, we meet not only +with such symbols as occur in dreams but also with new ones, e.g. the +_implements_ employed in various kinds of work, first and foremost, the +_plough_. Moreover, when we come to male symbols, we trench on very +extensive and much-contested ground, which, in order not to waste time, +we will avoid. I should just like to devote a few remarks to the one +symbol which stands, as it were, by itself; I refer to the number +_three_. Whether this number does not in all probability owe its sacred +character to its symbolic significance is a question which we must leave +undecided, but it seems certain that many tripartite natural objects, +e.g. the clover-leaf, are used in coats-of-arms and as emblems on +account of their symbolism. The so-called “French” lily with its three +parts and, again, the “trisceles,” that curious coat-of-arms of two such +widely separated islands as Sicily and the Isle of Man (a figure +consisting of three bent legs projecting from a central point), are +supposed to be merely disguised forms of the male sexual organ, images +of which were believed in ancient times to be the most powerful means of +warding off evil influences (_apotropaea_); connected with this is the +fact that the lucky “charms” of our own time may all be easily +recognized as genital or sexual symbols. Let us consider a collection of +such charms in the form of tiny silver pendants: a four-leaved clover, a +pig, a mushroom, a horseshoe, a ladder and a chimney-sweep. The +four-leaved clover has taken the place of that with three leaves, which +was really more appropriate for the purposes of symbolism; the pig is an +ancient symbol of fruitfulness; the mushroom undoubtedly symbolizes the +penis, there are mushrooms which derive their name from their +unmistakable resemblance to that organ (_Phallus impudicus_); the +horseshoe reproduces the contour of the female genital opening; while +the chimney-sweep with his ladder belongs to this company because his +occupation is one which is vulgarly compared with sexual intercourse. +(Cf. _Anthropophyteia_.) We have learnt to recognize his ladder in +dreams as a sexual symbol: expressions in language show what a +completely sexual significance the word _steigen_, to mount, has, as in +the phrases: _Den Frauen nachsteigen_ (to run after women) and _ein +alter Steiger_ (an old roué). So, in French, where the word for “step” +is _la marche_, we find the quite analogous expression for an old rake: +_un vieux marcheur_. Probably the fact that with many of the larger +animals sexual intercourse necessitates a mounting or “climbing upon” +the female has something to do with this association of ideas. + +Pulling off a branch to symbolize onanism is not only in agreement with +vulgar descriptions of that act, but also has far-reaching parallels in +mythology. But especially remarkable is the representation of onanism, +or rather of castration as the punishment for onanism, by the falling +out or extraction of teeth; for we find in folk-lore a counterpart to +this which could only be known to very few dreamers. I think that there +can be no doubt that circumcision, a practice common to so many peoples, +is an equivalent and replacement of castration. And recently we have +learnt that certain aboriginal tribes in Australia practise circumcision +as a rite to mark the attaining of puberty (at the celebration of the +boy’s coming of age), whilst other tribes living quite near have +substituted for this practice that of knocking out a tooth. + +I will end my account with these examples. They are only examples; we +know more about this subject and you can imagine how much richer and +more interesting a collection of this sort might be made, not by +dilettanti like ourselves, but by real experts in mythology, +anthropology, philology and folk-lore. We are forced to certain +conclusions, which cannot be exhaustive, but nevertheless will give us +plenty to think about. + +In the first place, we are confronted with the fact that the dreamer has +at his command a symbolic mode of expression of which he knows nothing, +and does not even recognize, in his waking life. This is as amazing as +if you made the discovery that your housemaid understood Sanscrit, +though you know that she was born in a Bohemian village and had never +learnt that language. It is not easy to bring this fact into line with +our views on psychology. We can only say that the dreamer’s knowledge of +symbolism is unconscious and belongs to his unconscious mental life, but +even this assumption does not help us much. Up till now we have only had +to assume the existence of unconscious tendencies which are temporarily +or permanently unknown to us; but now the question is a bigger one and +we have actually to believe in unconscious knowledge, thought-relations, +and comparisons between different objects, in virtue of which one idea +can constantly be substituted for another. These comparisons are not +instituted afresh every time, but are ready to hand, perfect for all +time; this we infer from their unanimity in different persons, even +probably in spite of linguistic differences. + +Whence is our knowledge of this symbolism derived? The usages of speech +cover only a small part of it, whilst the manifold parallels in other +fields are for the most part unknown to the dreamer; we ourselves had to +collate them laboriously in the first instance. + +In the second place, these symbolic relations are not peculiar to the +dreamer or to the dream-work by which they are expressed; for we have +discovered that the same symbolism is employed in myths and fairy tales, +in popular sayings and songs, in colloquial speech and poetic phantasy. +The province of symbolism is extraordinarily wide: dream-symbolism is +only a small part of it; it would not even be expedient to attack the +whole problem from the side of dreams. Many of the symbols commonly +occurring elsewhere either do not appear in dreams at all or appear very +seldom; on the other hand, many of the dream-symbols are not met with in +every other department, but, as you have seen, only here and there. We +get the impression that here we have to do with an ancient but obsolete +mode of expression, of which different fragments have survived in +different fields, one here only, another there only, a third in various +spheres perhaps in slightly different forms. At this point I am reminded +of the phantasy of a very interesting insane patient, who had imagined a +“primordial language” (_Grundsprache_) of which all these symbols were +survivals. + +In the third place, it must strike you that the symbolism occurring in +the other fields I have named is by no means confined to sexual themes, +whereas in dreams the symbols are almost exclusively used to represent +sexual objects and relations. This again is hard to account for. Are we +to suppose that symbols originally of sexual significance were later +employed differently and that perhaps the decline from symbolic to other +modes of representation is connected with this? It is obviously +impossible to answer these questions by dealing only with +dream-symbolism; all we can do is to hold fast to the supposition that +there is a specially close relation between true symbols and sexuality. + +An important clue in this connection has recently been given to us in +the view expressed by a philologist (H. Sperber, of Upsala, who works +independently of psycho-analysis), that sexual needs have had the +largest share in the origin and development of language. He says that +the first sounds uttered were a means of communication, and of summoning +the sexual partner, and that in the later development the elements of +speech were used as an accompaniment to the different kinds of work +carried on by primitive man. This work was performed by associated +efforts, to the sound of rhythmically repeated utterances, the effect of +which was to transfer a sexual interest to the work. Primitive man thus +made his work agreeable, so to speak, by treating it as the equivalent +of and substitute for sexual activities. The word uttered during the +communal work had therefore two meanings, the one referring to the +sexual act, the other to the labour which had come to be equivalent to +it. In time the word was dissociated from its sexual significance and +its application confined to the work. Generations later the same thing +happened to a new word with a sexual signification, which was then +applied to a new form of work. In this way a number of root-words arose +which were all of sexual origin but had all lost their sexual meaning. +If the statement here outlined be correct, a possibility at least of +understanding dream-symbolism opens out before us. We should comprehend +why it is that in dreams, which retain something of these primitive +conditions, there is such an extraordinarily large number of sexual +symbols; and why weapons and tools in general stand for the male, and +materials and things worked on for the female. The symbolic relation +would then be the survival of the old identity in words; things which +once had the same name as the genitalia could now appear in dreams as +symbolizing them. + +Further, our parallels to dream-symbolism may assist you to appreciate +what it is in psycho-analysis which makes it a subject of general +interest, in a way that was not possible to either psychology or +psychiatry; psycho-analytic work is so closely intertwined with so many +other branches of science, the investigation of which gives promise of +the most valuable conclusions: with mythology, philology, folk-lore, +folk psychology and the study of religion. You will not be surprised to +hear that a publication has sprung from psycho-analytic soil, of which +the exclusive object is to foster these relations. I refer to _Imago_, +first published in 1912 and edited by Hanns Sachs and Otto Rank. In its +relation to all these other subjects, psycho-analysis has in the first +instance given rather than received. True, analysis reaps the advantage +of receiving confirmation of its own results, seemingly so strange, +again in other fields; but on the whole it is psycho-analysis which +supplies the technical methods and the points of view, the application +of which is to prove fruitful in these other provinces. The mental life +of the human individual yields, under psycho-analytic investigation, +explanations which solve many a riddle in the life of the masses of +mankind or at any rate can show these problems in their true light. + +I have still given you no idea of the circumstances in which we may +arrive at the deepest insight into that hypothetical “primordial +language,” or of the province in which it is for the most part retained. +As long as you do not know this you cannot appreciate the true +significance of the whole subject. I refer to the province of neurosis; +the material is found in the symptoms and other modes of expression of +nervous patients, for the explanation and treatment of which +psycho-analysis was indeed devised. + +My fourth point of view takes us back to the place from which we started +and leads into the track we have already marked out. We said that even +if there were no dream-censorship we should still find it difficult to +interpret dreams, for we should then be confronted with the task of +translating the symbolic language of dreams into the language of waking +life. SYMBOLISM, then, is a second and independent factor in +dream-distortion, existing side by side with the censorship. But the +conclusion is obvious that it suits the censorship to make use of +symbolism, in that both serve the same purpose: that of making the dream +strange and incomprehensible. + +Whether a further study of the dream will not introduce us to yet +another contributing factor in the distortion, we shall soon see. But I +must not leave the subject of dream-symbolism without once more touching +on the puzzling fact that it has succeeded in rousing such strenuous +opposition amongst educated persons, although the prevalence of +symbolism in myth, religion, art and language is beyond all doubt. Is it +not probable that, here again, the reason is to be found in its relation +to sexuality? + + + + + ELEVENTH LECTURE + THE DREAM-WORK + + +When you have successfully grasped the dream-censorship and symbolic +representation, you will not, it is true, have mastered dream-distortion +in its entirety, but you will nevertheless be in a position to +understand most dreams. To do so, you will make use of the two +complementary methods: you will call up the dreamer’s associations till +you have penetrated from the substitute to the thought proper for which +it stands, and you will supply the meaning of the symbols from your own +knowledge of the subject. We will speak later of certain doubtful points +which may arise in the process. + +We can now return to a task which we attempted earlier with inadequate +equipment, when we were studying the relations between dream-elements +and the thoughts proper underlying them. We then determined the +existence of four such main relations: substitution of the part for the +whole, hints or allusions, symbolic connection, and plastic +word-representation (images). We will now try to deal with this subject +on a larger scale, by a comparison of the _manifest_ dream-content as a +whole with the _latent_ dream as laid bare by our interpretation. + +I hope you will never again confuse these two things. If you succeed in +distinguishing between them, you will have advanced further towards an +understanding of dreams than in all probability most of the readers of +my _Interpretation of Dreams_ have done. Let me again remind you that +_the process by which the latent dream is transformed into the manifest +dream is called_ THE DREAM-WORK; while the reverse process, which seeks +to progress from the manifest to the latent thoughts, is our work of +interpretation; the work of interpretation therefore aims at demolishing +the dream-work. In dreams of the infantile type in which the obvious +wish-fulfilments are easily recognized, the process of dream-work has +nevertheless been operative to some extent, for the wish has been +transformed into a reality and, usually, the thoughts also into visual +images. Here no interpretation is necessary; we only have to retrace +both these transformations. The further operations of the dream-work, as +seen in the other types of dreams, we call _dream-distortion_, and here +the original ideas have to be restored by our interpretative work. + +Having had the opportunity of comparing many dream-interpretations, I am +in a position to give you a comprehensive account of the manner in which +the dream-work deals with the material of the latent dream-thoughts. But +please do not expect to understand too much: it is a piece of +description which should be listened to quietly and attentively. + +The first achievement of the dream-work is CONDENSATION; by this term we +mean to convey the fact that the content of the manifest dream is less +rich than that of the latent thoughts, is, as it were, a kind of +abbreviated translation of the latter. Now and again condensation may be +lacking, but it is present as a rule and is often carried to a very high +degree. It never works in the opposite manner, i.e. it never happens +that the manifest dream is wider in range or richer in content than is +the latent dream. Condensation is accomplished in the following ways: +(1) certain latent elements are altogether omitted; (2) of many +complexes in the latent dream only a fragment passes over into the +manifest content; (3) latent elements sharing some common characteristic +are in the manifest dream put together, blended into a single whole. + +If you prefer to do so, you can reserve the term ‘condensation’ for this +last process, the effects of which are particularly easy to demonstrate. +Taking your own dreams, you will be able without any trouble to recall +instances of the condensation of different persons into a single figure. +Such a composite figure resembles A. in appearance, but is dressed like +B., pursues some occupation which recalls C., and yet all the time you +know that it is really D. The composite picture serves, of course, to +lay special emphasis upon some characteristic common to the four people. +And it is possible also for a composite picture to be formed with +objects or places, as with persons, provided only that the single +objects or places have some common attribute upon which the latent dream +lays stress. It is as though a new and fugitive concept were formed, of +which the common attribute is the kernel. From the superimposing of the +separate parts which undergo condensation there usually results a +blurred and indistinct picture, as if several photographs had been taken +on the same plate. + +The formation of such composite figures must be of great importance in +the dream-work, for we can prove that the common properties necessary to +their formation are purposely manufactured where at first sight they +would seem to be lacking, as, for example, by the choice of some +particular verbal expression for a thought. We have already met with +instances of condensation and composite-formation of this sort; they +played an important part in originating many slips of the tongue. You +will remember the case of the young man who wished to “insort” a lady +(_beleidigen_ = insult, _begleiten_ = escort, composite word +_begleitdigen_). Besides, there are jokes in which the technique is +traceable to condensation of this sort. Apart from this, however, we may +venture to assert that this process is something quite unusual and +strange. It is true that in many a creation of phantasy we meet with +counterparts to the formation of the composite persons of our dreams, +component parts which do not belong to one another in reality being +readily united into a single whole by phantasy, as, for instance, in the +centaurs and fabulous animals of ancient mythology or of Boecklin’s +pictures. “Creative” phantasy can, in fact, invent nothing new, but can +only regroup elements from different sources. But the peculiar thing +about the way in which the dream-work proceeds is this: its material +consists of thoughts, some of which may be objectionable and +disagreeable, but which nevertheless are correctly formed and expressed. +The dream-work transmutes these thoughts into another form, and it is +curious and incomprehensible that in this process of translation—of +rendering them, as it were, into another script or language—the means of +blending and combining are employed. The translator’s endeavour in other +cases must surely be to respect the distinctions observed in the text, +and especially to differentiate between things which are similar but not +the same; the dream-work, on the contrary, strives to condense two +different thoughts by selecting, after the manner of wit, an ambiguous +word which can suggest both thoughts. We must not expect to understand +this characteristic straight away, but it may assume great significance +for our conception of the dream-work. + +Although condensation renders the dream obscure, yet it does not give +the impression of being an effect of the dream-censorship. Rather we +should be inclined to trace it to mechanical or economic factors; +nevertheless the censorship’s interests are served by it. + +What condensation can achieve is sometimes quite extraordinary: by this +device it is at times possible for two completely different latent +trains of thought to be united in a single manifest dream, so that we +arrive at an apparently adequate interpretation of a dream and yet +overlook a second possible meaning. + +Moreover, one of the effects of condensation upon the relationship +between the manifest and the latent dream is that the connection between +the elements of the one and of the other nowhere remains a simple one; +for by a kind of interlacing a manifest element represents +simultaneously several latent ones and, conversely, a latent thought may +enter into several manifest elements. Again, when we come to interpret +dreams, we see that the associations to a single manifest element do not +commonly make their appearance in orderly succession; we often have to +wait until we have the interpretation of the whole dream. + +The dream-work, then, follows a very unusual mode of transcription for +the dream-thoughts; not a translation, word for word, or sign for sign; +nor yet a process of selection according to some definite rule, for +instance, as though the consonants only of the words were reproduced and +the vowels omitted; nor again what one might call a process of +representation, one element being always picked out to represent several +others. It works by a different and much more complicated method. + +The second achievement of the dream-work is DISPLACEMENT. Fortunately +here we are not breaking perfectly fresh ground; indeed, we know that it +is entirely the work of the dream-censorship. Displacement takes two +forms: first, a latent element may be _replaced_, not by a part of +itself, but by something more remote, something of the nature of an +allusion; and, secondly, the _accent_ may be transferred from an +important element to another which is unimportant, so that the centre of +the dream is shifted as it were, giving the dream a foreign appearance. + +Substitution by allusion is familiar to us in our waking thoughts also, +but with a difference; for it is essential in the latter that the +allusion should be easily comprehensible, and that the content of the +substitute should be associated to that of the thought proper. Allusion +is also frequently employed in wit, where the condition of association +in content is dispensed with and replaced by unfamiliar external +associations, such as similarity of sound, ambiguity of meaning, etc. +The condition of comprehensibility, however, is observed: the joke would +lose all its point if we could not recognize without any effort what is +the actual thing to which the allusion is made. But in dreams allusion +by displacement is unrestricted by either limitation. It is connected +most superficially and most remotely with the element for which it +stands, and for that reason is not readily comprehensible; and, when the +connection is traced, the interpretation gives the impression of an +unsuccessful joke or of a “forced,” far-fetched and “dragged in” +explanation. The object of the dream-censorship is only attained when it +has succeeded in making it impossible to trace the thought proper back +from the allusion. + +Displacement of accent is not a legitimate device if our object be the +expression of thought; though we do sometimes admit it in waking life in +order to produce a comic effect. I can to some extent convey to you the +impression of confusion which then results, by reminding you of an +anecdote, according to which there was in a certain village a smith who +had committed a capital offence. The court decided that the smith was +guilty; but, since he was the only one of his trade in the village and +therefore indispensable, whereas there were three tailors living there, +one of these three was hanged in his place! + +The third achievement of the dream-work is the most interesting from the +psychological point of view. It consists in the transformation of +thoughts into _visual images_. Let us be quite clear that not everything +in the dream-thoughts is thus transformed; much keeps its original form +and appears also in the manifest dream as thought or knowledge, on the +part of the dreamer; again, translation of them into visual images is +not the only possible transformation of thoughts. But it is nevertheless +the essential feature in the formation of dreams, and, as we know, this +part of the dream-work is, if we except one other case, the least +subject to variation; for single dream-elements, moreover, _plastic +word-representation_ is a process already familiar to us. + +Obviously this achievement is by no means an easy one. In order to get +some idea of its difficulty, imagine that you had undertaken to replace +a political leading article in a newspaper by a series of illustrations; +you would have to abandon alphabetic characters in favour of +hieroglyphics. The people and concrete objects mentioned in the article +could be easily represented, perhaps even more satisfactorily, in +pictorial form; but you would expect to meet with difficulties when you +came to the portrayal of all the abstract words and all those parts of +speech which indicate relations between the various thoughts, e.g. +particles, conjunctions, and so forth. With the abstract words you would +employ all manner of devices: for instance, you would try to render the +text of the article into other words, more unfamiliar perhaps, but made +up of parts more concrete and therefore more capable of such +representation. This will remind you of the fact that most abstract +words were originally concrete, their original significance having +faded; and therefore you will fall back on the original concrete meaning +of these words wherever possible. So you will be glad that you can +represent the “possessing” of an object as a literal, physical “sitting +upon” it (possess = _potis_ + _sedeo_). This is just how the dream-work +proceeds. In such circumstances you can hardly demand great accuracy of +representation, neither will you quarrel with the dream-work for +replacing an element which is difficult to reduce to pictorial form, +such as the idea of breaking marriage vows, by some other kind of +breaking, e.g. that of an arm or leg.[39] In this way you will to some +extent succeed in overcoming the awkwardness of rendering alphabetic +characters into hieroglyphs. + +When you come to represent those parts of speech which indicate +thought-relations, e.g. “because,” “therefore,” “but,” and so on, you +have no such means as those described to assist you; so that these parts +of the text must be lost, so far as your translation into pictorial form +is concerned. Similarly, the content of the dream-thoughts is resolved +by the dream-work into its ‘raw material,’ consisting of objects and +activities. You may be satisfied if there is any possibility of +indicating somehow, by a more minute elaboration of the images, certain +relations which cannot be represented in themselves. In a precisely +similar manner the dream-work succeeds in expressing much of the content +of the latent thoughts by means of peculiarities in the _form_ of the +manifest dream, by its distinctness or obscurity, its division into +various parts, etc. The number of parts into which a dream is divided +corresponds as a rule with the number of its main themes, the successive +trains of thought in the latent dream; a short preliminary dream often +stands in an introductory or causal relation to the subsequent detailed +main dream; whilst a subordinate dream-thought is represented by the +interpolation into the manifest dream of a change of scene, and so on. +The form of dreams, then, is by no means unimportant in itself, and +itself demands interpretation. Several dreams in the same night often +have the same meaning, and indicate an endeavour to control more and +more completely a stimulus of increasing urgency. In a single dream, a +specially difficult element may be represented by “doubling” it, i.e. by +more than one symbol. + +If we continue the comparison of dream-thoughts with the manifest dreams +representing them, we discover in all directions things we should never +have expected, e.g. that even nonsense and absurdity in dreams have +their meaning; in fact, at this point the contrast between the medical +and the psycho-analytic view of dreams becomes more marked than ever +before. According to the medical view, the dream is absurd because while +dreaming our mental activity has renounced its functions; according to +our view, on the other hand, the dream becomes absurd when it has to +represent a criticism implicit in the latent thoughts—the opinion: “It +is absurd.” The dream I told you, about the visit to the theatre (“three +tickets for one florin and a half”) is a good example of this: the +opinion thus expressed was as follows: “It was _absurd_ to marry so +early.” + +Similarly, we find out when we interpret dreams what is the real meaning +of the doubts and uncertainties, so frequently mentioned by dreamers, +whether a certain element did actually appear in the dream, whether it +was really this and not rather something else. As a rule, there is +nothing in the latent thoughts corresponding with these doubts and +uncertainties; they originate wholly through the operation of the +censorship and are comparable to a not entirely successful attempt at +erasure. + +One of our most surprising discoveries is the manner in which +_opposites_ in the latent dream are dealt with by the dream-work. We +know already that points of agreement in the latent material are +replaced by condensation in the manifest dream. Now contraries are +treated in just the same way as similarities, with a marked preference +for expression by means of the _same_ manifest element. An element in +the manifest dream which admits of an opposite may stand simply for +itself, or for its opposite, or for both together; only the sense can +decide which translation is to be chosen. It accords with this that +there is no representation of a “No” in dreams, or at least none which +is not ambiguous. + +A welcome analogy to this strange behaviour of the dream-work is +furnished in the development of language. Many philologists have +maintained that in the oldest languages opposites such as: strong—weak, +light—dark, large—small, were expressed by the same root word +(_antithetical sense of primal words_). Thus, in old Egyptian “_ken_” +stood originally for both “strong” and “weak.” In speaking, +misunderstanding was guarded against in the use of such ambivalent words +by the intonation and accompanying gestures; in writing, by the addition +of a so-called “determinative,” that is to say, of a picture which was +not meant to be expressed orally. Thus, “_ken_” = “strong” was written +in such a way that after the letters there was a picture of a little man +standing upright; when “_ken_” meant “weak,” there was added the picture +of a man in a slack, crouching attitude. Only at a later period did the +two opposite meanings of the same primal word come to be designated in +two different ways by slight modifications of the original. Thus, from +“_ken_” meaning “strong—weak” were derived two words: “_ken_” = “strong” +and “_kan_” = “weak.” Nor is it only the oldest languages, in the last +stages of their development, which have retained many survivals of these +early words capable of meaning either of two opposites, but the same is +true of much younger languages, even those which are to-day still +living. I will quote some illustrations of this taken from the work of +C. Abel (1884): + +In Latin, such ambivalent words are: + + _altus_ = high or deep. _sacer_ = sacred or accursed. + +As examples of modifications of the original root, I quote: + + _clamare_ = to shout. _clam_ = quietly, silently, secretly. + _siccus_ = dry. _succus_ = juice. + +and, in German, _Stimme_ = voice. _stumm_ = dumb. + +A comparison of kindred languages yields a large number of examples: + + English: lock = to shut. German: _Loch_ = hole. _Lücke_ = gap. + English: cleave.[40] German: _kleben_ = to stick, adhere. + +The English word “without,” originally carrying with it both a positive +and a negative connotation, is to-day used in the negative sense only, +but it is clear that “with” has the signification, not merely of “adding +to,” but of “depriving of,” from the compounds “withdraw,” “withhold” +(cf. the German _wieder_). + +Yet another peculiarity of the dream-work has its counterpart in the +development of language. In ancient Egyptian, as well as in other later +languages, the sequence of sounds was transposed so as to result in +different words for the same fundamental idea. Examples of this kind of +parallels between English and German words may be quoted: + + _Topf_ (pot)—pot. Boat—tub. Hurry—_Ruhe_ (rest). _Balken_ + (beam)—_Kloben_ (club). wait—_täuwen_ (to wait). + +Parallels between Latin and German:— + + _capere_—_packen_ (to seize). _ren_—_Niere_ (kidney). + +Such transpositions as have taken place here in the case of single words +are made by the dream-work in a variety of ways. The inversion of the +meaning, i.e. substitution by the opposite, is a device with which we +are already familiar; but, besides this, we find in dreams inversion of +situations or of the relations existing between two persons, as though +the scene were laid in a “topsy-turvy” world. In dreams often enough the +hare shoots the hunter. Again, inversion is met with in the sequence of +events, so that in dreams cause follows effect, which reminds us of what +sometimes happens in a third-rate theatrical performance, when first the +hero falls and then the shot which kills him is fired from the wings. Or +there are dreams in which the whole arrangement of the elements is +inverted, so that in interpreting them the last must be taken first, and +the first last, in order to make sense at all. You remember that we also +found this in our study of dream-symbolism, in which the act of plunging +or falling into water has the same meaning as that of emerging from +water, namely, giving birth or being born, and going up steps or a +ladder means the same as coming down them. We cannot fail to recognize +the advantage reaped for dream-distortion by this freedom from +restrictions in representing the dream-thoughts. + +These features of the dream-work may be termed _archaic_. They cling to +the primitive modes of expression of languages or scripts, and yield the +same difficulties, which we shall touch upon later in the course of some +critical observations on this topic. + +Now let us consider some other aspects of the subject. Clearly what has +to be accomplished by the dream-work is the transformation of the latent +thoughts, as expressed in words, into perceptual forms, most commonly +into visual images. Now our thoughts originated in such perceptual +forms; their earliest material and the first stages in their development +consisted of sense-impressions, or, more accurately, of memory-pictures +of these. It was later that words were attached to these pictures and +then connected so as to form thoughts. So that the dream-work subjects +our thoughts to a _regressive_ process and retraces the steps in their +development; in the course of this REGRESSION all new acquisitions won +during this development of memory-pictures into thoughts must +necessarily fall away. + +This then is what we mean by the dream-work. Beside what we have learnt +of its processes our interest in the manifest dream is bound to recede +far into the background; I will, however, devote still a few more +remarks to the manifest dream, for, after all, that is the only part of +the dream with which we have any direct acquaintance. + +It is natural that the manifest dream should lose some of its importance +in our eyes. It must strike us as a matter of indifference whether it is +carefully composed or split up into a succession of disconnected +pictures. Even when the outward form of the dream is apparently full of +meaning, we know that this appearance has been arrived at by the process +of dream-distortion, and can have as little organic connection with the +inner content of the dream as exists between the _façade_ of an Italian +church and its general structure and ground-plan. At times, however, +this _façade_ of the dream has a meaning too, reproducing an important +part of the latent thoughts with little or no distortion. But we cannot +know this until we have interpreted the dream and thus arrived at an +opinion with regard to the degree of distortion present. A similar doubt +obtains where two elements seem to be closely connected; such connection +may contain a valuable hint that the corresponding elements in the +latent dream are similarly related, but at other times we can convince +ourselves that what is connected in thought has become widely separated +in the dream. + +In general we must refrain from attempting to explain one part of the +manifest dream by another part, as though the dream were a coherent +conception and a pragmatic representation. It is in most cases +comparable rather to a piece of Breccia stone, composed of fragments of +different kinds of stone cemented together in such a way that the +markings upon it are not those of the original pieces contained in it. +There is, as a matter of fact, one mechanism in the dream-work, known as +SECONDARY ELABORATION, the object of which is to combine the immediate +results of the work into a single and fairly coherent whole; during this +process the material is often so arranged as to give rise to total +misunderstanding, and for this purpose any necessary interpolations are +made. + +On the other hand, we should not overrate the dream-work or attribute to +it more than is its due. Its activity is limited to the achievements +here enumerated; condensation, displacement, plastic representation and +secondary elaboration of the whole dream; these are all that it can +effect. Such manifestations of judgement, criticism, surprise, or +deductive reasoning, as are met with in dreams are not brought about by +the dream-work and are only very rarely the expression of subsequent +reflection about the dream; but are for the most part fragments of the +latent thoughts introduced into the manifest dream with more or less +modification and in a form suited to the context. Again, the dream-work +cannot create conversation in dreams; save in a few exceptional cases, +it is imitated from, and made up of, things heard or even said by the +dreamer himself on the previous day, which have entered into the latent +thoughts as the material or incitement of his dream. Neither do +mathematical calculations come into the province of the dream-work; +anything of the sort appearing in the manifest dream is generally a mere +combination of numbers, a pseudo-calculation, quite absurd as such, and +again only a copy of some calculation comprised in the latent thoughts. +In these circumstances it is not surprising that the interest which was +felt in the dream-work soon becomes directed instead towards the latent +thoughts which disclose themselves in a more or less distorted form +through the manifest dream. We are not justified, however, in a +theoretical consideration of the subject, in letting our interest stray +so far that we altogether substitute the latent thoughts for the dream +as a whole, and make some pronouncement on the latter which is only true +of the former. It is strange that the findings of psycho-analysis could +be so misused as to result in confusion between the two. The term +“dream” can only be applied to the _results of the dream-work_, i.e. to +the _form_ into which the latent thoughts have been rendered by the +dream-work. + +This work is a process of a quite peculiar type; nothing like it has +hitherto been known in mental life. This kind of condensation, +displacement, and regressive translation of thoughts into images, is a +novelty, the recognition of which in itself richly rewards our efforts +in the field of psycho-analysis. You will again perceive, from the +parallels to dream-work, the connections revealed between +psycho-analytic and other research, especially in the fields of the +development of speech and thought. You will only realize the further +significance of the insight so acquired when you learn that the +mechanism of the dream-work is a kind of model for the formation of +neurotic symptoms. + +I know too that it is not possible for us yet to grasp the full extent +of the fresh gain accruing to psychology from these labours. We will +only hint at the new proofs thereby afforded of the existence of +unconscious mental activities—for this indeed is the nature of the +latent dream-thoughts—and at the promise dream-interpretation gives of +an approach, wider than we ever guessed at, to the knowledge of the +unconscious life of the mind. + +Now, however, I think the time has come to give you individual examples +of various short dreams, which will illustrate the points for which I +have already prepared you. + + + + + TWELFTH LECTURE + EXAMPLES OF DREAMS AND ANALYSIS OF THEM + + +You must not be disappointed if I present you once more with fragments +of dream-interpretations, instead of inviting you to participate in the +interpretation of one fine long dream. You will say that after so much +preparation you surely have a right to expect that; and you will express +your conviction that, after successful interpretations of so many +thousands of dreams, it should long ago have been possible to collect a +number of striking examples by which the truth of all our assertions +about the dream-work and dream-thoughts could be demonstrated. Yes, but +there are too many difficulties in the way of fulfilling this wish of +yours. + +In the first place, I must confess that there is nobody who makes the +interpretation of dreams his main business. In what circumstances, then, +do we come to interpret them? At times we may occupy ourselves, for no +particular purpose, with the dreams of a friend, or we may work out our +own dreams over a period of time in order to train ourselves for +psycho-analytic work; but chiefly we have to do with the dreams of +nervous patients who are undergoing psycho-analytic treatment. These +last dreams provide splendid material and are in no respect inferior to +those of healthy persons, but the technique of the treatment obliges us +to subordinate dream-interpretation to therapeutic purposes and to +desist from the attempt to interpret a large number of the dreams as +soon as we have extracted from them something of use for the treatment. +Again, many dreams which occur during the treatment elude full +interpretation altogether; since they have their origin in the whole +mass of material in the mind which is as yet unknown to us, it is not +possible to understand them until the completion of the cure. To relate +such dreams would necessarily involve revealing all the secrets of a +neurosis; this will not do for us, since we have taken up the problem of +dreams in preparation for the study of the neuroses. + +Now I expect you would willingly dispense with this material and would +prefer to listen to the explanation of dreams of healthy persons or +perhaps of your own. But the content of these dreams makes that +impossible. One cannot expose oneself, nor anyone whose confidence has +been placed in one, so ruthlessly as a thorough interpretation of a +dream would necessitate; for, as you already know, they touch upon all +that is most intimate in the personality. Apart from the difficulty +arising out of the nature of the material, there is another difficulty +as regards relating the dreams. You are aware that the dream seems +foreign and strange to the dreamer himself; how much more so to an +outsider to whom his personality is unknown. The literature of +psycho-analysis shows no lack of good and detailed dream-analyses; I +myself have published some which formed part of the history of certain +pathological cases. Perhaps the best example of a dream-interpretation +is that published by O. Rank, consisting of the analysis of two +mutually-related dreams of a young girl. These cover about two pages of +print, while the analysis of them runs into 76 pages. It would need +almost a whole term’s lectures in order to take you through a work of +this magnitude. If we selected some fairly long and considerably +distorted dream we should have to enter into so many explanations, to +adduce so much material in the shape of associations and recollections, +and to go down so many sidetracks, that a single lecture would be quite +unsatisfying and would give no clear idea of it as a whole. So I must +ask you to be content if I pursue a less difficult course, and relate +some fragments from dreams of neurotic patients, in which this or that +isolated feature may be recognized. Symbols are the easiest features to +demonstrate and, after them, certain peculiarities of the regressive +character of dream-representation. I will tell you why I regard each of +the following dreams as worth relating. + +1. A dream consisted only of two short pictures: _The dreamer’s uncle +was smoking a cigarette, although it was Saturday.—A woman was fondling +and caressing the dreamer as though he were her child._ + +With reference to the first picture, the dreamer (a Jew) remarked that +his uncle was a very pious man who never had done, and never would do, +anything so sinful as smoking on the Sabbath. The only association to +the woman in the second picture was that of the dreamer’s mother. These +two pictures or thoughts must obviously be related to one another; but +in what way? Since he expressly denied that his uncle would in reality +perform the action of the dream, the insertion of the conditional “if” +will at once suggest itself. “If my uncle, that deeply religious man, +were to smoke a cigarette on the Sabbath, then I myself might be allowed +to let my mother fondle me.” Clearly, that is as much as to say that +being fondled by the mother was something as strictly forbidden as +smoking on the Sabbath is to the pious Jew. You will remember my telling +you that in the dream-work all relations among the dream-thoughts +disappear; the thoughts are broken up into their raw material, and our +task in interpreting is to re-insert these connections which have been +omitted. + +2. My writings on the subject of dreams have placed me to some extent in +the position of public consultant on the question, and for many years +now I have received letters from the most diverse quarters communicating +dreams to me or asking for my opinion. Naturally I am grateful to all +those who have given me sufficient material with their dreams to make an +interpretation possible, or have themselves volunteered one. The +following dream of a medical student in Munich dating from 1910, belongs +to this category; and I quote it because it may prove to you how hard it +is, generally speaking, to understand a dream until the dreamer has +given us what information he can about it. For I have a suspicion that +in the bottom of your hearts you think that the translating of the +symbols is the ideal method of interpretation and that you would like to +discard that of free association; I want, therefore, to clear your minds +of so pernicious an error. + +July 18th, 1910. Towards morning I had the following dream: _I was +bicycling down a street in Tübingen, when a brown dachshund came rushing +after me and caught hold of one of my heels. I rode a little further and +then dismounted, sat down on a step and began to beat the creature off, +for it had set its teeth fast in my heel._ (The dog’s biting me and the +whole scene roused no unpleasant sensations.) _Two elderly ladies were +sitting opposite, watching me with grinning faces. Then I woke up and, +as has frequently happened before, with the transition to waking +consciousness the whole dream was clear to me._ + +In this instance symbolism cannot help us much, but the dreamer goes on +to tell us: “I recently fell in love with a girl, just from seeing her +in the street; but I had no means of introduction to her. I should have +liked best to make her acquaintance through her dachshund, for I am a +great animal-lover myself and was attracted by seeing that she was one +too.” He adds that several times he had separated fighting dogs very +skilfully, often to the amazement of the onlookers. Now we learn that +the girl who had taken his fancy was always seen walking with this +particular dog. She, however, has been eliminated from the manifest +dream; only the dog associated with her has remained. Possibly the +elderly ladies who grinned at him represented her, but the rest of what +he tells us does not clear up this point. The fact that he was riding a +bicycle in the dream was a direct repetition of the situation as he +remembered it, for he had not met the girl with the dog except when he +was bicycling. + +3. When a man has lost someone dear to him, for a considerable period +afterwards he produces a special type of dream, in which the most +remarkable compromises are effected between his knowledge that that +person is dead and his desire to call him back to life. Sometimes the +deceased is dreamt of as being dead, and yet still alive because he does +not know that he is dead, as if he would only really die if he did know +it; at other times he is half dead and half alive, and each of these +conditions has its distinguishing marks. We must not call these dreams +merely nonsensical, for to come to life again is no more inadmissible in +dreams than in fairy tales, in which it is quite a common fate. As far +as I have been able to analyse such dreams, it appeared that they were +capable of a reasonable explanation, but that the pious wish to recall +the departed is apt to manifest itself in the strangest ways. I will +submit a dream of this sort to you, which certainly sounds strange and +absurd enough, and the analysis of which will demonstrate many points +already indicated in our theoretical discussions. The dreamer was a man +who had lost his father some years previously:— + +_My father was dead but had been exhumed and looked ill. He went on +living, and I did all I could to prevent his noticing it._ Then the +dream goes on to other matters, apparently very remote. + +That the father was dead we know to be a fact; but the exhumation had +not taken place in reality: indeed, the question of real fact has +nothing to do with anything that follows. But the dreamer went on to say +that after he returned from his father’s funeral one of his teeth began +to ache. He wanted to treat it according to the Jewish precept: “If thy +tooth offend thee, pluck it out,” and accordingly went to the dentist. +The latter, however, said that that was not the way to treat a tooth; +one must have patience with it. “I will put something in it,” he said, +“to kill the nerve, and you must come back in three days’ time, when I +will take it out again.” “This ‘taking out,’” said the dreamer suddenly, +“is the exhuming.” + +Now was he right? True, the parallel is not exact, for it was not the +tooth which was taken out, but only a dead part of it. As a result of +experience, however, we can well credit the dream-work with inaccuracies +of this sort. We must suppose that the dreamer had, by a process of +condensation, combined the dead father with the tooth, which was dead +and which he yet retained. No wonder then that an absurdity was the +result in the manifest dream, for obviously not all that was said about +the tooth could apply to the father. What then are we to regard as the +_tertium comparationis_ between the father and the tooth,—what common +factor makes the comparison possible? + +Such a factor must have existed, for the dreamer went on to observe that +he knew the saying that if one dreams of losing a tooth it means that +one is about to lose a member of his family. + +We know that this popular interpretation is incorrect or at least +correct only in a very distorted sense. We shall therefore be the more +surprised actually to discover the subject thus touched upon behind the +other elements of the dream-content. + +Without being pressed further, the dreamer then began to talk of his +father’s illness and death, and of the relations which had existed +between father and son. The illness had been a long one, and the care +and treatment of the invalid had cost the son a large sum of money. Yet +it never seemed too much to him, nor did his patience ever fail or the +wish occur to him that the end should come. He prided himself on his +true Jewish filial piety and on his strict observance of the Jewish law. +Does not a certain contradiction strike us here in the thoughts relating +to the dream? He had identified the tooth with the father. He wanted to +treat the former according to the Jewish law which commanded that a +tooth which causes pain and annoyance should be plucked out. His father +he also wanted to treat according to the precepts of the law, but here +the command was that he must pay no heed to expense and annoyance, must +take the whole burden upon himself, and not allow any hostile intention +to arise against the cause of the trouble. Would not the agreement +between the two situations be much more convincing if he had really +gradually come to have the same feelings towards his sick father as he +had towards his diseased tooth, that is to say, if he had wished for +death to put a speedy end to his father’s superfluous, painful and +costly existence? + +I have no doubt that this was, in reality, his attitude towards his +father during the protracted illness and that his boastful assertions of +filial piety were designed to divert his mind from any recollections of +the sort. Under conditions such as these it is no uncommon thing for the +death-wish against the father to be roused, and to mask itself with some +ostensibly compassionate reflection, such as: “It would be a blessed +release for him.” But I want you particularly to notice that here in the +latent thoughts themselves a barrier has been broken down. The first +part of the thoughts was, we may be sure, only temporarily unconscious, +that is, during the actual process of the dream-work; the hostile +feelings towards the father, on the other hand, had probably been +permanently so, possibly dating from childhood and having at times, +during the father’s illness, crept as it were timidly and in a disguised +form into consciousness. We can maintain this with even greater +certainty of other latent thoughts which have unmistakably contributed +to the content of the dream. There are, it is true, no indications in it +of hostile feelings towards the father; but when we enquire into the +origin of such hostility in the life of the child we remember that fear +of the father arises from the fact that in the earliest years of life it +is he who opposes the sexual activity of the boy, as he is usually +compelled to do again, after puberty, from motives of social expediency. +This was the relation in which our dreamer stood to his father; his +affection for him had been tinged with a good deal of respect and dread, +the source of which was early sexual intimidation. + +We can now explain the further phrases in the dream from the onanism +complex. “_He looked ill_” was an allusion to another remark of the +dentist’s—that it did not look well for a tooth to be missing just +there—but it also refers at the same time to the “looking ill” by which +the young man, during the period of puberty, betrays, or fears lest he +might betray, his excessive sexual activity. It was with a lightening of +his own heart that in the manifest dream the dreamer transferred the +look of illness from himself to his father, an inversion with which you +are familiar as a device of the dream-work. “_He went on living_” +accords both with the wish to recall the father to life and the promise +of the dentist to save the tooth. The phrase “_I did everything I could +to prevent his noticing_” is extremely subtly designed to lead us to +complete it with the words “that he was dead.” The only completion of +them that really makes sense, however, is again to be traced to the +onanism complex, where it is a matter of course that the young man +should do all he can to conceal his sexual life from his father. +Finally, I would remind you that the so-called “toothache dreams” always +refer to onanism, and the punishment for it that is feared. + +You see how this incomprehensible dream is built up by a piece of +remarkable and misleading condensation, by omitting from it all the +thoughts that belong to the core of the latent train of thought, and by +the creation of ambiguous substitute-formations to represent those +thoughts which were deepest and most remote in time. + +4. We have already tried repeatedly to get to the bottom of those +prosaic and banal dreams which have nothing absurd or strange in them, +but which suggest the question: Why should we dream about such +trivialities at all? I will therefore quote a fresh example of this sort +in the shape of three dreams connected with one another and dreamt by a +young lady in the course of a single night. + +(_a_) _She was going through the hall in her house and struck her head +on a low-hanging chandelier with such force as to draw blood._ This +episode did not remind her of anything that had actually happened; her +remarks led in quite another direction: “You know how terribly my hair +is coming out. Well, yesterday my mother said to me: ‘My dear child, if +it goes on like this, your head will soon be as bald as your buttocks.’” +We see here that the head stands for the other end of the body. No +further assistance is required to understand the symbolism of the +chandelier: all objects capable of elongation are symbols of the male +organ. The real subject of the dream then is a bleeding at the lower end +of the body, caused by contact with the penis. This might still have +other meanings; the dreamer’s further associations show that the dream +has to do with the belief that menstruation results from sexual +intercourse with a man, a notion about sexual matters which is by no +means uncommon amongst immature girls. + +(_b_) _The dreamer saw in a vineyard a deep hole which she knew had been +caused by the uprooting of a tree._ Her remark on this point was that +“the tree was _missing_,” meaning that she did not see the tree in the +dream; but the same phrase serves to express another thought, which +leaves us in no doubt as to the symbolic interpretation. The dream +refers to another infantile notion on the subject of sex, to the belief +that girls originally had the same genital organ as boys and that the +later conformation of this organ has been brought about by castration +(uprooting the tree). + +(_c_) _The dreamer was standing in front of her writing-table drawer +which she knows so well that, if anyone touched it, she would +immediately be aware of it._ The writing-table drawer, like all drawers, +chests and boxes, is a symbol of the female genital. She knew that when +sexual intercourse (or, as she thought, any contact at all) has taken +place the genital shows certain indications of the fact, and she had +long had a fear of being convicted of this. I think that in all three +dreams the main emphasis lies on the idea of _knowing_. She had in mind +the time of childish investigations into sexual matters, of the results +of which she had been very proud at the time. + +5. Here is another example of symbolism. But this time I must preface it +with a short account of the mental situation in which the dream +occurred. A man and a woman who were in love had spent a night together; +he described her nature as maternal, she was one of those women whose +desire to have a child comes out irresistibly during caresses. The +conditions of their meeting, however, made it necessary to take +precautions to prevent the semen from entering the womb. On waking the +next morning, the woman related the following dream:— + +_An officer with a red cap was pursuing her in the street. She fled from +him and ran up the staircase, with him after her. Breathless, she +reached her rooms and slammed and locked the door behind her. The man +remained outside and, peeping through the keyhole in the door, she saw +him sitting on a bench outside, weeping._ + +In the pursuit by the officer with the red cap and the breathless +climbing of the stairs you will recognize the representation of the +sexual act. That the dreamer shuts her pursuer out may serve as an +example of the device of inversion so frequently employed in dreams, for +in reality it was the man who withdrew before the completion of the +sexual act. In the same way, she has projected her own feeling of grief +on to her partner, for it is he, who weeps in the dream, his tears at +the same time alluding to the seminal fluid. + +You will certainly have heard it said at some time or other that +psycho-analysis maintains that all dreams have a sexual meaning. You are +now in a position yourselves to form an opinion as to the falseness of +this reproach. You have learnt of wish-fulfilment dreams, dealing with +the gratification of the most obvious needs—hunger, thirst, and the +longing for liberty—comfort-dreams and impatience-dreams, as well as +those which are frankly avaricious and egoistical. You may, however, +certainly bear it in mind that, according to the results of +psycho-analysis, dreams in which a marked degree of distortion is +present _mainly_ (but here again not exclusively) give expression to +sexual desires. + +6. I have a special motive in giving many instances of the use of +symbols in dreams. In our first lecture I complained of the difficulty +of demonstrating my statements in such a way as to carry conviction with +regard to the findings of psycho-analysis, and since then you have +doubtless agreed with me. Now the separate propositions of +psycho-analysis are nevertheless so intimately related that conviction +on a single point easily leads to acceptance of the greater part of the +whole theory. It might be said of psycho-analysis that if you give it +your little finger it will soon have your whole hand. If you accept the +explanation of errors as satisfactory, you cannot logically stop short +of belief in all the rest. Now dream-symbolism provides another, equally +good, approach to such acceptance. I will recount to you a dream, which +has already been published, of a woman of the poorer classes, whose +husband was a watchman and of whom we may be sure that she had never +heard of dream-symbolism and psycho-analysis. You can then judge for +yourselves whether the interpretation arrived at with the help of sexual +symbols can justly be called arbitrary or forced. + +“_... Then someone broke into the house and in terror she cried for a +watchman. But the watchman, accompanied by two tramps, had gone into a +church, which had several steps leading up to it. Behind the church +there was a mountain and, up above, a thick wood. The watchman wore a +helmet, gorget and cloak, and had a full brown beard. The two tramps, +who had gone along peaceably with him, had aprons twisted round their +hips like sacks. A path led from the church to the mountain and was +overgrown on both sides with grass and bushes which grew denser and +denser, and at the top of the mountain there was a regular wood._” + +You will recognize without any trouble the symbols here employed: the +male organ is represented by the trinity of _three_ persons appearing, +whilst the female sexual organs are symbolized by a landscape with a +chapel, a mountain and a wood, and once more you have the act of going +up steps as symbolic of the sexual act. The part of the body called in +the dream “a mountain” is similarly termed in anatomy the mons veneris. + +7. I will tell you another dream which is to be explained in the light +of symbolism, a dream, moreover, which is noteworthy and convincing from +the fact that the dreamer himself translated all the symbols, though he +brought no previous theoretical knowledge to the interpretation. This is +a very unusual circumstance and we have no accurate idea of the +conditions which give rise to it. + +_He was walking with his father in a place which must have been the +Prater,[41] for they saw the Rotunda with a little building in front of +it, to which was made fast a captive balloon which looked rather slack. +His father asked him what it was all for; the son wondered at his +asking, but explained it nevertheless. Then they came to a court-yard, +where a large sheet of metal lay spread out. His father wanted to break +off a big piece, but looked round first in case anyone should notice +him. He said to his son that all the same he need only tell the overseer +and then he could take it straightaway. Some steps led down from this +court to a shaft, the sides of which were upholstered with some soft +stuff, something like a leather armchair. At the bottom of this shift +was a rather long platform and, beyond it, another shaft._ + +The following is the dreamer’s own interpretation:—“The Rotunda stands +for my genitals and the captive balloon in front of it for the penis, +which I have had to complain of for being limp.” A more detailed +translation would then run thus: the rotunda stands for the buttocks +(regularly included by children amongst the genitals), the smaller +structure in front is the scrotum. In the dream, his father asks him +what all this is, i.e. what are the purpose and function of the +genitals. To invert this situation so that the son asks the questions is +an obvious idea, and, since these questions were never asked in reality, +we must construe the dream-thoughts as a wish or take them in a +conditional sense: “If I had asked my father to explain....” The sequel +to this thought we shall find presently. + +The court-yard where the sheet-metal lay is not in the first place to be +explained symbolically, but is a reference to the father’s place of +business. From motives of discretion I have substituted “sheet-metal” +for the actual material dealt with by him, but otherwise I have made no +alteration in the words of the dream. The dreamer had entered his +father’s business and had been much scandalized by the extremely +questionable practices upon which the high profits largely depended. +Hence the sequel to the dream-thought mentioned above would run: “(If I +had asked him), he would have deceived me as he deceives his customers.” +The dreamer himself gives a second explanation for the pulling off the +piece of metal which serves to represent commercial dishonesty: it +means, he says, the practice of masturbation. Not only is this an +explanation with which we have long been familiar, but it is well in +accordance with this interpretation that the secret practice of +masturbation should be expressed by the opposite idea (“_We may do it +openly_”). So the fact that this practice is imputed to the father, as +was the questioning in the first scene of the dream, is exactly what we +should expect. The dreamer immediately interpreted the shaft, on account +of the soft upholstering of the walls, as the vagina, and I, on my own +account, offer the remark that going-down as well as going-up stands for +sexual intercourse. + +The details of the long platform at the bottom of the first shaft, and +beyond that the second shaft, were explained by the dreamer himself from +his own history. He had practised intercourse for some time and then +given it up on account of inhibitions, but hoped to be able to resume it +by the help of the treatment. + +8. I quote the two following dreams, dreamt by a foreigner with marked +polygamous tendencies, because they may serve to illustrate the +statement that the dreamer’s own person is present in every dream, even +when it is disguised in the manifest content. The trunks in the dreams +are female symbols. + +(_a_) _The dreamer was going on a journey and his luggage was being +taken to the station on a carriage. There were a number of trunks piled +one on the top of the other, and amongst them two large black boxes like +those of a commercial traveller. He said consolingly to someone: “You +see those are only going as far as the station.”_ + +He does, as a matter of fact, travel with a great deal of luggage, and +he also brings many stories about women to the treatment. The two black +trunks stand for two dark women who at the moment are playing the +principal part in his life. One of them wanted to follow him to Vienna, +but on my advice he had telegraphed to put her off. + +(_b_) A scene at a customs house:—_A fellow-traveller opened his trunk +and said nonchalantly, smoking a cigarette: “There is nothing to declare +in that.” The customs official seemed to believe him, but felt in the +trunk again and found a strictly prohibited article. The traveller then +said in a resigned way: “Well, it can’t be helped.”_ The dreamer himself +is the traveller and I am the official. He is generally very +straightforward with me, but had made up his mind to conceal from me a +relation which he had recently formed with a lady, for he assumed quite +correctly that I knew her. He displaces on to a stranger the +embarrassing situation of being detected, so that he himself does not +seem to come into the dream at all. + +9. Here we have an example of a symbol which I have not yet mentioned:— + +_The dreamer met his sister with two friends who were themselves +sisters. He shook hands with these two, but not with his sister._ + +There was no real episode connected with this in his mind. Instead, his +thoughts went back to a time when his observations led him to wonder why +a girl’s breasts are so late in developing. The two sisters, therefore, +stand for the breasts; he would have liked to grasp them with his hand, +if only it had not been his sister. + +10. Here is an example of death symbolism in dreams:—_The dreamer was +crossing a very high, steep, iron bridge, with two people whose names he +knew, but forgot on waking. Suddenly both of them had vanished and he +saw a ghostly man in a cap and an overall. He asked him whether he were +the telegraph messenger.... “No.” Or the coachman?... “No.” He then went +on_, and in the dream, had a feeling of great dread; on waking, he +followed it up with the phantasy that the iron bridge suddenly broke and +that he fell into the abyss. + +When stress is laid upon the fact that people in a dream are unknown to +the dreamer, or that he has forgotten their names, they are, as a rule, +persons with whom he is intimately connected. The dreamer was one of a +family of three children; if he had ever wished for the death of the +other two, it would be only just that he should be visited with the fear +of death. With reference to the telegraph messenger, he remarked that +they always bring bad news. From his uniform, the man in the dream might +have been a lamp-lighter, who also puts out the lights, as the spirit of +death extinguishes the torch of life. With the coachman he associated +Uhland’s poem of the voyage of King Karl, and recalled a dangerous sail +on a lake with two companions, when he played the part of the king in +the poem. The iron bridge suggested to him a recent accident, also the +stupid saying: “Life is a suspension bridge.” + +11. The following may be regarded as another example of a death-dream:— + +_An unknown gentleman was leaving a black-edged visiting card on the +dreamer._ + +12. I give another dream which will interest you from several points of +view; it is to be traced partly, however, to a neurotic condition in the +dreamer:— + +_He was in a train which stopped in the open country. He thought there +was going to be an accident and that he must make his escape, so he went +through all the compartments, killing everyone he met,—driver, guard, +and so on._ + +This dream recalls a story told him by a friend. On a certain Italian +line, an insane man was being conveyed in a small compartment, but by +some mistake a passenger was allowed to get in with him. The madman +murdered the other traveller. Thus the dreamer identified himself with +this insane man, his reason being that he was at times tormented by an +obsession that he must make away with “everyone who shared his +knowledge.” Then he himself found a better motivation for the dream. The +day before, he had seen at the theatre a girl he had meant to marry but +had given up because she gave him cause for jealousy. Knowing the +intensity which jealousy could assume in him, he would really have been +mad to want to marry her. That is to say, he thought her so unreliable +that his jealousy would have led him to murder everyone who got in his +way. The going through a number of rooms, or, as here, compartments, we +have already learnt to know as a symbol of marriage (the expression of +monogamy according to the rule of opposites). + +With reference to the train’s stopping in the open country and the fear +of an accident, he told the following story:— + +Once when such a sudden halt occurred on the line outside a station, a +young lady who was in the carriage said that perhaps there was going to +be a collision, and that the best thing to do was to raise the legs +high. This phrase “raise the legs” had associations with many walks and +excursions into the country, which he had shared with the girl mentioned +above in the happy early days of their love. Here was a new argument for +the contention that he would be mad to marry her now; nevertheless, my +knowledge of the situation led me to regard it as certain that there +existed in him all the same the desire to fall a victim to this form of +madness. + + + + + THIRTEENTH LECTURE + ARCHAIC AND INFANTILE FEATURES IN DREAMS + + +Let us start afresh from our conclusion that, under the influence of the +censorship, the dream-work translates the latent dream-thoughts into +another form. These thoughts are of the same nature as the familiar, +conscious thoughts of waking life; the new form in which they are +expressed is, owing to many peculiar characteristics, incomprehensible +to us. We have said that it goes back to phases in our intellectual +development which we have long outgrown—to hieroglyphic writing, to +symbolic-connections, possibly to conditions which existed before the +language of thought was evolved. On this account we called the form of +expression employed by the dream-work _archaic_ or _regressive_. + +From this you may draw the inference that a more profound study of the +dream-work must lead to valuable conclusions about the initial stages of +our intellectual development, of which at present little is known. I +hope it will be so, but so far this task has not been attempted. The era +to which the dream-work takes us back is “primitive” in a twofold sense: +in the first place, it means the early days of the _individual_—his +childhood—and, secondly, in so far as each individual repeats in some +abbreviated fashion during childhood the whole course of the development +of the human race, the reference is _phylogenetic_. I believe it not +impossible that we may be able to discriminate between that part of the +latent mental processes which belongs to the early days of the +individual and that which has its roots in the infancy of the race. It +seems to me, for instance, that symbolism, a mode of expression which +has never been individually acquired, may claim to be regarded as a +racial heritage. + +This, however, is not the only archaic feature in dreams. You are all +familiar from actual experience with the peculiar _amnesia of childhood_ +to which we are subject. I mean that the first years of life, up to the +age of five, six, or eight, have not left the same traces in memory as +our later experiences. True, we come across individuals who can boast of +continuous recollection from early infancy to the present time, but it +is incomparably more common for the opposite, a blank in memory, to be +found. In my opinion, this has not aroused sufficient surprise. At two +years old the child can speak well and soon shows his capacity for +adapting himself to complicated mental situations, and, moreover, says +things which he himself has forgotten when they are repeated to him +years later. And yet memory is more efficient in early years, being less +overburdened than it is later. Again, there is no reason to regard the +function of memory as an especially high or difficult form of mental +activity; on the contrary, excellent memory may be found in people who +are yet on a very low plane intellectually. + +But I must draw your attention to a second peculiarity, based upon the +first—namely, that from the oblivion in which the first years of +childhood are shrouded certain clearly retained recollections emerge, +mostly in the form of plastic images, for the retention of which there +seems no adequate ground. Memory deals with the mass of impressions +received in later life by a process of selection, retaining what is +important and omitting what is not; but with the recollections retained +from childhood this is not so. They do not necessarily reflect important +experiences in childhood, not even such as must have seemed important +from the child’s standpoint, but are often so banal and meaningless in +themselves that we can only ask ourselves in amazement why just this +particular detail has escaped oblivion. I have tried, with the help of +analysis, to attack the problem of childhood amnesia and of the +fragments of recollection which break through it, and have come to the +conclusion that, whatever may appear to the contrary, the child no less +than the adult only retains in memory what is important; but that what +is important is represented (by the processes of condensation and, more +especially, of displacement, already familiar to you) in the memory by +something apparently trivial. For this reason I have called these +childhood recollections _screen-memories_; a thorough analysis can +evolve from them all that has been forgotten. + +It is a regular task in psycho-analytic treatment to fill in the blank +in infantile memories, and, in so far as the treatment is successful to +any extent at all (very frequently, therefore) we are enabled to bring +to light the content of those early years long buried in oblivion. These +impressions have never really been forgotten, but were only inaccessible +and latent, having become part of the unconscious. But sometimes it +happens that they emerge spontaneously from the unconscious, and it is +in connection with dreams that this happens. It is clear that the +dream-life knows the way back to these latent, infantile experiences. +Many good illustrations of this are to be found in psycho-analytical +literature, and I myself have been able to furnish a contribution of the +sort. I once dreamt in a particular connection of someone who had +evidently done me a service and whom I saw plainly. He was a one-eyed +man, short, fat and high-shouldered; from the context I gathered that he +was a doctor. Fortunately I was able to ask my mother, who was still +living, what was the personal appearance of the doctor who attended us +at the place where I was born and which I left at the age of three; she +told me that he had only one eye and was short, fat and high-shouldered; +I learnt also of the accident which was the occasion of this doctor’s +being called in and which I had forgotten. This command of the forgotten +material of the earliest years of childhood is thus a further ‘archaic’ +feature of dreams. + +This knowledge has a bearing on another of the problems which up to the +present have proved insoluble. You will remember the astonishment caused +by our discovery that dreams have their origin in actively evil or in +excessive sexual desires, which have made both the dream-censorship and +dream-distortion necessary. Supposing now that we have interpreted a +dream of this sort, and the circumstances are specially favourable in +that the dreamer does not quarrel with the interpretation itself, he +does nevertheless invariably ask how any such wish could come into his +mind, since it seems quite foreign to him and he is conscious of +desiring the exact opposite. We need have no hesitation in pointing out +to him the origin of the wish he repudiates: these evil impulses may be +traced to the past, often indeed to a past which is not so very far +away. It may be demonstrated that he once knew and was conscious of +them, even if this is no longer so. A woman who had a dream meaning that +she wished to see her only daughter (then seventeen years old) lying +dead found, with our help, that at one time she actually had cherished +this death-wish. The child was the offspring of an unhappy marriage, +which ended in the speedy separation of husband and wife. Once when the +child was as yet unborn the mother, in an access of rage after a violent +scene with her husband, beat her body with her clenched fists in order +to kill the baby in her womb. How many mothers who to-day love their +children tenderly, perhaps with excessive tenderness, yet conceived them +unwillingly and wished that the life within them might not develop +further; and have indeed turned this wish into various actions, +fortunately of a harmless kind. The later death-wish against beloved +persons, which appears so puzzling, thus dates from the early days of +the relationship to them. + +A father, whose dream when interpreted shows that he wished for the +death of his eldest and favourite child, is in the same way obliged to +recall that there was a time when this wish was not unknown to him. The +man, whose marriage had proved a disappointment, often thought when the +child was still an infant that if the little creature who meant nothing +to him were to die he would again be free and would make better use of +his freedom. A large number of similar impulses of hate are to be traced +to a similar source; they are recollections of something belonging to +the past, something which was once in consciousness and played its part +in mental life. From this you will be inclined to draw the conclusion +that such dreams and such wishes would not occur in cases where there +have been no changes of this sort in the relations between two persons, +that is to say, where the relation has been of the same character from +the beginning. I am prepared to grant you this conclusion, only I must +warn you that you have to consider, not the literal meaning of the +dream, but what it signifies on interpretation. It may be that the +manifest dream of the death of some beloved person was only using this +as a terrible mask, whilst really meaning something totally different, +or it is possible that the beloved person is an illusory substitute for +someone else. + +This situation will, however, raise in you another and much more serious +question. You will say: “Even though this death-wish did at one time +actually exist and this is confirmed by recollection, that is still no +true explanation; for the desire has long since been overcome and surely +at the present time can exist in the unconscious merely as a +recollection, of no affective value, and not as a powerful exciting +agent. For this later assumption we have no evidence. Why is the wish +recollected at all in dreams?” This is a question which you are really +justified in asking; the attempt to answer it would take us far afield +and would oblige us to define our position with regard to one of the +most important points in the theory of dreams. But I must keep within +the limits of our discussion and must forbear to follow up this +question; so you must be reconciled to leaving it for the present. Let +us content ourselves with the actual evidence that this wish, long since +subdued, can be proved to have given rise to the dream, and let us +continue our enquiry whether other evil wishes also can be traced in the +same way to the past. + +Let us keep to the death-wishes, which we shall certainly find mostly +derived from the unbounded egoism of the dreamer. Wishes of this sort +are very often found to be the underlying agents of dreams. Whenever +anyone gets in our way in life—and how often must this happen when our +relations to one another are so complicated!—a dream is immediately +prepared to make away with that person, even if it be father, mother, +brother or sister, husband or wife. It appeared to us amazing that such +wickedness should be innate in humanity, and certainly we were not +inclined to admit without further evidence that this result of our +interpretation of dreams was correct. But, when once we had seen that +the origin of wishes of this sort must be looked for in the past, we had +little difficulty in finding the period in the past of the individual in +which there is nothing strange in such egoism and such wishes, even when +directed against the nearest and dearest. A child in his earliest years +(which later are veiled in oblivion) is just the person who frequently +displays such egoism in boldest relief; invariably, unmistakable +tendencies of this kind, or, more accurately, surviving traces of them, +are plainly visible in him. For a child loves himself first and only +later learns to love others and to sacrifice something of his own ego to +them. Even the people whom he seems to love from the outset are loved in +the first instance because he needs them and cannot do without +them—again therefore, from motives of egoism. Only later does the +impulse of love detach itself from egoism: it is a literal fact that the +child learns how to love through his own egoism. + +In this connection it will be instructive to compare a child’s attitude +towards his brothers and sisters with his attitude towards his parents. +The little child does not necessarily love his brothers and sisters, and +often he is quite frank about it. It is unquestionable that in them he +sees and hates his rivals, and it is well known how commonly this +attitude persists without interruption for many years, till the child +reaches maturity and even later. Of course it often gives place to a +more tender feeling, or perhaps we should say it is overlaid by this, +but the hostile attitude seems very generally to be the earlier. We can +most easily observe it in children of two and a half to four years old +when a new baby arrives, which generally meets with a very unfriendly +reception; remarks such as “I don’t like it. The stork is to take it +away again” are very common. Subsequently every opportunity is seized to +disparage the new-comer; attempts are even made to injure it and actual +attacks upon it are by no means unheard-of. If the difference in age is +less, by the time the child’s mental activity is more fully developed +the rival is already in existence and he adapts himself to the +situation; if on the other hand there is a greater difference between +their ages, the new baby may rouse certain kindly feelings from the +first, as an object of interest, a sort of living doll; and when there +is as much as eight years or more between them, especially if the elder +child is a girl, protective, motherly impulses may at once come into +play. But, speaking honestly, when we find a wish for the death of a +brother or a sister latent in a dream we need seldom be puzzled, for we +find its origin in early childhood without much trouble, or indeed, +quite often in the later years when they still lived together. + +There is probably no nursery without violent conflicts between the +inhabitants, actuated by rivalry for the love of the parents, +competition for possessions shared by them all, even for the actual +space in the room they occupy. Such hostility is directed against older +as well as younger brothers and sisters. I think it was Bernard Shaw who +said: “If there is anyone whom a young English lady hates more than her +mother it is her elder sister.” Now there is something in this dictum +which jars upon us; it is hard enough to bring ourselves to understand +hatred and rivalry between brothers and sisters, but how can feelings of +hate force themselves into the relation between mother and daughter, +parents and children? + +This relationship is no doubt a more favourable one, also from the +children’s point of view; and this too is what our expectations require: +we find it far more offensive for love to be lacking between parents and +children than between brothers and sisters. We have, so to speak, +sanctified the former love while allowing the latter to remain profane. +Yet everyday observation may show us how frequently the sentiments +entertained towards each other by parents and grown-up children fall +short of the ideal set up by society, and how much hostility lies +smouldering, ready to burst into flame if it were not stifled by +considerations of filial or parental duty and by other, tender impulses. +The motives for this hostility are well known, and we recognize a +tendency for those of the same sex to become alienated, daughter from +mother and father from son. The daughter sees in her mother the +authority which imposes limits to her will, whose task it is to bring +her to that renunciation of sexual freedom which society demands; in +certain cases, too, the mother is still a rival, who objects to being +set aside. The same thing is repeated still more blatantly between +father and son. To the son the father is the embodiment of the social +compulsion to which he so unwillingly submits, the person who stands in +the way of his following his own will, of his early sexual pleasures +and, when there is family property, of his enjoyment of it. When a +throne is involved this impatience for the death of the father may +approach tragic intensity. The relation between father and daughter or +mother and son would seem less liable to disaster; the latter relation +furnishes the purest examples of unchanging tenderness, undisturbed by +any egoistic considerations. + +Why, you ask, do I speak of things so banal and so well-known to +everybody? Because there exists an unmistakable tendency in people’s +minds to deny the significance of these things in real life and to +pretend that the social ideal is much more frequently realized than it +actually is. But it is better that psychology should tell the truth than +that it should be left to cynics to do so. This general denial is only +applied to real life, it is true; for fiction and drama are free to make +use of the motives laid bare when these ideals are rudely disturbed. + +There is nothing to wonder at therefore if the dreams of a great number +of people bring to light the wish for the removal of their parents, +especially of the parent whose sex is the same as the dreamer’s. We may +assume that the wish exists in waking life as well, sometimes even in +consciousness if it can disguise itself behind another motive, as the +dreamer in our third example disguised his real thought by pity for his +father’s useless suffering. It is but rarely that hostility reigns +alone,—far more often it yields to more tender feelings which finally +suppress it, when it has to wait in abeyance till a dream shows it, as +it were, in isolation. That which the dream shows in a form magnified by +this very isolation resumes its true proportions when our interpretation +has assigned to it its proper place in relation to the rest of the +dreamer’s life. (H. Sachs.) But we also find this death-wish where there +is no basis for it in real life and where the adult would never have to +confess to entertaining it in his waking life. The reason for this is +that the deepest and most common motive for estrangement, especially +between parent and child of the same sex, came into play in the earliest +years of childhood. + +I refer to that rivalry of affections in which sexual elements are +plainly emphasized. The son, when quite a little child, already begins +to develop a peculiar tenderness towards his mother, whom he looks upon +as his own property, regarding his father in the light of a rival who +disputes this sole possession of his; similarly the little daughter sees +in her mother someone who disturbs her tender relation to her father and +occupies a place which she feels she herself could very well fill. +Observation shows us how far back these sentiments date, sentiments +which we describe by the term _Oedipus complex_, because in the Oedipus +myth the two extreme forms of the wishes arising from the situation of +the son—the wish to kill the father and to marry the mother—are realized +in an only slightly modified form. I do not assert that the Oedipus +complex exhausts all the possible relations which may exist between +parents and children; these relations may well be a great deal more +complicated. Again, this complex may be more or less strongly developed, +or it may even become inverted, but it is a regular and very important +factor in the mental life of the child; we are more in danger of +underestimating than of overestimating its influence and that of the +developments which may follow from it. Moreover, the parents themselves +frequently stimulate the children to react with an Oedipus complex, for +parents are often guided in their preferences by the difference in sex +of their children, so that the father favours the daughter and the +mother the son; or else, where conjugal love has grown cold, the child +may be taken as a substitute for the love-object which has ceased to +attract. + +It cannot be said that the world has shown great gratitude to +psycho-analytic research for the discovery of the Oedipus complex; on +the contrary, the idea has excited the most violent opposition in +grown-up people; and those who omitted to join in denying the existence +of sentiments so universally reprehended and tabooed have later made up +for this by proffering interpretations so wide of the mark as to rob the +complex of its value. My own unchanged conviction is that there is +nothing in it to deny or to gloss over. We ought to reconcile ourselves +to facts in which the Greek myth itself saw the hand of inexorable +destiny. Again, it is interesting to find that the Oedipus complex, +repudiated in actual life and relegated to fiction, has there come to +its own. O. Rank in a careful study of this theme has shown how this +very complex has supplied dramatic poetry with an abundance of motives +in countless variations, modifications and disguises, in short, subject +to just the distortion familiar to us in the work of the +dream-censorship. So we may look for the Oedipus complex even in those +dreamers who have been fortunate enough to escape conflicts with their +parents in later life; and closely connected with this we shall find +what is termed the _castration complex_, the reaction to that +intimidation in the field of sex or to that restraint of early infantile +sexual activity which is ascribed to the father. + +What we have already ascertained has guided us to the study of the +child’s mental life, and we may now hope to find in a similar way an +explanation of the source of the other kind of prohibited wishes in +dreams, i.e. the excessive sexual desires. We are impelled therefore to +study the development of the sexual life of the child, and here from +various sources we learn the following facts. In the first place, it is +an untenable fallacy to suppose that the child has no sexual life and to +assume that sexuality first makes its appearance at puberty, when the +genital organs come to maturity. On the contrary he has from the very +beginning a sexual life rich in content, though it differs in many +points from that which later is regarded as normal. What in adult life +are termed “perversions” depart from the normal in the following +respects: (1) in a disregard for the barriers of species (the gulf +between man and beast), (2) in the insensibility to barriers imposed by +disgust, (3) in the transgression of the incest-barrier (the prohibition +against seeking sexual gratification with close blood-relations), (4) in +homosexuality and, (5) in the transferring of the part played by the +genital organs to other organs and different areas of the body. All +these barriers are not in existence from the outset, but are only +gradually built up in the course of development and education. The +little child is free from them: he does not perceive any immense gulf +between man and beast, the arrogance with which man separates himself +from the other animals only dawns in him at a later period. He shows at +the beginning of life no disgust for excrement, but only learns this +feeling slowly under the influence of education; he attaches no +particular importance to the difference between the sexes, in fact he +thinks that both have the same formation of the genital organs; he +directs his earliest sexual desires and his curiosity to those nearest +to him or to those who for other reasons are specially beloved—his +parents, brothers and sisters or nurses; and finally we see in him a +characteristic which manifests itself again later at the height of some +love-relationship—namely, he does not look for gratification in the +sexual organs only, but discovers that many other parts of the body +possess the same sort of sensibility and can yield analogous pleasurable +sensations, playing thereby the part of genital organs. The child may be +said then to be _polymorphously perverse_, and even if mere traces of +all these impulses are found in him, this is due on the one hand to +their lesser intensity as compared with that which they assume in later +life and, on the other hand, to the fact that education immediately and +energetically suppresses all sexual manifestations in the child. This +suppression may be said to be embodied in a theory; for grown-up people +endeavour to overlook some of these manifestations, and, by +misinterpretation, to rob others of their sexual nature, until in the +end the whole thing can be altogether denied. It is often the same +people who first inveigh against the sexual “naughtiness” of children in +the nursery and then sit down to their writing-tables to defend the +sexual purity of the same children. When they are left to themselves or +when they are seduced children often display perverse sexual activity to +a really remarkable extent. Of course grown-up people are right in not +taking this too seriously and in regarding it, as they say, as “childish +tricks” and “play,” for the child cannot be judged either by a moral or +legal code as if he were mature and fully responsible; nevertheless +these things do exist, and they have their significance both as evidence +of innate constitutional tendencies and inasmuch as they cause and +foster later developments: they give us an insight into the child’s +sexual life and so into that of humanity as a whole. If then we find all +these perverse wishes behind the distortions of our dreams, it only +means that dreams in _this respect also_ have regressed completely to +the infantile condition. + +Amongst these forbidden wishes special prominence must still be given to +the incestuous desires, i.e. those directed towards sexual intercourse +with parents or brothers and sisters. You know in what abhorrence human +society holds, or at least professes to hold, such intercourse, and what +emphasis is laid upon the prohibitions of it. The most preposterous +attempts have been made to account for this horror of incest: some +people have assumed that it is a provision of nature for the +preservation of the species, manifesting itself in the mind by these +prohibitions because in-breeding would result in racial degeneration; +others have asserted that propinquity from early childhood has deflected +sexual desire from the persons concerned. In both these cases, however, +the avoidance of incest would have been automatically secured and we +should be at a loss to understand the necessity for stern prohibitions, +which would seem rather to point to a strong desire. Psycho-analytic +investigations have shown beyond the possibility of doubt that _an +incestuous love-choice_ is in fact the first and the regular one, and +that it is only later that any opposition is manifested towards it, the +causes of which are not to be sought in the psychology of the +individual. + +Let us sum up the results which our excursion into child-psychology has +brought to the understanding of dreams. We have learnt not only that the +material of the forgotten childish experiences is accessible to the +dream, but also that the child’s mental life, with all its +peculiarities, its egoism, its incestuous object-choice, persists in it +and therefore in the unconscious, and that our dreams take us back every +night to this infantile stage. This corroborates the belief that _the +Unconscious is the infantile mental life_, and, with this, the +objectionable impression that so much evil lurks in human nature grows +somewhat less. For this terrible evil is simply what is original, +primitive and infantile in mental life, what we find in operation in the +child, but in part overlook in him because it is on so small a scale, +and in part do not take greatly to heart because we do not demand a high +ethical standard in a child. By regressing to this infantile stage our +dreams appear to have brought the evil in us to light, but the +appearance is deceptive, though we have let ourselves be dismayed by it; +we are not so evil as the interpretation of our dreams would lead us to +suppose. + +If the evil impulses of our dreams are merely infantile, a reversion to +the beginnings of our ethical development, the dream simply making us +children again in thought and feeling, it is surely not reasonable to be +ashamed of these evil dreams. But the reasoning faculty is only part of +our mental life; there is much in it besides which is not reasonable, +and so it happens that, although it is unreasonable, we nevertheless are +ashamed of such dreams. We subject them to the dream-censorship and are +ashamed and indignant when one of these wishes by way of exception +penetrates our consciousness in a form so undisguised that we cannot +fail to recognize it; yes, we even at times feel just as much ashamed of +a distorted dream as if we really understood it. Just think of the +outraged comment of the respectable elderly lady upon her dream about +“love service,” although it was not interpreted to her. So the problem +is not yet solved, and it is still possible that if we pursue this +question of the evil in dreams we may arrive at another conclusion and +another estimate of human nature. + +Our whole enquiry has led to two results which, however, merely indicate +the beginning of new problems and new doubts. In the first place: the +regression in dreams is one not only of form but of substance. Not only +does it translate our thoughts into a primitive form of expression, but +it also re-awakens the peculiarities of our primitive mental life—the +old supremacy of the ego, the initial impulses of our sexual life, even +restores to us our old intellectual possession if we may conceive of +symbolism in this way. And secondly: all these old infantile +characteristics, which were once dominant and solely dominant, must +to-day be accounted to the unconscious and must alter and extend our +views about it. “Unconscious” is no longer a term for what is +temporarily latent: the unconscious is a special realm, with its own +desires and modes of expression and peculiar mental mechanisms not +elsewhere operative. Yet the latent dream-thoughts disclosed by our +interpretation do not belong to this realm; rather they correspond to +the kind of thoughts we have in waking life also. And yet they are +unconscious: how is the paradox to be resolved? We begin to realize that +here we must discriminate. Something which has its origin in our +conscious life and shares its characteristics—we call it the “residue” +from the previous day—meets together with something from the realm of +the unconscious in the formation of a dream, and it is with these two +contributing elements that the dream-work is accomplished. The influence +of the unconscious impinging upon this residue probably constitutes the +condition for regression. This is the deepest insight into the nature of +dreams possible to us until we have explored further fields in the mind; +but soon it will be time to give another name to the unconscious +character of the latent dream-thoughts, in order to distinguish it from +that unconscious material which has its origin in the province of the +infantile. + +We can of course also ask: What is it that forces our mental activity +during sleep to such regression? Why cannot the mental stimuli that +disturb sleep be dealt with without it? And if on account of the +dream-censorship the mental activity has to disguise itself in the old, +and now incomprehensible, form of expression, what is the object of +re-animating the old impulses, desires and characteristics, now +surmounted; what, in short, is the use of _regression in substance_ as +well as in _form_? The only satisfactory answer would be that this is +the one possible way in which dreams can be formed, that, dynamically +considered, the relief from the stimulus giving rise to the dream cannot +otherwise be accomplished. But this is an answer for which, at present, +we have no justification. + + + + + FOURTEENTH LECTURE + WISH-FULFILMENT + + +Shall I remind you once more of the steps by which we have arrived at +our present position? When in applying our technique we came upon the +distortion in dreams, we made up our minds to avoid it for the moment +and turned to the study of infantile dreams for some definite +information about the nature of dreams in general. Next, equipped with +the results of this investigation, we attacked the question of +dream-distortion directly, and I hope that bit by bit we have also +mastered that. Now, however, we are bound to admit that our findings in +these two directions do not exactly tally, and it behoves us to combine +and correlate our results. + +Both enquiries have made it plain that the essential feature in the +dream-work is the transformation of thoughts into hallucinatory +experience. It is puzzling enough to see how this process is +accomplished, but this is a problem for general psychology, and we have +not to deal with it here. We have learnt from children’s dreams that the +object of the dream-work is to remove, by means of the fulfilment of +some wish, a mental stimulus which is disturbing sleep. We could make no +similar pronouncement with regard to distorted dreams until we +understood how to interpret them, but from the outset we expected to be +able to bring our ideas about them into line with our views on infantile +dreams. This expectation was for the first time fulfilled when we +recognized that all dreams are really children’s dreams; that they make +use of infantile material and are characterized by impulses and +mechanisms which belong to the childish mind. When we feel we have +mastered the distortion in dreams we must go on to find out whether the +notion that dreams are WISH-FULFILMENTS holds good of distorted dreams +also. + +We have just subjected a series of dreams to interpretation, but without +taking the question of wish-fulfilment into consideration at all. I feel +certain that while we were talking about them the question repeatedly +forced itself upon you: “What has become of the wish-fulfilment which is +supposed to be the object of the dream-work?” Now this question is +important, for it is the one which our lay critics are constantly +asking. As you know, mankind has an instinctive antipathy to +intellectual novelties; one of the ways in which this shows itself is +that any such novelty is immediately reduced to its very smallest +compass, and if possible embodied in some catch-word. “Wish-fulfilment” +has become the catch-word for the new theory of dreams. Directly they +hear that dreams are said to be wish-fulfilments, the laity asks: “Where +does the wish-fulfilment come in?” and their asking the question amounts +to a repudiation of the idea. They can immediately think of countless +dreams of their own which were accompanied by feeling so unpleasant as +sometimes to reach the point of agonizing dread; and so this statement +of the psycho-analytical theory of dreams appears to them highly +improbable. It is easy to reply that in distorted dreams the +wish-fulfilment is not openly expressed, but has to be looked for, so +that it cannot be shown until the dreams have been interpreted. We know +too that the wishes underlying these distorted dreams are those which +are prohibited and rejected by the censorship, and that it is just their +existence which is the cause of distortion and the motive for the +intervention of the censorship. But it is difficult to make the lay +critic understand that we must not ask about the wish-fulfilment in a +dream before it has been interpreted; he always forgets this. His +reluctance to accept the theory of wish-fulfilment is really nothing but +the effect of the dream-censorship, causing him to replace the real +thought by a substitute, and following from his repudiation of these +censored dream-wishes. + +Of course we ourselves must feel the need to explain why so many dreams +are painful in content; and in particular we shall want to know how we +come to have ‘anxiety-dreams.’ Here for the first time we are confronted +with the problem of the affects in dreams; a problem which deserves +special study, but one which we cannot concern ourselves with just now, +unfortunately. If the dream is a wish-fulfilment, it should be +impossible for any painful emotions to come into it: on this point the +lay critics seem to be right. But the matter is complicated by three +considerations which they have overlooked. + +First, it may happen that the dream-work is not wholly successful in +creating a wish-fulfilment, so that part of the painful feeling in the +latent thoughts is carried over into the manifest dream. Analysis would +then have to show that these thoughts were a great deal more painful +than the dream which is formed from them; this much can be proved in +every instance. We admit then that the dream-work has failed in its +purpose, just as a dream of drinking excited by the stimulus of thirst +fails to quench that thirst. One is still thirsty after it and has to +wake up and drink. Nevertheless, it is a proper dream: it has renounced +nothing of its essential nature. We must say: “Ut desint vires, tamen +est laudanda voluntas.” The clearly recognizable intention remains a +praiseworthy one, at any rate. Such instances of failure in the work are +by no means rare, and one reason is that it is so much more difficult +for the dream-work to produce the required change in the nature of the +affect than to modify the content; affects are often very intractable. +So it happens that in the process of the dream-work the painful +_content_ of the dream-thoughts is transformed into a wish-fulfilment +while the painful _affect_ persists unchanged. When this occurs the +affect is quite out of harmony with the content, which gives our critics +the opportunity of remarking that the dream is so far from being a +wish-fulfilment that even a harmless content may be accompanied in it by +painful feelings. Our answer to this rather unintelligent comment will +be that it is just in dreams of this sort that the wish-fulfilling +tendency of the dream-work is most apparent, because it is there seen in +isolation. The mistake in this criticism arises because people who are +not familiar with the neuroses imagine a more intimate connection +between content and affect than actually exists, and so cannot +understand that there may be an alteration in the content while the +accompanying affect remains unchanged. + +A second consideration, much more important and far-reaching but equally +overlooked by the laity, is the following. A wish-fulfilment must +certainly bring some pleasure; but we go on to ask: “To whom?” Of course +to the person who has the wish. But we know that the attitude of the +dreamer towards his wishes is a peculiar one: he rejects them, censors +them, in short, he will have none of them. Their fulfilment then can +afford him no pleasure, rather the opposite, and here experience shows +that this “opposite,” which has still to be explained, takes the form of +_anxiety_. The dreamer, where his wishes are concerned, is like two +separate people closely linked together by some important thing in +common. Instead of enlarging upon this I will remind you of a well-known +fairy-tale in which you will see these relationships repeated. A good +fairy promised a poor man and his wife to fulfil their first three +wishes. They were delighted and made up their minds to choose the wishes +carefully. But the woman was tempted by the smell of some sausages being +cooked in the next cottage and wished for two like them. Lo! and behold, +there they were—and the first wish was fulfilled. With that, the man +lost his temper and in his resentment wished that the sausages might +hang on the tip of his wife’s nose. This also came to pass, and the +sausages could not be removed from their position; so the second wish +was fulfilled, but it was the man’s wish and its fulfilment was most +unpleasant for the woman. You know the rest of the story: as they were +after all man and wife, the third wish had to be that the sausages +should come off the end of the woman’s nose. We might make use of this +fairy-tale many times over in other contexts, but here it need only +serve to illustrate the fact that it is possible for the fulfilment of +one person’s wish to be very disagreeable to someone else, unless the +two people are entirely at one. + +It will not be difficult now to arrive at a still better understanding +of anxiety-dreams. There is just one more observation to be made use of +and then we may adopt an hypothesis which is supported by several +considerations. The observation is that anxiety-dreams often have a +content in which there is no distortion; it has, so to speak, escaped +the censorship. This type of dream is frequently an undisguised +wish-fulfilment, the wish being of course not one which the dreamer +would accept but one which he has rejected; anxiety has developed in +place of the working of the censorship. Whereas the infantile dream is +an open fulfilment of a wish admitted by the dreamer, and the ordinary +distorted dream is the disguised fulfilment of a repressed wish, the +formula for the anxiety-dream is that it is the open fulfilment of a +repressed wish. Anxiety is an indication that the repressed wish has +proved too strong for the censorship and has accomplished or was about +to accomplish its fulfilment in spite of it. We can understand that +fulfilment of a repressed wish can only be, for us who are on the side +of the censorship, an occasion for painful emotions and for setting up a +defence. The anxiety then manifested in our dreams is, if you like to +put it so, anxiety experienced because of the strength of wishes which +at other times we manage to stifle. The study of dreams alone does not +reveal to us why this defence takes the form of anxiety; obviously we +must consider the latter in other connections. + +The hypothesis which holds good for anxiety-dreams without any +distortion may be adopted also for those which have undergone some +degree of distortion, and for other kinds of unpleasant dreams in which +the accompanying unpleasant feelings probably approximate to anxiety. +Anxiety-dreams generally wake us; we usually break off our sleep before +the repressed wish behind the dream overcomes the censorship and reaches +complete fulfilment. In such a case the dream has failed to achieve its +purpose, but its essential character is not thereby altered. We have +compared the dream with a night-watchman, a guardian of sleep, whose +purpose it is to protect sleep from interruption. Now night-watchmen +also, just like dreams, have to rouse sleepers when they are not strong +enough to ward off the cause of disturbance or danger alone. +Nevertheless we do sometimes succeed in continuing to sleep even when +our dreams begin to give us some uneasiness and to turn to anxiety. We +say to ourselves in sleep: “It is only a dream after all,” and go on +sleeping. + +You may ask _when_ it happens that the dream-wish is able to overcome +the censorship. This may depend either on the wish or on the censorship: +it may be that for unknown reasons the strength of the wish at times +becomes excessive; but our impression is that it is more often the +attitude of the censorship which is responsible for this shifting in the +balance of power. We have already heard that the censorship works with +varying intensity in each individual instance, treating the different +elements with different degrees of strictness; now we may add that it is +very variable in its general behaviour and does not show itself always +equally severe towards the same element. If then it chances that the +censorship feels itself for once powerless against some dream-wish which +threatens to overthrow it, it then, instead of making use of distortion, +employs the last weapon left to it and destroys sleep by bringing about +an access of anxiety. + +At this point it strikes us that we still have no idea why these evil, +rejected wishes rise up just at night-time, so as to disturb us when we +sleep. The answer can hardly be found except in another hypothesis which +goes back to the nature of sleep itself. During the day the heavy +pressure of a censorship is exercised upon these wishes and, as a rule, +it is impossible for them to make themselves felt at all. But in the +night it is probable that this censorship, like all the other interests +of mental life, is suspended, or at least very much weakened, in favour +of the single desire for sleep. So it is due to this partial abrogation +of the censorship at night that the forbidden wishes can again become +active. There are nervous people suffering from insomnia who confess +that their sleeplessness was voluntary in the first instance; for they +did not dare to go to sleep because they were afraid of their +dreams—that is to say, they feared the consequences of the diminished +vigilance of the censorship. You will have no difficulty in +understanding that this curtailment of the censorship does not argue any +flagrant carelessness: sleep impairs our motor functions; even if our +evil intentions do begin to stir within us the utmost they can do is to +produce a dream, which is for all practical purposes harmless; and it is +this comforting circumstance which gives rise to the sleeper’s remark, +made, it is true, in the night but yet not part of his dream-life: “It +is only a dream.” So we let it have its way and continue to sleep. + +Thirdly, if you call to mind our idea that the dreamer striving against +his own wishes is like a combination of two persons, separate and yet +somehow intimately united, you will be able to understand another +possible way in which something that is highly unpleasant may be brought +about through wish-fulfilment: I am speaking of punishment. Here again +the fairy-tale of the three wishes may help to make things clear. The +sausages on the plate were the direct fulfilment of the first person’s +(the woman’s) wish; the sausages on the tip of her nose were the +fulfilment of the second person’s (the husband’s) wish, but at the same +time they were the punishment for the foolish wish of the wife. In the +neuroses we shall meet with wishes corresponding in motivation to the +third wish of the fairy-tale, the only one left. There are many such +punishment tendencies in the mental life of man; they are very strong +and we may well regard them as responsible for some of our painful +dreams. Now you will probably think that with all this there is very +little of the famous wish-fulfilment left; but on closer consideration +you will admit that you are wrong. In comparison with the manifold +possibilities (to be discussed later) of what dreams might be—according +to some writers, what they actually are—the solution: wish-fulfilment, +anxiety-fulfilment, punishment-fulfilment, is surely quite a narrow one. +Add to this, that anxiety is the direct opposite of a wish and that +opposites lie very near one another in association and, as we have +learned, actually coincide in the unconscious. Moreover, punishment +itself is the fulfilment of a wish, namely, the wish of the other, +censoring person. + +On the whole then, I have made no concession to your objections to the +wish-fulfilment theory; we are bound, however, to demonstrate its +presence in any and every distorted dream, and we have certainly no +desire to shirk this task. Let us go back to the dream we have already +interpreted, about the three bad theatre tickets for one florin and a +half, from which we have already learnt a good deal. I hope you still +remember it: A lady, whose husband told her one day about the engagement +of her friend Elise who was only three months younger than herself, +dreamt on the following night that she and her husband were at the +theatre and that one side of the stalls was almost empty. Her husband +told her that Elise and her fiancé had wanted to go to the theatre too; +but could not, because they could only get such bad seats, three tickets +for a florin and a half. His wife said that they had not lost much by +it. We discovered that the dream-thoughts had to do with her vexation at +having been in such a hurry to marry and her dissatisfaction with her +husband. We may well be curious how these gloomy thoughts can have been +transformed into a wish-fulfilment, and what trace of it can be found in +the manifest content. Now we know already that the element “too soon, +too great a hurry,” was eliminated by the censorship; the empty stalls +are an allusion to this element. The puzzling phrase _three for one and +a half florins_ is now more comprehensible to us than at first, through +the knowledge of symbolism that we have acquired since then.[42] The +number _three_ really stands for a man and we can easily translate the +manifest element to mean: “to buy a man (husband) with the dowry.” (“I +could have bought one ten times better for my dowry.”) _Going to the +theatre_ obviously stands for marriage. _Getting the tickets too soon_ +is in fact a direct substitute for “marrying too soon.” Now this +substitution is the work of the wish-fulfilment. The dreamer had not +always felt so dissatisfied with her premature marriage as she was on +the day when she heard of her friend’s engagement. She had been proud of +her marriage at the time and considered herself more highly favoured +than her friend. One hears that naïve girls, on becoming engaged, +frequently express their delight at the idea that they will now soon be +able to go to all plays and see everything hitherto forbidden them. + +The indication of curiosity and a desire to “look on” evinced here +comes, without doubt, originally from the sexual ‘_gazing-impulse_,’ +especially regarding the parents, and this became a strong motive +impelling the girl to marry early; in this manner going to the theatre +became an obvious allusive substitute for getting married. In her +vexation at the present time on account of her premature marriage she +therefore reverted to the time when this same marriage fulfilled a wish, +by gratifying her _skoptophilia_; and so, guided by this old +wish-impulse, she replaced the idea of marriage by that of going to the +theatre. + +We may say that the example we have chosen to demonstrate a hidden +wish-fulfilment is not the most convenient one, but in all other +distorted dreams we should have to proceed in a manner analogous to that +employed above. It is not possible for me to do this here and now, so I +will merely express my conviction that such procedure will invariably +meet with success. But I wish to dwell longer upon this point in our +theory: experience has taught me that it is one of the most perilous of +the whole theory of dreams, exposed to many contradictions and +misunderstandings. Besides, you are perhaps still under the impression +that I have already retracted part of my statement by saying that the +dream may be either a wish-fulfilment, or its opposite, an anxiety or a +punishment, brought to actuality; and you may think this a good +opportunity to force me to make further reservations. Also I have been +reproached with presenting facts that seem obvious to myself in a manner +too condensed to carry conviction. + +When anyone has gone as far as this in dream-interpretation and has +accepted all our conclusions up to this point, it often happens that he +comes to a standstill at this question of wish-fulfilment and asks: +“Admitting that every dream means something and that this meaning may be +discovered by employing the technique of psycho-analysis, why must it +always, in face of all the evidence to the contrary, be forced into the +formula of wish-fulfilment? Why must our thoughts at night be any less +many-sided than our thoughts by day; so that at one time a dream might +be a fulfilment of some wish; at another time, as you say yourself, the +opposite, the actualization of a dread; or, again, the expression of a +resolution, a warning, a weighing of some problem with its pro’s and +con’s, or a reproof, some prick of conscience, or an attempt to prepare +oneself for something which has to be done—and so forth? Why this +perpetual insistence upon a wish or, at the most, its opposite?” + +It might be supposed that a difference of opinion on this point is a +matter of no great moment, if there is agreement on all others. Cannot +we be satisfied with having discovered the meaning of dreams and the +ways by which we can find out the meaning? We surely go back on the +advance we have made if we try to limit this meaning too strictly. But +this is not so. A misunderstanding on this head touches what is +essential to our knowledge of dreams and imperils its value for the +understanding of neuroses. Moreover, that readiness to “oblige the other +party” which has its value in business life is not only out of place but +actually harmful in scientific matters. + +My first answer to the question why dreams should not be many-sided in +their meaning is the usual one in such a case: I do not know why they +should not be so, and should have no objection if they were. As far as I +am concerned, they can be so! But there is just one trifling obstacle in +the way of this wider and more convenient conception of dreams—that as a +matter of fact they are not so. My second answer would emphasize the +point that to assume that dreams represent manifold modes of thought and +intellectual operations is by no means a novel idea to myself: once, in +the history of a pathological case, I recorded a dream which occurred +three nights running and never again; and gave it as my explanation that +this dream corresponded to a resolution, the repetition of which became +unnecessary as soon as that resolution was carried out. Later on, I +published a dream which represented a confession. How is it possible for +me then to contradict myself and assert that dreams are always and only +wish-fulfilments? + +I do it rather than permit a stupid misunderstanding which might cost us +the fruit of all our labours on the subject of dreams; a +misunderstanding that _confounds the dream with the latent +dream-thoughts_, and makes statements with regard to the former which +are applicable to the _latter and to the latter only_. For it is +perfectly true that dreams can represent, and be themselves replaced by, +all the modes of thought just enumerated: resolutions, warnings, +reflections, preparations or attempts to solve some problem in regard to +conduct, and so on. But when you look closely, you will recognize that +all this is true only of the latent thoughts which have been transformed +into the dream. You learn from interpretations of dreams that the +unconscious thought-processes of mankind are occupied with such +resolutions, preparations and reflections, out of which dreams are +formed by means of the dream-work. If your interest at any given moment +is not so much in the dream-work, but centres on the unconscious +thought-processes in people, you will then eliminate the dream-formation +and say of dreams themselves, what is for all practical purposes +correct, that they represent a warning, a resolve, and so on. This is +what is often done in psycho-analytic work: generally we endeavour +simply to demolish the manifest form of dreams and to substitute for it +the corresponding latent thoughts in which the dream originated. + +Thus it is that we learn quite incidentally from our attempt to assess +the latent dream-thoughts that all the highly complicated mental acts we +have enumerated can be performed unconsciously—a conclusion surely as +tremendous as it is bewildering. + +But to go back a little: you are quite right in speaking of dreams as +representing these various modes of thought, provided that you are quite +clear in your own minds that you are using an abbreviated form of +expression and do not imagine that the manifold variety of which you +speak is in itself part of the essential nature of _dreams_. When you +speak of “a dream” you must mean either the manifest dream, i.e. the +product of the dream-work, or at most that work itself, i.e. the mental +process which forms the latent dream-thoughts into the manifest dream. +To use the word in any other sense is a confusion of ideas which is +bound to be mischievous. If what you say is meant to apply to the latent +thoughts behind the dream, then say so plainly, and do not add to the +obscurity of the problem by your loose way of expressing yourselves. The +latent dream-thoughts are the material which is transformed by the +dream-work into the manifest dream. What makes you constantly confound +the material with the process which deals with it? If you do that, in +what way are you superior to those who know of the final product only, +without being able to explain where it comes from or how it is +constructed? + +The only thing essential to the dream itself is the dream-work which has +operated upon the thought-material; and when we come to theory we have +no right to disregard this, even if in certain practical situations it +may be neglected. Further, analytic observation shows that the +dream-work never consists merely in translating the latent thoughts into +the archaic or regressive forms of expression described. On the +contrary, something is invariably added which does not belong to the +latent thoughts of the day-time, but which is the actual motive force in +dream-formation; this indispensable component being the equally +unconscious _wish_, to fulfil which the content of the dream is +transformed. In so far, then, as you are considering only the thoughts +represented in it, the dream may be any conceivable thing—a warning, a +resolve, a preparation, and so on; but besides this, it itself is always +the fulfilment of an unconscious wish, and, when you regard it as the +result of the dream-work, it is this alone. A dream then is never simply +the expression of a resolve or warning, and nothing more: in it the +resolve, or whatever it may be, is translated into the archaic form with +the assistance of an unconscious wish, and metamorphosed in such a way +as to be a fulfilment of that wish. This single characteristic, that of +fulfilling a wish, is the constant one: the other component varies; it +may indeed itself be a wish; in which event the dream represents the +fulfilment of a latent wish from our waking hours brought about by the +aid of an unconscious wish. + +Now all this is quite clear to myself, but I do not know whether I have +succeeded in making it equally clear to you; and it is difficult to +prove it to you; for, on the one hand, proof requires the evidence +afforded by a careful analysis of many dreams and, on the other hand, +this, the crucial and most important point in our conception of dreams, +cannot be presented convincingly without reference to considerations +upon which we have not yet touched. Seeing how closely linked up all +phenomena are, you can hardly imagine that we can penetrate very far +into the nature of any one of them without troubling ourselves about +others of a similar nature. Since as yet we know nothing about those +phenomena which are so nearly akin to dreams—neurotic symptoms—we must +once more content ourselves with what we actually have achieved. I will +merely give you the explanation of one more example and adduce a new +consideration. + +Let us take once more that dream to which we have already reverted +several times, the one about the three theatre tickets for one florin +and a half. I can assure you that I had no ulterior motive in selecting +it in the first instance for an illustration. You know what the latent +thoughts were: the vexation, after hearing that her friend had only just +become engaged, that she herself should have married so hastily; +depreciation of her husband and the idea that she could have found a +better one if only she had waited. We also know already that the wish +which made a dream out of these thoughts was the desire to “look on,” to +be able to go to the theatre—very probably an offshoot of an old +curiosity to find out at last what really does happen after marriage. It +is well known that in children this curiosity is regularly directed +towards the sexual life of the parents; that is to say, it is an +infantile impulse and, wherever it persists later in life, it has its +roots in the infantile period. But the news received on the day previous +to the dream gave no occasion for the awakening of this skoptophilia; it +only roused vexation and regret. This wish-impulse (of skoptophilia) was +not at first connected with the latent thoughts, and the results of the +dream-interpretation could have been used by the analysis without taking +it into consideration at all. But again, the vexation was not in itself +capable of producing a dream: no dream could be formed out of the +thought: “It was folly to be in such a hurry to marry” until that +thought had stirred up the early wish to see at last what happened after +marriage. Then this wish formed the dream-content, substituting for +marriage the going to the theatre; and the form was that of the +fulfilment of the earlier wish: “Now I may go to the theatre and look at +all that we have never been allowed to see; and you may not. I am +married and you have got to wait.” In this way the actual situation was +transformed into its opposite and an old triumph substituted for the +recent discomfiture; and incidentally, satisfaction both of a ‘gazing’ +impulse and of one of egoistic rivalry was brought about. It is this +latter satisfaction which determines the manifest content of the dream; +for in it she is actually sitting in the theatre, while her friend +cannot get in. Those portions of the dream-content behind which the +latent thoughts still conceal themselves are to be found in the form of +inappropriate and incomprehensible modifications of the gratifying +situation. The business of _interpretation_ is to put aside those +features in the whole which merely represent a wish-fulfilment and to +reconstruct the painful latent dream-thoughts from these indications. + +The consideration which I said I wished to call to your notice is +intended to direct your attention to these latent dream-thoughts now +brought into prominence. I must beg you not to forget that, first, the +dreamer is unconscious of them; secondly that they are quite reasonable +and coherent, so that we can understand them as comprehensible reactions +to whatever stimulus has given rise to the dream; and, thirdly, that +they may have the value of any mental impulse or intellectual operation. +I will designate these thoughts more strictly now than hitherto as _the +residue from the previous day_; the dreamer may acknowledge them or not. +I then distinguish between this ‘residue’ and ‘latent dream-thoughts,’ +so that, as we have been accustomed to do all along, I will call +everything which we learn from the interpretation of the dream ‘the +latent dream-thoughts,’ while ‘the residue from the previous day’ is +only a part of the latent dream-thoughts. Then our conception of what +happens is this: something has been added to the residue from the +previous day, something which also belongs to the unconscious, a strong +but repressed wish-impulse, and it is this alone which makes the +formation of a dream possible. The wish-impulse, acting upon the +‘residue,’ creates the other part of the latent dream-thoughts, that +part which no longer need appear rational or comprehensible from the +point of view of our waking life. + +To illustrate the relation between the residue and the unconscious wish +I have elsewhere made use of a comparison which I cannot do better than +repeat here. Every business undertaking requires a capitalist to defray +the expenses and an entrepreneur who has the idea and understands how to +carry it out. Now the part of the capitalist in dream-formation is +always and only played by the unconscious wish; it supplies the +necessary fund of mental energy for it: the entrepreneur is the residue +from the previous day, determining the manner of the expenditure. It is, +of course, quite possible for the capitalist himself to have the idea +and the special knowledge needed, or for the entrepreneur himself to +have capital. This simplifies the practical situation but makes the +theory of it more difficult. In economics we discriminate between the +man in his function of capitalist and the same man in his capacity as +entrepreneur; and this distinction restores the fundamental situation +upon which our comparison is based. The same variations are to be found +in the formation of dreams: I leave you to follow them out for +yourselves. + +We cannot go any further at this point; for I think it likely that a +disturbing thought has long since occurred to you and it deserves a +hearing. You may ask: “Is the so-called ‘residue’ really unconscious in +the sense in which the wish necessary for the formation of the dream is +unconscious?” Your suspicion is justified: this is the salient point in +the whole matter. They are not both unconscious in the same sense. The +dream-wish belongs to a different type of UNCONSCIOUS, which, as we have +seen, has its roots in the infantile period and is furnished with +special mechanisms. It is very expedient to distinguish the two types of +“unconscious” from one another by speaking of them in different terms. +But, all the same, we will rather wait until we have familiarized +ourselves with the phenomena of the neuroses. If our conception of the +existence of any kind of unconscious be already regarded as fantastic, +what will people say if we admit that to reach our solution we have had +to assume two kinds? + +Let us break off at this point. Once more you have heard only an +incomplete statement; but is it not a hopeful thought that this +knowledge will be carried further, either by ourselves or by those who +come after us? And have not we ourselves learnt enough that is new and +startling? + + + + + FIFTEENTH LECTURE + DOUBTFUL POINTS AND CRITICAL OBSERVATIONS + + +We will not leave the subject of dreams without dealing with the most +common doubts and uncertainties arising in connection with the novel +ideas and conceptions we have been discussing: those of you who have +followed these lectures attentively will have collected some material of +the kind. + +1. You may have received an impression that even with strict adherence +to technique our work of dream-interpretation leaves so much room for +uncertainty that reliable translation of manifest dreams into their +latent dream-thoughts will be thereby frustrated. You will urge first +that one never knows whether any particular element in a dream is to be +understood literally or symbolically, since things employed as symbols +do not thereby cease to be themselves. Where there is no objective +evidence to decide the question the interpretation on that particular +point will be left to be arbitrarily determined by the interpreter. +Further, since in the dream-work opposites coincide, it is in every +instance uncertain whether a specific dream-element is to be understood +in a positive or a negative sense, as itself or as its opposite—another +opportunity for the interpreter to exercise a choice. Thirdly, on +account of the frequency with which inversion of every kind is employed +in dreams, it is open to him to assume whenever he chooses that such an +inversion has taken place. Finally you will point to having heard that +one is seldom certain that the interpretation arrived at is the only +possible one, and that there is danger of overlooking another perfectly +admissible interpretation of the same dream. In these circumstances, you +will conclude, the discretion of the interpreter has a latitude that +seems incompatible with any objective certainty in the result. Or you +may also assume that the fault does not lie in dreams themselves, but +that something erroneous in our conceptions and premises produces the +unsatisfactory character of our interpretations. + +All that you say is undeniable and yet I do not think it justifies +either of your conclusions: that dream-interpretation as practised by us +is at the mercy of the interpreter’s arbitrary decisions or that the +inadequacy of the results calls in question the correctness of our +procedure. If for the “arbitrary decision” of the interpreter you will +substitute his skill, his experience and his understanding, then I am +with you. This kind of personal factor is of course indispensable, +especially when interpretation is difficult; it is just the same in +other scientific work, however; it can’t be helped that one man will use +any given technique less well, or apply it better, than another. The +impression of arbitrariness made, for example, by the interpretation of +symbols is corrected by the reflection that as a rule the connection of +the dream-thoughts with one another, and of the dream with the life of +the dreamer and the whole mental situation at the time of the dream, +points directly to one of all the possible interpretations and renders +all the rest useless. The conclusion that the imperfect character of the +interpretations proceeds from fallacious hypotheses loses its force when +consideration shows that, on the contrary, the ambiguity or +indefiniteness of dreams is a quality which we should necessarily expect +in them. + +Let us call to mind our statement that the dream-work undertakes a +translation of the dream-thoughts into a primitive mode of expression, +analogous to hieroglyphics. Now all such primitive systems of expression +are necessarily accompanied by ambiguity and indefiniteness; but we +should not on that account be justified in doubting their +practicability. You know that the coincidence of opposites in the +dream-work is analogous to what is called the antithetical sense of +primal words in the oldest languages. The philologist, R. Abel, to whom +we owe this information, writing in 1884, begs us not on any account to +imagine that there was any ambiguity in what one person said to another +by means of ambivalent words of this sort. On the contrary, intonation, +gestures and the whole context can have left no doubt whatever which of +the two opposites the speaker had in mind to convey. In writing where +gestures are absent the addition of little pictorial signs, not meant to +receive separate oral expression, replaced them: e.g. a drawing of a +little man, either crouching or standing upright, according as the +ambiguous _ken_ of the hieroglyphic meant “weak” or “strong.” So that +misunderstanding was avoided in spite of the ambiguity of sounds and +signs. + +In ancient systems of expression, for instance, in the scripts of the +oldest languages, indefiniteness of various kinds is found with a +frequency which we should not tolerate in our writings to-day. Thus in +many Semitic writings only the consonants of the words appear: the +omitted vowels have to be supplied by the reader from his knowledge and +from the context. Hieroglyphic writing follows a similar principle, +although not exactly the same; and this is the reason why nothing is +known of the pronunciation of ancient Egyptian. There are besides other +kinds of indefiniteness in the sacred writings of the Egyptians: for +example, it is left to the writer’s choice to inscribe the pictures from +right to left or from left to right. To be able to read them, we have to +remember that we must be guided by the direction of the faces of the +figures, birds, and so forth. But it was also open to the writer to set +the pictures in vertical columns and, in the case of inscriptions on +smaller objects, he was led by considerations of what was pleasing to +the eye, and of the space at his disposal, to introduce still further +alterations in the arrangement of the signs. The most confusing feature +in hieroglyphic script is that there is no spacing between the words. +The pictures are all placed at equal intervals on the page, and it is +generally impossible to know whether any given sign goes with the +preceding one or forms the beginning of a new word. In Persian cuneiform +writing, on the other hand, a slanting sign is used to separate the +words. + +The Chinese language, both spoken and written, is exceedingly ancient +but is still used to-day by four hundred million people. Don’t suppose +that I understand it at all; I only obtained some information about it +because I hoped to find in it analogies to the kinds of indefiniteness +occurring in dreams; nor was I disappointed in my expectation, for +Chinese is so full of uncertainties as positively to terrify one. As is +well known, it consists of a number of syllabic sounds which are +pronounced singly or doubled in combination. One of the chief dialects +has about four hundred of these sounds, and since the vocabulary of this +dialect is estimated at somewhere about four thousand words it is +evident that every sound has an average of ten different meanings—some +fewer, but some all the more. For this reason there are a whole series +of devices to escape ambiguity, for the context alone will not show +which of the ten possible meanings of the syllable the speaker wishes to +convey to the hearer. Amongst these devices is the combining of two +sounds into a single word and the use of four different “tones” in which +these syllables may be spoken. For purposes of our comparison a still +more interesting fact is that this language is practically without +grammar: it is impossible to say of any of the one-syllabled words +whether it is a noun, a verb or an adjective; and, further, there are no +inflections to show gender, number, case, tense or mood. The language +consists, as we may say, of the raw material only; just as our +thought-language is resolved into its raw material by the dream-work +omitting to express the relations in it. Wherever there is any +uncertainty in Chinese the decision is left to the intelligence of the +listener, who is guided by the context. I made a note of a Chinese +saying, which literally translated runs thus: “Little what see, much +what wonderful.” This is simple enough to understand. It may mean: “The +less a man has seen, the more he finds to wonder at,” or “There is much +to wonder at for the man who has seen little.” Naturally there is no +occasion to choose between these two translations which differ only in +grammatical construction. We are assured that in spite of these +uncertainties the Chinese language is a quite exceptionally good medium +of expression; so it is clear that indefiniteness does not necessarily +lead to ambiguity. + +Now we must certainly admit that the position of affairs is far less +favourable in regard to the mode of expression in dreams than it is with +these ancient tongues and scripts; for these latter were originally +designed as a means of communication; that is, they were intended to be +understood, no matter what ways or means they had to employ. But just +this character is lacking to dreams: their object is not to tell anyone +anything; they are not a means of communication; on the contrary, it is +important to them not to be understood. So we ought not to be surprised +or misled if the result is that a number of the ambiguities and +uncertainties in dreams cannot be determined. The only certain piece of +knowledge gained from our comparison is that this indefiniteness (which +people would like to make use of as an argument against the accuracy of +our dream-interpretations) is rather to be recognized as a regular +characteristic of all primitive systems of expression. + +Practice and experience alone can determine the extent to which dreams +can in actual fact be understood. My own opinion is that this is +possible to a very great extent; and a comparison of the results +obtained by properly-trained analysts confirms my view. It is well known +that the lay public, even in scientific circles, delights to make a +parade of superior scepticism in the face of the difficulties and +uncertainties which beset a scientific achievement; I think they are +wrong in so doing. You may possibly not at all know that the same thing +happened at the time when the Babylonian and Assyrian inscriptions were +being deciphered. There was a point at which public opinion was active +in declaring that the men deciphering the cuneiform writing were victims +of a chimera and that the whole business of investigation was a fraud. +But in the year 1857 the Royal Asiatic Society made a conclusive test. +They challenged four of the most distinguished men engaged in this +branch of research—Rawlinson, Hincks, Fox Talbot and Oppert—to send to +the Society in sealed envelopes independent translations of a +newly-discovered inscription, and, after comparing the four versions, +they were able to announce that there was sufficient agreement between +the four to justify belief in what had been achieved and confidence in +further progress. The mockery of the learned laity then gradually came +to an end, and certainty in the reading of cuneiform documents has +advanced enormously since then. + +2. A second series of objections is closely connected with an impression +which you also have probably not escaped; namely, that a number of the +solutions achieved by our method of dream-interpretation seem strained, +specious, “dragged in,”—in other words, forced, or even comical or +joking. These criticisms are so frequent that I will take at random the +last that has come to my ears. Now listen: a head-master in +Switzerland—that free country—was recently asked to resign his post on +account of his interest in psycho-analysis. He protested and a Berne +paper published the decision of the school authorities on his case. I +shall quote a few sentences from the article which refer to +psycho-analysis: “Further, we are amazed at the far-fetched and +factitious character of many of the examples given in the said book by +Dr. Pfister of Zurich.... It is indeed a matter for surprise that the +head-master of a Training College should accept so credulously all these +assertions and such specious evidence.” These sentences purport to be +the final opinion of “One who judges calmly.” I am much more inclined to +think this “calm” factitious. Let us examine these remarks more closely +in the expectation that a certain amount of reflection and knowledge of +the subject will do no harm, even to a “calm judgement.” + +It is really quite refreshing to see how swiftly and unerringly anyone +relying merely on his first impressions can arrive at an opinion on some +critical question of psychology in its more abstruse aspects. The +interpretations seem to him far-fetched and strained, and do not commend +themselves to him; consequently, they are wrong and the whole business +is rubbish. Such critics never give even a passing thought to the +possibility that there may be good reasons why the interpretations are +bound to convey this very impression—a thought which would lead to the +further question what these good reasons are. + +The circumstance which calls forth this criticism is essentially related +to the effect of displacement, which you have learnt to know as the most +powerful instrument in the service of the dream-censorship. With its aid +the substitute-formations which we call allusions are created; but these +allusions are of a kind not easy to recognize as such; nor is it easy to +discover the thought proper by working back from them, for they are +connected with it by the most extraordinary and unusual extrinsic +associations. But the whole matter throughout concerns things which are +meant to be hidden, intended to be concealed: that is exactly the object +of the dream-censorship. We must not expect, though, to find something +that has been hidden by looking in the very place where it ordinarily +belongs. The frontier surveillance authorities nowadays are a good deal +more cunning in this respect than the Swiss school authorities; for they +are not content with examining portfolios and letter-cases when hunting +for documents and plans; but consider the possibility that spies and +smugglers may conceal anything compromising about their persons, in +places where it is most difficult to detect and where such things +certainly do not belong, for example, between the double soles of their +boots. If the concealed articles are found there, it is certainly true +that they have been “dragged” to light, but they are none the less a +very good “find.” + +In admitting the possibility that the connection between a latent +dream-element and its manifest substitute may appear most remote and +extraordinary, sometimes even comical or joking, we are guided by our +wide experience of instances in which we did not as a rule find the +meaning ourselves. It is often impossible to arrive at such +interpretations by our own efforts: no sane person could guess the +bridge connecting the two. The dreamer either solves the riddle +straightaway by a direct association (_he_ can do it because it is in +his mind that the substitute-formation originated); or else he +provides so much material that there is no longer any need for special +penetration in order to solve it—the solution thrusts itself upon us +as inevitable. If the dreamer does not help us in either of these two +ways the manifest element in question will remain for ever +incomprehensible. Let me give you one more instance of this kind which +happened recently. A patient of mine lost her father during the course +of the treatment, after which she seized every opportunity to bring +him back to life in her dreams. In one of these her father appeared in +a certain connection otherwise not applicable and said: “_It is +quarter past eleven, it is half past eleven, it is quarter to +twelve_.” For the interpretation of this curious detail she could only +provide the association that her father was pleased when his older +children were punctual at the midday meal. This certainly fitted in +with the dream-element, but it threw no light on its origin. The +situation which had just been reached in the treatment gave good +grounds for the suspicion that a carefully-suppressed critical +antagonism to her much loved and honoured father had played a part in +this dream. Following out her further associations, apparently quite +remote from the dream, she told how she had heard a long discussion of +psychological questions on the day before and a relative had said: +“Primitive man (_Urmensch_) survives in all of us.” Now a light dawns +on us. Here was again a splendid opportunity for her to imagine that +her dead father survived, and so in the dream she made him a +“clock-man” (_Uhrmensch_), telling the quarters up to the time of the +midday meal. + +The likeness to a pun in this cannot be ignored, and as a matter of fact +it has often happened that a dreamer’s pun has been ascribed to the +interpreter; there are yet other examples in which it is not at all easy +to decide whether we are dealing with a joke or a dream. But you will +remember that the same sort of doubt arose with some slips of the +tongue. A man related as a dream that he and his uncle were sitting in +the latter’s _auto_ (automobile) and his uncle kissed him. The dreamer +himself instantly volunteered the interpretation: it meant +“_auto-erotism_” (a term used in our theory of the libido, signifying +gratification obtained without any external love-object). Now was this +man allowing himself a joke at our expense and pretending that a pun +which occurred to him was part of a dream? I do not think so: he really +did dream it. But where does this bewildering resemblance between dreams +and jokes come from? At one time this question took me somewhat out of +my way, for it necessitated my making a thorough investigation into the +question of wit itself. This led to the conclusion that wit originates +as follows: a preconscious train of thought is for a moment left to a +process of unconscious elaboration, from which it emerges in the form of +a witticism. While under the influence of the unconscious it is subject +to the mechanisms there operative—to condensation and displacement; that +is to say, to the same processes as we found at work in the dream-work; +and the similarity sometimes found between dreams and wit is to be +ascribed to this character common to both. But the unintentional “dream +joke” does not amuse us as does an ordinary witticism; a deeper study of +wit may show you why this is so. The “dream joke” strikes us as a poor +form of wit; it does not make us laugh, it leaves us cold. + +Now in this we are following the path of the ancient method of +dream-interpretation, which has given us, besides much that is useless, +many a valuable example of interpretation upon which we ourselves could +not improve. I will tell you a dream of historic importance which is +related in slightly different versions by Plutarch and Artemidorus of +Daldis, the dreamer being Alexander the Great. When he was laying siege +to the city of Tyre, which was putting up an obstinate resistance (B.C. +322), he dreamt one night that he saw a dancing satyr. The +dream-interpreter Aristandros, who accompanied the army on its +campaigns, interpreted this dream by dividing the word “satyros” into σὰ +Τύρος (“Tyre is thine”), and prophesied from this the king’s victory +over the city. This interpretation decided Alexander to continue the +siege and eventually the city fell. The interpretation, factitious as it +seems, was undoubtedly the right one. + +3. I can well imagine that you will be especially impressed on being +told that even people who have long studied the interpretation of dreams +in the course of their work as psycho-analysts have raised objections to +our conception of dreams. It would indeed have been exceptional if so +excellent an opportunity for new mistakes had been let slip; and so +assertions have been made, due to confusion of ideas and based on +unjustifiable generalizations, which are hardly less incorrect than the +medical conception of dreams. One of these statements you know already: +that dreams deal with attempts at adaptation to the situation at the +moment and with the solution of future problems; in other words, that +they pursue a “prospective tendency” or aim (A. Maeder). We have already +demonstrated that this statement rests upon a confusion between dreams +and the latent dream-thoughts and ignores the process of dream-work. If +those who speak of this “prospective tendency” mean thereby to +characterize the unconscious mental activity to which the latent +thoughts belong, then, on the one hand, they tell us nothing new and, on +the other hand, the description is not exhaustive; for unconscious +mental activity occupies itself with many other things besides +preparation for the future. There seems to be a much worse confusion +behind the assurance that the “death clause” may be found underlying +every dream; I am not quite clear what this formula is intended to mean, +but I suspect that behind it the dream is confounded with the whole +personality of the dreamer. + +An unjustifiable generalization, based on a few striking examples, is +contained in the statement that every dream admits of two kinds of +interpretation: one of the kind we have described, the so-called +“psycho-analytic” interpretation, and the other the so-called +“anagogic,” which disregards the instinctive tendencies and aims at a +representation of the higher mental functions (H. Silberer); there are +dreams of this kind, but you will seek in vain to extend this conception +to include even a majority of dreams. After all you have heard, the +statement that all dreams are to be interpreted bisexually, as a +combination of two tendencies which may be called male and female (A. +Adler), will seem to you quite incomprehensible. Here again, single +dreams of this sort do of course occur and later on you may learn that +their structure is similar to that of certain hysterical symptoms. I +mention all these discoveries of new general characteristics of dreams +in order to warn you against them, or at least to leave you in no doubt +about my own opinion of them. + +4. At one time the objective value of research into dreams seemed to be +discredited by the fact that patients treated analytically appeared to +suit the content of their dreams to the favourite theories of their +doctors, one class dreaming mainly of sexual impulses, and another of +impulses for mastery, others again even of rebirth (W. Stekel). The +force of this observation is weakened by the reflection that people +dreamed dreams before there was any such thing as psycho-analytic +treatment to influence their dreams and that the patients undergoing +treatment nowadays also used to dream before they began it. The actual +fact in this supposedly new observation is soon shown to be self-evident +and of no consequence for the theory of dreams. The residue from the +previous day which gives rise to dreams is a residue from the great +interests of waking life. If the physician’s words and the stimuli which +he gives have become of importance to the patient they then enter into +whatever constitutes the residue and can act as mental stimuli for +dream-formation, just like other interests of affective value roused on +the preceding day which have not subsided; they operate in the same way +as bodily stimuli which affect the sleeper during sleep. Like these +other factors inciting dreams, the trains of thought roused by the +physician can appear in the manifest dream-content or be revealed in the +latent thoughts. We know indeed that dreams can be experimentally +produced, or, to speak more accurately, a part of the dream-material can +be thus introduced into the dream. In influencing his patients thus the +analyst plays a part no different from that of an experimenter, like +Mourly Void, who placed in certain positions the limbs of the person +upon whom he experimented. + +We can often influence what a man shall dream _about_, but never _what_ +he will dream; for the mechanism of the dream-work and the unconscious +dream-wish are inaccessible to external influence of any sort. We +realized, when we were considering dreams arising out of bodily stimuli, +that in the reaction to the bodily or mental stimuli brought to bear +upon the dreamer the peculiarity and independence of dream-life is +clearly seen. The criticism I have just discussed which tends to cast a +doubt upon the objectivity of dream investigation is again an assertion +based upon confounding, this time confounding dreams with—their +material. + +I wanted to tell you as much as this about the problems of dreams. You +will guess that I have passed over a great deal and will have discovered +for yourselves that my treatment of nearly every point has necessarily +been incomplete; but this is due to the phenomena of dreams being so +closely connected with those of the neuroses. Our plan was to study +dreams as an introduction to the study of the neuroses and it was +certainly a better one than beginning the other way about; but since +dreams prepare us for comprehension of the neuroses, so also can a +correctly-formed estimate of dreams be acquired only after some +knowledge of neurotic manifestations has been gained. + +I do not know how you may think about it, but I can assure you that I do +not regret having taken up so much of your interest and of the time at +our disposal in the consideration of problems connected with dreams. I +know no other way by which one can so speedily arrive at conviction of +the correctness of those statements by which psycho-analysis stands or +falls. It requires strenuous work for many months, and even years, to +demonstrate that the symptoms in a case of neurotic illness have a +meaning, serve a purpose, and arise from the patient’s experiences in +life. On the other hand, a few hours’ effort may be enough to show these +things in some dream which at first seemed utterly confused and +incomprehensible, and in this way to confirm all the premises upon which +psycho-analysis rests—the existence of unconscious mental processes, the +special mechanisms which they obey, and the instinctive propelling +forces which are expressed by them. And when we remember how +far-reaching is the analogy in the structure of dreams to that of +neurotic symptoms and, with that, reflect how rapid is the +transformation of a dreamer into a wide-awake, reasonable human being, +we acquire an assurance that the neuroses too depend only upon an +alteration in the balance of the forces at work in mental life. + + + + + _PART III_ + GENERAL THEORY OF THE NEUROSES + + + + + SIXTEENTH LECTURE + PSYCHO-ANALYSIS AND PSYCHIATRY + + +It pleases me greatly to see you here again to continue our discussions +after a year has passed. Last year the subject of my lectures was the +application of psycho-analysis to errors and to dreams; I hope this year +to lead you to some comprehension of neurotic phenomena which, as you +will soon discover, have much in common with both our former subjects. I +must tell you before I begin, however, that I cannot concede you the +same attitude towards me now as I did last year. Then I endeavoured to +make no step without being in agreement with your judgement; I debated a +great deal with you, submitted to your objections, in fact, recognized +you and your “healthy common-sense” as the deciding factor. That is no +longer possible and for a very simple reason. Errors and dreams are +phenomena which were familiar to you; one might say you had as much +experience of them as I, or could easily have obtained it. The +manifestations of neurosis, however, are an unknown region to you; those +of you who are not yourselves medical men have no access there except +through the accounts I give you; and of what use is the most excellent +judgement where there is no knowledge of the subject under debate? + +However, do not receive this announcement as though I were going to give +these lectures _ex cathedra_ or to demand unconditional acceptance from +you. Any such misconception would do me a gross injustice. I do not aim +at producing conviction,—my aim is to stimulate enquiry and to destroy +prejudices. If owing to ignorance of the subject you are not in a +position to adjudicate, then you should neither believe nor reject. You +should only listen and allow what I tell you to make its own effect upon +you. Convictions are not so easily acquired, or, when they are achieved +without much trouble, they soon prove worthless and unstable. No one has +a right to conviction on these matters who has not worked at this +subject for many years, as I have, and has not himself experienced the +same new and astonishing discoveries. Then why these sudden convictions +in intellectual matters, lightning conversions, and instantaneous +repudiations? Do you not see that the _coup de foudre_, “love at first +sight,” proceeds from a very different mental sphere, from the affective +one? We do not require even our patients to bring with them any +conviction in favour of psycho-analysis or any devotion to it. It would +make us suspicious of them. Benevolent scepticism is the attitude in +them which we like best. Therefore will you also try to let +psycho-analytical conceptions develop quietly in your minds alongside +the popular or the psychiatric view, until opportunities arise for them +to influence each other and be united into a decisive opinion. + +On the other hand, you are not for a moment to suppose that the +psycho-analytic point of view which I shall lay before you is a +speculative system of ideas. On the contrary, it is the result of +experience, being founded either on direct observations or on +conclusions drawn from observation. Whether these have been drawn in an +adequate or a justifiable manner future advances in science will show; +after nearly two and a half decades and now that I am fairly well +advanced in years I may say, without boasting, that it was particularly +difficult, intense, and all-absorbing work that yielded these +observations. I have often had the impression that our opponents were +unwilling to consider this source of our statements, as if they looked +upon them as ideas derived subjectively which anyone could dispute at +his own sweet will. This attitude on the part of my opponents is not +quite comprehensible to me. Perhaps it comes from the circumstance that +physicians pay so little attention to neurotics and listen so carelessly +to what they say that it has become impossible for them to perceive +anything in the patients’ communications or to make detailed +observations from them. I will take this opportunity of assuring you +that in these lectures I shall make few controversial references, least +of all to individuals. I have never been able to convince myself of the +truth of the saying that “strife is the father of all things.” I think +the source of it was the philosophy of the Greek sophists and that it +errs, as does the latter, through the over estimation of dialectics. It +seems to me, on the contrary, that scientific controversy, so-called, is +on the whole quite unfruitful, apart from the fact that it is almost +always conducted in a highly personal manner. Until a few years ago I +could boast that I had only once been engaged in a regular scientific +dispute, and that with one single investigator, Löwenfeld of Munich. The +end of it was that we became friends and have remained so to this day. +But I did not repeat the experiment for a very long time because I was +not certain that the outcome would be the same. + +Now you will surely judge that a refusal of this kind to discuss matters +publicly points to a high degree of inaccessibility to criticism, to +obstinacy, or, in the polite colloquialism of the scientific world, to +“pig-headedness.”[43] My reply to you would be that, should you have +arrived at a conviction by means of such hard work, you would also +thereby derive a certain right to maintain it with some tenacity. +Further, on my own behalf, I can say that in the course of my work I +have modified my views on important points, changed them or replaced +them by others, and have of course in each case published the fact. What +has been the result of this frankness? Some people have ignored my +corrections of myself altogether and still to-day criticize me in +respect of views which no longer mean the same to me. Others positively +reproach me for these changes and declare me to be unreliable on that +account. No one who changes his views once or twice deserves to be +believed, for it is only too likely that he will be mistaken again in +his latest assertions; but anyone who sticks to anything he has once +said, or refuses to give way upon it easily enough, is obstinate or +pig-headed; is it not so? What is to be done in the face of these +self-contradictory criticisms except to remain as one is and behave as +seems best to one? This is what I decided to do; and I am not deterred +from remodelling and improving my theories in accordance with later +experience. I have so far found nothing to alter in my fundamental +standpoint and I hope this will never be necessary. + +So now I have to lay before you the psycho-analytic theory of neurotic +manifestations. For this purpose it will be simplest, on account of both +the analogy and the contrast, to take an example which links up with the +phenomena we have already considered. I will take a ‘symptomatic act’ +which I see many people commit in my own consulting-room. The analyst +has little to offer to the people who come to a physician’s +consulting-room for half-an-hour to recount the lifelong misery of their +fate. His deeper comprehension makes it difficult for him to give, as +another might, the opinion that there is nothing wrong with them and +that they had better take a light course of hydrotherapy. One of our +colleagues once replied, with a shrug, when asked how he dealt with +consultation patients, that he “fined them so many crowns for ‘wasting +the time of the court.’” You will therefore not be surprised to hear +that even the busiest psycho-analysts are not much sought after for +consultations. I have had the ordinary door between the waiting-room and +my consulting-room supplemented by another door and covered with felt. +The reason for this is obvious. Now it constantly happens when I admit +people from the waiting-room that they omit to close these doors, +leaving even both doors open behind them. When I see this happen, I at +once, with some stiffness, request him or her to go back and make good +the omission, no matter how fine a gentleman he may be nor how many +hours she had spent on her toilet. My action gives the impression of +being uncalled-for and pedantic; occasionally too I have found myself in +the wrong, when the person turned out to be one of those who cannot +themselves grasp a door-handle and are glad when those with them avoid +it. But in the majority of cases I was right, for anyone who behaves in +this way and leaves the door of a physician’s consulting-room open into +the waiting-room belongs to the rabble and deserves to be received with +coldness. Now don’t allow yourselves to be biassed before you have heard +the rest. This omission on the part of a patient occurs only when he has +been waiting alone in the outer room and thus leaves an empty room +behind him, never when others, strangers to him, have also been waiting +there. In the latter case he knows very well that it is to his own +interest not to be overheard while he talks to the physician and he +never neglects to close both doors carefully. + +Occurring in this way, the patient’s omission is neither accidental nor +meaningless, and not even unimportant, for it betrays the visitor’s +attitude to the physician. He belongs to that large class who seek those +in high places, and wish to be dazzled and intimidated. Perhaps he had +made enquiries by telephone at what time he would be most likely to gain +admittance and had been expecting to find a crowd of applicants in a +queue, as if at the grocer’s in war-time. Then he is shown into an empty +room which, moreover, is most modestly furnished, and he is dumbfounded. +He must somehow make the physician atone for the superfluous respect he +had been prepared to show him; and so he omits to close the doors +between the waiting- and the consulting-rooms. He intends this to mean: +“Pooh! there is no one here and I daresay there won’t be, however long I +stay!” He would behave during the interview in an uncivil and +supercilious manner, too, if his presumption were not curbed at the +outset by a sharp reminder. + +In the analysis of this little symptomatic act you find nothing that is +not already known to you; namely, the conclusion that it is no accident +but has in it motive, meaning, and intention; that it belongs to a +mental context which can be specified; and that it provides a small +indication of a more important mental process. But above all it implies +that the process thus indicated is not known to the consciousness of the +person who carries it out; for not one of the patients who left the two +doors open would have admitted that he wished to show any depreciation +of me by his neglect. Many of them could probably recall a sense of +disappointment on entering the empty waiting-room, but the connection +between this impression and the succeeding symptomatic act certainly +remained outside their consciousness. + +Now let us place this little analysis of a symptomatic act by the side +of an observation made on a patient. I will choose one which is fresh in +my memory, and also because it can be described in comparatively few +words. A certain amount of detail is indispensable for any such account. + +A young officer, home on short leave of absence, asked me to treat his +mother-in-law, who was living in the happiest surroundings and yet was +embittering her own and her family’s lives by a nonsensical idea. I +found her a well-preserved lady, fifty-three years of age, of a +friendly, simple disposition, who gave without hesitation the following +account of herself. She is most happily married, and lives in the +country with her husband who manages a large factory. She cannot say +enough of her husband’s kindness and consideration; theirs had been a +love-marriage thirty years ago, since when they had never had a cloud, a +quarrel, or a moment’s jealousy. Her two children have both married +well, but her husband’s sense of duty keeps him still at work. A year +before, an incredible and, to her, incomprehensible thing happened. She +received an anonymous letter telling her that her excellent husband was +carrying on an intrigue with a young girl, and believed it on the +spot—since then her happiness has been destroyed. The details were more +or less as follows: she had a housemaid with whom she discussed +confidential matters, perhaps rather too freely. This young woman +cherished a positively venomous hatred for another girl who had +succeeded better in life than herself, although of no better origin. +Instead of going into service, the other young woman had had a +commercial training, been taken into the factory and, owing to vacancies +caused by the absence of staff on service in the field, had been +promoted to a good position. She lived in the factory, knew all the +gentlemen, and was even addressed as “Miss.” The other one who had been +left behind in life was only too ready to accuse her former schoolmate +of all possible evil. One day our patient and her housemaid were +discussing an elderly gentleman who had visited the house and of whom it +was said that he did not live with his wife but kept a mistress. Why, +she did not know, but she suddenly said: “I cannot imagine anything more +awful than to hear that my husband had a mistress.” The next day she +received by post an anonymous letter in disguised handwriting which +informed her of the very thing she had just imagined. She +concluded—probably correctly—that the letter was the handiwork of her +malicious housemaid, for the woman who was named as the mistress of her +husband was the very girl who was the object of this housemaid’s hatred. +Although she at once saw through the plot and had seen enough of such +cowardly accusations in her own surroundings to place little credence in +them, our patient was nevertheless prostrated by this letter. She became +terribly excited and at once sent for her husband to overwhelm him with +reproaches. The husband laughingly denied the accusation and did the +best thing he could. He sent for the family physician (who also attended +the factory), and he did his best to calm the unhappy lady. The next +thing they did was also most reasonable. The housemaid was dismissed, +but not the supposed mistress. From that time on the patient claims to +have repeatedly brought herself to a calm view of the matter, so that +she no longer believes the contents of the letter; but it has never gone +very deep nor lasted very long. It was enough to hear the young woman’s +name mentioned, or to meet her in the street, for a new attack of +suspicion, agony, and reproaches to break out. + +This is the clinical picture of this excellent woman’s case. It did not +require much experience of psychiatry to perceive that, in contrast to +other neurotics, she described her symptoms too mildly—as we say, +dissimulated them—and that she had never really overcome her belief in +the anonymous letter. + +Now what attitude does a psychiatrist take up to such a case? We know +already what he would say to the symptomatic act of a patient who does +not close the waiting-room doors. He explains it as an accident, without +interest psychologically, and no concern of his. But he cannot continue +to take up this attitude in regard to the case of the jealous lady. The +symptomatic action appears to be unimportant; the symptom calls for +notice as a grave matter. Subjectively it involves intense suffering, +and objectively it threatens to break up a family; its claim to +psychiatric interest is therefore indisputable. First the psychiatrist +tries to characterize the symptom by some essential attribute. The idea +with which this lady torments herself cannot be called nonsensical in +itself; it does happen that elderly husbands contract relationships with +young women. But there is something else about it that is nonsensical +and incomprehensible. The patient has absolutely no grounds, except the +anonymous letter, for supposing that her loving and faithful husband +belongs to this category of men, otherwise not so uncommon. She knows +that this communication carries no proof, she can explain its origin +satisfactorily; she ought therefore to be able to say to herself that +she has no grounds for her jealousy and she does even say so, but she +suffers just as much as if she regarded her jealousy as well-founded. +Ideas of this kind that are inaccessible to logic and the arguments of +reality are unanimously described as _delusions_. The good lady suffers +therefore, from a _delusion of jealousy_. That is evidently the +essential characteristic of the case. + +Having established this first point, our psychiatric interest increases. +When a delusion cannot be dissipated by the facts of reality, it +probably does not spring from reality. Where else then does it spring +from? Delusions can have the most various contents; why is the content +of it in this case jealousy? What kind of people have delusions, and +particularly delusions of jealousy? Now we should like to listen to the +psychiatrist, but he leaves us in the lurch here. He considers only one +of our questions. He will examine the family history of this woman and +will _perhaps_ bring us the answer that the kind of people who suffer +from delusions are those in whose families similar or different +disorders have occurred repeatedly. In other words, this lady has +developed a delusion because she had an hereditary predisposition to do +so. That is certainly something; but is it all that we want to know? Is +it the sole cause of her disease? Does it satisfy us to assume that it +is unimportant, arbitrary, or inexplicable that one kind of delusion +should have been developed instead of another? And are we to understand +the proposition—that the hereditary predisposition is decisive—also in a +negative sense; that is, that no matter what experiences and emotions +life had brought her she was destined some time or other to produce a +delusion? You will want to know why scientific psychiatry gives no +further explanation. And I reply: “Only a rogue gives more than he has.” +The psychiatrist knows of no path leading to any further explanation in +such a case. He has to content himself with a diagnosis and, in spite of +wide experience, with a very uncertain prognosis of its future course. + +Now can psycho-analysis do better than this? Yes, certainly I hope to +show you that even in such an obscure case as this it is possible to +discover something which makes closer comprehension possible. First, I +shall ask you to notice this incomprehensible detail; that the anonymous +letter on which her delusion is founded was positively provoked by the +patient herself, by her saying to the scheming housemaid the day before +that nothing could be more awful than to hear that her husband had an +intrigue with a young woman. She first put the idea of sending the +letter into the servant’s mind by this. So the delusion acquires a +certain independence of the letter; it existed beforehand as a fear—or, +as a wish?—in her mind. Besides this, the further small indications +revealed in the bare two hours of analysis are noteworthy. The patient +responded very coldly, it is true, to the request to tell me her further +thoughts, ideas, and recollections, after she had finished her story. +She declared that nothing came to her mind, she had told me everything; +and after two hours the attempt had to be given up, because she +announced that she felt quite well already and was certain that the +morbid idea would not return. Her saying this was naturally due to +resistance and to the fear of further analysis, In these two hours she +had let fall some remarks, nevertheless, which made a certain +interpretation not only possible but inevitable, and this interpretation +threw a sharp light on the origin of the delusion of jealousy. There +actually existed in her an infatuation for a young man, for the very +son-in-law who had urged her to seek my assistance. Of this infatuation +she herself knew nothing or only perhaps very little; in the +circumstances of their relationship it was easily possible for it to +disguise itself as harmless tenderness on her part. After what we have +already learnt it is not difficult to see into the mind of this good +woman and excellent mother. Such an infatuation, such a monstrous, +impossible thing, could not come into her conscious mind; it persisted, +nevertheless, and unconsciously exerted a heavy pressure. Something had +to happen, some sort of relief had to be found; and the simplest +alleviation lay in that mechanism of displacement which so regularly +plays its part in the formation of delusional jealousy. If not merely +she, old woman that she was, were in love with a young man, but if only +her old husband too were in love with a young mistress, then her +torturing conscience would be absolved from the infidelity. The phantasy +of her husband’s infidelity was thus a cooling balm on her burning +wound. Of her own love she never became conscious; but its reflection in +the delusion, which brought such advantages, thus became compulsive, +delusional and conscious. All arguments against it could naturally avail +nothing; for they were directed only against the reflection, and not +against the original to which its strength was due and which lay buried +out of reach in the Unconscious. + +Let us now piece together the results of this short, obstructed +psycho-analytic attempt to understand this case. It is assumed of course +that the information acquired was correct, a point which I cannot submit +to your judgement here. First of all, the delusion is no longer +senseless and incomprehensible; it is sensible, logically motivated, and +has its place in connection with an affective experience of the +patient’s. Secondly, it has arisen as a necessary reaction to another +mental process which has itself been revealed by other indications; and +it owes its delusional character, its quality of resisting real and +logical objections, to this relation with this other mental process. It +is something desired in itself, a kind of consolation. Thirdly, the fact +that the delusion is one of jealousy and no other is unmistakably +determined by the experience underlying the disease. You will also +recognize the two important analogies with the symptomatic act we +analysed; namely, the discovery of the sense or intention behind the +symptom and the relation of it to something in the given situation which +is unconscious. + +This does not, of course, answer all the questions arising out of this +case. On the contrary, it bristles with further problems, some of which +have not yet proved soluble at all, while others cannot be solved owing +to the unfavourable circumstances met with in this case. For instance, +why does this happily-married lady fall in love with her son-in-law, and +why does relief come to her in the form of this kind of reflection, this +projection of her own state of mind on to her husband, when other forms +of relief were also possible? Do not think that it is idle and +uncalled-for to propound these questions. We have already a good deal of +material at hand to provide possible answers. The patient had come to +that critical time of life which brings a sudden and unwelcome increase +of sexual desire to a woman; that may have been sufficient in itself. Or +there may have been an additional reason, in that the sexual capacity of +her excellent and faithful husband may have been for some years +insufficient for the still vigorous woman’s needs. Observation has +taught us that it is just such men, whose fidelity is thus a matter of +course, who treat their wives with particular tenderness and are +unusually considerate of their nervous ailments. Neither is it +unimportant, moreover, that the object of this abnormal infatuation +should be her daughter’s young husband. A strong erotic attachment to +the daughter, with its roots in the individual sexual constitution of +the mother, often manages to maintain itself in such a transformation. I +may perhaps remind you in this connection that the relation between +mother-in-law and son-in-law has from time immemorial been regarded by +mankind as a particularly sensitive one, which among primitive races has +given rise to very powerful taboos and precautions.[44] On the positive +as well as on the negative side it frequently exceeds the limits +regarded as desirable in civilized society. Of these three possible +factors, whether one of them has been at work in the case before us, or +two of them, or whether all three together have taken part, I cannot +tell you; though only because the analysis of the case could not be +continued beyond the second hour. + +I perceive now that I have been speaking entirely of things which you +were not yet prepared to understand. I did so in order to carry out the +comparison between psychiatry and psycho-analysis. But I may ask you one +thing at this point: Have you observed anything in the nature of a +contradiction between the two? Psychiatry does not employ the technical +methods of psycho-analysis, neglects any consideration of the content of +the delusion, and in pointing to heredity gives us but a general and +remote ætiology instead of first disclosing the more specific and +immediate one. But is any contradiction or opposition contained in this? +Is not the one rather a supplement to the other? Is the hereditary +factor inconsistent with the importance of experience and would they not +both work together most effectively? You will admit that there is +nothing essential in the work of psychiatry which could oppose +psycho-analytic researches. It is therefore the psychiatrists who oppose +it, and not psychiatry itself. Psycho-Analysis stands to psychiatry more +or less as histology does to anatomy; in one, the outer forms of organs +are studied, in the other, the construction of these out of the tissues +and constituent elements. It is not easy to conceive of any +contradiction between these two fields of study, in which the work of +the one is continued in the other. You know that nowadays anatomy is the +basis of the scientific study of medicine; but time was when dissecting +human corpses in order to discover the internal structure of the body +was as much a matter for severe prohibition as practising +psycho-analysis in order to discover the internal workings of the human +mind seems to-day to be a matter for condemnation. And, presumably at a +not too distant date, we shall have perceived that there can be no +psychiatry which is scientifically radical without a thorough knowledge +of the deep-seated unconscious processes in mental life. + +There may be some of you who perhaps are friendly enough towards +psycho-analysis, often attacked as it is, to wish that it would justify +itself in another direction also, that is, therapeutically. You know +that psychiatric therapy has hitherto been unable to influence +delusions. Can psycho-analysis do so perhaps, by reason of its insight +into the mechanism of these symptoms? No, I have to tell you that it +cannot; for the present, at any rate, it is just as powerless as any +other therapy to heal these sufferers. It is true that we can understand +what has happened to the patient; but we have no means by which we can +make him understand it himself. You have heard that I could not continue +the analysis of this delusion beyond the first preliminaries. Would you +then maintain that analysis of such cases is undesirable because it +remains fruitless? I do not think so. It is our right, yes, and our +duty, to pursue our researches without respect to the immediate gain +effected. The day will come, where and when we know not, when every +little piece of knowledge will be converted into power, and into +therapeutic power. Even if psycho-analysis showed itself as unsuccessful +with all other forms of nervous and mental diseases as with delusions, +it would still remain justified as an irreplaceable instrument of +scientific research. It is true that we should not be in a position to +practise it; the human material on which we learn lives, and has its own +will, and must have its own motives in order to participate in the work; +and it would then refuse to do so. I will therefore close my lecture for +to-day by telling you that there are large groups of nervous +disturbances for which this conversion of our own advance in knowledge +into therapeutic power has actually been carried out; and that with +these diseases, otherwise so refractory, our measures yield, under +certain conditions, results which give place to none in the domain of +medical therapy. + + + + + SEVENTEENTH LECTURE + THE MEANING OF SYMPTOMS + + +In the last lecture I explained to you that clinical psychiatry troubles +itself little about the actual form of the individual symptom or the +content of it; but that psycho-analysis has made this its +starting-point, and has ascertained that the symptom itself has a +meaning and is connected with experiences in the life of the patient. +The meaning of neurotic symptoms was first discovered by J. Breuer in +the study and successful cure of a case of hysteria (1880–82), which has +since then become famous. It is true that P. Janet independently reached +the same result; in fact, priority in publication must be granted to the +French investigator, for Breuer did not publish his observations until +more than a decade later (1893–95), during the period of our work +together. Incidentally, it is of no great importance to us who made the +discovery, for you know that every discovery is made more than once, and +none is made all at once, nor is success meted out according to deserts. +America is not called after Columbus. Before Breuer and Janet, the great +psychiatrist Leuret expressed the opinion that even the delusions of the +insane would prove to have some meaning, if only we knew how to +translate them. I confess that for a long time I was willing to accord +Janet very high recognition for his explanation of neurotic symptoms, +because he regarded them as expressions of “_idées inconscientes_” +possessing the patient’s mind. Since then, however, Janet has taken up +an attitude of undue reserve, as if he meant to imply that the +Unconscious had been nothing more to him than a manner of speaking, a +makeshift, _une façon de parler_, and that he had nothing “real” in +mind. Since then I have not understood Janet’s views, but I believe that +he has gratuitously deprived himself of great credit. + +Neurotic symptoms then, just like errors and dreams, have their meaning +and, like these, are related to the life of the person in whom they +appear. This is an important matter which I should like to demonstrate +to you by some examples. I can merely assert, I cannot prove, that it is +so in every case; anyone observing for himself will be convinced of it. +For certain reasons though, I shall not take these examples from cases +of hysteria, but from another very remarkable form of neurosis, closely +allied in origin to the latter, about which I must say a few preliminary +words. This, which we call _the obsessional neurosis_, is not so popular +as the widely-known _hysteria_; it is, if I may so express myself, not +so noisily ostentatious, behaves more as if it were a private affair of +the patient’s, dispenses almost entirely with bodily manifestations and +creates all its symptoms in the mental sphere. The obsessional neurosis +and hysteria are the two forms of neurotic disease upon the study of +which psycho-analysis was first built up, and in the treatment of which +also our therapy celebrates its triumphs. In the obsessional neurosis, +however, that mysterious leap from the mental to the physical is absent, +and it has really become more intimately comprehensible and transparent +to us through psycho-analytic research than hysteria; we have come to +understand that it displays far more markedly certain extreme features +of the neurotic constitution. + +The obsessional neurosis[45] takes this form: the patient’s mind is +occupied with thoughts that do not really interest him, he feels +impulses which seem alien to him, and he is impelled to perform actions +which not only afford him no pleasure but from which he is powerless to +desist. The thoughts (obsessions) may be meaningless in themselves or +only of no interest to the patient; they are often absolutely silly; in +every case they are the starting-point of a strained concentration of +thought which exhausts the patient and to which he yields most +unwillingly. Against his will he has to worry and speculate as if it +were a matter of life or death to him. The impulses which he perceives +within him may seem to be of an equally childish and meaningless +character; mostly, however, they consist of something terrifying, such +as temptations to commit serious crimes, so that the patient not only +repudiates them as alien, but flees from them in horror, and guards +himself by prohibitions, precautions, and restrictions against the +possibility of carrying them out. As a matter of fact he never, +literally not even once, carries these impulses into effect; flight and +precautions invariably win. What he does really commit are very +harmless, certainly trivial acts—what are termed the obsessive +actions—which are mostly repetitions and ceremonial elaborations of +ordinary everyday performances, making these common necessary +actions—going to bed, washing, dressing, going for walks, etc.—into +highly laborious tasks of almost insuperable difficulty. The morbid +ideas, impulses, and actions are not by any means combined in the same +proportions in individual types and cases of the obsessional neurosis; +on the contrary, the rule is that one or another of these manifestations +dominates the picture and gives the disease its name; but what is common +to all forms of it is unmistakable enough. + +This is a mad disease, surely. I don’t think the wildest psychiatric +phantasy could have invented anything like it, and if we did not see it +every day with our own eyes we could hardly bring ourselves to believe +in it. Now do not imagine that you can do anything for such a patient by +advising him to distract himself, to pay no attention to these silly +ideas, and to do something sensible instead of his nonsensical +practices. This is what he would like himself; for he is perfectly aware +of his condition, he shares your opinion about his obsessional symptoms, +he even volunteers it quite readily. Only he simply cannot help himself; +the actions performed in an obsessional condition are supported by a +kind of energy which probably has no counterpart in normal mental life. +Only one thing is open to him—he can displace and he can exchange; +instead of one silly idea he can adopt another of a slightly milder +character, from one precaution or prohibition he can proceed to another, +instead of one ceremonial rite he can perform another. He can displace +his sense of compulsion, but he cannot dispel it. This capacity for +displacing all the symptoms, involving radical alteration of their +original forms, is a main characteristic of the disease; it is, +moreover, striking that in this condition the ‘_opposite-values_’ +(_polarities_) pervading mental life appear to be exceptionally sharply +differentiated. In addition to compulsions of both positive and negative +character, doubt appears in the intellectual sphere, gradually spreading +until it gnaws even at what is usually held to be certain. All these +things combine to bring about an ever-increasing indecisiveness, loss of +energy, and curtailment of freedom; and that although the obsessional +neurotic is originally always a person of a very energetic disposition, +often highly opinionated, and as a rule intellectually gifted above the +average. He has usually attained to an agreeably high standard of +ethical development, is over-conscientious, and more than usually +correct. You may imagine that it is a sufficiently arduous task to find +one’s bearings in this maze of contradictory character-traits and morbid +manifestations. At the moment our aim is merely to interpret some +symptoms of this disease. + +Perhaps in view of our previous discussions you would like to know what +present-day psychiatry has to offer concerning the obsessional neurosis; +it is but a miserable contribution, however. Psychiatry has given names +to the various compulsions; and has nothing more to say about them. It +asserts instead that persons exhibiting these symptoms are “degenerate.” +That is not much satisfaction to us; it is no more than an estimate of +their value, a condemnation instead of an explanation. We are intended, +I suppose, to conclude that deterioration from type would naturally +produce all kinds of oddities in people. Now, we do believe that people +who develop such symptoms must be somewhat different in type from other +human beings; but we should like to know whether they are more +“degenerate” than other nervous patients, than hysterical or insane +people. The characterization is clearly again much too general. One may +even doubt whether it is justified at all when one learns that such +symptoms occur in men and women of exceptional ability who have left +their mark on their generation. Thanks to their own discretion and the +untruthfulness of biographers we usually learn very little of an +intimate nature about our exemplary great men; but it does happen +occasionally that one of them is a fanatic about truth like Émile +Zola,[46] and then we hear of the many extraordinary obsessive habits +from which he suffered throughout life. + +Psychiatry has got out of this difficulty by dubbing these people +“_dégénerés superieurs_.” Very well; but psycho-analysis has shown that +these extraordinary obsessional symptoms can be removed permanently, +like the symptoms of other diseases, and as in other people who are not +degenerate. I myself have frequently succeeded in doing so. + +I shall only give you two examples of analysis of obsessional symptoms; +one is an old one, but I have never found a better; and one is a recent +one. I shall limit myself to these two because an account of this kind +must be very explicit and go into great detail. + +A lady of nearly thirty years of age suffered from very severe +obsessional symptoms. I might perhaps have been able to help her if my +work had not been destroyed by the caprice of fate—perhaps I shall tell +you about it later. In the course of a day she would perform the +following peculiar obsessive act, among others, several times over. She +would run out of her room into the adjoining one, there take up a +certain position at the table in the centre of the room, ring for her +maid, give her a trivial order or send her away without, and then run +back again. There was certainly nothing very dreadful about this, but it +might well arouse curiosity. The explanation presented itself in the +simplest and most unexceptionable manner, without any assistance on the +part of the analyst. I cannot imagine how I could even have suspected +the meaning of this obsession or could possibly have suggested an +interpretation for it. Every time I had asked the patient, “Why do you +do this? What is the meaning of it?” she had answered, “I don’t know.” +But one day, after I had succeeded in overcoming a great hesitation on +her part, involving a matter of principle, she suddenly did know, for +she related the history of the obsessive act. More than ten years +previously she had married a man very much older than herself, who had +proved impotent on the wedding-night. Innumerable times on that night he +had run out of his room into hers in order to make the attempt, but had +failed every time. In the morning he had said angrily: “It’s enough to +disgrace one in the eyes of the maid who does the beds,” and seizing a +bottle of red ink which happened to be at hand he poured it on the +sheet, but not exactly in the place where such a mark might have been. +At first I did not understand what this recollection could have to do +with the obsessive act in question; for I could see no similarity +between the two situations, except in the running from one room into the +other, and perhaps also in the appearance of the servant on the scene. +The patient then led me to the table in the adjoining room, where I +found a great mark on the table-cover. She explained further that she +stood by the table in such a way that when the maid came in she could +not miss seeing this mark. After this, there could no longer be any +doubt about the connection between the current obsessive act and the +scene of the wedding-night, though there was still a great deal to learn +about it. + +It was clear, first of all, that the patient identified herself with her +husband; in imitating his running from one room into another she acted +his part. To keep up the similarity we must assume that she has +substituted the table and table-cover for the bed and sheet. This might +seem too arbitrary; but then we have not studied dream-symbolism in +vain. In dreams a table is very often found to represent a bed. “Bed and +board” together mean marriage, so that the one easily stands for the +other. + +All this would be proof enough that the obsessive act is full of +meaning; it _seems_ to be a representation, a repetition of that +all-important scene. But we are not bound to stop at this semblance; if +we investigate more closely the relation between the two situations we +shall probably find out something more, the purpose of the obsessive +act. The kernel of it evidently lies in the calling of the maid, to whom +she displays the mark, in contrast to her husband’s words: “It’s enough +to disgrace one before the servant.” In this way he, whose part she is +playing, is _not_ ashamed before the servant, the stain is where it +ought to be. We see therefore that she has not simply repeated the +scene, she has continued it and corrected it, transformed it into what +it ought to have been. This implies something else, too, a correction of +the circumstance which made that night so distressing, and which made +the red ink necessary: namely, the husband’s impotence. The obsessive +act thus says: “No, it is not true, he was not disgraced before the +servant, he was not impotent.” As in a dream she represents this wish as +fulfilled, in a current obsessive act, which serves the purpose of +restoring her husband’s credit after that unfortunate incident. + +Everything else which I could tell you about this lady fits in with +this, or, more correctly stated, everything else that we know about her +points to this interpretation of the obsessive act, in itself so +incomprehensible. She had been separated from her husband for years and +was trying to make up her mind to divorce him legally. But there would +have been no prospect of being free from him in her mind; she forced +herself to be true to him. She withdrew from the world and from everyone +so that she might not be tempted, and in her phantasies she excused and +idealized him. The deepest secret of her illness was that it enabled her +to shield him from malicious gossip, to justify her separation from him, +and to make a comfortable existence apart from her possible for him. The +analysis of a harmless obsessive act thus leads straight to the inmost +core of the patient’s disease, and at the same time betrays a great deal +of the secret of the obsessional neurosis in general. I am quite willing +that you should spend some time over this example, for it unites +conditions which cannot reasonably be expected in all cases. The +interpretation of the symptom was discovered by the patient herself in a +flash, without guidance or interference from the analyst, and it had +arisen in connection with an event which did not belong, as it commonly +does, to a forgotten period in childhood, but which had occurred in the +patient’s adult life and was clear in her memory. All those objections +which critics habitually raise against our interpretations of symptoms +are quite out of place here. To be sure, we cannot always be so +fortunate. + +And one thing more! Has it not struck you that this innocent obsessive +act leads directly to this lady’s most private affairs? A woman can +hardly have anything more intimate to relate than the story of her +wedding-night; and is it by chance and without special significance that +we are led straight to the innermost secrets of her sexual life? It +might certainly be due to the choice I made of this example. Let us not +decide this point too quickly; but let us turn to the second example, +which is of a totally different nature, and belongs to a very common +type, that of rituals preparatory to sleep. + +A well-grown clever girl of 19, the only child of her parents, superior +to them in education and intellectual activity, was a wild, +high-spirited child, but of late years had become very nervous without +any apparent cause. She was very irritable, particularly with her +mother, was discontented and depressed, inclined to indecision and +doubt, finally confessing that she could no longer walk alone through +squares and wide streets. We will not go very closely into her +complicated condition, which requires at least two diagnoses: +agoraphobia and obsessional neurosis; but will turn our attention to the +ritual elaborated by this young girl preparatory to going to bed, as a +result of which she caused her parents great distress. In a certain +sense, every normal person may be said to carry out a ritual before +going to sleep, or at least, he requires certain conditions without +which he is hindered in going to sleep; the transition from waking life +to sleep has been made into a regular formula which is repeated every +night in the same manner. But everything that a healthy person requires +as a condition of sleep can be rationally explained, and if the external +circumstances make any alteration necessary he adapts himself easily to +it without waste of time. The morbid ritual on the other hand is +inexorable, it will be maintained at the greatest sacrifices; it is +disguised, too, under rational motives and appears superficially to +differ from the normal only in a certain exaggerated carefulness of +execution. On a closer examination, however, it is clear that the +disguise is insufficient, that the ritual includes observances which go +far beyond what reason can justify and even some which directly +contravene this. As the motive of her nightly precautions, our patient +declares that she must have silence at night and must exclude all +possibility of noise. She does two things for this purpose; she stops +the large clock in her room and removes all other clocks out of the +room, including even the tiny wrist-watch on her bed-table. Flower-pots +and vases are placed carefully together on the writing-table, so that +they cannot fall down in the night and break, and so disturb her sleep. +She knows that these precautions have only an illusory justification in +the demand for quiet; the ticking of the little watch could not be +heard, even if it lay on the table by the bed; and we all know that the +regular ticking of a pendulum-clock never disturbs sleep, but is more +likely to induce it. She also admits that her fear that the flower-pots +and vases, if left in their places at night, might fall down of +themselves and break is utterly improbable. For some other practices in +her ritual this insistence upon silence as a motive is dropped; indeed, +by ordaining that the door between her bedroom and that of her parents +shall remain half-open (a condition which she ensures by placing various +objects in the doorway) she seems, on the contrary, to open the way to +sources of noise. The most important observances are concerned with the +bed itself, however. The bolster at the head of the bed must not touch +the back of the wooden bedstead. The pillow must lie across the bolster +exactly in a diagonal position and in no other; she then places her head +exactly in the middle of this diamond, lengthways. The eiderdown must be +shaken before she puts it over her, so that all the feathers sink to the +foot-end; she never fails, however, to press this out and redistribute +them all over it again. + +I will pass over other trivial details of her ritual; they would teach +us nothing new and lead us too far from our purpose. Do not suppose, +though, that all this is carried out with perfect smoothness. Everything +is accompanied by the anxiety that it has not all been done properly; it +must be tested and repeated; her doubts fix first upon one, then +another, of the precautions; and the result is that one or two hours +elapse before the girl herself can sleep, or lets the intimidated +parents sleep. + +The analysis of these torments did not proceed so simply as that of the +former patient’s obsessive act. I had to offer hints and suggestions of +its interpretation which were invariably received by her with a positive +denial or with scornful doubt. After this first reaction of rejection, +however, there followed a period in which she herself took up the +possibilities suggested to her, noted the associations they aroused, +produced memories, and established connections until she herself had +accepted all the interpretations in working them out for herself. In +proportion as she did this she began to relax the performance of her +obsessive precautions and before the end of the treatment she had given +up the whole ritual. I must also tell you that analytic work, as we +conduct it nowadays, definitely excludes any uninterrupted concentration +on a single symptom until its meaning becomes fully clear. It is +necessary, on the contrary, to abandon a given theme again and again, in +the assurance that one will come upon it anew in another context. The +interpretation of the symptom, which I am now going to tell you, is +therefore a synthesis of the results which, amid the interruptions of +work on other points, took weeks and months to procure. + +The patient gradually learnt to understand that she banished clocks and +watches from her room at night because they were symbols of the female +genitals. Clocks, which we know may have other symbolic meanings besides +this, acquire this significance of a genital organ by their relation to +periodical processes and regular intervals. A woman may be heard to +boast that menstruation occurs in her as regularly as clockwork. Now +this patient’s special fear was that the ticking of the clocks would +disturb her during sleep. The ticking of a clock is comparable to the +throbbing of the clitoris in sexual excitation. This sensation, which +was distressing to her, had actually on several occasions wakened her +from sleep; and now her fear of an erection of the clitoris expressed +itself by the imposition of a rule to remove all going clocks and +watches far away from her during the night. Flower-pots and vases are, +like all receptacles, also symbols of the female genitals. Precautions +to prevent them from falling and breaking during the night are therefore +not lacking in meaning. We know the very widespread custom of breaking a +vessel or a plate on the occasion of a betrothal; everyone present +possesses himself of a fragment in symbolic acceptance of the fact that +he may no longer put forward any claims to the bride, presumably a +custom which arose with monogamy. The patient also contributed a +recollection and several associations to this part of her ritual. Once +as a child she had fallen while carrying a glass or porcelain vessel, +and had cut her finger which had bled badly. As she grew up and learnt +the facts about sexual intercourse, she developed the apprehension that +on her wedding-night she would not bleed and so would prove not to be a +virgin. Her precautions against the vases breaking signified a rejection +of the whole complex concerned with virginity and with the question of +bleeding during the first act of intercourse; a rejection of the anxiety +both that she would bleed and that she would not bleed. These +precautions were in fact only remotely connected with the prevention of +noise. + +One day she divined the central idea of her ritual when she suddenly +understood her rule not to let the bolster touch the back of the bed. +The bolster had always seemed a woman to her, she said, and the upright +back of the bedstead a man. She wished therefore, by a magic ceremony, +as it were, to keep man and woman apart; that is to say, to separate the +parents and prevent intercourse from occurring. Years before the +institution of her ritual, she had attempted to achieve this end by a +more direct method. She had simulated fear, or had exploited a tendency +to fear, so that the door between her bedroom and that of her parents +should not be closed. This regulation was still actually included in her +present ritual; in this way she managed to make it possible to overhear +her parents; a proceeding which at one time had caused her months of +sleeplessness. Not content with disturbing her parents in this way, she +at that time even succeeded occasionally in sleeping between the father +and mother in their bed. “Bolster” and “bedstead” were then really +prevented from coming together. As she finally grew too big to be +comfortable in the same bed with the parents, she achieved the same +thing by consciously simulating fear and getting her mother to change +places with her and to give up to her her place by the father. This +incident was undoubtedly the starting-point of phantasies, the effect of +which was evident in the ritual. + +If the bolster was a woman, then the shaking of the eiderdown till all +the feathers were at the bottom, making a protuberance there, also had a +meaning. It meant impregnating a woman; she did not neglect, though, to +obliterate the pregnancy again, for she had for years been terrified +that intercourse between her parents might result in another child and +present her with a rival. On the other hand, if the large bolster meant +the mother then the small pillow could only represent the daughter. Why +had this pillow to be placed diamond-wise upon the bolster and her head +be laid exactly in its middle lengthways? She was easily reminded that a +diamond is repeatedly used in drawings on walls to signify the open +female genitals. The part of the man (the father) she thus played +herself and replaced the male organ by her own head. (Cf. Symbolism of +beheading for castration.) + +Horrible thoughts, you will say, to run in the mind of a virgin girl. I +admit that; but do not forget that I have not invented these ideas, only +exposed them. A ritual of this kind before sleep is also peculiar +enough, and you cannot deny the correspondence, revealed by the +interpretation, between the ceremonies and the phantasies. It is more +important to me, however, that you should notice that the ritual was the +outcome, not of one single phantasy, but of several together which of +course must have had a nodal point somewhere. Note, too, that the +details of the ritual reflect the sexual wishes both positively and +negatively, and serve in part as expressions of them, in part as +defences against them. + +It would be possible to obtain much more out of the analysis of this +ritual by bringing it into its place in connection with the patient’s +other symptoms. But that is not our purpose at the moment. You must be +content with a reference to an erotic attachment to the father, +originating very early in childhood, which had enslaved this girl. It +was perhaps for this reason that she was so unfriendly towards her +mother. Also we cannot overlook the fact that the analysis of this +symptom has again led to the patient’s sexual life. The more insight we +gain into the meaning and purpose of neurotic symptoms, the less +surprising will this seem. + +From two selected examples I have now shown you that neurotic symptoms +have meaning, like errors and like dreams, and that they are closely +connected with the events of the patient’s life. Can I expect you to +believe this exceptionally significant statement on the strength of two +examples? No. But can you expect me to go on quoting examples to you +until you declare yourselves convinced? Again, no; for in view of the +explicit treatment given to each individual case I should have to devote +five hours a week for a whole term to the consideration of this one +point in the theory of the neuroses. I will content myself therefore +with the samples given, as evidence of my statement; and will refer you +for more to the literature on the subject, to the classical +interpretation of symptoms in Breuer’s first case (hysteria), to the +striking elucidations of very obscure symptoms in dementia præcox, +so-called, made by C. G. Jung at a time when this investigator was a +mere psycho-analyst and did not yet aspire to be a prophet, and to all +the subsequent contributions with which our periodicals have been filled +since then. Precisely this type of investigation is plentiful. Analysis, +interpretation, and translation of neurotic symptoms has proved so +attractive to psycho-analysts that in comparison they have temporarily +neglected the other problems of the neuroses. + +Anyone of you who makes the necessary effort to look up this question +will certainly be strongly impressed by the wealth of evidential +material. But he will also meet with a difficulty. The meaning of a +symptom lies, as we have seen, in its connection with the life of the +patient. The more individually the symptom has been formed, the more +clearly may we expect to establish this connection. Then the task +resolves itself specifically into a discovery, for every nonsensical +idea and every useless action, of the past situation in which the idea +was justified and the action served a useful purpose. The obsessive act +of the patient who ran to the table and rang for the maid is a perfect +model of this kind of symptom. But symptoms of quite a different type +are very frequently seen. They are what we call _typical_ symptoms of a +disease, in each case they are practically identical, the individual +differences in them vanish or at least fade away, so that it is +difficult to connect them with the patient’s life or to relate them to +special situations in his past. Let us consider the obsessional neurosis +again. The second patient’s ceremonies preparatory to sleep are in many +ways quite typical, although showing enough individual features as well +to make an “historical” interpretation, so to speak, possible. But all +obsessional patients are given to repetitions, to isolating certain of +their actions and to rhythmic performances. Most of them wash too much. +Those patients who suffer from agoraphobia (topophobia, fear of space), +no longer reckoned as an obsessional neurosis but now classified as +anxiety-hysteria, reproduce the same features of the pathological +picture often with fatiguing monotony. They fear enclosed spaces, wide, +open squares, long stretches of road, and avenues; they feel protected +if accompanied, or if a vehicle drives behind them, and so on. +Nevertheless, on this groundwork of similarity the various patients +construct individual conditions of their own, moods, one might call +them, which directly contrast with other cases. One fears narrow streets +only, another wide streets only, one can walk only when few people are +about, others only when surrounded with people. Similarly in hysteria, +beside the wealth of individual features there are always plenty of +common typical symptoms which appear to resist an easy interpretation on +historical lines. Do not let us forget that it is these typical symptoms +which enable us to take our bearings in forming a diagnosis. Supposing +we do trace back a typical symptom in a case of hysteria to an +experience or to a chain of similar experiences (for instance, an +hysterical vomiting to a series of impressions of a disgusting nature), +it will be confusing to discover in another case of vomiting an entirely +dissimilar series of apparently causative experiences. It almost looks +as though hysterical patients must vomit, for some unknown reason, and +as though the historical factors revealed by analysis were but pretexts, +seized upon by an inner necessity, when opportunity offered, to serve +its purpose. + +This brings us to the discouraging conclusion that although individual +forms of neurotic symptoms can certainly be satisfactorily explained by +their relation to the patient’s experiences, yet our science fails us +for the far more frequent typical symptoms in the same cases. In +addition to this, I have not nearly explained to you all the +difficulties that arise during a resolute pursuit of the historical +meaning of a symptom. Nor shall I do so; for although my intention is to +conceal nothing from you and to gloss over nothing, I do not need to +confuse you and stupefy you at the outset of our studies together. It is +true that our understanding of symptom-interpretation has only just +begun, but we will hold fast to the knowledge gained and proceed to +overcome step by step the difficulties of the unknown. I will try to +cheer you with the thought that it is hardly possible to presume a +fundamental difference between the one kind of symptom and the other. If +the individual form of symptom is so unmistakably connected with the +patient’s experiences, it is possible that the typical symptom relates +to an experience which is itself typical and common to all humanity. +Other regularly recurring features of a neurosis, such as the repetition +and doubt of the obsessional neurosis, may be universal reactions which +the patient is compelled to exaggerate by the nature of the morbid +change. In short, there is no reason to give up hastily in despair; let +us see what more we can find out. + +There is a very similar difficulty met with in the theory of dreams, one +which I could not deal with in the course of our previous discussions of +dreams. The manifest content of dreams is multifarious and highly +differentiated individually, and we have shown exhaustively what can be +obtained by analysis from this content. But there are also dreams which +may in the same way be called _typical_ and occur in everybody, dreams +with an identical content, which present the same difficulties to +analysis. These are the dreams of falling, flying, floating, swimming, +of being hindered, of being naked, and certain other anxiety-dreams; +which yield first this, then that, interpretation, according to the +person concerned, without any explanation of their monotonous and +typical recurrence. But we notice that in these dreams also the common +groundwork is embroidered with additions of an individually varying +character. Most probably they too will prove to fit in with other +knowledge about the dream-life, gained from a study of other kinds of +dreams—not by any forcible twist, but by a gradual widening of our +comprehension of these things. + + + + + EIGHTEENTH LECTURE + FIXATION UPON TRAUMATA: THE UNCONSCIOUS + + +I said last time that we would take, as a starting-point for further +work, the knowledge we have gained already, and not the doubts which it +has roused in us. We have not yet even begun to discuss two of the most +interesting conclusions arising from the analysis of the two examples. + +First: both the patients give the impression that they are “_fixed_” to +a particular point in their past, that they do not know how to release +themselves from it, and are consequently alienated from both present and +future. They are marooned in their illness, as it were; just as in +former times people used to withdraw to the cloister to live out their +unhappy fate there. In the case of the first patient, it was the +marriage to the husband, which in reality had long ago come to an end, +that had settled this doom upon her. Her symptoms enabled her to +continue her relationship with him; we could perceive in them the voices +which pleaded for him, excused him, exalted him, lamented his loss. +Although she is young and could attract other men, she has seized upon +every possible real and imaginary (magical) precaution that will +preserve her fidelity to him. She will not meet strangers, she neglects +her appearance; moreover, she cannot readily rise from any chair which +she sits upon, and she refuses to sign her name and can give no +presents, because no one must have anything which is hers. + +With the second patient, the young girl, it is the erotic attachment to +the father established in the years before puberty that plays this part +in her life. She also has herself perceived that she cannot marry as +long as she is so ill. We may suspect that she became so ill in order to +be unable to marry and so to remain with her father. + +We cannot avoid asking the question how, by what means, and impelled by +what motives, anyone can take up such an extraordinary and unprofitable +attitude towards life. Provided, that is, that this attitude is a +universal character of neurosis and is not a special peculiarity of +these two patients. As a matter of fact, this is so; it is a universal +trait common to every neurosis, and one of great practical significance. +Breuer’s first hysterical patient was _fixated_, in the same way, to the +time when her father was seriously ill and she nursed him. In spite of +her recovery, she has remained to some extent cut off from life since +that time; for although she has remained healthy and active, she did not +take up the normal career of a woman. In every one of our patients we +learn through analysis that the symptoms and their effects have set the +sufferer back into some past period of his life. In the majority of +cases it is actually a very early phase of the life-history which has +been thus selected, a period in childhood, even, absurd as it may sound, +the period of existence as a suckling infant. + +The closest analogy to this behaviour in our nervous patients is +provided by the forms of illness recently made so common by the war—the +so-called _traumatic neuroses_. Of course similar cases had occurred +before the war, after railway accidents and other terrifying experiences +involving danger to life. The traumatic neuroses are not fundamentally +the same as those which occur spontaneously, which we investigate +analytically and are accustomed to treat; neither have we been +successful so far in correlating them with our views on other subjects; +later on I hope to show you where this limitation lies. Yet there is a +complete agreement between them on one point which may be emphasized. +The traumatic neuroses demonstrate very clearly that a fixation to the +moment of the traumatic occurrence lies at their root. These patients +regularly reproduce the traumatic situation in their dreams; in cases +showing attacks of an hysterical type in which analysis is possible, it +appears that the attack constitutes a complete reproduction of this +situation. It is as though these persons had not yet been able to deal +adequately with the situation, as if this task were still actually +before them unaccomplished. We take this attitude of theirs in all +seriousness; it points the way to what we may call an _economic_ +conception of the mental processes. The term ‘_traumatic_’ has actually +no other meaning but this _economic_ one. An experience which we call +traumatic is one which within a very short space of time subjects the +mind to such a very high increase of stimulation that assimilation or +elaboration of it can no longer be effected by normal means, so that +lasting disturbances must result in the distribution of the available +energy in the mind. + +This analogy tempts us also to classify as traumatic those experiences +to which our nervous patients seem to be fixated. In this way we should +be provided with a simple condition for a neurotic illness; it would be +comparable to a traumatic illness and would result from an incapacity to +deal with an overpowering affective experience. Indeed, the first +formula in which Breuer and I, in 1893–95, reduced our new observations +to a theory was expressed very similarly. A case like that of the first +patient described, the young woman separated from her husband, fits very +well into this description; she had not been able to “get over” the +impracticability of her marriage and was still attached to her trauma. +But the second case of the young girl who was tied to her father shows +us at once that the formula is not comprehensive enough. On the one +hand, an infantile adoration of her father by a little girl is such a +common experience and so frequently grown out of that the term +‘traumatic’ would lose all its meaning if applied to it; on the other +hand, the history of the case shows that this first erotic fixation was +gone through by the patient quite harmlessly at the time, to all +appearances, and only several years later came to expression in the +obsessional neurosis. So we see that there are complications ahead, a +considerable variety and number of determining factors in neurosis; but +we divine that the traumatic view will not necessarily be abandoned as +false, and that it will fit in and have to be co-ordinated properly +elsewhere. + +Here again we must leave the path we have been following. At the moment +it will take us no further, and we have much more to learn before we can +find a satisfactory continuation of it. But before leaving the subject +of fixation to traumata it should be noted that it is a phenomenon +manifested extensively outside the neuroses; every neurosis contains +such a fixation, but not every fixation leads to a neurosis, or is +necessarily combined with a neurosis, or arises in the course of a +neurosis. Grief is a prototype and perfect example of an affective +fixation upon something that is past, and, like the neuroses, it also +involves a state of complete alienation from the present and the future. +But even the lay public distinguishes clearly between grief and +neurosis. On the other hand, there are neuroses which may be described +as morbid forms of grief. + +It does also happen that persons may be brought to a complete standstill +in life by a traumatic experience which has shaken the whole structure +of their lives to the foundations, so that they give up all interest in +the present and the future, and live permanently absorbed in their +retrospections; but these unhappy persons do not necessarily become +neurotic. Therefore this single feature must not be overestimated as a +characteristic of neurosis, however invariable and significant it may be +otherwise. + +Now let us turn to the second conclusion to be drawn from our analyses; +it is one upon which we shall not need to impose any subsequent +limitation. With the first patient we have heard of the senseless +obsessive act she performed and of the intimate memories she recalled in +connection with it; we also considered the relation between the two, and +deduced the purpose of the obsessive act from its connection with the +memory. But there is one factor which we have entirely neglected, and +yet it is one which deserves our fullest attention. As long as the +patient continued this performance she did not know that it was in any +way connected with the previous experience; the connection between the +two things was hidden; she could quite truly answer that she did not +know what impulse led her to do it. Then it happened suddenly that, +under the influence of the treatment, she found this connection and was +able to tell it. But even then she knew nothing of the purpose she had +in performing the action, the purpose that was to correct a painful +event of the past and to raise the husband she loved in her own +estimation. It took a long time and much effort for her to grasp, and +admit to me, that such a motive as this alone could have been the +driving force behind the obsessive act. + +The connection with the scene on the morning after the unhappy +bridal-night, and the patient’s own tender feeling for her husband, +together, make up what we have called the “meaning” of the obsessive +act. But both sides of this meaning were hidden from her, she understood +neither the _whence_ nor the _whither_ of her act, as long as she +carried it on. Mental processes had been at work in her, therefore, of +which the obsessive act was the effect; she was aware in a normal manner +of their effect; but nothing of the mental antecedents of this effect +had come to the knowledge of her consciousness. She was behaving exactly +like a subject under hypnotism whom Bernheim had ordered to open an +umbrella in the ward five minutes after he awoke, but who had no idea +why he was doing it. This is the kind of occurrence we have in mind when +we speak of the existence of _unconscious mental processes_; we may +challenge anyone in the world to give a more correctly scientific +explanation of this matter, and will then gladly withdraw our inference +that unconscious mental processes exist. Until they do, however, we will +adhere to this inference and, when anyone objects that in a scientific +sense the Unconscious has no reality, that it is a mere makeshift, _une +façon de parler_, we must resign ourselves with a shrug to rejecting his +statement as incomprehensible. Something unreal, which can nevertheless +produce something so real and palpable as an obsessive action! + +In the second patient fundamentally the same thing is found. She has +instituted a rule that the bolster must not touch the back of the +bedstead, and she had to carry out this rule, but she does not know +whence it comes, what it means, or to what it owes its strength. Whether +she regards it indifferently, or struggles against it, or rages against +it, or determines to overcome it, matters not; it will be followed. It +must be followed; in vain she asks herself why. It is undeniable that +these symptoms of the obsessional neurosis, these ideas and these +impulses which arise no man knows where and which oppose such a powerful +resistance against all the influences to which an otherwise normal +mental life is susceptible, give the impression, even to the patients +themselves, of being all-powerful visitants from another world, immortal +beings mingling in the whirlpool of mortal things. In these symptoms +lies the clearest indication of a special sphere of mental activity cut +off from all the rest. They show the way unmistakably to conviction on +the question of the unconscious in the mind; and for that very reason +clinical psychiatry, which only recognizes a psychology of +consciousness, can do nothing with these symptoms except to stigmatize +them as signs of a special kind of degeneration. Naturally, the +obsessive ideas and impulses are not themselves unconscious, any more +than is the performance of the obsessive acts. They would not have +become symptoms if they had not penetrated into consciousness. But the +mental antecedents of them disclosed by analysis, the connections into +which they fit after interpretation, are unconscious, at least until the +time when we make the patient conscious of them by the work of the +analysis. + +Consider now, in addition, that the facts established in these two cases +are confirmed in every symptom of every neurotic disease; that always +and everywhere the meaning of the symptoms is unknown to the sufferer; +that analysis invariably shows that these symptoms are derived from +unconscious mental processes which can, however, under various +favourable conditions, become conscious. You will then understand that +we cannot dispense with the unconscious part of the mind in +psycho-analysis, and that we are accustomed to deal with it as with +something actual and tangible. Perhaps you will also be able to realize +how unfitted all those who only know the Unconscious as a phrase, who +have never analysed, never interpreted dreams, or translated neurotic +symptoms into their meaning and intention, are to form an opinion on +this matter. I will repeat the substance of it again in order to impress +it upon you: The fact that it is possible to find meaning in neurotic +symptoms by means of analytic interpretation is an irrefutable proof of +the existence—or, if you prefer it, of the necessity for assuming the +existence—of unconscious mental processes. + +But that is not all. Thanks to a second discovery of Breuer’s, for which +he alone deserves credit and which seems to me even more far-reaching in +its significance than the first, more still has been learnt about the +relation between the Unconscious and the symptoms of neurotics. Not +merely is the meaning of the symptom invariably unconscious; there +exists also a connection of a substitutive nature between the two; the +existence of the symptom is only possible by reason of this unconscious +activity. You will soon understand what I mean. With Breuer, I maintain +the following: Every time we meet with a symptom we may conclude that +definite unconscious activities which contain the meaning of the symptom +are present in the patient’s mind. Conversely, this meaning must be +unconscious before a symptom can arise from it. Symptoms are not +produced by conscious processes; as soon as the unconscious processes +involved are made conscious the symptom must vanish. You will perceive +at once that here is an opening for therapy, a way by which symptoms can +be made to disappear. It was by this means that Breuer actually achieved +the recovery of his patient, that is, freed her from her symptoms; he +found a method of bringing into her consciousness the unconscious +processes which contained the meaning of her symptoms and the symptoms +vanished. + +This discovery of Breuer’s was not the result of any speculation but of +a fortunate observation made possible by the co-operation of the +patient. Now you must not rack your brains to try and understand this by +seeking to compare it with something similar that is already familiar to +you; but you must recognize in it a fundamentally new fact, by means of +which much else becomes explicable. Allow me therefore to express it +again to you in other words. + +The symptom is formed as a substitute for something else which remains +submerged. Certain mental processes would, under normal conditions, +develop until the person became aware of them consciously. This has not +happened; and, instead, the symptom has arisen out of these processes +which have been interrupted and interfered with in some way and have had +to remain unconscious. Thus something in the nature of an exchange has +occurred; if we can succeed in reversing this process by our therapy we +shall have performed our task of dispersing the symptom. + +Breuer’s discovery still remains the foundation of psycho-analytic +therapy. The proposition that symptoms vanish when their unconscious +antecedents have been made conscious has been borne out by all +subsequent research; although the most extraordinary and unexpected +complications are met with in attempting to carry this proposition out +in practice. Our therapy does its work by transforming something +unconscious into something conscious, and only succeeds in its work in +so far as it is able to effect this transformation. + +Now for a rapid digression, lest you should run the risk of imagining +that this therapeutic effect is achieved too easily. According to the +conclusions we have reached so far, neurosis would be the result of a +kind of ignorance, a not-knowing of mental processes which should be +known. This would approach very closely to the well-known Socratic +doctrine according to which even vice is the result of ignorance. Now it +happens in analysis that an experienced practitioner can usually surmise +very easily what those feelings are which have remained unconscious in +each individual patient. It should not therefore be a matter of great +difficulty to cure the patient by imparting this knowledge to him and so +relieving his ignorance. At least, one side of the unconscious meaning +of the symptom would be easily dealt with in this way, although it is +true that the other side of it, the connection between the symptom and +the previous experiences in the patient’s life, can hardly be divined +thus; for the analyst does not know what the experiences have been, he +has to wait till the patient remembers them and tells him. But one might +find a substitute even for this in many cases. One might ask for +information about his past life from the friends and relations; they are +often in a position to know what events have been of a traumatic nature, +perhaps they can even relate some of which the patient is ignorant +because they took place at some very early period of childhood. By a +combination of these two means it would seem that the pathogenic +ignorance of the patients might be overcome in a short time without much +trouble. + +If only it were so! But we have made discoveries that we were quite +unprepared for at first. There is knowing and knowing; they are not +always the same thing. There are various kinds of knowing, which +psychologically are not by any means of equal value. _Il y a fagots et +fagots_, as Molière says. Knowing on the part of the physician is not +the same thing as knowing on the part of the patient and does not have +the same effect. When the physician conveys his knowledge to the patient +by telling him what he knows, it has no effect. No, it would be +incorrect to say that. It does not have the effect of dispersing the +symptoms; but it has a different one, it sets the analysis in motion, +and the first result of this is often an energetic denial. The patient +has learned something that he did not know before—the meaning of his +symptom—and yet he knows it as little as ever. Thus we discover that +there is more than one kind of ignorance. It requires a considerable +degree of insight and understanding of psychological matters in order to +see in what the difference consists. But the proposition that symptoms +vanish with the acquisition of knowledge of their meaning remains true, +nevertheless. The necessary condition is that the knowledge must be +founded upon an inner change in the patient which can only come about by +a mental operation directed to that end. We are here confronted by +problems which to us will soon develop into the _dynamics_ of +symptom-formation. + +Now I must really stop and ask you whether all that I have been saying +is not too obscure and complicated? Am I confusing you by so often +qualifying and restricting, spinning out trains of thought and then +letting them drop? I should be sorry if it were so. But I have a strong +dislike of simplification at the expense of truth, I am not averse from +giving you a full impression of the many-sidedness and intricacy of the +subject, and also I believe that it does no harm to tell you more about +each point than you can assimilate at the moment. I know that every +listener and every reader arranges what is offered him as suits him in +his own mind, shortens it, simplifies it, and extracts from it what he +will retain. Within certain limits it is true that the more we begin +with the more we shall have at the end. So let me hope that, in spite of +the elaboration, you will have grasped the essential substance of my +remarks concerning the meaning of symptoms, the Unconscious, and the +connection between the two. You have probably understood also that our +further efforts will proceed in two directions; first, towards +discovering how people become ill, how they come to take up the +characteristic neurotic attitude towards life, which is a clinical +problem; and secondly, how they develop the morbid symptoms out of the +conditions of a neurosis, which remains a problem of mental dynamics. +The two problems must somewhere have a point of contact. + +I shall not go further into this to-day; but as our time is not yet up I +propose to draw your attention to another characteristic of our two +analyses; namely, _the memory gaps or amnesias_, again a point which +only later will appear in its full significance. You have heard that the +task of the psycho-analytic treatment can be summed up in this formula: +everything pathogenic in the Unconscious must be transferred into +consciousness. Now you will be perhaps astonished to hear that another +formula may be substituted for that one: all gaps in the patient’s +memory must be filled in, his amnesias removed. It amounts to the same +thing; which means that an important connection is to be recognized +between the development of the symptoms and the amnesias. If you +consider the case of the first patient analysed you will, however, not +find this view of amnesia justified; the patient had not forgotten the +scene from which the obsessive act is derived; on the contrary, it was +vivid in her memory, nor is there any other forgotten factor involved in +the formation of her symptom. The situation is quite analogous, although +less clear, in the second case, the girl with the obsessional +ceremonies. She, too, had not really forgotten her behaviour in former +years, the fact that she had insisted upon the open door between her +parents’ bedroom and her own, and that she had turned her mother out of +her place in the parents’ bed; she remembered it quite clearly, although +with hesitation and unwillingness. What is remarkable about it is that +the first patient, although she had carried out her obsessive act such a +countless number of times, had not _once_ been reminded of its +similarity to the scene after the wedding-night, nor did this +recollection ever occur to her when she was directly asked to search for +the origin of her obsessive act. The same thing is true in the case of +the girl, where not merely the ritual, but the situation which gave rise +to it, was repeated identically every evening. In neither case was there +really an amnesia, a lapse of memory; but a connection, which should +have existed intact and have led to the reproduction, the recollection, +of the memory, had been broken. This kind of disturbance of memory +suffices for the obsessional neurosis; in hysteria it is different. This +latter neurosis is usually characterized by amnesias on a grand scale. +As a rule the analysis of each single hysterical symptom leads to a +whole chain of former impressions, which upon their return may be +literally described as having been hitherto forgotten. This chain +reaches, on the one hand, back to the earliest years of childhood, so +that the hysterical amnesia is seen to be a direct continuation of the +infantile amnesia which hides the earliest impressions of our mental +life from all of us. On the other hand, we are astonished to find that +the most recent experiences of the patient are liable to be forgotten +also, and that in particular the provocations which induced the outbreak +of the disease or aggravated it are at least partially obliterated, if +not entirely wiped out, by amnesia. From the complete picture of any +such recent recollection important details have invariably disappeared +or been replaced by falsifications. It happens again and again, almost +invariably, that not until shortly before the completion of an analysis +do certain recollections of recent experiences come to the surface, +which had managed to be withheld throughout it and had left noticeable +gaps in the context. + +These derangements in the capacity to recall memories are, as I have +said, characteristic of hysteria, in which disease it also happens even +that states occur as symptoms (the hysterical attacks) without +necessarily leaving a trace of recollection behind them. Since it is +otherwise in the obsessional neurosis, you may infer that these amnesias +are part of the psychological character of the hysterical change and are +not a universal trait of neurosis in general. The importance of this +difference will be diminished by the following consideration. Two things +are combined to constitute the meaning of a symptom; its _whence_ and +its _whither_ or _why_; that is, the impressions and experiences from +which it sprang, and the purpose which it serves. The _whence_ of a +symptom is resolved into impressions which have been received from +without, which were necessarily at one time conscious, and which may +have become unconscious by being forgotten since that time. The _why_ of +the symptom, its tendency, is however always an endo-psychic process, +which may possibly have been conscious at first, but just as possibly +may never have been conscious and may have remained in the Unconscious +from its inception. Therefore it is not very important whether the +amnesia has also infringed upon the _whence_, the impressions upon which +the symptom is supported, as happens in hysteria; the _whither_, the +tendency of the symptom, which may have been unconscious from the +beginning, is what maintains the symptom’s dependence upon the +Unconscious, in the obsessional neurosis no less strictly than in +hysteria. + +By thus emphasizing the unconscious in mental life we have called forth +all the malevolence in humanity in opposition to psycho-analysis. Do not +be astonished at this and do not suppose that this opposition relates to +the obvious difficulty of conceiving the Unconscious or to the relative +inaccessibility of the evidence which supports its existence. I believe +it has a deeper source. Humanity has in the course of time had to endure +from the hands of science two great outrages upon its naïve self-love. +The first was when it realized that our earth was not the centre of the +universe, but only a tiny speck in a world-system of a magnitude hardly +conceivable; this is associated in our minds with the name of +Copernicus, although Alexandrian doctrines taught something very +similar. The second was when biological research robbed man of his +peculiar privilege of having been specially created, and relegated him +to a descent from the animal world, implying an ineradicable animal +nature in him: this transvaluation has been accomplished in our own time +upon the instigation of Charles Darwin, Wallace, and their predecessors, +and not without the most violent opposition from their contemporaries. +But man’s craving for grandiosity is now suffering the third and most +bitter blow from present-day psychological research which is +endeavouring to prove to the “ego” of each one of us that he is not even +master in his own house, but that he must remain content with the +veriest scraps of information about what is going on unconsciously in +his own mind. We psycho-analysts were neither the first nor the only +ones to propose to mankind that they should look inward; but it appears +to be our lot to advocate it most insistently and to support it by +empirical evidence which touches every man closely. This is the kernel +of the universal revolt against our science, of the total disregard of +academic courtesy in dispute, and the liberation of opposition from all +the constraints of impartial logic. And besides this, we have been +compelled to disturb the peace of the world in yet another way, as you +will soon hear. + + + + + NINETEENTH LECTURE + RESISTANCE AND REPRESSION + + +We now need more data before we can advance further in our understanding +of the neuroses; two observations lie to hand for us. Both are very +remarkable and at first were very surprising. You are of course prepared +for both of them by the work we did last year. + +First: when we undertake to cure a patient of his symptoms he opposes +against us a vigorous and tenacious _resistance_ throughout the entire +course of the treatment. This is such an extraordinary thing that we +cannot expect much belief in it. It is best to say nothing about it to +the patient’s relations, for they invariably regard it as a pretext set +up by us to excuse the length or the failure of the treatment. The +patient, too, exhibits all the manifestations of this resistance without +recognizing it as such, and it is a great step forward when we have +brought him to realize this fact and to reckon with it. To think that +the patient, whose symptoms cause him and those about him such +suffering, who is willing to make such sacrifices in time, money, +effort, and self-conquest in order to be freed from them,—that he +should, in the interests of his illness, resist the help offered him. +How improbable this statement must sound! And yet it is so, and if the +improbability is made a reproach against us we need only reply that it +is not without its analogies; for a man who has rushed off to a dentist +with a frightful toothache may very well fend him off when he takes his +forceps to the decayed tooth. + +The resistance shown by patients is highly varied and exceedingly +subtle, often hard to recognize and protean in the manifold forms it +takes; the analyst needs to be continually suspicious and on his guard +against it. In psycho-analytic therapy we employ the technique which is +already familiar to you through dream-interpretation: we require the +patient to put himself into a condition of calm self-observation, +without trying to think of anything, and then to communicate everything +which he becomes inwardly aware of, feelings, thoughts, remembrances, in +the order in which they arise in his mind. We expressly warn him against +giving way to any kind of motive which would cause him to select from or +to exclude any of the ideas (associations), whether because they are too +“disagreeable,” or too “indiscreet” to be mentioned, or too +“unimportant” or “irrelevant” or “nonsensical” to be worth saying. We +impress upon him that he has only to attend to what is on the surface +consciously in his mind, and to abandon all objections to whatever he +finds, no matter what form they take; and we inform him that the success +of the treatment, and, above all, its duration, will depend upon his +conscientious adherence to this fundamental technical rule. We know from +the technique of dream-interpretation that it is precisely those +associations against which innumerable doubts and objections are raised +that invariably contain the material leading to the discovery of the +unconscious. + +The first thing that happens as a result of instituting this technical +rule is that it becomes the first point of attack for the resistance. +The patient attempts to escape from it by every possible means. First he +says nothing comes into his head, then that so much comes into his head +that he can’t grasp any of it. Then we observe with displeasure and +astonishment that he is giving in to his critical objections, first to +this, then to that; he betrays it by the long pauses which occur in his +talk. At last he admits that he really cannot say something, he is +ashamed to, and he lets this feeling get the better of his promise. Or +else, he has thought of something but it concerns someone else and not +himself, and is therefore to be made an exception to the rule. Or else, +what he has just thought of is really too unimportant, too stupid and +too absurd, I could never have meant that he should take account of such +thoughts. So it goes on, with untold variations, to which one +continually replies that telling everything really means telling +everything. + +One hardly ever meets with a patient who does not attempt to make a +reservation in some department of his thoughts, in order to guard them +against intrusion by the analysis. One patient, who in the ordinary way +was remarkably intelligent, concealed a most intimate love-affair from +me for weeks in this way; when accused of this violation of the sacred +rule he defended himself with the argument that he considered this +particular story his private affair. Naturally analytic treatment cannot +countenance a right of sanctuary like this; one might as well try to +allow an exception to be made in certain parts of a town like Vienna, +and forbid that any arrests should be made in the market-place or in the +square by St. Stephen’s church, and then attempt to take up a “wanted” +man. Of course he would never be found anywhere but in those safe +places. Once I decided to permit a man to make an exception of such a +point; for a great deal depended on his recovering his capacity for work +and he was bound by his oath as a civil servant not to communicate +certain matters to any other person. He was content with the result, it +is true, but I was not: I made up my mind never again to repeat the +attempt under such conditions. + +Obsessional patients are exceedingly clever at making the technical rule +almost useless by bringing their over-conscientiousness and doubt to +bear upon it. Patients with anxiety-hysteria sometimes succeed in +reducing it to absurdity by only producing associations which are so far +removed from what is wanted that they yield nothing for analysis. +However, I do not intend to introduce you to these technical +difficulties of the treatment. It is enough to know that finally, with +resolution and perseverance, we do succeed in extracting from the +patient a certain amount of obedience for the rule of the technique; and +then the resistance takes another line altogether. It appears as +intellectual opposition, employs arguments as weapons, and turns to its +own use all the difficulties and improbabilities which normal but +uninstructed reasoning finds in analytical doctrines. We then have to +hear from the mouth of the individual patient all the criticisms and +objections which thunder about us in chorus in scientific literature. +What the critics outside shout at us is nothing new, therefore. It is +indeed a storm in a teacup. Still, the patient can be argued with; he is +very glad to get us to instruct him, teach him, defeat him, point out +the literature to him so that he can learn more; he is perfectly ready +to become a supporter of psycho-analysis on the condition that analysis +shall spare him personally. We recognize resistance in this desire for +knowledge, however; it is a digression from the particular task in hand +and we refuse to allow it. In the obsessional neurosis the resistance +makes use of special tactics which we are prepared for. It permits the +analysis to proceed uninterruptedly along its course, so that more and +more light is thrown upon the problems of the case, until we begin to +wonder at last why these explanations have no practical effect and +entail no corresponding improvement in the symptoms. Then we discover +that the resistance has fallen back upon the doubt characteristic of the +obsessional neurosis and is holding us successfully at bay from this +vantage-point. The patient has said to himself something of this kind: +“This is all very pretty and very interesting. I should like to go on +with it. I am sure it would do me a lot of good if it were true. But I +don’t believe it in the least, and as long as I don’t believe it, it +doesn’t affect my illness.” So it goes on for a long time, until at last +this reservation itself is reached and then the decisive battle begins. + +The intellectual resistances are not the worst; one can always get the +better of them. But the patient knows how to set up resistances within +the boundaries of analysis proper, and the defeat of these is one of the +most difficult tasks of the technique. Instead of remembering certain of +the feelings and states of mind of his previous life, he reproduces +them, lives through again such of them as, by means of what is called +the ‘transference,’ may be made effective in opposition against the +physician and the treatment. If the patient is a man, he usually takes +this material from his relationship with his father, in whose place he +has now put the physician; and in so doing he erects resistances out of +his struggles to attain to personal independence and independence of +judgement, out of his ambition, the earliest aim of which was to equal +or to excel the father, out of his disinclination to take the burden of +gratitude upon himself for the second time in his life. There are +periods in which one feels that the patient’s desire to put the analyst +in the wrong, to make him feel his impotence, to triumph over him, has +completely ousted the worthier desire to bring the illness to an end. +Women have a genius for exploiting in the interests of resistance a +tender erotically-tinged transference to the analyst; when this +attraction reaches a certain intensity all interest in the actual +situation of treatment fades away, together with every obligation +incurred upon undertaking it. The inevitable jealousy and the +embitterment consequent upon the unavoidable rejection, however +considerately it is handled, is bound to injure the personal +relationship with the physician, and so to put out of action one of the +most powerful propelling forces in the analysis. + +Resistances of this kind must not be narrowly condemned. They contain so +much of the most important material from the patient’s past life and +bring it back in so convincing a fashion that they come to be of the +greatest assistance to the analysis, if a skilful technique is employed +correctly to turn them to the best use. What is noteworthy is that this +material always serves at first as a resistance and comes forward in a +guise which is inimical to the treatment. Again it may be said that they +are character-traits, individual attitudes of the Ego, which are thus +mobilized to oppose the attempted alterations. One learns then how these +character-traits have been developed in connection with the conditions +of the neurosis and in reaction against its demands, and observes +features in this character which would not otherwise have appeared, at +least, not so clearly: that is, which may be designated latent. Also you +must not carry away the impression that we look upon the appearance of +these resistances as an unforeseen danger threatening our analytic +influence. No, we know that these resistances are bound to appear; we +are dissatisfied only if we cannot rouse them definitely enough and make +the patient perceive them as such. Indeed, we understand at last that +the overcoming of these resistances is the essential work of the +analysis, that part of the work which alone assures us that we have +achieved something for the patient. + +Besides this, you must take into account that all accidental occurrences +arising during the treatment are made use of by the patient to interfere +with it, anything which could distract him or deter him from it, every +hostile expression of opinion from anyone in his circle whom he can +regard as an authority, any chance organic illness or one complicating +the neurosis; indeed, he even converts every improvement in his +condition into a motive for slackening his efforts. Then you will have +obtained an approximate, though still incomplete, picture of the forms +and the measures taken by the resistances which must be met and overcome +in the course of every analysis. I have given such a detailed +consideration to this point because I am about to inform you that our +dynamic conception of the neuroses is founded upon this experience of +ours of the resistances that neurotic patients set up against the cure +of their symptoms. Breuer and I both originally practised psycho-therapy +by the hypnotic method. Breuer’s first patient was treated throughout in +a state of hypnotic suggestibility; at first I followed his example. I +admit that at that time my work went forward more easily and agreeably +and also took much less time: but the results were capricious and not +permanent; therefore I finally gave up hypnotism. And then I understood +that no comprehension of the dynamics of these affections was possible +as long as hypnosis was employed. In this condition the very existence +of resistances is concealed from the physician’s observation. Hypnosis +drives back the resistances and frees a certain field for the work of +the analysis, but dams them up at the boundaries of this field so that +they are insurmountable; it is similar in effect to the doubt of the +obsessional neurosis. Therefore I may say that true psycho-analysis only +began when the help of hypnosis was discarded. + +If it is a matter of such importance to establish these resistances then +surely it would be wise to allow caution and doubt full play, in case we +have been too ready with our assumption that they exist. Perhaps cases +of neurosis may be found in which the associations really fail for other +reasons, perhaps the arguments against our theories really deserve +serious attention, and we may be wrong in so conveniently disposing of +the patient’s intellectual objections by stigmatizing them as +resistance. Well, I can only assure you that our judgement in this +matter has not been formed hastily; we have had opportunity to observe +these critical patients both before the resistance comes to the surface +and after it disappears. In the course of the treatment the resistance +varies in intensity continually; it always increases as a new topic is +approached, it is at its height during the work upon it, and dies down +again when this theme has been dealt with. Unless certain technical +errors have been committed we never have to meet the full measure of +resistance, of which any patient is capable, at once. Thus we could +definitely ascertain that the same man would take up and then abandon +his critical objections over and over again in the course of the +analysis. Whenever we are on the point of bringing to his consciousness +some piece of unconscious material which is particularly painful to him, +then he is critical in the extreme; even though he may have previously +understood and accepted a great deal, yet now all these gains seem to be +obliterated; in his struggles to oppose at all costs he can behave just +as though he were mentally deficient, a form of ‘emotional stupidity.’ +If he can be successfully helped to overcome this new resistance he +regains his insight and comprehension. His critical faculty is not +functioning independently, and therefore is not to be respected as if it +were; it is merely a maid-of-all-work for his affective attitudes and is +directed by his resistance. When he dislikes anything he can defend +himself against it most ingeniously; but when anything suits his book he +can be credulous enough. We are perhaps all much the same; a person +being analysed shows this dependence of the intellect upon the affective +life so clearly because in the analysis he is so hard-pressed. + +In what way can we now account for this fact observed, that the patient +struggles so energetically against the relief of his symptoms and the +restoration of his mental processes to normal functioning? We say that +we have come upon the traces of powerful forces at work here opposing +any change in the condition; they must be the same forces that +originally induced the condition. In the formation of symptoms some +process must have been gone through, which our experience in dispersing +them makes us able to reconstruct. As we already know from Breuer’s +observations, it follows from the existence of a symptom that some +mental process has not been carried through to an end in a normal manner +so that it could become conscious; the symptom is a substitute for that +which has not come through. Now we know where to place the forces which +we suspect to be at work. A vehement effort must have been exercised to +prevent the mental process in question from penetrating into +consciousness and as a result it has remained unconscious; being +unconscious it had the power to construct a symptom. The same vehement +effort is again at work during analytic treatment, opposing the attempt +to bring the unconscious into consciousness. This we perceive in the +form of resistances. The pathogenic process which is demonstrated by the +resistances we call REPRESSION. + +It will now be necessary to make our conception of this process of +_repression_ more precise. It is the essential preliminary condition for +the development of symptoms, but it is also something else, a thing to +which we have no parallel. Let us take as a model an impulse, a mental +process seeking to convert itself into action: we know that it can +suffer rejection, by virtue of what we call “repudiation” or +“condemnation”; whereupon the energy at its disposal is withdrawn, it +becomes powerless, but it can continue to exist as a memory. The whole +process of decision on the point takes place with the full cognizance of +the Ego. It is very different when we imagine the same impulse subject +to _repression_: it would then retain its energy and no memory of it +would be left behind; the process of repression, too, would be +accomplished without the cognizance of the Ego. This comparison +therefore brings us no nearer to the nature of repression. + +I will expound to you those theoretical conceptions which alone have +proved useful in giving greater definiteness to the term _repression_. +For this purpose it is first necessary that we should proceed from the +purely descriptive meaning of the word “unconscious” to its systematic +meaning; that is, we resolve to think of the consciousness or +unconsciousness of a mental process as merely one of its qualities and +not necessarily definitive. Suppose that a process of this kind has +remained unconscious, its being withheld from consciousness may be +merely a sign of the fate it has undergone, not necessarily the fate +itself. Let us suppose, in order to gain a more concrete notion of this +fate, that every mental process—there is one exception, which I will go +into later—first exists in an unconscious state or phase, and only +develops out of this into a conscious phase, much as a photograph is +first a negative and then becomes a picture through the printing of the +positive. But not every negative is made into a positive, and it is just +as little necessary that every unconscious mental process should convert +itself into a conscious one. It may be best expressed as follows: Each +single process belongs in the first place to the unconscious psychical +system; from this system it can under certain conditions proceed further +into the conscious system. + +The crudest conception of these systems is the one we shall find most +convenient, a spatial one. The unconscious system may therefore be +compared to a large ante-room, in which the various mental excitations +are crowding upon one another, like individual beings. Adjoining this is +a second, smaller apartment, a sort of reception-room, in which, too, +consciousness resides. But on the threshold between the two there stands +a personage with the office of door-keeper, who examines the various +mental excitations, censors them, and denies them admittance to the +reception-room when he disapproves of them. You will see at once that it +does not make much difference whether the door-keeper turns any one +impulse back at the threshold, or drives it out again once it has +entered the reception-room; that is merely a matter of the degree of his +vigilance and promptness in recognition. Now this metaphor may be +employed to widen our terminology. The excitations in the unconscious, +in the antechamber, are not visible to consciousness, which is of course +in the other room, so to begin with they remain unconscious. When they +have pressed forward to the threshold and been turned back by the +door-keeper, they are ‘_incapable of becoming conscious_’; we call them +then _repressed_. But even those excitations which are allowed over the +threshold do not necessarily become conscious; they can only become so +if they succeed in attracting the eye of consciousness. This second +chamber therefore may be suitably called _the preconscious system_. In +this way the process of becoming conscious retains its purely +descriptive sense. Being repressed, when applied to any single impulse, +means being unable to pass out of the unconscious system because of the +door-keeper’s refusal of admittance into the preconscious. The +door-keeper is what we have learnt to know as resistance in our attempts +in analytic treatment to loosen the repressions. + +Now I know very well that you will say that these conceptions are as +crude as they are fantastic and not at all permissible in a scientific +presentation. I know they are crude; further indeed, we even know that +they are incorrect, and unless I am mistaken, we have something better +ready as a substitute for them; whether you will then continue to think +them so fantastic, I do not know. At the moment they are useful aids to +understanding, like _Ampère’s_ manikin swimming in the electric current, +and, in so far as they do assist comprehension, are not to be despised. +Still, I should like to assure you that these crude hypotheses, the two +chambers, the door-keeper on the threshold between the two, and +consciousness as a spectator at the end of the second room, must +indicate an extensive approximation to the actual reality. I should also +like to hear you admit that our designations, unconscious, preconscious, +and conscious, are less prejudicial and more easily defensible than some +others which have been suggested or have come into use, e.g. +sub-conscious, inter-conscious, co-conscious, etc. + +If so, I should think it more significant if you then went on to point +out that any such constitution of the mental apparatus as I have assumed +in order to account for neurotic symptoms can only be of universal +validity and must throw light on normal functioning. In this, of course, +you are perfectly right. We cannot follow up this conclusion at the +moment; but our interest in the psychology of symptom-development would +certainly be enormously increased if we could see any prospect of +obtaining, by the study of pathological conditions, an insight into +normal mental functioning, hitherto such a mystery. + +Do you not recognize, moreover, what it is that supports these +conceptions of the two systems and the relationship between them and +consciousness? The door-keeper between the unconscious and the +preconscious is nothing else than the _censorship_ to which we found the +form of the manifest dream subjected. The residue of the day’s +experiences, which we found to be the stimuli exciting the dream, was +preconscious material which at night during sleep had been influenced by +unconscious and repressed wishes and excitations; and had thus by +association with them been able to form the latent dream, by means of +their energy. Under the dominion of the unconscious system this material +had been elaborated (worked over)—by condensation and displacement—in a +way which in normal mental life, i.e. in the preconscious system, is +unknown or admissible very rarely. This difference in their manner of +functioning is what distinguishes the two systems for us; the +relationship to consciousness, which is a permanent feature of the +preconscious, indicates to which of the two systems any given process +belongs. Neither is dreaming a pathological phenomenon; every healthy +person may dream while asleep. Every inference concerning the +constitution of the mental apparatus which comprises an understanding of +both dreams and neurotic symptoms has an irrefutable claim to be +regarded as applying also to normal mental life. + +This is as much as we will say about repression for the present. +Moreover, it is but a necessary preliminary condition, a prerequisite, +of symptom-formation. We know that the symptom is a substitute for some +other process which was held back by repression; but even given +repression we have still a long way to go before we can obtain +comprehension of this substitute-formation. There are other sides to the +problem of repression itself which present questions to be answered: +What kind of mental excitations suffer repression? What forces effect +it? and from what motives? On one point only, so far, have we gained any +knowledge relevant to these questions. While investigating the problem +of resistance we learned that the forces behind it proceed from the Ego, +from character-traits, recognizable or latent: it is these forces +therefore which have also effected the repression, or at least they have +taken a part in it. We know nothing more than this at present. + +The second observation for which I prepared you will help us now. By +means of analysis we can always discover the purpose behind the neurotic +symptom. This is of course nothing new to you: I have already pointed it +out in two cases of neurosis. But, to be sure, what do two cases +signify? You have a right to demand two hundred cases, innumerable +cases, in demonstration of it. But then, I cannot comply with that. So +you must fall back on personal experience, or upon belief, which in this +matter can rely upon the unanimous testimony of all psycho-analysts. + +You will remember that in the two cases in which we submitted the +symptoms to detailed investigation analysis led to the innermost secrets +of the patient’s sexual life. In the first case, moreover, the purpose +or tendency of the symptom under examination was particularly evident; +in the second case, it was perhaps to some extent veiled by another +factor to be mentioned later. Well now, what we found in these two +examples we should find in every case we submitted to analysis. Every +time we should be led by analysis to the sexual experiences and desires +of the patient, and every time we should have to affirm that the symptom +served the same purpose. This purpose shows itself to be the +gratification of sexual wishes; the symptoms serve the purpose of sexual +gratification for the patient; they are a substitute for satisfactions +which he does not obtain in reality. + +Think of the obsessive act of our first patient. This woman has to do +without the husband she loved so intensely; on account of his +deficiencies and short-comings she could not share his life. She had to +be faithful to him; she could not put anyone else in his place. Her +obsessional symptom gives her what she so much desires; it exalts her +husband, denies and corrects his deficiencies, above all, his impotence. +This symptom is fundamentally a wish-fulfilment, in that respect exactly +like a dream; it is, moreover, what a dream is not always, an erotic +wish-fulfilment. In the case of the second patient you could see that +her ritual aims at preventing intercourse between the parents or at +hindering the procreation of another child; you have probably also +divined that fundamentally it seeks to set her in her mother’s place. It +again therefore constitutes a removal of hindrances to sexual +satisfaction and the fulfilment of the subject’s own sexual wishes. Of +the complications referred to in the second case I shall speak shortly. + +I wish to avoid making reservations later on about the universal +applicability of these statements, and therefore I will ask you to +notice that all I have just been saying about repression, +symptom-formation and symptom-interpretation has been obtained from the +study of three types of neurosis, and for the present is only applicable +to these three types—namely, _anxiety-hysteria_, _conversion-hysteria_, +and _the obsessional neurosis_. These three disorders, which we are +accustomed to combine together in a group as the TRANSFERENCE NEUROSES, +constitute the field open to psycho-analytic therapy. The other neuroses +have been far less closely studied psycho-analytically; in one group of +them the impossibility of therapeutic influence has no doubt been one +reason for this neglect. You must not forget that psycho-analysis is +still a very young science, that much time and trouble are required for +the study of it, and that not so very long ago there was only one man +practising it: yet we are approaching from all directions to a nearer +comprehension of these other conditions which are not transference +neuroses. I hope I shall still be able to tell you of the developments +that our hypotheses and conclusions have undergone in the course of +adaptation to this new material, and to show you that these further +studies have not yielded contradictions but have led to a higher degree +of unification in our knowledge. Everything that has been said, then, +applies only to the three transference neuroses and I will now add +another piece of information which throws further light upon the +significance of the symptoms. A comparative examination of the +situations out of which the disease arose yields the following result, +which may be reduced to a formula—namely, that these persons have fallen +ill owing to some kind of PRIVATION which they suffer when reality +withholds from them gratification of their sexual wishes. You will +perceive how beautifully these two conclusions supplement one another. +The symptoms are now explicable as substitute-gratifications for desires +which are unsatisfied in life. + +It is certainly possible to make all kinds of objections to the +proposition that neurotic symptoms are substitutes for sexual +gratifications. I will discuss two of them to-day. If any one of you has +himself undertaken the analysis of a large number of neurotics, he will +perhaps shake his head and say: “In certain cases this is not at all +applicable, in them the symptoms seem rather to contain the opposite +purpose, of excluding or of discontinuing sexual gratification.” I shall +not dispute your interpretation. In psycho-analysis things are often a +good deal more complicated than we could wish: if they had been simpler +psycho-analysis would perhaps not have been required to bring them to +light. Certain features of the ritual of our second patient are +distinctly recognizable as being of this ascetic character, inimical to +sexual satisfaction; e.g., her removing the clocks for the magic purpose +of preventing erections at night, or her trying to prevent the falling +and breaking of vessels, which amounts to a protection of her virginity. +In other cases of ceremonials on going to bed which I have analysed this +negative character was far more marked; the whole ritual could consist +of defensive regulations against sexual recollections and temptations. +But we have long ago learnt from psycho-analysis that opposites do not +constitute a contradiction. We might extend our proposition and say that +the purpose of the symptom is either a sexual gratification or a defence +against it; in hysteria the positive, wish-fulfilling character +predominates on the whole, and in the obsessional neurosis the negative +ascetic character. The symptoms can serve the purpose both of sexual +gratification and of its opposite so well because this double-sidedness, +or _polarity_, has a most suitable foundation in one element of their +mechanism which we have not yet had an opportunity to mention. They are +in fact, as we shall see, the effects of _compromises_ between two +opposed tendencies, acting on one another; they represent both that +which is repressed, and also that which has effected the repression and +has co-operated in bringing them about. The representation of either one +or another of these two factors may predominate in the symptom, but it +happens very rarely that one of them is absent altogether. In hysteria a +collaboration of the two tendencies in one symptom is usually achieved. +In the obsessional neurosis the two parts are often distinct: the +symptom is then a double one and consists of two successive actions +which cancel each other. + +It will not be so easy to dispose of a second difficulty. When you +consider a whole series of symptom-interpretations your first +opinion would probably be that the conception of a sexual +substitute-gratification has to be stretched to its widest limits in +order to include them. You will not neglect to point out that these +symptoms offer nothing real in the way of gratification, that often +enough they are confined to re-animating a sensation, or to enacting +a phantasy arising from some sexual complex. Further, that the +ostensible sexual gratification is very often of an infantile and +unworthy character, perhaps approximating to a masturbatory act, or +is reminiscent of dirty habits which long ago in childhood had been +forbidden and abandoned. And further still, you will express your +astonishment that anyone should reckon among sexual gratifications +those which can only be described as gratifications of cruel or +horrible appetites, or which may be termed unnatural. Indeed, we +shall come to no agreement on these latter points until we have +submitted human sexuality to a thorough investigation and have thus +established what we are justified in calling sexual. + + + + + TWENTIETH LECTURE + THE SEXUAL LIFE OF MAN + + +One would certainly think that there could be no doubt about what is to +be understood by the term “sexual.” First and foremost, of course, it +means the “improper,” that which must not be mentioned. I have been told +a story about some pupils of a famous psychiatrist, who once endeavoured +to convince their master that the symptoms of an hysteric are frequently +representations of sexual things. With this object, they took him to the +bedside of an hysterical woman whose attacks were unmistakable +imitations of childbirth. He objected, however: “Well, there is nothing +sexual about childbirth.” To be sure, childbirth is not necessarily +always improper. + +I perceive that you don’t approve of my joking about such serious +matters. It is not altogether a joke, however. Seriously, it is not so +easy to define what the term sexual includes. Everything connected with +the difference between the two sexes is perhaps the only way of hitting +the mark; but you will find that too general and indefinite. If you take +the sexual act itself as the central point, you will perhaps declare +sexual to mean everything which is concerned with obtaining pleasurable +gratification from the body (and particularly the sexual organs) of the +opposite sex; in the narrowest sense, everything which is directed to +the union of the genital organs and the performance of the sexual act. +In doing so, however, you come very near to reckoning the sexual and the +improper as identical, and childbirth would really have nothing to do +with sex. If then you make the function of reproduction the kernel of +sexuality you run the risk of excluding from it a whole host of things +like masturbation, or even kissing, which are not directed towards +reproduction, but which are nevertheless undoubtedly sexual. However, we +have already found that attempts at definition always lead to +difficulties; let us give up trying to do any better in this particular +case. We may suspect that in the development of the concept “sexual” +something has happened which has resulted in what H. Silberer has aptly +called a ‘covering error.’ On the whole, indeed, we know pretty well +what is meant by sexual. + +In the popular view, which is sufficient for all practical purposes in +ordinary life, sexual is something which combines references to the +difference between the sexes, to pleasurable excitement and +gratification, to the reproductive function, and to the idea of +impropriety and the necessity for concealment. But this is no longer +sufficient for science. For painstaking researches (only possible, of +course, in a spirit of self-command maintained by self-sacrifice) have +revealed that classes of human beings exist whose sexual life deviates +from the usual one in the most striking manner. One group among these +“perverts” has, as it were, expunged the difference between the sexes +from its scheme of life. In these people, only the same sex as their own +can rouse sexual desire; the other sex (especially the genital organ of +the other sex) has absolutely no sexual attraction for them, can even in +extreme cases be an object of abhorrence to them. They have thus of +course foregone all participation in the process of reproduction. Such +persons are called homosexuals or inverts. Often, though not always, +they are men and women who otherwise have reached an irreproachably high +standard of mental growth and development, intellectually and ethically, +and are only afflicted with this one fateful peculiarity. Through the +mouths of their scientific spokesmen they lay claim to be a special +variety of the human race, a “third sex,” as they call it, standing with +equal rights alongside the other two. We may perhaps have an opportunity +of critically examining these claims. They are not, of course, as they +would gladly maintain, the “elect” of mankind; they contain in their +ranks at least as many inferior and worthless individuals as are to be +found amongst those differently constituted sexually. + +These perverts do at least seek to achieve very much the same ends with +the objects of their desires as normal people do with theirs. But after +them comes a long series of abnormal types, in whom the sexual +activities become increasingly further removed from anything which +appears attractive to a reasonable being. In their manifold variety and +their strangeness these types may be compared to the grotesque +monstrosities painted by P. Breughel to represent the temptations of St. +Anthony, or to the long procession of effete gods and worshippers which +G. Flaubert shows us passing before his pious penitent, and to nothing +else. The chaotic assembly calls out for classification if it is not to +bewilder us completely. We divide them into those in whom the _sexual +object_ has been altered, as with the homosexuals, and those in whom, +first and foremost, the _sexual aim_ has been altered. In the first +group belong those who have dispensed with the mutual union of the +genital organs and who have substituted for the genitals, in one of the +partners in the act, another organ or part of the body (mouth or anus, +in place of the vagina) making light of both the anatomical difficulties +and the suppression of disgust involved. There follow others who, it is +true, still retain the genital organs as object; not, however, by virtue +of their sexual function, but on account of other functions in which +they take part anatomically or by reason of their proximity. These +people demonstrate that the excretory functions, which in the course of +the child’s upbringing are relegated to a limbo as indecent, remain +capable of attracting the entire sexual interest. There are others who +have given up altogether the genital organs as object; and, instead, +have exalted some other part of the body to serve as the object of +desire, a woman’s breast, foot, or plait of hair. There are others yet +to whom even a part of the body is meaningless, while a particle of +clothing, a shoe or a piece of underclothing, will gratify all their +desires; these are the fetichists. Farther on in the scale come those +who indeed demand the object as a whole: but whose requirements in +regard to it take specific forms, of an extraordinary or horrible +nature—even to the point of seeking it as a defenceless corpse and, +urged on by their criminal obsessions, of making it one in order so to +enjoy it. But enough of these horrors! + +Foremost in the second group are those perverts whose sexual desires aim +at the performance of an act which normally is but an introductory or +preparatory one. They are those who seek gratification in looking and +touching, or in watching the other person’s most intimate doings; or +those who expose parts of their own bodies which should be concealed, in +the vague expectation of being rewarded by a similar action on the part +of the other. Then come the incomprehensible sadists, in whom all +affectionate feeling strains towards the one goal of causing their +object pain and torture, ranging in degree from mere indications of a +tendency to humiliate the other up to the infliction of severe bodily +injuries. Then, as though complementary to these, come the masochists +whose only longing is to suffer, in real or in symbolic form, +humiliations and tortures at the hands of the loved object. There are +others yet, in whom several abnormal characteristics of this kind are +combined and interwoven with one another. Finally, we learn that the +persons belonging to each of these groups may be divided again: into +those who seek their particular form of sexual satisfaction in reality +and those who are satisfied merely to imagine it in their own minds, +needing no real object at all but being able to substitute for it a +creation of phantasy. + +There is not the slightest possible doubt that these mad, extraordinary +and horrible things do actually constitute the sexual activities of +these people. Not merely do they themselves so regard them, recognizing +their substitutive character; but we also have to acknowledge that they +play the same part in their lives as normal sexual satisfaction plays in +ours, exacting the same, often excessive, sacrifices. It is possible to +trace out, both broadly and in great detail, where these abnormalities +merge into the normal and where they diverge from it. Nor will it escape +you that that quality of impropriety which adheres inevitably to a +sexual activity is not absent from these forms of it: in most of them it +is intensified to the point of odium. + +Well, now, what attitude are we to take up to these unusual forms of +sexual satisfaction? Indignation and expressions of our personal +disgust, together with assurances that we do not share these appetites, +will obviously not carry us very far. That is not the point at issue. +After all, this is a field of phenomena like any other; attempts to turn +away and flee from it, on the pretext that these are but rarities and +curiosities, could easily be rebutted. On the contrary, the phenomena +are common enough and widely distributed. But if it is objected that our +views on the sexual life of mankind require no revision on this account, +since these things are one and all aberrations and divagations of the +sexual instinct, a serious reply will be necessary. If we do not +understand these morbid forms of sexuality and cannot relate them to +what is normal in sexual life, then neither can we understand normal +sexuality. It remains, in short, our undeniable duty to account +satisfactorily in theory for the existence of all the perversions +described and to explain their relation to normal sexuality, so-called. + +In this task we can be helped by a point of view, and by two new +evidential observations. The first we owe to Ivan Bloch; according to +him, the view that all the perversions are “signs of degeneration” is +incorrect; because of the evidence existing that such aberrations from +the sexual aim, such erratic relationships to the sexual object, have +been manifested since the beginning of time through every age of which +we have knowledge, in every race from the most primitive to the most +highly civilized, and at times have succeeded in attaining to toleration +and general prevalence. The two evidential observations have been made +in the course of psycho-analytic investigations of neurotic patients; +they must undoubtedly influence our conception of sexual perversions in +a decisive manner. + +We have said that neurotic symptoms are substitutes for sexual +satisfactions and I have already indicated that many difficulties will +be met with in proving this statement from the analysis of symptoms. It +is, indeed, only accurate if the “perverse” sexual needs, so-called, are +included under the sexual satisfactions; for an interpretation of the +symptoms on this basis is forced upon us with astonishing frequency. The +claim made by homosexuals or inverts, that they constitute a select +class of mankind, falls at once to the ground when we discover that in +every single neurotic evidence of homosexual tendencies is forthcoming +and that a large proportion of the symptoms are expressions of this +latent inversion. Those who openly call themselves homosexuals are +merely those in whom the inversion is conscious and manifest; their +number is negligible compared with those in whom it is latent. We are +bound, in fact, to regard the choice of an object of the same sex as a +regular type of offshoot of the capacity to love, and are learning every +day more and more to recognize it as especially important. The +differences between manifest homosexuality and the normal attitude are +certainly not thereby abrogated; they have their practical importance, +which remains, but theoretically their value is very considerably +diminished. In fact, we have even come to the conclusion that one +particular mental disorder, paranoia, no longer to be reckoned among the +transference neuroses, invariably arises from an attempt to subdue +unduly powerful homosexual tendencies. Perhaps you will remember that +one of our patients,[47] in her obsessive act, played the part of a +man—of her own husband, that is, whom she had left; such symptoms, +representing the impersonation of a man, are very commonly produced by +neurotic women. If this is not actually attributable to homosexuality, +it is certainly very closely connected with its origins. + +As you probably know, the neurosis of hysteria can create its symptoms +in all systems of the body (circulatory, respiratory, etc.) and may thus +disturb all the functions. Analysis shows that all those impulses, +described as perverse, which aim at replacing the genital organ by +another come to expression in these symptoms. These organs thus behave +as substitutes for the genital organs: it is precisely from the study of +hysterical symptoms that we have arrived at the view that, besides their +functional rôle, a sexual—_erotogenic_—significance must be ascribed to +the bodily organs; and that the needs of the former will be interfered +with if the demands of the latter upon them are too great. Countless +sensations and innervations, which we meet as hysterical symptoms, in +organs apparently not concerned with sexuality, are thus discovered to +be essentially fulfilments of perverse sexual desires, by the other +organs having usurped the function of the genitalia. In this way also +the very great extent to which the organs of nutrition and of excretion, +in particular, may serve in yielding sexual excitement is brought home +to us. It is indeed the same thing as is manifested in the perversions; +except that in the latter it is unmistakable and recognizable without +any difficulty, whereas in hysteria we have to make the _détour_ of +interpreting the symptom, and then do not impute the perverse sexual +impulse in question to the person’s consciousness, but account it to the +unconscious part of his personality. + +Of the many types of symptom characteristic of the obsessional neurosis +the most important are found to be brought about by the undue strength +of one group of sexual tendencies with a perverted aim, i.e. the +sadistic group. These symptoms, in accordance with the structure of the +obsessional neurosis, serve mainly as a defence against these wishes or +else they express the conflict between satisfaction and rejection. +Satisfaction does not find short shrift, however; it knows how to get +its own way by a roundabout route in the patient’s behaviour, by +preference turning against him in self-inflicted torment. Other forms of +this neurosis are seen in excessive “worry” and brooding; these are the +expressions of an exaggerated sexualization of acts which are normally +only preparatory to sexual satisfaction: the desire to see, to touch and +to investigate. In this lies the explanation of the very great +importance dread of contact and obsessive washing attains to in this +disease. An unsuspectedly large proportion of obsessive actions are +found to be disguised repetitions and modifications of masturbation, +admittedly the only uniform act which accompanies all the varied flights +of sexual phantasy. + +It would not be difficult to show you the connections between perversion +and neurosis in a much more detailed manner, but I believe that I have +said enough for our purposes. We must beware, however, of overestimating +the frequency and intensity of the perverse tendencies in mankind, after +these revelations of their importance in the interpretation of symptoms. +You have heard that _privation_ in normal sexual satisfactions may lead +to the development of neurosis. In consequence of this privation in +reality the need is forced into the abnormal paths of sexual excitation. +Later you will be able to understand how this happens. You will at any +rate understand that a “collateral” damming-up of this kind must swell +the force of the perverse impulses, so that they become more powerful +than they would have been had no hindrance to normal sexual satisfaction +been present in reality. Incidentally, a similar factor may be +recognized also in the manifest perversions. In many cases they are +provoked or activated by the unduly great difficulties in the way of +normal satisfaction of the sexual instinct which are produced either by +temporary conditions or by permanent social institutions. In other +cases, certainly, perverse tendencies are quite independent of such +conditions; they are, as it were, the natural kind of sexual life for +the individual concerned. + +Perhaps you are momentarily under the impression that all this tends to +confuse rather than to explain the relations between normal and +perverted sexuality. But keep in mind this consideration. If it is +correct that real obstacles to sexual satisfaction or privation in +regard to it bring to the surface perverse tendencies in people who +would otherwise have shown none, we must conclude that something in +these people is ready to embrace the perversions; or, if you prefer it, +the tendencies must have been present in them in a latent form. Thus we +come to the second of the new evidential observations of which I spoke. +Psycho-Analytic investigation has found it necessary also to concern +itself with the sexual life of children, for the reason that in the +analysis of symptoms the forthcoming reminiscences and associations +invariably lead back to the earliest years of childhood. That which we +discovered in this way has since been corroborated point by point by the +direct observation of children. In this way it has been found that all +the perverse tendencies have their roots in childhood, that children are +disposed towards them all and practise them all to a degree conforming +with their immaturity; in short, _perverted sexuality_ is nothing else +but _infantile sexuality_, magnified and separated into its component +parts. + +Now you will see the perversions in an altogether different light and no +longer ignore their connection with the sexual life of mankind; but what +distressing emotions these astonishing and grotesque revelations will +provoke in you! At first you will certainly be tempted to deny +everything—the fact that there is anything in children which can be +termed sexual life, the accuracy of our observations, and the +justification of our claim to see in the behaviour of children any +connection with that which in later years is condemned as perverted. +Permit me first to explain to you the motives of your antagonism and +then to put before you a summary of our observations. That children +should have no sexual life—sexual excitement, needs, and gratification +of a sort—but that they suddenly acquire these things in the years +between twelve and fourteen would be, apart from any observations at +all, biologically just as improbable, indeed, nonsensical, as to suppose +that they are born without genital organs which first begin to sprout at +the age of puberty. What does actually awake in them at this period is +the reproductive function, which then makes use for its own purposes of +material lying to hand in body and mind. You are making the mistake of +confounding sexuality and reproduction with each other and thus you +obstruct your own way to the comprehension of sexuality, the +perversions, and the neuroses. This mistake, moreover, has a meaning in +it. Strange to say, its origin lies in the fact that you yourselves have +all been children and as children were subject to the influences of +education. For it is indeed one of the most important social tasks of +education to restrain, confine, and subject to an individual control +(itself identical with the demands of society) the sexual instinct when +it breaks forth in the form of the reproductive function. In its own +interests, accordingly, society would postpone the child’s full +development until it has attained a certain stage of intellectual +maturity, since educability practically ceases with the full onset of +the sexual instinct. Without this the instinct would break all bounds +and the laboriously erected structure of civilization would be swept +away. Nor is the task of restraining it ever an easy one; success in +this direction is often poor and, sometimes, only too great. At bottom +society’s motive is economic; since it has not means enough to support +life for its members without work on their part, it must see to it that +the number of these members is restricted and their energies directed +away from sexual activities on to their work—the eternal primordial +struggle for existence, therefore, persisting to the present day. + +Experience must have taught educators that the task of moulding the +sexual will of the next generation can only be carried out by beginning +to impose their influence very early, and intervening in the sexual Life +of children before puberty, instead of waiting till the storm bursts. +Consequently almost all infantile sexual activities are forbidden or +made disagreeable to the child; the ideal has been to make the child’s +life asexual, and in course of time it has come to this that it is +really believed to be asexual, and is given out as such, even at the +hands of science. In order then to avoid any contradiction with +established beliefs and aims, the sexual activity of children is +overlooked—no small achievement, by the way—while science contents +itself with otherwise explaining it away. The little child is supposed +to be pure and innocent; he who says otherwise shall be condemned as a +hardened blasphemer against humanity’s tenderest and most sacred +feelings. + +The children alone take no part in this convention; they assert their +animal nature naïvely enough and demonstrate persistently that they have +yet to learn their “purity.” Strange to say, those who deny sexuality in +children are the last to relax educative measures against it; they +follow up with the greatest severity every manifestation of the +“childish tricks” the existence of which they deny. Moreover, it is +theoretically of great interest that the time of life which most +flagrantly contradicts the prejudice about asexual childhood, the years +of infancy up to five or six, is precisely the period which is veiled by +oblivion in most people’s memories; an oblivion which can only be +dispelled completely by analytic investigation but which is nevertheless +sufficiently penetrable to allow of the formation of single dreams. + +I will now tell you the most clearly recognizable of the child’s sexual +activities. It will be expedient if I first introduce you to the term +LIBIDO. In every way analogous to _hunger_, Libido is the force by means +of which the instinct, in this case the sexual instinct, as, with +hunger, the nutritional instinct, achieves expression. Other terms, such +as sexual excitation and satisfaction, require no definition. +Interpretation finds most to do in regard to the sexual activities of +the infant, as you will easily perceive; and no doubt you will find it a +reason for objections. This interpretation is formed on the basis of +analytic investigation, working backwards from a given symptom. The +infant’s first sexual excitations appear in connection with the other +functions important for life. Its chief interest, as you know, is +concerned with taking nourishment; as it sinks asleep at the breast, +utterly satisfied, it bears a look of perfect content which will come +back again later in life after the experience of the sexual orgasm. This +would not be enough to found a conclusion upon. However, we perceive +that infants wish to repeat, without really getting any nourishment, the +action necessary to taking nourishment; they are therefore not impelled +to this by hunger. We call this action “_lutschen_” or “_ludeln_” +(German words signifying the enjoyment of sucking for its own sake—as +with a rubber “comforter”); and as when it does this the infant again +falls asleep with a blissful expression we see that the action of +sucking is sufficient in itself to give it satisfaction. Admittedly, it +very soon contrives not to go to sleep without having sucked in this +way. An old physician for children in Budapest, Dr. Lindner, was the +first to maintain the sexual nature of this procedure. Nurses and people +who look after children appear to take the same view of this kind of +sucking (_lutschen_), though without taking up any theoretic attitude +about it. They have no doubt that its only purpose is in the pleasure +derived; they account it one of the child’s “naughty tricks”; and take +severe measures to force it to give it up, if it will not do so of its +own accord. And so we learn that an infant performs actions with no +other object but that of obtaining pleasure. We believe that this +pleasure is first of all experienced while nourishment is being taken, +but that the infant learns rapidly to enjoy it apart from this +condition. The gratification obtained can only relate to the region of +the mouth and lips; we therefore call these areas of the body +_erotogenic zones_ and describe the pleasure derived from sucking +(_lutschen_) as a _sexual_ one. To be sure, we have yet to discuss the +justification for the use of this term. + +If the infant could express itself it would undoubtedly acknowledge that +the act of sucking at its mother’s breast is far and away the most +important thing in life. It would not be wrong in this, for by this act +it gratifies at the same moment the two greatest needs in life. Then we +learn from psycho-analysis, not without astonishment, how much of the +mental significance of this act is retained throughout life. Sucking at +the mother’s breast (_saugen_) becomes the point of departure from which +the whole sexual life develops, the unattainable prototype of every +later sexual satisfaction, to which in times of need phantasy often +enough reverts. The desire to suck includes within it the desire for the +mother’s breast, which is therefore the first _object_ of sexual desire; +I cannot convey to you any adequate idea of the importance of this first +object in determining every later object adopted, of the profound +influence it exerts, through transformation and substitution, upon the +most distant fields of mental life. First of all, however, as the infant +takes to sucking for its own sake (_lutschen_) this object is given up +and is replaced by a part of its own body; it sucks its thumb or its own +tongue. For purposes of obtaining pleasure it thus makes itself +independent of the concurrence of the outer world and, in addition, it +extends the region of excitation to a second area of the body, thus +intensifying it. The erotogenic zones are not all equally capable of +yielding enjoyment; it is therefore an important experience when, as Dr. +Lindner says, the infant in feeling about on its own body discovers the +particularly excitable region of its genitalia, and so finds the way +from sucking (_lutschen_) to onanism. + +This assessment of the nature of sucking (_lutschen_) has now brought to +our notice two of the decisive characteristics of infantile sexuality. +It appears in connection with the satisfaction of the great organic +needs, and it behaves _auto-erotically_, that is to say, it seeks and +finds its objects in its own person. What is most clearly discernible in +regard to the taking of nourishment is to some extent repeated with the +process of excretion. We conclude that infants experience pleasure in +the evacuation of urine and the contents of the bowels, and that they +very soon endeavour to contrive these actions so that the accompanying +excitation of the membranes in these erotogenic zones may secure them +the maximum possible gratification. As Lou Andreas has pointed out, with +fine intuition, the outer world first steps in as a hindrance at this +point, a hostile force opposed to the child’s desire for pleasure—the +first hint he receives of external and internal conflicts to be +experienced later on. He is not to pass his excretions whenever he likes +but at times appointed by other people. To induce him to give up these +sources of pleasure he is told that everything connected with these +functions is “improper,” and must be kept concealed. In this way he is +first required to exchange pleasure for value in the eyes of others. His +own attitude to the excretions is at the outset very different. His own +fæces produce no disgust in him; he values them as part of his own body +and is unwilling to part with them, he uses them as the first “present” +by which he can mark out those people whom he values especially. Even +after education has succeeded in alienating him from these tendencies, +he continues to feel the same high regard for his “presents” and his +“money”; while his achievements in the way of urination appear to be the +subject of particular pride. + +I know that for some time you have been longing to interrupt me with +cries of: “Enough of these monstrosities! The motions of the bowels a +source of pleasurable sexual satisfaction exploited even by infants! +Fæces a substance of great value and the anus a kind of genital organ! +We do not believe it; but we understand why children’s physicians and +educationists have emphatically rejected psycho-analysis and its +conclusions!” Not at all; you have merely forgotten for the moment that +I have been endeavouring to show you the connection between the actual +facts of infantile sexual life and the actual facts of the sexual +perversions. Why should you not know that in many adults, both +homosexual and heterosexual, the anus actually takes over the part +played by the vagina in sexual intercourse? And that there are many +persons who retain the pleasurable sensations accompanying evacuations +of the bowels throughout life and describe them as far from +insignificant? You may hear from children themselves, when they are a +little older and able to talk about these things, what an interest they +take in the act of defæcation and what pleasure they find in watching +others in the act. Of course if you have previously systematically +intimidated these children they will understand very well that they are +not to speak of such things. And for all else that you refuse to believe +I refer you to the evidence brought out in analysis and to the direct +observation of children and I tell you that it will require the exercise +of considerable ingenuity to avoid seeing all this or to see it in a +different light. Nor am I at all averse from your thinking the +relationship between childish sexual activities and the sexual +perversions positively striking. It is a matter of course that there +should be this relationship; for if a child has a sexual life at all it +must be of a perverted order, since apart from a few obscure indications +he is lacking in all that transforms sexuality into the reproductive +function. Moreover, it is a characteristic common to all the perversions +that in them reproduction as an aim is put aside. This is actually the +criterion by which we judge whether a sexual activity is perverse—if it +departs from reproduction in its aims and pursues the attainment of +gratification independently. You will understand therefore that the gulf +and turning-point in the development of the sexual life lies at the +point of its subordination to the purposes of reproduction. Everything +that occurs before this conversion takes place, and everything which +refuses to conform to it and serves the pursuit of gratification alone, +is called by the unhonoured title of “perversion” and as such is +despised. + +So let me continue my brief account of infantile sexuality. I could +supplement what I have told you concerning two of the bodily systems by +extending the same scrutiny to the others. The sexual life of the child +consists entirely in the activities of a series of component-instincts +which seek for gratification independently of one another, some in his +own body and others already in an external object. Among the organs of +these bodily systems the genitalia rapidly take the first place; there +are people in whom pleasurable gratification in their own genital organ, +without the aid of any other genital organ or object, is continued +without interruption from the onanism habitual in the suckling period of +infancy to the onanism of necessity occurring in the years of puberty, +and then maintained indefinitely beyond that. Incidentally, the subject +of onanism is not so easily exhausted; it contains material for +consideration from various angles. + +In spite of my wish to limit the extent of this discussion I must still +say something about sexual curiosity in children. It is too +characteristic of childish sexuality and too important for the +symptom-formation of the neuroses to be omitted. Infantile sexual +curiosity begins very early, sometimes before the third year. It is not +connected with the difference between the sexes, which is nothing to +children, since they—boys, at least—ascribe the same male genital organ +to both sexes. If then a boy discovers the vagina in a little sister or +play-mate he at once tries to deny the evidence of his senses; for he +cannot conceive of a human being like himself without his most important +attribute. Later, he is horrified at the possibilities it reveals to +him; the influence of previous threats occasioned by too great a +preoccupation with his own little member now begins to be felt. He comes +under the dominion of the castration complex, which will play such a +large part in the formation of his character if he remains healthy, and +of his neurosis if he falls ill, and of his resistances if he comes +under analytic treatment. Of little girls we know that they feel +themselves heavily handicapped by the absence of a large visible penis +and envy the boy’s possession of it; from this source primarily springs +the wish to be a man which is resumed again later in the neurosis, owing +to some mal-adjustment to a female development. The clitoris in the +girl, moreover, is in every way equivalent during childhood to the +penis; it is a region of especial excitability in which auto-erotic +satisfaction is achieved. In the transition to womanhood very much +depends upon the early and complete relegation of this sensitivity from +the clitoris over to the vaginal orifice. In those women who are +sexually anæsthetic, as it is called, the clitoris has stubbornly +retained this sensitivity. + +The sexual interest of children is primarily directed to the problem of +birth—the same problem that lies behind the riddle of the Theban Sphinx. +This curiosity is for the most part aroused by egoistic dread of the +arrival of another child. The answer which the nursery has ready for the +child, that the stork brings the babies, meets with incredulity even in +little children much more often than we imagine. The feeling of having +been deceived by grown-up people, and put off with lies, contributes +greatly to a sense of isolation and to the development of independence. +But the child is not able to solve this problem on his own account. His +undeveloped sexual constitution sets definite limits to his capacity to +understand it. He first supposes that children are made by mixing some +special thing with the food taken; nor does he know that only women can +have children. Later, he learns of this limitation and gives up the idea +of children being made by food, though it is retained in fairy tales. A +little later he soon sees that the father must have something to do with +making babies, but he cannot discover what it is. If by chance he is +witness of the sexual act he conceives it as an attempt to overpower the +woman, as a combat, the sadistic misconception of coitus; at first, +however, he does not connect this act with the creation of children; if +he discovers blood on the mother’s bed or underlinen he takes it as +evidence of injury inflicted by the father. In still later years of +childhood he probably guesses that the male organ of the man plays an +essential part in the procreation of children, but cannot ascribe to +this part of the body any function but that of urination. + +Children are all united from the outset in the belief that the birth of +a child takes place by the bowel; that is to say, that the baby is +produced like a piece of fæces. Not until all interest has been weaned +from the anal region is this theory abandoned and replaced by the +supposition that the navel opens, or that the area between the two +nipples is the birthplace of the child. In some such manner as this the +enquiring child approaches some knowledge of the facts of sex, unless, +misled by his ignorance, he overlooks them until he receives an +imperfect and discrediting account of them, usually in the period before +puberty, which not infrequently affects him traumatically. + +Now you will probably have heard that the term “sexual” has suffered an +unwarrantable expansion of meaning at the hands of psycho-analysis, in +order that its assertions regarding the sexual origin of the neuroses +and the sexual significance of the symptoms may be maintained. You can +now judge for yourselves whether this amplification is justified or not. +We have extended the meaning of the concept “sexuality” only so far as +to include the sexual life of perverted persons and also of children; +that is to say, we have restored to it its true breadth of meaning. What +is called sexuality outside psycho-analysis applies only to the +restricted sexual life that is subordinated to the reproductive function +and is called normal. + + + + + TWENTY-FIRST LECTURE + DEVELOPMENT OF THE LIBIDO AND SEXUAL ORGANIZATIONS + + +It is my impression that I have not succeeded in bringing home to you +with complete conviction the importance of the perversions for our +conception of sexuality. I wish therefore, as far as I am able, to +review and improve upon what I have already said on this subject. + +Now I do not wish you to think that it was the perversions alone that +required us to make the alteration in the meaning of the term sexuality +which has aroused such vehement opposition. The study of infantile +sexuality has contributed even more to it, and the unanimity between the +two was decisive. But, however unmistakable they may be in the later +years of childhood, the manifestations of infantile sexuality in its +earliest forms do seem to fade away indefinably. Those who do not wish +to pay attention to evolution and to the connections brought out by +analysis will dispute the sexual nature of them, and will ascribe in +consequence some other, undifferentiated character to them. You must not +forget that as yet we have no generally acknowledged criterion for the +sexual nature of a phenomenon, unless it is some connection with the +reproductive function—a definition which we have had to reject as too +narrow. The biological criteria, such as the periodicities of +twenty-three and twenty-eight days, suggested by W. Fliess, are +exceedingly debatable; the peculiar chemical features which we may +perhaps assume for sexual processes are yet to be discovered. The sexual +perversions in adults, on the other hand, are something definite and +unambiguous. As their generally accepted description implies, they are +unquestionably of a sexual nature; whether you call them marks of +degeneration or anything else, no one has yet been so bold as to rank +them anywhere but among the phenomena of sexual life. In view of them +alone we are justified in maintaining that sexuality and the +reproductive function are not identical, for they one and all abjure the +aim of reproduction. + +I notice a not uninteresting parallel here. Whereas, for most people, +the word ‘mental’ means ‘conscious,’ we found ourselves obliged to widen +the application of the term ‘mental’ to include a part of the mind that +is not conscious. In a precisely similar way, most people declare +‘sexual’ identical with ‘pertaining to reproduction’—or, if you like it +expressed more concisely, with ‘genital’; whereas we cannot avoid +admitting things as ‘sexual’ that are not ‘genital’ and have nothing to +do with reproduction. It is only a formal analogy, but it is not without +deeper significance. + +However, if the existence of sexual perversions is such a forcible +argument on this point, why has it not long ago done its work and +settled the question? I really am unable to say. It seems to me that the +sexual perversions have come under a very special ban, which insinuates +itself into the theory, and interferes even with scientific judgement on +the subject. It seems as if no one could forget, not merely that they +are detestable, but that they are also something monstrous and +terrifying; as if they exerted a seductive influence; as if at bottom a +secret envy of those who enjoy them had to be strangled—the same sort of +feeling that is confessed by the count who sits in judgement in the +famous parody of _Tannhäuser_: + + So in the Mount of Venus conscience, duty, are forgot! + —Remarkable that such a thing has never been my lot! + +In reality, perverts are more likely to be poor devils who have to pay +most bitterly for the satisfactions they manage to procure with such +difficulty. + +That which makes perverse activities so unmistakably sexual, in spite of +all that seems unnatural in their objects or their aims, is the fact +that in perverse satisfaction the act still terminates usually in a +complete orgasm with evacuation of the genital product. This is of +course only the consequence of adult development in the persons +concerned; in children, orgasm and genital excretion are not very well +possible; as substitutes they have approximations to them which are +again not recognized definitely as sexual. + +I must still add something more in order to complete our assessment of +the sexual perversions. Abominated as they are, sharply distinguished +from normal sexual activity as they may be, simple observation will show +that very rarely is one feature or another of them absent from the +sexual life of a normal person. The kiss to begin with has some claim to +be called a perverse act, for it consists of the union of the two +erotogenic mouth zones instead of the two genital organs. But no one +condemns it as perverse; on the contrary, in the theatre it is permitted +as a refined indication of the sexual act. Nevertheless, kissing is a +thing that can easily become an absolute perversion—namely, when it +occurs in such intensity that orgasm and emission directly accompany it, +which happens not at all uncommonly. Further, it will be found that +gazing at and handling the object are in one person an indispensable +condition of sexual enjoyment, while another at the height of sexual +excitement pinches or bites; that in another lover not always the +genital region, but some other bodily region in the object, provokes the +greatest excitement, and so on in endless variety. It would be absurd to +exclude people with single idiosyncrasies of this kind from the ranks of +the normal and place them among perverts; rather, it becomes more and +more clear that what is essential to the perversions lies, not in the +overstepping of the sexual aim, not in the replacement of the genitalia, +not always even in the variations in the object, but solely in the +_exclusiveness_ with which these deviations are maintained, so that the +sexual act which serves the reproductive process is rejected altogether. +In so far as perverse performances are included in order to intensify or +to lead up to the performance of the normal sexual act, they are no +longer actually perverse. Facts of the kind just described naturally +tend to diminish the gulf between normal and perverse sexuality very +considerably. The obvious inference is that normal sexuality has arisen, +out of something existing prior to it, by a process of discarding some +components of this material as useless, and by combining the others so +as to subordinate them to a new aim, that of reproduction. + +The point of view thus gained in regard to the perversions can now be +employed by us in penetrating more deeply, with a clearer perspective, +into the problem of infantile sexuality; but before doing this I must +draw your attention to an important difference between the two. Perverse +sexuality is as a rule exceedingly concentrated, its whole activity is +directed to one—and mostly to only one—aim; one particular +component-impulse is supreme; it is either the only one discernible or +it has subjected the others to its own purposes. In this respect there +is no difference between perverse and normal sexuality, except that the +dominating component-impulse, and therefore the sexual aim, is a +different one. Both of them constitute a well-organized tyranny; only +that in one case one ruling family has usurped all the power, and in the +other, another. This concentration and organization, on the other hand, +is in the main absent from infantile sexuality; its component-impulses +are equally valid, each of them strives independently after its own +pleasure. Both the lack of this concentration (in childhood) and the +presence of it (in the adult) correspond well with the fact that both +normal and perverse sexuality are derived from the same source, namely, +infantile sexuality. There are indeed also cases of perversion which +correspond even more closely to infantile sexuality in that numerous +component-instincts, independently of one another, with their aims, are +developed or, better, perpetuated in them. With these cases it is more +correct to speak of infantilism than of perversion of the sexual life. + +Thus prepared we may now go on to consider a suggestion which we shall +certainly not be spared. It will be said: “Why are you so set upon +declaring as already belonging to sexuality those indefinite +manifestations of childhood out of which what is sexual later develops, +and which you yourself admit to be indefinite? Why are you not content +rather to describe them physiologically and simply to say that +activities, such as sucking for its own sake and the retaining of +excreta, may be observed already in young infants, showing that they +seek _pleasure in their organs_? In that way you would have avoided the +conception of a sexual life even in babies which is so repugnant to all +our feelings.” Well, I can only answer that I have nothing against +pleasure derived from the organs of the body; I know indeed that the +supreme pleasure of the sexual union is also only a bodily pleasure, +derived from the activity of the genital organ. But can you tell me when +this originally indifferent bodily pleasure acquires the sexual +character that it undoubtedly possesses in later phases of development? +Do we know any more about this ‘organ-pleasure’ than we know about +sexuality? You will answer that the sexual character is added to it when +the genitalia begin to play their part; sexuality simply means genital. +You will even evade the obstacle of the perversions by pointing out that +after all with most of them a genital orgasm occurs, although brought +about by other means than the union of the genitalia. If you were to +eliminate the relation to reproduction from the essential +characteristics of sexuality since this view is untenable in consequence +of the existence of the perversions, and were to emphasize instead +activity of the genital organs, you would actually take up a much better +position. But then we should no longer differ very widely; it would be a +case of the genital organs _versus_ the other organs. What do you now +make of the abundant evidence that the genital organs may be replaced by +other organs for the purpose of gratification, as in the normal kiss, or +the perverse practices of loose living, or in the symptomatology of +hysteria? In this neurosis it is quite usual for stimulation phenomena, +sensations, innervations, and even the processes of erection, which +properly belong to the genitalia to be displaced on to other distant +areas of the body (e.g. the displacement from below upwards to the head +and face). Thus you will find that nothing is left of all that you cling +to as essentially characteristic of sexuality; and you will have to make +up your minds to follow my example and extend the designation ‘sexual’ +to include those activities of early infancy which aim at +‘organ-pleasure.’ + +And now will you permit me to bring forward two further considerations +in support of my view. As you know, we call the doubtful and indefinable +activities of earliest infancy towards pleasure ‘sexual,’ because in the +course of analysing symptoms we reach them by way of material that is +undeniably sexual. They would not thereby necessarily be sexual +themselves, let us grant; but let us take an analogous case. Suppose +that there were no way to observe the development from seed of two +dicotyledonous plants—the apple-tree and the bean; but imagine that in +both it was possible to follow back its development from the +fully-developed plant to the first seedling with two cotyledons. The two +cotyledons are indistinguishable in each; they look exactly alike in +both plants. Shall I conclude from this that they actually are exactly +alike and that the specific differences between apple-tree and +bean-plant arise _later_ in the plant’s development? Or is it not more +correct biologically to believe that this difference exists _already_ in +the seedlings, although I cannot see any in the cotyledons? This is what +we do when we call infantile pleasurable activities sexual. Whether each +and every organ-pleasure may be called sexual or whether there exists, +besides the sexual, another kind of pleasure that does not deserve this +name is a matter I cannot discuss here. I know too little about +organ-pleasure and its conditions; and I am not at all surprised that in +consequence of the retrogressive character of analysis I arrive finally +at factors which at the present time do not permit of definite +classification. + +One thing more. You have on the whole gained very little for what you +are so eager to maintain, the sexual ‘purity’ of children, even if you +can convince me that the infant’s activities had better not be regarded +as sexual. For from the third year onwards there is no longer any doubt +about sexual life in the child; at this period the genital organs begin +already to show signs of excitation; there is a perhaps regular period +of infantile masturbation, that is, of gratification in the genital +organs. The mental and social sides of sexual life need no longer be +overlooked: choice of object, distinguishing of particular persons with +affection, even decision in favour of one sex or the other, and +jealousy, were conclusively established independently by impartial +observation before the time of psycho-analysis; they may be confirmed by +any observer who will use his eyes. You will object that you never +doubted the early awakening of affection but only that this affection +was of a ‘sexual’ quality. Children between the ages of three and eight +have certainly learnt to conceal this element in it; but nevertheless if +you look attentively you will collect enough evidence of the ‘sensual’ +nature of this affection, and whatever still escapes your notice will be +amply and readily supplied by analytic investigation. The sexual aims in +this period of life are in closest connection with the sexual curiosity +arising at the same time, of which I have given you some description. +The perverse character of some of these aims is a natural result of the +immature constitution of the child who has not yet discovered the aim of +the act of intercourse. + +From about the sixth or eighth year onwards a standstill or +retrogression is observed in the sexual development, which in those +cases reaching a high cultural standard deserves to be called a _latency +period_. This latency period, however, may be absent; nor does it +necessarily entail an interruption of sexual activities and sexual +interests over the whole field. Most of the mental experiences and +excitations occurring before the latency period then succumb to the +infantile amnesia, already discussed, which veils our earliest childhood +from us and estranges us from it. It is the task of every +psycho-analysis to bring this forgotten period of life back into +recollection; one cannot resist the supposition that the beginnings of +sexual life belonging to this period are the motive for this forgetting, +that is, that this oblivion is an effect of repression. + +From the third year onwards the sexual life of children shows much in +common with that of adults; it is differentiated from the latter, as we +already know, by the absence of a stable organization under the primacy +of the genital organs, by inevitable traits of a perverse order, and of +course also by far less intensity in the whole impulse. But those phases +of the sexual development, or as we will call it, of the +_Libido-development_, which are of greatest interest theoretically lie +before this period. This development is gone through so rapidly that +direct observation alone would perhaps never have succeeded in +determining its fleeting forms. Only by the help of psycho-analytic +investigation of the neuroses has it become possible to penetrate so far +back and to discover these still earlier phases of Libido-development. +These phases are certainly only theoretic constructions, but in the +practice of psycho-analysis you will find them necessary and valuable +constructions. You will soon understand how it happens that a +pathological condition enables us to discover phenomena which we should +certainly overlook in normal conditions. + +Thus we can now define the forms taken by the sexual life of the child +before the primacy of the genital zone is reached; this primacy is +prepared for in the early infantile period, before the latent period, +and is permanently organized from puberty onwards. In this early period +a loose sort of organization exists which we shall call _pre-genital_; +for during this phase it is not the genital component-instincts, but the +_sadistic_ and _anal_, which are most prominent. The contrast between +_masculine_ and _feminine_ plays no part as yet; instead of it there is +the contrast between _active_ and _passive_, which may be described as +the forerunner of the sexual polarity with which it also links up later. +That which in this period seems masculine to us, regarded from the +standpoint of the genital phase, proves to be the expression of an +impulse to mastery, which easily passes over into cruelty. Impulses with +a passive aim are connected with the erotogenic zone of the rectal +orifice, at this period very important; the impulses of skoptophilia +(gazing) and curiosity are powerfully active; the function of excreting +urine is the only part actually taken by the genital organ in the sexual +life. Objects are not wanting to the component-instincts in this period, +but these objects are not necessarily all comprised in one object. The +sadistic-anal organization is the stage immediately preceding the phase +of primacy of the genital zone. Closer study reveals how much of it is +retained intact in the later final structure, and what are the paths by +which these component-instincts are forced into the service of the new +_genital organization_. Behind the sadistic-anal phase of the +Libido-development we obtain a glimpse of an even more primitive stage +of development, in which the erotogenic mouth zone plays the chief part. +You can guess that the sexual activity of sucking (for its own sake) +belongs to this stage; and you may admire the understanding of the +ancient Egyptians in whose art a child, even the divine Horus, was +represented with a finger in the mouth. Abraham has quite recently +published work showing that traces of this primitive _oral_ phase of +development survive in the sexual life of later years. + +I can indeed imagine that you will have found this last information +about the sexual organizations less of an enlightenment than an +infliction. Perhaps I have again gone too much into detail; but have +patience! what you have just heard will be of more use when we employ it +later. Keep in view at the moment the idea that the sexual life—the +_Libido-function_, as we call it—does not first spring up in its final +form, does not even expand along the lines of its earliest forms, but +goes through a series of successive phases unlike one another; in short, +that many changes occur in it, like those in the development of the +caterpillar into the butterfly. The turning-point of this development is +the _subordination of all the sexual component-instincts under the +primacy of the genital zone_ and, together with this, the enrolment of +sexuality in the service of the reproductive function. Before this +happens the sexual life is, so to say, disparate—independent activities +of single component-impulses each seeking _organ-pleasure_ (pleasure in +a bodily organ). This anarchy is modified by attempts at _pre_-genital +‘organizations,’ of which the chief is the sadistic-anal phase, behind +which is the oral, perhaps the most primitive. In addition there are the +various processes, about which little is known as yet, which effect the +transition from one stage of organization to the next above it. Of what +significance this long journey over so many stages in the development of +the Libido is for comprehension of the neuroses we shall learn later on. + +To-day we will follow up another aspect of this development—namely, the +relation of the sexual component-impulses to an _object_; or, rather, we +will take a fleeting glimpse over this development so that we may spend +more time upon a comparatively late result of it. Certain of the +component-impulses of the sexual instinct have an object from the very +beginning and hold fast to it: such are the impulse to mastery (sadism), +to gazing (skoptophilia) and curiosity. Others, more plainly connected +with particular erotogenic areas in the body, only have an object in the +beginning, so long as they are still dependent upon the non-sexual +functions, and give it up when they become detached from these latter. +Thus the first object of the oral component of the sexual instinct is +the mother’s breast which satisfies the infant’s need for nutrition. In +the act of sucking for its own sake (_lutschen_) the erotic component, +also gratified in sucking for nutrition (_saugen_), makes itself +independent, gives up the object in an external person, and replaces it +by a part of the child’s own person. The oral impulse becomes +_auto-erotic_, as the anal and other erotogenic impulses are from the +beginning. Further development has, to put it as concisely as possible, +two aims: first, to renounce auto-erotism, to give up again the object +found in the child’s own body in exchange again for an external one; and +secondly, to combine the various objects of the separate impulses and +replace them by one single one. This naturally can only be done if the +single object is again itself complete, with a body like that of the +subject; nor can it be accomplished without some part of the auto-erotic +impulse-excitations being abandoned as useless. + +The processes by which an object is found are rather involved, and have +not so far received comprehensive exposition. For our purposes it may be +emphasized that, when the process has reached a certain point in the +years of childhood before the latency period, the object adopted proves +almost identical with the first object of the oral pleasure impulse, +adopted by reason of the child’s dependent relationship to it; it is, +namely, the mother, although not the mother’s breast. We call the mother +the first _love_-object. We speak of ‘love’ when we lay the accent upon +the mental side of the sexual impulses and disregard, or wish to forget +for a moment, the demands of the fundamental physical or ‘sensual’ side +of the impulses. At about the time when the mother becomes the +love-object, the mental operation of repression has already begun in the +child and has withdrawn from him the knowledge of some part of his +sexual aims. Now with this choice of the mother as love-object is +connected all that which, under the name of ‘_the Oedipus complex_,’ has +become of such great importance in the psycho-analytic explanation of +the neuroses, and which has had a perhaps equally important share in +causing the opposition against psycho-analysis. + +Here is a little incident which occurred during the present war. One of +the staunch adherents of psycho-analysis was stationed in his medical +capacity on the German front in Poland; he attracted the attention of +his colleagues by the fact that he occasionally effected an unexpected +influence upon a patient. On being questioned, he admitted that he +worked with psycho-analytic methods and with readiness agreed to impart +his knowledge to his colleagues. So every evening the medical men of the +corps, his colleagues and superiors, met to be initiated into the +mysteries of psycho-analysis. For a time all went well; but when he had +introduced his audience to the Oedipus complex a superior officer rose +and announced that he did not believe this, it was the behaviour of a +cad for the lecturer to relate such things to brave men, fathers of +families, who were fighting for their country, and he forbade the +continuation of the lectures. This was the end; the analyst got himself +transferred to another part of the front. In my opinion, however, it is +a bad outlook if a victory for German arms depends upon an +‘organization’ of science such as this, and German science will not +prosper under any such organization. + +Now you will be impatiently waiting to hear what this terrible Oedipus +complex comprises. The name tells you: you all know the Greek myth of +King Oedipus, whose destiny it was to slay his father and to wed his +mother, who did all in his power to avoid the fate prophesied by the +oracle, and who in self-punishment blinded himself when he discovered +that in ignorance he had committed both these crimes. I trust that many +of you have yourselves experienced the profound effect of the tragic +drama fashioned by Sophocles from this story. The Attic poet’s work +portrays the gradual discovery of the deed of Oedipus, long since +accomplished, and brings it slowly to light by skilfully prolonged +enquiry, constantly fed by new evidence; it has thus a certain +resemblance to the course of a psycho-analysis. In the dialogue the +deluded mother-wife, Jocasta, resists the continuation of the enquiry; +she points out that many people in their dreams have mated with their +mothers, but that dreams are of no account. To us dreams are of much +account, especially typical dreams which occur in many people; we have +no doubt that the dream Jocasta speaks of is intimately related to the +shocking and terrible story of the myth. + +It is surprising that Sophocles’ tragedy does not call forth indignant +remonstrance in its audience; this reaction would be much better +justified in them than it was in the blunt army doctor. For at bottom it +is an immoral play; it sets aside the individual’s responsibility to +social law, and displays divine forces ordaining the crime and rendering +powerless the moral instincts of the human being which would guard him +against the crime. It would be easy to believe that an accusation +against destiny and the gods was intended in the story of the myth; in +the hands of the critical Euripides, at variance with the gods, it would +probably have become such an accusation. But with the reverent Sophocles +there is no question of such an intention; the pious subtlety which +declares it the highest morality to bow to the will of the gods, even +when they ordain a crime, helps him out of the difficulty. I do not +believe that this moral is one of the virtues of the drama, but neither +does it detract from its effect; it leaves the hearer indifferent; he +does not react to this, but to the secret meaning and content of the +myth itself. He reacts as though by self-analysis he had detected the +Oedipus complex in himself, and had recognized the will of the gods and +the oracle as glorified disguises of his own Unconscious; as though he +remembered in himself the wish to do away with his father and in his +place to wed his mother, and must abhor the thought. The poet’s words +seem to him to mean: “In vain do you deny that you are accountable, in +vain do you proclaim how you have striven against these evil designs. +You are guilty, nevertheless; for you could not stifle them; they still +survive unconsciously in you.” And psychological truth is contained in +this; even though man has repressed his evil desires into his +Unconscious and would then gladly say to himself that he is no longer +answerable for them, he is yet compelled to feel his responsibility in +the form of a sense of guilt for which he can discern no foundation. + +There is no possible doubt that one of the most important sources of the +sense of guilt which so often torments neurotic people is to be found in +the Oedipus complex. More than this: in 1913, under the title of _Totem +und Tabu_, I published a study of the earliest forms of religion and +morality in which I expressed a suspicion that perhaps the sense of +guilt of mankind as a whole, which is the ultimate source of religion +and morality, was acquired in the beginnings of history through the +Oedipus complex. I should much like to tell you more of this, but I had +better not; it is difficult to leave this subject when once one begins +upon it, and we must return to individual psychology. + +Now what does direct observation of children, at the period of +object-choice before the latency period, show us in regard to the +Oedipus complex? Well, it is easy to see that the little man wants his +mother all to himself, finds his father in the way, becomes restive when +the latter takes upon himself to caress her, and shows his satisfaction +when the father goes away or is absent. He often expresses his feelings +directly in words and promises his mother to marry her; this may not +seem much in comparison with the deeds of Oedipus, but it is enough in +fact; the kernel of each is the same. Observation is often rendered +puzzling by the circumstance that the same child on other occasions at +this period will display great affection for the father; but such +contrasting—or, better, _ambivalent_—states of feeling, which in adults +would lead to conflicts, can be tolerated alongside one another in the +child for a long time, just as later on they dwell together permanently +in the Unconscious. One might try to object that the little boy’s +behaviour is due to egoistic motives and does not justify the conception +of an erotic complex; the mother looks after all the child’s needs and +consequently it is to the child’s interest that she should trouble +herself about no one else. This too is quite correct; but it is soon +clear that in this, as in similar dependent situations, egoistic +interests only provide the occasion on which the erotic impulses seize. +When the little boy shows the most open sexual curiosity about his +mother, wants to sleep with her at night, insists on being in the room +while she is dressing, or even attempts physical acts of seduction, as +the mother so often observes and laughingly relates, the erotic nature +of this attachment to her is established without a doubt. Moreover, it +should not be forgotten that a mother looks after a little daughter’s +needs in the same way without producing this effect; and that often +enough a father eagerly vies with her in trouble for the boy without +succeeding in winning the same importance in his eyes as the mother. In +short, the factor of sex preference is not to be eliminated from the +situation by any criticisms. From the point of view of the boy’s +egoistic interests it would merely be foolish if he did not tolerate two +people in his service rather than only one of them. + +As you see, I have only described the relationship of a boy to his +father and mother; things proceed in just the same way, with the +necessary reversal, in little girls. The loving devotion to the father, +the need to do away with the superfluous mother and to take her place, +the early display of coquetry and the arts of later womanhood, make up a +particularly charming picture in a little girl, and may cause us to +forget its seriousness and the grave consequences which may later result +from this situation. Let us not fail to add that frequently the parents +themselves exert a decisive influence upon the awakening of the Oedipus +complex in a child, by themselves following the sex attraction where +there is more than one child; the father in an unmistakable manner +prefers his little daughter with marks of tenderness, and the mother, +the son: but even this factor does not seriously impugn the spontaneous +nature of the infantile Oedipus complex. When other children appear, the +Oedipus complex expands and becomes a family complex. Reinforced anew by +the injury resulting to the egoistic interests, it actuates a feeling of +aversion towards these new arrivals and an unhesitating wish to get rid +of them again. These feelings of hatred are as a rule much more often +openly expressed than those connected with the parental complex. If such +a wish is fulfilled and after a short time death removes the unwanted +addition to the family, later analysis can show what a significant event +this death is for the child, although it does not necessarily remain in +memory. Forced into the second place by the birth of another child and +for the first time almost entirely parted from the mother, the child +finds it very hard to forgive her for this exclusion of him; feelings +which in adults we should describe as profound embitterment are roused +in him, and often become the groundwork of a lasting estrangement. That +sexual curiosity and all its consequences is usually connected with +these experiences has already been mentioned. As these new brothers and +sisters grow up the child’s attitude to them undergoes the most +important transformations. A boy may take his sister as love-object in +place of his faithless mother; where there are several brothers to win +the favour of a little sister hostile rivalry, of great importance in +after life, shows itself already in the nursery. A little girl takes an +older brother as a substitute for the father who no longer treats her +with the same tenderness as in her earliest years; or she takes a little +sister as a substitute for the child that she vainly wished for from her +father. + +So much and a great deal more of a similar kind is shown by direct +observation of children, and by consideration of clear memories of +childhood, uninfluenced by any analysis. Among other things you will +infer from this that a child’s position in the sequence of brothers and +sisters is of very great significance for the course of his later life, +a factor to be considered in every biography. What is even more +important, however, is that in the face of these enlightening +considerations, so easily to be obtained, you will hardly recall without +smiling the scientific theories accounting for the prohibition of +incest. What has not been invented for this purpose! We are told that +sexual attraction is diverted from the members of the opposite sex in +one family owing to their living together from early childhood; or that +a biological tendency against in-breeding has a mental equivalent in the +horror of incest! Whereby it is entirely overlooked that no such +rigorous prohibitions in law and custom would be required if any +trustworthy natural barriers against the temptation to incest existed. +The opposite is the truth. The first choice of object in mankind is +regularly an incestuous one, directed to the mother and sister of men, +and the most stringent prohibitions are required to prevent this +sustained infantile tendency from being carried into effect. In the +savage and primitive peoples surviving to-day the incest prohibitions +are a great deal stricter than with us; Theodor Reik has recently shown +in a brilliant work that the meaning of the savage rites of puberty +which represent rebirth is the loosening of the boy’s incestuous +attachment to the mother and his reconciliation with the father. + +Mythology will show you that incest, ostensibly so much abhorred by men, +is permitted to their gods without a thought; and from ancient history +you may learn that incestuous marriage with a sister was prescribed as a +sacred duty for kings (the Pharaohs of Egypt and the Incas of Peru); it +was therefore in the nature of a privilege denied to the common herd. + +Incest with the mother is one of the crimes of Oedipus and parricide the +other. Incidentally, these are the two great offences condemned by +totemism, the first social-religious institution of mankind. Now let us +turn from the direct observation of children to the analytic +investigation of adults who have become neurotic; what does analysis +yield in further knowledge of the Oedipus complex? Well, this is soon +told. The complex is revealed just as the myth relates it; it will be +seen that every one of these neurotics was himself an Oedipus or, what +amounts to the same thing, has become a Hamlet in his reaction to the +complex. To be sure, the analytic picture of the Oedipus complex is an +enlarged and accentuated edition of the infantile sketch; the hatred of +the father and the death-wishes against him are no longer vague hints, +the affection for the mother declares itself with the aim of possessing +her as a woman. Are we really to accredit such grossness and intensity +of the feelings to the tender age of childhood; or does the analysis +deceive us by introducing another factor? It is not difficult to find +one. Every time anyone describes anything past, even if he be a +historian, we have to take into account all that he unintentionally +imports into that past period from present and intermediate times, +thereby falsifying it. With the neurotic it is even doubtful whether +this retroversion is altogether unintentional; we shall hear later on +that there are motives for it and we must explore the whole subject of +the ‘retrogressive phantasy-making’ which goes back to the remote past. +We soon discover, too, that the hatred against the father has been +strengthened by a number of motives arising in later periods and other +relationships in life, and that the sexual desires towards the mother +have been moulded into forms which would have been as yet foreign to the +child. But it would be a vain attempt if we endeavoured to explain the +whole of the Oedipus complex by ‘retrogressive phantasy-making,’ and by +motives originating in later periods of life. The infantile nucleus, +with more or less of the accretions to it, remains intact, as is +confirmed by direct observation of children. + +The clinical fact which confronts us behind the form of the Oedipus +complex as established by analysis now becomes of the greatest practical +importance. We learn that at the time of puberty, when the sexual +instinct first asserts its demands in full strength, the old familiar +incestuous objects are taken up again and again invested by the Libido. +The infantile object-choice was but a feeble venture in play, as it +were, but it laid down the direction for the object-choice of puberty. +At this time a very intense flow of feeling towards the Oedipus complex +or in reaction to it comes into force; since their mental antecedents +have become intolerable, however, these feelings must remain for the +most part outside consciousness. From the time of puberty onward the +human individual must devote himself to the great task of _freeing +himself from the parents_; and only after this detachment is +accomplished can he cease to be a child and so become a member of the +social community. For a son, the task consists in releasing his +libidinal desires from his mother, in order to employ them in the quest +of an external love-object in reality; and in reconciling himself with +his father if he has remained antagonistic to him, or in freeing himself +from his domination if, in the reaction to the infantile revolt, he has +lapsed into subservience to him. These tasks are laid down for every +man; it is noteworthy how seldom they are carried through ideally, that +is, how seldom they are solved in a manner psychologically as well as +socially satisfactory. In neurotics, however, this detachment from the +parents is not accomplished at all; the son remains all his life in +subjection to his father, and incapable of transferring his Libido to a +new sexual object. In the reversed relationship the daughter’s fate may +be the same. In this sense the Oedipus complex is justifiably regarded +as the kernel of the neuroses. + +You will imagine how incompletely I am sketching a large number of the +connections bound up with the Oedipus complex which practically and +theoretically are of great importance. I shall not go into the +variations and possible inversions of it at all. Of its less immediate +effects I should like to allude to one only, which proves it to have +influenced literary production in a far-reaching manner. Otto Rank has +shown in a very valuable work that dramatists throughout the ages have +drawn their material principally from the Oedipus and incest complex and +its variations and masked forms. It should also be remarked that long +before the time of psycho-analysis the two criminal offences of Oedipus +were recognized as the true expressions of unbridled instinct. Among the +works of the Encyclopædist Diderot you will find the famous dialogue, +_Le neveu de Rameau_, which was translated into German by no less a +person than Goethe. There you may read these remarkable words: _Si le +petit sauvage était abandonné à lui-même, qu’il conserva toute son +imbecillité et qu’il réunit au peu de raison de l’enfant au berceau la +violence des passions de l’homme de trente ans, il tordrait le cou à son +père et coucherait avec sa mère_. + +There is yet one thing more which I cannot pass over. The mother-wife of +Oedipus must not remind us of dreams in vain. Do you still remember the +results of our dream-analyses, how so often the dream-forming wishes +proved perverse and incestuous in their nature, or betrayed an +unsuspected enmity to near and beloved relatives? We then left the +source of these evil strivings of feeling unexplained. Now you can +answer this question yourselves. They are dispositions of the Libido, +and investments of objects by Libido, belonging to early infancy and +long since given up in conscious life, but which at night prove to be +still present and in a certain sense capable of activity. But, since all +men and not only neurotic persons have perverse, incestuous, and +murderous dreams of this kind, we may infer that those who are normal +to-day have also made the passage through the perversions and the +object-investments of the Oedipus complex; and that this is the path of +normal development; only that neurotics show in a magnified and +exaggerated form what we also find revealed in the dream-analyses of +normal people. And this is one of the reasons why we chose the study of +dreams to lead up to that of neurotic symptoms. + + + + + TWENTY-SECOND LECTURE + ASPECTS OF DEVELOPMENT AND REGRESSION. ÆTIOLOGY + + +As we have heard, the Libido-function goes through an extensive +development before it can enter the service of reproduction in the way +that is called normal. Now I wish to show you the significance of this +fact for the causation of the neuroses. + +I think that it will be in agreement with the doctrines of general +pathology to assume that such a development involves two dangers; first, +that of _inhibition_, and secondly, that of _regression_. That is to +say, owing to the general tendency to variation in biological processes +it must necessarily happen that not all these preparatory phases will be +passed through and completely outgrown with the same degree of success; +some parts of the function will be permanently arrested at these early +stages, with the result that with the general development there goes a +certain amount of inhibited development. + +Let us seek analogies to these processes in other fields. When a whole +people leaves its dwellings in order to seek a new country, as often +happened in earlier periods of human history, their entire number +certainly did not reach the new destination. Apart from losses due to +other causes, it must invariably have happened that small groups or +bands of the migrating people halted on the way, and settled down in +these stopping-places, while the main body went further. Or, to take a +nearer comparison, you know that in the higher mammals the seminal +glands, which are originally located deep in the abdominal cavity, begin +a movement at a certain period of intra-uterine development which brings +them almost under the skin of the pelvic extremity. In a number of males +it is found that one of this pair of organs has remained in the pelvic +cavity, or else that it has taken up a permanent position in the +inguinal canal which both of them had to pass through on the journey, or +at least that this canal has not closed as it normally should after the +passage of the seminal glands through it. When as a young student I was +doing my first piece of scientific research under v. Brücke, I was +working on the origin of the dorsal nerve-roots in the spinal cord of a +small fish, still very archaic in form. I found that the nerve-fibres of +these roots grew out of large cells in the posterior horn of the grey +matter, a condition which is no longer found in other vertebrates. But +soon after I discovered that similar nerve-cells were to be found +outside the grey matter along the whole length to the so-called spinal +ganglion of the posterior roots, from which I concluded that the cells +of this ganglion had moved out of the spinal cord along the nerve-roots. +Evolutionary development shows this too; in this little fish, however, +the whole route of this passage was marked by cells arrested on the way. +Closer consideration will soon show you the weak points of these +comparisons. Therefore let me simply say that we consider it possible +that single portions of every separate sexual impulse may remain in an +early stage of development, although at the same time other portions of +it may have reached their final goal. You will see from this that we +conceive each such impulse as a current continuously flowing from the +beginning of life, and that we have divided its flow to some extent +artificially into separate successive forward movements. Your impression +that these conceptions require further elucidation is correct, but the +attempt would lead us too far afield. We will, however, decide at this +point to call this _arrest_ in a component-impulse at an early stage a +FIXATION (of the impulse). + +The second danger in a development by stages such as this we call +REGRESSION; it also happens that those portions which have proceeded +further may easily revert in a backward direction to these earlier +stages. The impulse will find occasion to _regress_ in this way when the +exercise of its function in a later and more developed form meets with +powerful external obstacles, which thus prevent it from attaining the +goal of satisfaction. It is a short step to assume that fixation and +regression are not independent of each other; the stronger the fixations +in the path of development the more easily will the function yield +before the external obstacles, by regressing on to those fixations; that +is, the less capable of resistance against the external difficulties in +its path will the developed function be. If you think of a migrating +people who have left large numbers at the stopping-places on their way, +you will see that the foremost will naturally fall back upon these +positions when they are defeated or when they meet with an enemy too +strong for them. And again, the more of their number they leave behind +in their progress, the sooner will they be in danger of defeat. + +It is important for comprehension of the neuroses that you should keep +in mind this relation between fixation and regression. You will thus +acquire a secure foothold from which to investigate the causation of the +neuroses—their ætiology—which we shall soon consider. + +For the present we will keep to the question of regression. After what +you have heard about the development of the Libido you may anticipate +two kinds of regression; a return to the first objects invested with +Libido, which we know to be incestuous in character, and a return of the +whole sexual organization to earlier stages. Both kinds occur in the +transference neuroses, and play a great part in their mechanism. In +particular, the return to the first incestuous objects of the Libido is +a feature found with quite fatiguing regularity in neurotics. There is +much more to be said about the regressions of Libido if another group of +neuroses, called the narcissistic, is taken into account; but this is +not our intention at the moment. These affections yield conclusions +about other developmental processes of the Libido-function, not yet +mentioned, and also show us new types of regression corresponding with +them. I think, however, that I had better warn you now above all not to +confound _Regression_ with _Repression_ and that I must assist you to +clear your minds about the relation between the two processes. +_Repression_, as you will remember, is the process by which a mental act +capable of becoming conscious (that is, one which belongs to the +preconscious system) is made unconscious and forced back into the +unconscious system. And we also call it _repression_ when the +unconscious mental act is not permitted to enter the adjacent +preconscious system at all, but is turned back upon the threshold by the +censorship. There is therefore no connection with sexuality in the +concept ‘_repression_’; please mark this very carefully. It denotes a +purely psychological process; and would be even better described as +_topographical_, by which we mean that it has to do with the spatial +relationships we assume within the mind, or, if we again abandon these +crude aids to the formulation of theory, with the structure of the +mental apparatus out of separate psychical systems. + +The comparisons just now instituted showed us that hitherto we have not +been using the word ‘_regression_’ in its general sense but in a quite +specific one. If you give it its general sense, that of a reversion from +a higher to a lower stage of development in general, then repression +also ranges itself under regression; for repression can also be +described as reversion to an earlier and lower stage in the development +of a mental act. Only, in repression this retrogressive direction is not +a point of any moment to us; for we also call it repression in a dynamic +sense when a mental process is arrested before it leaves the lower stage +of the Unconscious. Repression is thus a topographic-dynamic conception, +while regression is a purely descriptive one. But what we have hitherto +called ‘_regression_’ and considered in its relation to fixation +signified exclusively the return of _the Libido_ to its former +halting-places in development, that is, something which is essentially +quite different from repression and quite independent of it. Nor can we +call regression of the Libido a purely psychical process; neither do we +know where to localize it in the mental apparatus; for though it may +exert the most powerful influence upon mental life, the organic factor +in it is nevertheless the most prominent. + +Discussions of this sort tend to be rather dry; therefore let us turn to +clinical illustrations of them in order to get a more vivid impression +of them. You know that the group of the transference neuroses consists +principally of hysteria and the obsessional neurosis. Now in hysteria, a +regression of the Libido to the primary incestuous sexual objects is +without doubt quite regular, but there is little or no regression to an +earlier stage of sexual organization. Consequently the principal part in +the mechanism of hysteria is played by repression. If I may be allowed +to supplement by a construction the certain knowledge of this neurosis +acquired up to the present I might describe the situation as follows: +The fusion of the component-impulses under the primacy of the genital +zone has been accomplished; but the results of this union meet with +resistance from the direction of the preconscious system with which +consciousness is connected. The genital organization therefore holds +good for the Unconscious, but not also for the preconscious, and this +rejection on the part of the preconscious results in a picture which has +a certain likeness to the state prior to the primacy of the genital +zone. It is nevertheless actually quite different. Of the two kinds of +regression of the Libido, that on to an earlier phase of sexual +organization is much the more striking. Since it is absent in hysteria +and our whole conception of the neuroses is still far too much dominated +by the study of hysteria which came first in point of time, the +significance of Libido-regression was recognized much later than that of +repression. We may be sure that our points of view will undergo still +further extensions and alterations when we include consideration of +still other neuroses (the narcissistic) in addition to hysteria and the +obsessional neurosis. + +In the obsessional neurosis, on the other hand, regression of the Libido +to the antecedent stage of the sadistic-anal organization is the most +conspicuous factor and determines the form taken by the symptoms. The +impulse to love must then mask itself under the sadistic impulse. The +obsessive thought, “I should like to murder you,” means (when it has +been detached from certain superimposed elements that are not, however, +accidental but indispensable to it) nothing else but “I should like to +enjoy love of you.” When you consider in addition that regression to the +primary objects has also set in at the same time, so that this impulse +concerns only the nearest and most beloved persons, you can gain some +idea of the horror roused in the patient by these obsessive ideas and at +the same time how unaccountable they appear to his conscious perception. +But repression also has its share, a great one, in the mechanism of this +neurosis, and one which is not easy to expound in a rapid survey such as +this. Regression of Libido without repression would never give rise to a +neurosis, but would result in a perversion. You will see from this that +repression is the process which distinguishes the neuroses particularly +and by which they are best characterized. Perhaps, however, I may have +an opportunity at some time of expounding to you what we know of the +mechanism of the perversions, and you will then see that there again +nothing proceeds so simply as we should like to imagine in our +constructions. + +I think that you will be soonest reconciled to this exposition of +fixation and regression of the Libido if you will regard it as +preparatory to a study of the _ætiology_ of the neuroses. So far I have +only given you one piece of information on this subject, namely, that +people fall ill of a neurosis when the possibility of satisfaction for +the Libido is removed from them—they fall ill in consequence of a +‘privation,’ as I called it, therefore—and that their symptoms are +actually substitutes for the missing satisfaction. This of course does +not mean that every privation in regard to libidinal satisfaction makes +everyone who meets with it neurotic, but merely that in all cases of +neurosis investigated the factor of privation was demonstrable. The +statement therefore cannot be reversed. You will no doubt have +understood that this statement was not intended to reveal the whole +secret of the ætiology of the neuroses, but that it merely emphasized an +important and indispensable condition. + +Now in order to consider this proposition further we do not know whether +to begin upon the nature of the privation or the particular character of +the person affected by it. The privation is very rarely a comprehensive +and absolute one; in order to have a pathogenic effect it would probably +have to strike at the only form of satisfaction which that person +desires, the only form of which he is capable. In general, there are +very many ways by which it is possible to endure lack of libidinal +satisfaction without falling ill. Above all we know of people who are +able to take such abstinence upon themselves without injury; they are +then not happy, they suffer from unsatisfied longing, but they do not +become ill. We therefore have to conclude that the sexual +impulse-excitations are exceptionally ‘plastic,’ if I may use the word. +One of them can step in in place of another; if satisfaction of one is +denied in reality, satisfaction of another can offer full recompense. +They are related to one another like a network of communicating canals +filled with fluid, and this in spite of their subordination to the +genital primacy, a condition which is not at all easily reduced to an +image. Further, the component-instincts of sexuality, as well as the +united sexual impulse which comprises them, show a great capacity to +change their object, to exchange it for another—i.e. for one more easily +attainable; this capacity for displacement and readiness to accept +surrogates must produce a powerful counter-effect to the effect of a +privation. One amongst these processes serving as protection against +illness arising from want has reached a particular significance in the +development of culture. It consists in the abandonment, on the part of +the sexual impulse, of an aim previously found either in the +gratification of a component-impulse or in the gratification incidental +to reproduction, and the adoption of a new aim—which new aim, though +genetically related to the first, can no longer be regarded as sexual, +but must be called social in character. We call this process +SUBLIMATION, by which we subscribe to the general standard which +estimates social aims above sexual (ultimately selfish) aims. +Incidentally, sublimation is merely a special case of the connections +existing between sexual impulses and other, asexual ones. We shall have +occasion to discuss this again in another context. + +Your impression now will be that we have reduced want of satisfaction to +a factor of negligible proportions by the recognition of so many means +of enduring it. But no; this is not so: it retains its pathogenic power. +The means of dealing with it are not always sufficient. The measure of +unsatisfied Libido that the average human being can take upon himself is +limited. The plasticity and free mobility of the Libido is not by any +means retained to the full in all of us; and sublimation can never +discharge more than a certain proportion of Libido, apart from the fact +that many people possess the capacity for sublimation only in a slight +degree. The most important of these limitations is clearly that +referring to the mobility of the Libido, since it confines the +individual to the attaining of aims and objects which are very few in +number. Just remember that incomplete development of the Libido leaves +behind it very extensive (and sometimes also numerous) Libido-fixations +upon earlier phases of organization and types of object-choice, mostly +incapable of satisfaction in reality; you will then recognize fixation +of Libido as the second powerful factor working together with privation +in the causation of illness. We may condense this schematically and say +that Libido-fixation represents the internal, predisposing factor, while +privation represents the external, accidental factor, in the ætiology of +the neuroses. + +I will take this opportunity to warn you against taking sides in a quite +superfluous dispute. It is a popular habit in scientific matters to +seize upon one side of the truth and set it up as the whole truth, and +then in favour of that element of truth to dispute all the rest which is +equally true. More than one faction has already split off in this way +from the psycho-analytic movement; one of them recognizes only the +egoistic impulses and denies the sexual; another perceives only the +influence of real tasks in life but overlooks that of the individual’s +past life, and so on. Now here is occasion for another of these +antitheses and moot-points: Are the neuroses exogenous or endogenous +diseases—the inevitable result of a certain type of constitution or the +product of certain injurious (traumatic) events in the person’s life? In +particular, are they brought about by the fixation of Libido and the +rest of the sexual constitution, or by the pressure of privation? This +dilemma seems to me about as sensible as another I could point to: Is +the child created by the father’s act of generation or by the conception +in the mother? You will properly reply: Both conditions are alike +indispensable. The conditions underlying the neuroses are very similar, +if not exactly the same. From the point of view of causation, cases of +neurotic illness fall into a _series_, within which the two +factors—sexual constitution and events experienced, or, if you wish, +fixation of Libido and privation—are represented in such a way that +where one of them predominates the other is proportionately less +pronounced. At one end of the series stand those extreme cases of whom +one can say: These people would have fallen ill whatever happened, +whatever they experienced, however merciful life had been to them, +because of their anomalous Libido-development. At the other end stand +cases which call forth the opposite verdict—they would undoubtedly have +escaped illness if life had not put such and such burdens upon them. In +the intermediate cases in the series, more or less of the disposing +factor (the sexual constitution) is combined with less or more of the +injurious impositions of life. Their sexual constitution would not have +brought about their neurosis if they had not gone through such and such +experiences, and life’s vicissitudes would not have worked traumatically +upon them if the Libido had been otherwise constituted. In this series I +can perhaps admit a certain preponderance in the effect of the +predisposing factor, but this admission again depends upon where you +draw the line in marking the boundaries of nervousness. + +I shall now suggest to you that we should call series such as these +_complemental series_, and will inform you beforehand that we shall find +occasion to establish others of this kind. + +The tenacity with which the Libido holds to particular channels and +particular objects, the ‘_adhesiveness_’ of the Libido, so to say, seems +to be an independent factor, varying in individuals, the determining +conditions of which are completely unknown to us, but the importance of +which in the ætiology of the neuroses we shall certainly no longer +underestimate. At the same time we should not overestimate the close +relation between the two things. A similar ‘adhesiveness’ of the Libido +occurs—from unknown causes—in normal people under numerous conditions, +and is found as a decisive factor in those persons who in a certain +sense are the extreme opposite of neurotics—namely, perverted persons. +It was known before the time of psycho-analysis that in the anamnesis of +such persons a very early impression, relating to an abnormal +instinct-tendency or object-choice, is frequently discovered, to which +the Libido of that person henceforth remains attached for life (Binet). +It is often hard to say what has enabled this impression to exert such +an intense power of attraction upon the Libido. I will describe a case +of this kind observed by myself. A man to whom the genitals and all the +other attractions in a woman now mean nothing can be roused to +irresistible sexual excitation only by a shoe-clad foot of a certain +shape; he can remember an event in his sixth year which determined this +fixation of Libido. He was sitting upon a stool by the side of his +governess who was to give him an English lesson. She was a plain, +elderly, shrivelled old maid, with watery blue eyes and a snub nose, and +on this day she had hurt her foot and had it therefore stretched out on +a cushion in a velvet slipper, with the leg itself most decorously +concealed. Later on, after a timid attempt at normal sexual activity +during puberty, a thin sinewy foot like that of the governess became his +only sexual object; and if still other features in the person reminded +him of the type of woman represented by the English governess the man +was helplessly attracted. This fixation of the Libido, however, rendered +him not neurotic but perverse; he became, as we say, a foot-fetichist. +So you see that although an excessive and, in addition, premature +fixation of Libido is an indispensable condition in the causation of +neurosis, the extent of its influence far exceeds the boundaries of the +neuroses. This condition by itself is also as little decisive as the +privation mentioned previously. + +So the problem of the causation of the neuroses seems to become more +complicated. In fact, psycho-analytic investigation acquaints us with +yet a new factor, not considered in our ætiological series, and best +observed in someone whose previous good health is suddenly disturbed by +falling ill of a neurosis. In these people signs of contradictory and +opposed wishes, or, as we say, of _mental conflict_, are regularly +found. One side of the personality stands for certain wishes, while +another part struggles against them and fends them off. There is no +neurosis without such a CONFLICT. There might seem to be nothing very +special in this; you know that mental life in all of us is perpetually +engaged with conflicts that have to be decided. Therefore it would seem +that special conditions must be fulfilled before such a conflict can +become pathogenic; we may ask what these conditions are, what forces in +the mind take part in these pathogenic conflicts, and what relation +conflict bears to the other causative factors. + +I hope to be able to give you answers to these questions which will be +satisfactory although perhaps schematically condensed. Conflict is +produced by privation, in that the Libido which lacks satisfaction is +urged to seek other paths and other objects. A condition of it then is +that these other paths and objects arouse disfavour in one side of the +personality, so that a veto ensues, which at first makes the new way of +satisfaction impossible. This is the point of departure for the +formation of symptoms, which we shall follow up later. The rejected +libidinal longings manage to pursue their course by circuitous paths, +though not indeed without paying toll to the prohibition in the form of +certain disguises and modifications. The circuitous paths are the ways +of symptom-formation; the symptoms are the new or substitutive +satisfactions necessitated by the fact of the privation. + +The significance of the mental conflict can be defined in another way, +thus: in order to become pathogenic _external_ privation must be +supplemented by _internal_ privation. When this is so, the external and +the internal privation relate of course to different paths and different +objects; external privation removes one possibility of satisfaction, +internal privation tries to exclude another possibility, and it is this +second possibility which becomes the debatable ground of the conflict. I +choose this form of presentation because it contains a certain +implication; it implies that the internal impediment arose originally, +in primitive phases of human development, out of real external +obstacles. + +But what are these forces out of which the prohibition against the +libidinal longings proceeds, the other parties in the pathogenic +conflict? Speaking very broadly, we may say that they are the non-sexual +instincts. We include them all under the name ‘_Ego-instincts_’; +analysis of the transference neuroses offers no adequate opportunity for +further investigation of them; at most we learn something of them from +the resistances opposed to the analysis. The pathogenic conflict is, +therefore, one between the Ego-instincts and the sexual instincts. In a +whole series of cases it looks as though there might also be conflict +between various purely sexual impulses; at bottom, however, this is the +same thing, because of the two sexual impulses engaged in a conflict one +will always be found ‘consistent with the Ego’ (_ichgerecht_) while the +other calls forth a protest from the Ego. It remains, therefore, a +conflict between Ego and sexuality. + +Over and over again when psycho-analysis has regarded something +happening in the mind as an expression of the sexual instincts indignant +protests have been raised to the effect that other instincts and other +interests exist in mental life besides the sexual, that one should not +derive “everything” from sexuality, and so on. Well, it is a real +pleasure for once to be in agreement with one’s opponents. +Psycho-analysis has never forgotten that non-sexual instincts also +exist; it has been built upon a sharp distinction between sexual +instincts and Ego-instincts; and in the face of all opposition it has +insisted, _not_ that they arise from sexuality, but that the neuroses +owe their origin to a _conflict_ between Ego and sexuality. It has no +conceivable motive in denying the existence or the significance of the +Ego-instincts while it investigates the part played by sexual instincts +in disease and in life generally. Only, psycho-analysis has been +destined to concern itself first and foremost with the sexual instincts, +because in the transference neuroses these are the most accessible to +investigation, and because it was obliged to study what others had +neglected. + +It is not any more accurate to say that psycho-analysis has not occupied +itself at all with the non-sexual side of the personality. The very +distinction between the Ego and sexuality has shown us with particular +clearness that the Ego-instincts also undergo an important development +which is neither entirely independent of the development of the Libido +nor without influence upon the latter. We certainly understand the +development of the Ego much less well than the development of the +Libido, because it is only by the study of the narcissistic neuroses +that we have just reached some hope of insight into the structure of the +Ego. Nevertheless, we have already a notable attempt on the part of +Ferenczi[48] to reconstruct theoretically the developmental stages of +the Ego; and there are at least two points at which we have a secure +foothold from which to examine this development further. We are not at +all disposed to think that the libidinal interests of a human being are +from the outset in opposition to the interests of self-preservation; the +Ego is rather impelled at every stage to attempt to remain in harmony +with the corresponding stage of sexual organization and to accommodate +itself to that. The succession of the separate phases in the development +of the Libido probably follows a prescribed course; it is undeniable, +however, that this course may be influenced from the direction of the +Ego. A certain parallelism, a definite correspondence between the phases +in the two developments (of the Ego and of the Libido) may also be +assumed; indeed, a disturbance in this correspondence may become a +pathogenic factor. More important to us is the question how the Ego +behaves when the Libido has undergone a powerful fixation at an earlier +point in its development. The Ego may countenance the fixation and will +then be perverse to that extent, or, what is the same thing, infantile; +it may, however, hold itself averse from this attachment of Libido, the +result of which is that where the Libido undergoes a _fixation_ there +the Ego institutes an act of _repression_. + +In this way we arrive at the conclusion that the third factor in the +ætiology of the neuroses, the susceptibility to conflict, is as much +connected with the development of the Ego as with the development of the +Libido; our insight into the causation of the neuroses is thus enlarged. +First, there is the most general condition of privation, then the +fixation of Libido (forcing it into particular channels), and thirdly, +the _susceptibility to conflict_ produced by the development of the Ego +having repudiated libidinal excitations of that particular kind. The +thing is therefore not so very obscure and intricate—as you probably +thought it during the course of my exposition. To be sure, though, after +all, we have not done with it yet; there is still something new to add +and something we already know to dissect further. + +In order to demonstrate the effect of the development of the Ego upon +the tendency to conflict and therewith upon the causation of the +neurosis, I will quote an example which, although entirely imaginary, is +not at all improbable in any respect. I will give it the title of +Nestroy’s farce: _On the Ground-Floor and in the Mansion_. Suppose that +a caretaker is living on the ground-floor of a house, while the owner, a +rich and well-connected man, lives above. They both have children, and +we will assume that the owner’s little girl is permitted to play freely +without supervision with the child of lower social standing. It may then +very easily happen that their games become “naughty,” that is, take on a +sexual character: that they play “father and mother,” watch each other +in the performance of intimate acts, and stimulate each other’s genital +parts. The caretaker’s daughter may have played the temptress in this, +since in spite of her five or six years she has been able to learn a +great deal about sexual matters. These occurrences, even though they are +only kept up for a short period, will be enough to rouse certain sexual +excitations in both children which will come to expression in the +practice of masturbation for a few years, after the games have been +discontinued. There is common ground so far, but the final result will +be very different in the two children. The caretaker’s daughter will +continue masturbation, perhaps up to the onset of menstruation, and then +give it up without difficulty; a few years later will find a lover, +perhaps bear a child; choose this or that path in life, perhaps become a +popular actress and end as an aristocrat. Probably her career will turn +out less brilliantly, but in any case she will be unharmed by the +premature sexual activity, free from neurosis, and able to live her +life. Very different is the result in the other child. She will very +soon, while yet a child, acquire a sense of having done wrong; after a +fairly short time she will give up the masturbatory satisfaction, though +perhaps only with a tremendous struggle, but will nevertheless retain an +inner feeling of subdued depression. When later on as a young girl she +comes to learn something of sexual intercourse, she will turn from it +with inexplicable horror and wish to remain ignorant. Probably she will +then again suffer a fresh irresistible impulse to masturbation about +which she will not dare to unburden herself to anyone. When the time +comes for a man to choose her as a wife the neurosis will break out and +cheat her out of marriage and the joy of life. If analysis makes it +possible to obtain an insight into this neurosis, it will be found that +this well-broughtup, intelligent and idealistic girl has completely +repressed her sexual desires; but that they are, unconsciously, attached +to the few little experiences she had with the childish play-mate. + +The differences which ensue in these two destinies in spite of the +common experiences undergone, arise because in one girl the Ego has +sustained a development absent in the other. To the caretaker’s daughter +sexual activity seemed as natural and harmless in later years as in +childhood. The gentleman’s daughter had been “well-brought-up” and had +adopted the standards of her education. Thus stimulated, her Ego had +formed ideals of womanly purity and absence of desire that were +incompatible with sexual acts; her intellectual training had caused her +to depreciate the feminine rôle for which she is intended. This higher +moral and intellectual development in her Ego has brought her into +conflict with the claims of her sexuality. + +I will explore one more aspect of the development of the Libido to-day, +both because it leads out upon certain wide prospects, and also because +it is well-suited to justify the sharp, and not immediately obvious, +line of demarcation we are wont to draw between Ego-instincts and sexual +instincts. In considering the two developments undergone by the Ego and +by the Libido we must emphasize an aspect which hitherto has received +little attention. Both of them are at bottom inheritances, abbreviated +repetitions of the evolution undergone by the whole human race through +long-drawn-out periods and from prehistoric ages. In the development of +the Libido this phylogenetic origin is readily apparent, I should +suppose. Think how in one class of animals the genital apparatus is in +closest relation with the mouth, in another it is indistinguishable from +the excretory mechanism, in another it is part of the organs of +motility; you will find a delightful description of these facts in W. +Bölsche’s valuable book. One sees in animals all the various +perversions, ingrained, so to speak, in the form taken by their sexual +organizations. Now the phylogenetic aspect is to some extent obscured in +man by the circumstance that what is fundamentally inherited is +nevertheless individually acquired anew, probably because the same +conditions that originally induced its acquisition still prevail and +exert their influence upon each individual. I would say, where they +originally created a new response they now stimulate a predisposition. +Apart from this, it is unquestionable that the course of the prescribed +development in each individual can be disturbed and altered by current +impressions from without. But the power which has enforced this +development upon mankind, and still to-day maintains its pressure in the +same course, is known to us; it is, again, the privation exacted by +reality; or, if we give it its great real name, it is _Necessity_, the +struggle for life, _’ANATKH_. Necessity has been a severe task-mistress, +and she has taught us a great deal. Neurotics are those of her children +upon whom this severity has had evil effects, but that risk is +inevitable in any education. Incidentally, this view of the struggle for +existence as the motive force in evolution need not detract from the +significance of “inner evolutionary tendencies,” if such are found to +exist. + +Now it is very noteworthy that sexual instincts and self-preservative +instincts do not behave alike when confronted with the necessity of real +life. The self-preservative instincts and all that hangs together with +them are more easily moulded; they learn early to conform to necessity +and to adapt their development according to the mandates of reality. +This is comprehensible, for they cannot obtain the objects they require +by any other means, and without these objects the individual must +perish. The sexual instincts are less easily moulded; for in the +beginning they do not know any lack of objects. Since they are connected +parasitically, as it were, with the other physical functions and at the +same time can be auto-erotically gratified on their own body, they are +at first isolated from the educative influence of real necessity; and in +most people they retain throughout life, in some respect or other, this +character of obstinacy and inaccessibility to influence which we call +“unreasonableness.” Moreover, the educability of a young person as a +rule comes to an end when sexual desire breaks out in its final +strength. Educators know this and act accordingly; but perhaps they will +yet allow themselves to be influenced by the results of psycho-analysis +so that they will transfer the main emphasis in education to the +earliest years of childhood, from the suckling period onward. The little +human being is frequently a finished product in his fourth or fifth +year, and only gradually reveals in later years what lies buried in him. + +To appreciate the full significance of this difference between the two +groups of instincts we must digress some distance, and include one of +those aspects which deserve to be called _economic_; we enter here upon +one of the most important, but unfortunately one of the most obscure, +territories of psycho-analysis. We may put the question whether a main +purpose is discernible in the operation of the mental apparatus; and our +first approach to an answer is that this purpose is directed to the +attainment of pleasure. It seems that our entire psychical activity is +bent upon _procuring pleasure_ and _avoiding pain_, that it is +automatically regulated by the PLEASURE-PRINCIPLE. Now of all things in +the world we should like to know what are the conditions giving rise to +pleasure and pain, but that is just where we fall short. We may only +venture to say that pleasure is _in some way_ connected with lessening, +lowering, or extinguishing the amount of stimulation present in the +mental apparatus; and that pain involves a heightening of the latter. +Consideration of the most intense pleasure of which man is capable, the +pleasure in the performance of the sexual act, leaves little doubt upon +this point. Since pleasurable processes of this kind are bound up with +the distribution of quantities of mental excitation and energy, we term +considerations of this kind _economic_ ones. It appears that we can +describe the tasks and performances of the mental apparatus in another +way and more generally than by emphasizing the attainment of pleasure. +We can say that the mental apparatus serves the purpose of mastering and +discharging the masses of supervening stimuli, the quantities of energy. +It is quite plain that the sexual instincts pursue the aim of +gratification from the beginning to the end of their development; +throughout they keep up this primary function without alteration. At +first the other group, the Ego-instincts, do the same; but under the +influence of necessity, their mistress, they soon learn to replace the +pleasure-principle by a modification of it. The task of avoiding pain +becomes for them almost equal in importance to that of gaining pleasure; +the Ego learns that it must inevitably go without immediate +satisfaction, postpone gratification, learn to endure a degree of pain, +and altogether renounce certain sources of pleasure. Thus trained, the +Ego becomes “reasonable,” is no longer controlled by the +pleasure-principle, but follows the REALITY-PRINCIPLE, which at bottom +also seeks pleasure—although a delayed and diminished pleasure, one +which is assured by its realization of fact, its relation to reality. + +The transition from the pleasure-principle to the reality-principle is +one of the most important advances in the development of the Ego. We +already know that the sexual instincts follow late and unwillingly +through this stage; presently we shall learn what the consequences are +to man that his sexuality is satisfied with such a slight hold upon +external reality. And now in conclusion one more observation relevant in +this connection. If the Ego in mankind has its evolution like the +Libido, you will not be surprised to hear that there exist +‘Ego-regressions’ too, and will wish to know the part this reversion of +the Ego to earlier stages in development can play in neurotic disease. + + + + + TWENTY-THIRD LECTURE + THE PATHS OF SYMPTOM-FORMATION + + +In the eyes of the general public the symptoms are the essence of a +disease, and to them a cure means the removal of the symptoms. In +medicine, however, we find it important to differentiate between +symptoms and disease, and state that the disappearance of the symptoms +is by no means the same as the cure of the disease. The only tangible +element of the disease that remains after the removal of the symptoms, +however, is the capacity to form new symptoms. Therefore for the moment +let us adopt the lay point of view and regard a knowledge of the +foundation of the symptoms as equivalent to understanding the disease. + +The symptoms—of course we are here dealing with mental (or psychogenic) +symptoms, and mental disease—are activities which are detrimental, or at +least useless, to life as a whole; the person concerned frequently +complains of them as obnoxious to him or they involve distress and +suffering for him. The principal injury they inflict lies in the expense +of mental energy they entail and, besides this, in the energy needed to +combat them. Where the symptoms are extensively developed, these two +kinds of effort may exact such a price that the person suffers a very +serious impoverishment in available mental energy, which consequently +disables him for all the important tasks of life. This result depends +principally upon the amount of energy taken up in this way, therefore +you will see that “illness” is essentially a practical conception. But +if you look at the matter from a theoretical point of view and ignore +this question of degree you can very well say that we are all ill, i.e. +neurotic; for the conditions required for symptom-formation are +demonstrable also in normal persons. + +Of neurotic symptoms we already know that they are the result of a +conflict arising when a new form of satisfaction of Libido is sought. +The two powers which have entered into opposition meet together again in +the symptom and become reconciled by means of the _compromise_ contained +in symptom-formation. That is why the symptom is capable of such +resistance; it is sustained from both sides. We also know that one of +the two partners to the conflict is the unsatisfied Libido, frustrated +by reality and now forced to seek other paths to satisfaction. If +reality remains inexorable, even when the Libido is prepared to take +another object in place of that denied, the Libido will then finally be +compelled to resort to regression, and to seek satisfaction in one of +the organizations it had already surmounted or in one of the objects it +had relinquished earlier. The Libido is drawn into the path of +regression by the fixations it has left behind it at these places in its +development. + +Now the path of perversion branches off sharply from that of neurosis. +If these regressions do not call forth a prohibition on the part of +the Ego, no neurosis results; the Libido succeeds in obtaining a real, +although not a normal, satisfaction. But if the Ego, which controls +not merely consciousness but also the approaches to motor innervation +and hence the realization in actuality of mental impulses, is not in +agreement with these regressions, conflict ensues. The Libido is +turned off, blocked, as it were, and must seek an escape by which it +can find an outlet for its ‘_charge of energy_’ in conformity with the +demands of the pleasure-principle: it must elude, eschew the Ego. The +fixations upon the path of development now regressively +traversed—fixations against which the Ego had previously guarded +itself by repressions—offer just such an escape. In streaming backward +and re-‘investing’ these repressed ‘positions,’ the Libido withdraws +itself from the Ego and its laws; but it also abandons all the +training acquired under the influence of the Ego. It was docile as +long as satisfaction was in sight; under the double pressure of +external and internal privation it becomes intractable and harks back +to former happier days. That is its essential unchangeable character. +The ideas to which the Libido now transfers its ‘charge of energy’ +belong to the unconscious system and are subject to the special +processes characteristic of that system—namely, condensation and +displacement. Conditions are thus set up which correspond exactly with +those of dream-formation. Just as the latent dream, first formed in +the Unconscious out of the thoughts proper, and constituting the +fulfilment of an unconscious wish-phantasy, meets with some +(pre)conscious activity which exerts a censorship upon it and permits, +according to its verdict, the formation of a compromise in the +manifest dream, so the ideas to which the Libido is attached +(‘libido-representatives’) in the Unconscious have still to contend +with the power of the preconscious Ego. The opposition that has arisen +against it in the Ego follows it as a ‘_counter__charge_’ and forces +it to adopt a form of expression by which the opposing forces also can +at the same time express themselves. In this way the symptom then +comes into being, as a derivative, distorted in manifold ways, of the +unconscious libidinal wish-fulfilment, as a cleverly chosen ambiguity +with two completely contradictory significations. In this last point +alone is there a difference between dream-formation and +symptom-formation; for the preconscious purpose in dream-formation is +merely to preserve sleep and to allow nothing that would disturb it to +penetrate consciousness; it does not insist upon confronting the +unconscious wish-impulse with a sharp prohibiting “No, on the +contrary.” It can be more tolerant because a sleeping person is in a +less dangerous position; the condition of sleep is enough in itself to +prevent the wish from being realized in actuality. + +You see that this escape of the Libido under the conditions of conflict +is rendered possible by the existence of fixations. The regressive +investment (with Libido) of these fixations leads to a circumventing of +the repressions and to a discharge—or a satisfaction—of the Libido, in +which the conditions of a compromise have nevertheless to be maintained. +By this détour through the Unconscious and the old fixations the Libido +finally succeeds in attaining to a real satisfaction, though the +satisfaction is certainly of an exceedingly restricted kind and hardly +recognizable as such. Let me add two remarks on this outcome. First, +will you notice how closely connected the Libido and the Unconscious, on +the one hand, and the Ego, consciousness, and reality, on the other, +show themselves to be, although there were no such connections between +them originally; and secondly, let me tell you that all I have said and +have still to say on this point concerns the neurosis of hysteria only. + +Where does the Libido find the fixations it needs in order to break +through the repressions? In the activities and experiences of infantile +sexuality, in the component-tendencies and the objects of childhood +which have been relinquished and abandoned. It is to them, therefore, +that the Libido turns back. The significance of childhood is a double +one; on the one hand the congenitally-determined instinct-dispositions +are first shown at that time, and secondly, other instincts are then +first awakened and activated by external influences and accidental +events experienced. In my opinion we are quite justified in laying down +this dichotomy. That the innate predisposition comes to expression will +certainly not be disputed; but analytic observation even requires us to +assume that purely accidental experiences in childhood are capable of +inducing fixations of Libido. Nor do I see any theoretical difficulty in +this. Constitutional predispositions are undoubtedly the after-effects +of the experiences of an earlier ancestry; they also have been at one +time acquired; without such acquired characters there would be no +heredity. And is it conceivable that the acquisition of characters which +will be transmitted further should suddenly cease in the generation +which is being observed to-day? The importance of the infantile +experiences should not, however, be entirely overlooked, as so often +happens, in favour of ancestral experiences or of experiences in adult +life; but on the contrary they should be particularly appreciated. They +are all the more pregnant with consequences because they occur at a time +of uncompleted development, and for this very reason are likely to have +a traumatic effect. The work done by Roux and others on the mechanism of +development has shown that a needle pricked into an embryonic cell-mass +undergoing division results in serious disturbances of the development; +the same injury to a larva or a full-grown animal would be innocuous. + +The Libido-fixation of an adult, which we have referred to as +representing the constitutional factor in the ætiology of the neuroses, +may therefore now be divided into two further elements: the inherited +predisposition and the predisposition acquired in early childhood. Since +a schematic mode of presentation is always acceptable to a student, let +us formulate these relations as follows: + + _Causation of Predisposition + Accidental + Neurosis_ = resulting from (_traumatic_) + Libido-fixation Experiences + ↙ ↘ + ———————————— ———————————— + ↓ ↓ + Sexual Infantile + Constitution Experiences + (_Ancestral + experiences_) + +The hereditary sexual constitution provides a great variety of +predispositions, according as this or that component-impulse, alone or +in combination with others, is specially strongly accentuated. Together +with the infantile experiences the sexual constitution forms another +‘complemental series,’ quite similar to that already described as being +formed out of the predisposition and accidental experiences of an adult. +In each series similar extreme cases are met with, and also similar +degrees and relationships between the factors concerned. It would be +appropriate at this point to consider whether the most striking of the +two kinds of Libido-regression (that which reverts to earlier stages of +sexual organization) is not predominantly conditioned by the hereditary +constitutional factor; but the answer to this question is best postponed +until a wider range of forms of neurotic disease can be considered. + +Now let us devote attention to the fact that analytic investigation +shows the Libido of neurotics to be attached to their infantile sexual +experiences. In this light these experiences seem to be of enormous +importance in the lives and illnesses of mankind. This importance +remains undiminished in so far as the therapeutic work of analysis is +concerned; but regarded from another point of view it is easy to see +that there is a danger of a misunderstanding here, one which might +delude us into regarding life too exclusively from the angle of the +situation in neurotics. The importance of the infantile experiences is +after all diminished by the reflection that the Libido reverts +regressively to them _after_ it has been driven from its later +positions. This would lead us towards the opposite conclusion, that the +Libido-experiences had no importance at the time of their occurrence, +but only acquired it later by regression. You will remember that we +discussed a similar alternative before, in dealing with the Oedipus +complex. + +To decide this point is again not difficult. The statement is +undoubtedly correct that regression greatly augments the investment of +the infantile experiences with Libido—and with that their pathogenic +significance; but it would be misleading to allow this alone to become +decisive. Other considerations must be taken into account as well. To +begin with, observation shows in a manner excluding all doubt that +infantile experiences have their own importance which is demonstrated +already during childhood. There are, indeed, neuroses in children too; +in their neuroses the factor of displacement backwards in time is +necessarily much diminished, or quite absent, the outbreak of illness +following immediately upon a traumatic experience. The study of +infantile neuroses guards us from many risks of misunderstanding the +neuroses of adults, just as children’s dreams gave us the key to +comprehension of the dreams of adults. Neurosis in children is very +common, far more common than is usually supposed. It is often +overlooked, regarded as a manifestation of bad behaviour or naughtiness, +and often subdued by the authorities in the nursery; but in retrospect +it is always easily recognizable. It appears most often in the form of +anxiety-hysteria; we shall learn what that means on another occasion. +When a neurosis breaks out in later life analysis invariably reveals it +to be a direct continuation of that infantile neurosis, which had +perhaps been expressed in a veiled and incipient form only; as has been +said, however, there are cases in which the childish nervousness is +carried on into lifelong illness without a break. In a few instances we +have been able to analyse a child actually in a condition of neurosis; +far more often we have had to be satisfied with the retrospective +insight into a childhood-neurosis that can be gained through someone who +has fallen ill in mature years, a situation in which due corrections and +precautions must not be neglected. + +In the second place, it would certainly be inexplicable that the Libido +should regress so regularly to the time of childhood if there had been +nothing there which could exert an attraction upon it. The fixation upon +certain stages of development, which we assume, only has meaning if we +regard it as attaching to itself a definite amount of libidinal energy. +Finally, I may point out that a complemental relationship exists here +between the intensity and pathogenic importance of the _infantile_ and +of the _later_ experiences, again a similar relationship to that found +in the other two series we have already studied. There are cases in +which the whole accent of causation falls on the sexual experiences in +childhood; cases in which these impressions undoubtedly had a traumatic +effect, nothing more than the average sexual constitution and its +immaturity being required to supplement them. Then there are others in +which all the accent lies on the later conflicts, and the analytic +emphasis upon the childhood-impressions seems to be the effect of +regression alone. There exist, therefore, the two extremes—‘inhibited +development’ and ‘regression’—and between them every degree of +combination of the two factors. + +This state of things has a certain interest for those looking to +pedagogy for the prevention of neuroses by early intervention in the +matter of the child’s sexual development. As long as attention is +directed mainly to the infantile sexual experiences one would think +everything in the way of prophylaxis of later neurosis could be done by +ensuring that this development should be retarded and the child secured +against this kind of experience. But we know that the conditions causing +neurosis are more complicated than this and that they cannot be +influenced in a general way by attending to one factor only. Strict +supervision in childhood loses value because it is helpless against the +constitutional factor; more than this, it is less easy to carry out than +specialists in education imagine; and it entails two new risks, which +are not to be lightly disregarded. It may accomplish too much; in that +it favours an exaggerated degree of sexual repression which is harmful +in its effects, and it sends the child into life without power to resist +the urgent demands of his sexuality that must be expected at puberty. It +therefore remains most doubtful how far prophylaxis in childhood can go +with advantage, and whether a changed attitude to actuality would not +constitute a better point of departure for attempts to forestall the +neuroses. + +Let us return to consideration of the symptoms. They yield a +satisfaction in place of one lacking in reality; they achieve this by +means of a regression of the Libido to a previous time of life, with +which regression is indissolubly connected, a reversion to earlier +phases in the object-choice or in the organization. We learned some time +ago that the neurotic is in some way _tied_ to a period in his past +life; we know now that this period in the past is one in which his +Libido could attain satisfaction, one in which he was happy. He looks +back on his life-story, seeking some such period, and goes on seeking +it, even if he must go back to the time when he was a suckling infant to +find it according to his recollection or his imagination of it under +later influences. In some way the symptom reproduces that early +infantile way of satisfaction, disguised though it is by the censorship +implicit in the conflict, converted as it usually is into a sensation of +suffering, and mingled with elements drawn from the experiences leading +up to the outbreak of the illness. The kind of satisfaction which the +symptom brings has much about it which estranges us, quite apart from +the fact that the person concerned is unaware of the satisfaction and +perceives this that we call satisfaction much more as suffering, and +complains of it. This transformation belongs to the mental conflict, by +the pressure of which the symptom had to be formed; what was at one time +a satisfaction must to-day arouse resistance or horror in him. We are +familiar with a simple but instructive instance of such a change of +feeling: the same child that sucked milk with voracity from its mother’s +breast often shows, some years later, a strong dislike of milk which can +with difficulty be overcome by training; this dislike is intensified to +the point of horror if the milk or any other kind of liquid containing +it has a skin formed upon it. It is possible that this skin calls up +reverberations of a memory of the mother’s breast, once so ardently +desired; it is true that the traumatic experience of weaning has +intervened meanwhile. + +There is still something else which makes the symptoms seem remarkable +and inexplicable as a means of libidinal satisfaction. They so entirely +fail to remind us of all that we are accustomed normally to connect with +satisfaction. They are mostly quite independent of an object and thus +have given up a relation to external reality. We understand this as a +consequence of the rejection of the reality-principle and the return to +the pleasure-principle; it is also, however, a return to a kind of +amplified auto-erotism, the kind which offered the sexual instinct its +first gratifications. In the place of effecting a change in the outer +world they set up a change in the body itself; that is, an internal +action instead of an external one, an adaptation instead of an +activity—from a phylogenetic point of view again a very significant +regression. We shall understand this better when we consider it in +connection with a new factor yet to be learnt from among those which +analytic research has yielded in regard to symptom-formation. Further, +we remember that in symptom-formation the same unconscious processes are +at work as in dream-formation, namely, condensation and displacement. +Like the dream, the symptom represents something as fulfilled, a +satisfaction infantile in character; but by the utmost condensation this +satisfaction can be compressed into a single sensation or innervation, +or by farthest displacement can be whittled away to a tiny detail out of +the entire libidinal complex. It is no wonder that we often find it +difficult to recognize in the symptom the libidinal satisfaction which +we suspect and can always verify in it. + +I have indicated that we have still to learn of a new element; it is +really something most surprising and bewildering. You know that from +analysis of symptoms we arrive at a knowledge of the infantile +experiences to which the Libido is fixated and out of which the symptoms +are made up. Now the astonishing thing is that these scenes of infancy +are not always true. Indeed, in the majority of cases they are untrue, +and in some cases they are in direct opposition to historical truth. You +will see that this discovery is more likely than any other to discredit +either the analysis which leads to such results, or the patient, upon +whose testimony the analysis and comprehension of the neuroses as a +whole is built up. There is besides this still something utterly +bewildering about it. If the infantile experiences brought to light by +the analysis were in every case real we should have the feeling that we +were on firm ground; if they were invariably falsified and found to be +inventions and phantasies of the patient’s we should have to forsake +this insecure foothold and save ourselves some other way. But it is +neither one thing nor the other; for what we find is that the +childhood-experiences reconstructed or recollected in analysis are on +some occasions undeniably false, while others are just as certainly +quite true, and that in most cases truth and falsehood are mixed up. So +the symptoms are thus at one minute reproductions of experiences which +actually took place and which one can credit with an influence on the +fixation of the Libido; and at the next a reproduction of phantasies of +the patient’s to which, of course, it is difficult to ascribe any +ætiological significance. It is hard to find one’s way here. We may +perhaps find our first clue in a discovery of a similar kind, namely, +that the meagre childish recollections which people have always, long +before analysis, consciously preserved can be falsified in the same way, +or at least can contain a generous admixture of truth and falsehood; +evidence of error in them is nearly always plainly visible, and so we +have at least the reassurance that not the analysis, but the patient in +some way, must bear the responsibility for this unexpected +disappointment. + +After a little reflection we can easily understand what it is that is so +bewildering in this matter. It is the depreciation of reality, the +neglect of the difference between reality and phantasy; we are tempted +to be offended with the patient for taking up our time with invented +stories. According to our way of thinking heaven and earth are not +farther apart than fiction from reality, and we value the two quite +differently. The patient himself, incidentally, takes the same attitude +when he is thinking normally. When he brings forward the material that +leads us to the wished-for situations (which underlie the symptoms and +are formed upon the childhood-experiences), we are certainly in doubt at +first whether we have to deal with reality or with phantasies. Decision +on this point becomes possible later by means of certain indications, +and we are then confronted with the task of making this result known to +the patient. This is never accomplished without difficulty. If we tell +him at the outset that he is now about to bring to light the phantasies +in which he has shrouded the history of his childhood, just as every +race weaves myths about its forgotten early history, we observe to our +dissatisfaction that his interest in pursuing the subject further +suddenly declines—he also wishes to find out facts and despises what is +called “imagination.” But if we leave him to believe until this part of +the work has been carried through that we are investigating the real +events of his early years, we run the risk of being charged with the +mistake later and of being laughed at for our apparent gullibility. It +takes him a long time to understand the proposal that phantasy and +reality are to be treated alike and that it is to begin with of no +account whether the childhood-experiences under consideration belong to +the one class or to the other. And yet this is obviously the only +correct attitude towards these products of his mind. They have indeed +also a kind of reality; it is a fact that the patient has created these +phantasies, and for the neurosis this fact is hardly less important than +the other—if he had really experienced what they contain. In contrast to +_material_ reality these phantasies possess _psychical_ reality, and we +gradually come to understand that _in the world of neurosis_ PSYCHICAL +REALITY _is the determining factor_. + +Among the occurrences which continually recur in the story of a +neurotic’s childhood, and seem hardly ever absent, are some of +particular significance which I therefore consider worthy of special +attention. As models of this type I will enumerate: observation of +parental intercourse, seduction by an adult, and the threat of +castration. It would be a great mistake to suppose that they never occur +in reality; on the contrary, they are often confirmed beyond doubt by +the testimony of older relatives. Thus, for example, it is not at all +uncommon for a little boy, who is beginning to play with his penis and +has not yet learnt that he must conceal such activities, to be +threatened by parents or nurses that his member or his offending hand +will be cut off. Parents will often admit the fact on being questioned, +since they imagine that such intimidation was the right course to take; +many people have a clear conscious recollection of this threat, +especially if it took place in later childhood. If the mother or some +other woman makes the threat she usually shifts the execution of it to +someone else, indicating that the father or the doctor will perform the +deed. In the famous _Struwelpeter_ by the Frankfort physician for +children, Hoffmann, which owes its popularity precisely to his +understanding of the sexual and other complexes of children, you will +find the castration idea modified and replaced by cutting off the thumbs +as a punishment for stubborn sucking of them. It is, however, highly +improbable that the threat of castration has been delivered as often as +would appear from the analysis of a neurotic. We are content to +understand that the child concocts a threat of this kind out of its +knowledge that auto-erotic satisfactions are forbidden, on the basis of +hints and allusions, and influenced by the impression received on +discovering the female genital organ. Similarly, it is not at all +impossible that a small child, credited as he is with no understanding +and no memory, may be witness of the sexual act on the part of his +parents or other adults in other families besides those of the +proletariat; and there is reason to think that the child can +_subsequently_ understand the impression received and react to it. But +when this act of intercourse is described with minute details which can +hardly have been observed, or when it appears, as it most frequently +does, to have been performed from behind, _more ferarum_, there can be +little doubt that this phantasy has grown out of the observation of +copulating animals (dogs) and that its motive force lies in the +unsatisfied skoptophilia (gazing-impulse) of the child during puberty. +The greatest feat achieved by this kind of phantasy is that of observing +parental intercourse while still unborn in the mother’s womb. + +The phantasy of seduction has special interest, because only too often +it is no phantasy but a real remembrance; fortunately, however, it is +still not as often real as it seemed at first from the results of +analysis. Seduction by children of the same age or older is more +frequent than by adults; and when girls who bring forward this event in +the story of their childhood fairly regularly introduce the father as +the seducer, neither the phantastic character of this accusation nor the +motive actuating it can be doubted. When no seduction has occurred, the +phantasy is usually employed to cover the childhood period of +auto-erotic sexual activity; the child evades feelings of shame about +onanism by retrospectively attributing in phantasy a desired object to +the earliest period. Do not suppose, however, that sexual misuse of +children by the nearest male relatives is entirely derived from the +world of phantasy; most analysts will have treated cases in which such +occurrences actually took place and could be established beyond doubt; +only even then they belonged to later years of childhood and had been +transposed to an earlier time. + +All this seems to lead to but one impression, that childhood experiences +of this kind are in some way necessarily required by the neurosis, that +they belong to its unvarying inventory. If they can be found in real +events, well and good; but if reality has not supplied them they will be +evolved out of hints and elaborated by phantasy. The effect is the same, +and even to-day we have not succeeded in tracing any variation in the +results according as phantasy or reality plays the greater part in these +experiences. Here again is one of those complemental series so often +referred to already; it is certainly the strangest of all those we have +encountered. Whence comes the necessity for these phantasies, and the +material for them? There can be no doubt about the instinctive sources; +but how is it to be explained that the same phantasies are always formed +with the same content? I have an answer to this which I know will seem +to you very daring. I believe that these _primal phantasies_ (as I +should like to name these, and certainly some others also) are a +phylogenetic possession. In them the individual, wherever his own +experience has become insufficient, stretches out beyond it to the +experience of past ages. It seems to me quite possible that all that +to-day is narrated in analysis in the form of phantasy, seduction in +childhood, stimulation of sexual excitement upon observation of parental +coitus, the threat of castration—or rather, castration itself—was in +prehistoric periods of the human family a reality; and that the child in +its phantasy simply fills out the gaps in its true individual +experiences with true prehistoric experiences. We have again and again +been led to suspect that more knowledge of the primordial forms of human +development is stored up for us in the psychology of the neuroses than +in any other field we may explore. + +Now these things that we have been discussing require us to consider +more closely the origin and meaning of that mental activity called +“phantasy-making.” In general, as you know, it enjoys high esteem, +although its place in mental life has not been clearly understood. I can +tell you as much as this about it. You know that the Ego in man is +gradually trained by the influence of external necessity to appreciate +reality and to pursue the reality-principle, and that in so doing it +must renounce temporarily or permanently various of the objects and +aims—not only sexual—of its desire for pleasure. But renunciation of +pleasure has always been very hard to man; he cannot accomplish it +without some kind of compensation. Accordingly he has evolved for +himself a mental activity in which all these relinquished sources of +pleasure and abandoned paths of gratification are permitted to continue +their existence, a form of existence in which they are free from the +demands of reality and from what we call the exercise of ‘testing +reality.’ Every longing is soon transformed into the idea of its +fulfilment; there is no doubt that dwelling upon a wish-fulfilment in +phantasy brings satisfaction, although the knowledge that it is not +reality remains thereby unobscured. In phantasy, therefore, man can +continue to enjoy a freedom from the grip of the external world, one +which he has long relinquished in actuality. He has contrived to be +alternately a pleasure-seeking animal and a reasonable being; for the +meagre satisfaction that he can extract from reality leaves him +starving. “There is no doing without accessory constructions,” said +Fontane. The creation of the mental domain of phantasy has a complete +counterpart in the establishment of “reservations” and “nature-parks” in +places where the inroads of agriculture, traffic, or industry threaten +to change the original face of the earth rapidly into something +unrecognizable. The “reservation” is to maintain the old condition of +things which has been regretfully sacrificed to necessity everywhere +else; there everything may grow and spread as it pleases, including what +is useless and even what is harmful. The mental realm of phantasy is +also such a reservation reclaimed from the encroaches of the +reality-principle. + +The best-known productions of phantasy have already been met by us; they +are called day-dreams, and are imaginary gratifications of ambitious, +grandiose, erotic wishes, dilating the more extravagantly the more +reality admonishes humility and patience. In them is shown unmistakably +the essence of imaginary happiness, the return of gratification to a +condition in which it is independent of reality’s sanction. We know that +these day-dreams are the kernels and models of night-dreams; +fundamentally the night-dream is nothing but a day-dream distorted by +the nocturnal form of mental activity and made possible by the nocturnal +freedom of instinctive excitations. We are already familiar with the +idea that a day-dream is not necessarily conscious, that unconscious +day-dreams also exist; such unconscious day-dreams are therefore just as +much the source of night-dreams as of neurotic symptoms. + +The significance of phantasy for symptom-formation will become clear to +you in what follows. We said that under privation the Libido +regressively invests the positions it had left, but to which +nevertheless some portions of its energy had remained attached. We shall +not retract or correct this statement, but we shall have to interpolate +a connecting-link in it. How does the Libido find its way back to these +fixation-points? Now the objects and channels which have been forsaken +by the Libido have not been forsaken in every sense; they, or their +derivatives, are still retained to some degree of intensity in the +conceptions of phantasy. The Libido has only to withdraw on to the +phantasies in order to find the way open to it back to all the repressed +fixations. These phantasies had enjoyed a certain sort of toleration; no +conflict between them and the Ego had developed, however sharp an +opposition there was between them, as long as a certain condition was +preserved—a condition of a _quantitative_ nature, now disturbed by the +return of the Libido-stream on to the phantasies. By this accession, the +investment of the phantasies with energy becomes so much augmented that +they become assertive and begin to press towards realization; then, +however, conflict between them and the Ego becomes unavoidable. Although +previously they were preconscious or conscious, now they are subject to +repression from the side of the Ego and are exposed to the attraction +exerted from the side of the Unconscious. The Libido travels from the +phantasies, now unconscious, to their sources in the Unconscious—back to +its own fixation-points again. + +The return of the Libido on to phantasy is an intermediate step on the +way to symptom-formation which well deserves a special designation. C. +G. Jung has coined for it the very appropriate name of INTROVERSION, but +inappropriately he uses it also to describe other things. We will adhere +to the position that _introversion_ describes the deflection of the +Libido away from the possibilities of real satisfaction and its +excessive accumulation upon phantasies previously tolerated as harmless. +An introverted person is not yet neurotic, but he is in an unstable +condition; the next disturbance of the shifting forces will cause +symptoms to develop, unless he can yet find other outlets for his +pent-up Libido. The unreal character of neurotic satisfaction and the +disregard of the difference between phantasy and reality are already +determined by the delay at this stage of introversion. + +You will doubtless have noticed that in these last remarks I have +introduced a new factor into the concatenation of the ætiological +chain—namely, the _quantity_, the magnitude of the energies concerned; +we must always take this factor into account as well. A purely +qualitative analysis of the ætiological conditions does not suffice; or, +to put it in another way, a purely _dynamic_ conception of these +processes is insufficient, the _economic_ aspect is also required. We +have to realize that the conflict between the two forces in opposition +does not break out until a certain intensity in the degree of investment +is reached, even though the substantive conditions have long been in +existence. In the same way, the pathogenic significance of the +constitutional factor is determined by the preponderance of one of the +component-instincts in _excess_ over another in the disposition; it is +even possible to conceive disposition as qualitatively the same in all +men and only differentiated by this quantitative factor. No less +important is this quantitative factor for the capacity to withstand +neurotic illness; it depends upon the _amount_ of undischarged Libido +that a person can hold freely suspended, and upon _how large_ a portion +of it he can deflect from the sexual to a non-sexual goal in +sublimation. The final aim of mental activity, which can be +qualitatively described as a striving towards pleasure and avoidance of +pain, is represented economically in the task of mastering the +distribution of the quantities of excitation (stimulus-masses) present +in the mental apparatus, and in preventing the accumulation of them +which gives rise to pain. + +I set out to tell you as much as this about symptom-formation in the +neuroses. Yes, but I must not neglect to mention once more that +everything said to-day relates only to symptom-formation in hysteria. +Even the obsessional neurosis shows great differences, although the +essentials are the same. The ‘counter-charges’ from the Ego against the +demands made by instincts for satisfaction, mentioned already in +connection with hysteria, are more strongly marked in the obsessional +neurosis and govern the clinical picture in the form of what we call +‘reaction-formations.’ Similar and more extensive deviations still are +found in the other neuroses, in which field researches into the +mechanisms of symptom-formation are not yet complete in any direction. + +Before you leave to-day I should like to direct your attention for a +moment to a side of phantasy-life of very general interest. There is, in +fact, a path from phantasy back again to reality, and that is—art. The +artist has also an introverted disposition and has not far to go to +become neurotic. He is one who is urged on by instinctive needs which +are too clamorous; he longs to attain to honour, power, riches, fame, +and the love of women; but he lacks the means of achieving these +gratifications. So, like any other with an unsatisfied longing, he turns +away from reality and transfers all his interest, and all his Libido +too, on to the creation of his wishes in the life of phantasy, from +which the way might readily lead to neurosis. There must be many factors +in combination to prevent this becoming the whole outcome of his +development; it is well known how often artists in particular suffer +from partial inhibition of their capacities through neurosis. Probably +their constitution is endowed with a powerful capacity for sublimation +and with a certain flexibility in the repressions determining the +conflict. But the way back to reality is found by the artist thus: He is +not the only one who has a life of phantasy; the intermediate world of +phantasy is sanctioned by general human consent, and every hungry soul +looks to it for comfort and consolation. But to those who are not +artists the gratification that can be drawn from the springs of phantasy +is very limited; their inexorable repressions prevent the enjoyment of +all but the meagre day-dreams which can become conscious. A true artist +has more at his disposal. First of all he understands how to elaborate +his day-dreams, so that they lose that personal note which grates upon +strange ears and become enjoyable to others; he knows too how to modify +them sufficiently so that their origin in prohibited sources is not +easily detected. Further, he possesses the mysterious ability to mould +his particular material until it expresses the ideas of his phantasy +faithfully; and then he knows how to attach to this reflection of his +phantasy-life so strong a stream of pleasure that, for a time at least, +the repressions are out-balanced and dispelled by it. When he can do all +this, he opens out to others the way back to the comfort and consolation +of their own unconscious sources of pleasure, and so reaps their +gratitude and admiration; then he has won—through his phantasy—what +before he could only win in phantasy: honour, power, and the love of +women. + + + + + TWENTY-FOURTH LECTURE + ORDINARY NERVOUSNESS + + +After such a difficult piece of work as we got through in our last +lecture I shall leave the subject for a time and turn to my audience. + +For I know that you are dissatisfied. You imagined that _Introductory +Lectures on Psycho-Analysis_ would be something quite different. You +expected illustrations from life instead of theories; you will tell me +that the story of the two children, on the ground-floor and in the +mansion, revealed something of the causation of neurosis to you, except +that it ought to have been an actual fact instead of an invention of my +own. Or you will say that, when at the beginning I described two +symptoms to you (not also imaginary, let us hope), and unfolded the +solution of them and their connection with the lives of the patients, it +threw some light on the meaning of symptoms, and you had hoped I would +continue in the same way. Instead of doing so I gave you long-drawn-out +and very obscure theories which were never complete, and to which I was +constantly adding something; I dealt with conceptions which I had not +yet introduced to you; I let go of descriptive explanation and took up +the dynamic aspect and dropped this again for a so-called economic one; +made it difficult for you to understand how many of these technical +terms mean the same thing and are only exchanged for one another on +account of euphony; I let vast conceptions, such as those of the +pleasure and reality principles, and the inherited residue of +phylogenetic development, appear, and then instead of explaining +anything to you I let them drift away before your eyes out of sight. + +Why did I not begin the introduction to the study of the neuroses with +what you all know of nervousness, a thing that has long roused your +interest, or with the peculiar nature of nervous persons, their +incomprehensible reactions to human intercourse and external influences, +their excitability, their unreliability, and their inability to do well +in anything? Why not lead you step by step from an explanation of the +simple everyday forms of nervousness to the problems of the enigmatic +extreme manifestations? + +Indeed, I cannot deny any of this or say that you are wrong. I am not so +much in love with my powers of presentation as to imagine that every +blemish in it is a peculiar charm. I think myself that I might with +advantage to you have proceeded differently, and, indeed, such was my +intention. But one cannot always carry through a reasoned scheme; +something in the material itself often intervenes and takes possession +of one and turns one from one’s first intentions. Even such an ordinary +task as the arrangement of familiar material is not entirely subject to +the author’s will; it comes out in its own way and one can but wonder +afterwards why it happened so and not otherwise. + +One of the reasons probably is that my theme, an introduction to +psycho-analysis, no longer covers this section dealing with the subject +of the neuroses. The introduction to psycho-analysis lies in the study +of errors and of dreams; the theory of neurosis is psycho-analysis +itself. I do not think that in such a short time I could have given you +any knowledge of the material contained in the theory of the neuroses +except in this very concentrated form. It was a matter of presenting to +you in their proper context the sense and meaning of symptoms, together +with the external and internal conditions and mechanisms of +symptom-formation. This I attempted to do; it is more or less the core +of what psycho-analysis is able to offer to-day. In conjunction with it +there was much to be said about the Libido and its development, and +something about that of the Ego. You were already prepared by the +preliminary lectures for the main principles of our method and for the +broad aspects involved in the conceptions of the Unconscious and of +repression (resistance). In one of the following lectures you will learn +at what point the work of psycho-analysis finds its organic +continuation. So far I have not concealed from you that all our results +proceed from the study of one single group only of nervous +disorders—namely, the transference neuroses; and even so I have traced +out the mechanism of symptom-formation only in the hysterical neurosis. +Though you will probably have gained no very thorough knowledge and have +not retained every detail, yet I hope that you have acquired a general +idea of the means with which psycho-analysis works, the problems it has +to deal with, and the results it has to offer. + +I have ascribed to you a wish that I had begun the subject of the +neuroses with a description of the neurotic’s behaviour, and of the ways +in which he suffers from his disorder, protects himself against it, and +adapts himself to it. This is certainly a very interesting subject, well +worth studying, and not difficult to treat; nevertheless there are +reasons against beginning with this aspect. The danger is that the +Unconscious will be overlooked, the great importance of the Libido +ignored, and that everything will be judged as it appears to the +patient’s own Ego. Now it is obvious that his Ego is not a reliable and +impartial authority. The Ego is after all the force which denies the +existence of the Unconscious and has subjected it to repressions; how +then can we trust its good faith where the Unconscious is concerned? +That which has been repressed consists first and foremost of the +repudiated claims of the sexuality; it is perfectly self-evident that we +shall never learn their extent and their significance from the Ego’s +view of the matter. As soon as the nature of repression begins to dawn +upon us we are advised not to allow one of the two contending parties, +and certainly not the victorious one, to be judge in the dispute. We are +forewarned against being misled by what the Ego tells us. According to +its evidence it would appear to have been the active force throughout, +so that the symptoms arise by its will and agency; we know that to a +large extent it has played a passive part, a fact which it then +endeavours to conceal and to gloss over. It is true that it cannot +always keep up this pretence—in the symptoms of the obsessional neurosis +it has to confess to being confronted by something alien which it must +strenuously resist. + +It is certainly plain sailing enough for anyone who does not heed these +warnings against taking the falsifications of the Ego at their +face-value; he will escape all the opposition which psycho-analysis has +to encounter in accentuating the Unconscious, sexuality, and the +passivity of the Ego. He can agree with Alfred Adler that the “nervous +character” is the cause of the neurosis, instead of the result; but he +will not be in a position to account for a single detail of +symptom-formation or a single dream. + +You will ask: May it not be possible to do justice to the part played by +the Ego in nervousness and in symptom-formation without absolutely +glaring neglect of the other factors discovered by psycho-analysis? I +reply: Certainly it must be possible, and some time or other it will be +done; but the work which lies at hand for psycho-analysis is not suited +for a beginning at this end. One can, no doubt, predict the point at +which this task also will be included. There are neuroses, called by us +the _narcissistic_ neuroses, in which the Ego is far more deeply +involved than in those we have studied; analytic investigation of these +disorders will enable us to estimate impartially and reliably the share +taken by the Ego in neurotic disease. + +One of the relations the Ego bears to its neurosis is, however, so +conspicuous that it was quite appreciable from the beginning. It never +seems to be absent; but it is most clearly discernible in a form of +disorder which we are far from understanding, the traumatic neurosis. +You must know that in the causation and mechanism of all the various +different forms of neurosis the same factors are found at work over and +over again, only that in one type this factor and in another type that +factor is of greatest significance in symptom-formation. It is just the +same as with the personnel of a theatrical company, where every member +plays a special type of part—hero, confidant, villain, etc; each of them +will choose a different piece for his own benefit-performance. Hence, +the phantasies which are transformed into the symptoms are nowhere so +manifest as in hysteria; the ‘counter-charges’ or reaction-formations of +the Ego dominate the picture in the obsessional neurosis; the mechanism +which in dreams we called ‘secondary elaboration’ is the prominent +feature in the delusions of paranoia, and so on. + +In the _traumatic neuroses_, especially in those arising from the +terrors of war, we are particularly impressed by a self-seeking, +egoistic motive, a straining towards protection and self-interest; this +alone perhaps could not produce the disease, but it gives its support to +the latter and maintains it once it has been formed. This tendency aims +at protecting the Ego from the dangers which led by their imminence to +the outbreak of illness; nor does it permit of recovery until a +repetition of the dangers appear to be no longer possible, or until some +gain in compensation for the danger undergone has been received. + +The Ego takes a similar interest in the origin and maintenance of all +the other forms of neurosis; we have said already that the symptom is +supported by the Ego because one side of it offers a satisfaction to the +repressing Ego-tendency. More than this, a solution of the conflict by a +symptom-formation is the most convenient one, most in accordance with +the pleasure-principle; for it undoubtedly spares the Ego a severe and +painful piece of internal labour. There are indeed cases in which the +physician himself must admit that the solution of a conflict by a +neurosis is the one most harmless and most tolerable socially. Do not be +astonished to hear then that the physician himself occasionally takes +sides with the illness which he is attacking. It is not for him to +confine himself in all situations in life to the part of fanatic about +health; he knows that there is _other_ misery in the world besides +neurotic misery—real unavoidable suffering—that necessity may even +demand of a man that he sacrifice his health to it, and he learns that +such suffering in one individual may often avert incalculable hardship +for many others. Therefore, although it may be said of every neurotic +that he has taken ‘_flight into illness_,’ it must be admitted that in +many cases this flight is fully justified, and the physician who has +perceived this state of things will silently and considerately retire. + +But let us continue our discussion without regard to these exceptional +cases. In the ordinary way it is apparent that by flight into neurosis +the Ego gains a certain internal ‘_advantage through illness_,’ as we +call it; under certain conditions a tangible external advantage, more or +less valuable in reality, may be combined with this. To take the +commonest case of this kind: a woman who is brutally treated and +mercilessly exploited by her husband fairly regularly takes refuge in a +neurosis, if her disposition admits of it. This will happen if she is +too cowardly or too conventional to console herself secretly with +another man, if she is not strong enough to defy all external reasons +against it and separate from her husband, if she has no prospect of +being able to maintain herself or of finding a better husband, and last +of all, if she is still strongly attached sexually to this brutal man. +Her illness becomes her weapon in the struggle against him, one that she +can use for her protection, or misuse for purposes of revenge. She can +complain of her illness, though she probably dare not complain of her +marriage; her doctor is her ally; the husband who is otherwise so +ruthless is required to spare her, to spend money on her, to grant her +absence from home and thus some freedom from marital oppression. +Whenever this external or ‘accidental’ advantage through illness is at +all pronounced, and no substitute for it can be found in reality, you +need not look forward very hopefully to influencing the neurosis by your +therapy. + +You will now say that what I have just told you about the ‘advantage +through illness’ is all in favour of the view I have rejected, namely, +that the Ego itself desires the neurosis and creates it. But just a +moment! Perhaps it means merely this: that the Ego is pleased to accept +the neurosis which it is in any case unable to prevent, and that if +there is anything at all to be made out of it it makes the best of it. +This is only one side of the matter. In so far as there is advantage in +it the Ego is quite happy to be on good terms with a neurosis, but there +are also disadvantages to be considered. As a rule it is soon apparent +that by accepting a neurosis the Ego has made a bad bargain. It has paid +too heavily for the solution of the conflict; the sufferings entailed by +the symptoms are perhaps as bad as those of the conflict they replace, +and they may quite probably be very much worse. The Ego wishes to be rid +of the pain of the symptoms, but not to give up its advantage through +illness; and that is just what it cannot succeed in doing. It appears +therefore that the Ego was not quite so actively concerned in the matter +throughout as it had thought, and we will keep this well in mind. + +If, as physicians, you have much to do with neurotics, you will soon +cease to expect that those who complain most bitterly of their illness +will be most ready to accept your help and make least difficulty—quite +the contrary. You will at all events easily understand that everything +which contributes to the advantage through illness reinforces the +resistance arising from the repressions, and increases the therapeutic +difficulties. And there is yet another kind of advantage through +illness, one which supervenes later than that born with the symptom, so +to speak. When such a mental organization as the disease has persisted +for a considerable time it seems finally to acquire the character of an +independent entity; it displays something like a self-preservative +instinct; it forms a kind of pact, a _modus vivendi_, with the other +forces in mental life, even with those fundamentally hostile to it, and +opportunities can hardly fail to arise in which it once more manifests +itself as useful and expedient, thus acquiring a _secondary function_ +which again strengthens its position. Instead of taking an example from +pathology let us consider a striking illustration in everyday life. A +capable working-man earning his living is crippled by an accident in the +course of his employment; he can work no more, but he gets a small +periodical dole in compensation and learns how to exploit his mutilation +as a beggar. His new life, although so inferior, nevertheless is +supported by the very thing which destroyed his old life; if you were to +remove his disability you would deprive him for a time of his means of +subsistence, for the question would arise whether he would still be +capable of resuming his former work. When a secondary exploitation of +the illness such as this is formed in a neurosis we can range it +alongside the first and call it a ‘_secondary_ advantage through +illness.’ + +I should like to advise you in a general way not to underestimate the +practical importance of the advantage through illness, and yet not to be +too much impressed by its theoretical significance. Apart from the +exceptions previously recognized, this factor always reminds one of the +illustrations of “Intelligence in Animals” by Oberländer in _Fliegende +Blätter_. An Arab is riding a camel along a narrow path cut in the side +of a steep mountain. At a turn in the path he suddenly finds himself +confronted by a lion ready to spring at him. There is no escape; on one +side the abyss, on the other the precipice; retreat and flight are +impossible; he gives himself up for lost. Not so the camel. He takes one +leap with his rider into the abyss—and the lion is left a spectator. The +remedies provided by neurosis avail the patient no better as a rule; +perhaps because the solution of the conflict by a symptom-formation is +after all an automatic process which may show itself inadequate to meet +the demands of life, and involves man in a renunciation of his best and +highest powers. The more honourable choice, if there be a choice, is to +go down in fair fight with destiny. + +I still owe you a further explanation of my motive in not taking +ordinary nervousness as my starting-point. Perhaps you think I avoided +doing so because it would have been more difficult to bring in evidence +of the sexual origin of the neuroses in that way; but in this you would +be mistaken. In the transference neuroses the symptoms have to be +submitted to interpretation before we arrive at this; but in the +ordinary forms of what are called the ACTUAL NEUROSES the ætiological +significance of the sexual life is a crudely obvious fact which courts +notice. I became aware of it more than twenty years ago, as one day I +began to wonder why, when we examine nervous patients, we so invariably +exclude from consideration all matters concerning their sexual life. +Investigations on this point led to the sacrifice of my popularity with +my patients, but in a very short time my efforts had brought me to this +conclusion: that no neurosis—actual neurosis, I meant—is present where +sexual life is normal. It is true that this statement ignores the +individual differences in people rather too much, and it also suffers +from the indefinite connotation inseparable from the word “normal”; but +as a broad outline it has retained its value to this day. At that time I +got so far as to be able to establish particular connections between +certain forms of nervousness and certain injurious sexual conditions; I +do not doubt that I could repeat these observations to-day if I still +had similar material for investigation. I noticed often enough that a +man who contented himself with some kind of incomplete sexual +satisfaction, e.g. with manual masturbation, would suffer from a +definite type of actual neurosis, and that this neurosis would promptly +give way to another form if he adopted some other equally unsatisfactory +form of sexual life. I was then in a position to infer the change in his +mode of sexual life from the alteration in the patient’s condition; and +I learnt to abide stubbornly by my conclusions until I had overcome the +prevarications of my patients and had compelled them to give me +confirmation. It is true that they then thought it advisable to seek +other physicians who would not take so much interest in their sexual +life. + +It did not escape me at that time either that sexuality was not always +indicated as the cause of a neurosis; one person certainly would fall +ill because of some injurious sexual condition, but another because he +had lost his fortune or recently sustained a severe organic illness. The +explanation of these variations was revealed later, when insight was +obtained into the interrelationships suspected between the Ego and the +Libido; and the further this subject was explored the more satisfactory +became our insight into it. A person only falls ill of a neurosis when +the Ego loses its capacity to deal in some way or other with the Libido. +The stronger the Ego the more easily can it accomplish this task; every +weakening of the Ego, from whatever cause, must have the same effect as +an increase in the demands of the Libido; that is, make a neurosis +possible. There are yet other and more intimate relations between the +Ego and the Libido, which I shall not go into now as we have not yet +come to them in the course of our discussions. The most essential and +most instructive point for us is that the fund of energy supporting the +symptoms of a neurosis, in every case and regardless of the +circumstances inducing their outbreak, is provided by the Libido, which +is thus put to an abnormal use. + +Now I must point out to you the decisive difference between the symptoms +of the _actual neuroses_ and those of the _psychoneuroses_, with the +first group of which (the transference neuroses) we have hitherto been +so much occupied. In both the actual neuroses and the psychoneuroses the +symptoms proceed from the Libido; that is, they are abnormal ways of +using it, substitutes for satisfaction of it. But the symptoms of an +actual neurosis—headache, sensation of pain, an irritable condition of +some organ, the weakening or inhibition of some function—have no +‘meaning,’ no signification in the mind. Not merely are they manifested +principally in the body, as also happens, for instance with hysterical +symptoms, but they are in themselves purely and simply physical +processes; they arise without any of the complicated mental mechanisms +we have been learning about. They really are, therefore, what +psychoneurotic symptoms were for so long held to be. But then, how can +they be expressions of the Libido which we have come to know as a force +at work in the mind? Now, really, the answer to that is very simple. Let +me resurrect one of the very first objections ever made against +psycho-analysis. It was said that the theories were an attempt to +account for neurotic symptoms by psychology alone and that the outlook +was consequently hopeless, since no illness could ever be accounted for +by psychological theories. These critics were pleased to forget that the +sexual function is not a purely mental thing, any more than it is merely +a physical thing. It affects bodily life as well as mental life. Having +learnt that the symptoms of the psychoneuroses express the mental +consequences of some disturbance in this function, we shall not be +surprised to find that the actual neuroses represent the direct somatic +consequences of sexual disturbances. + +Clinical medicine gives us a useful hint (recognized by many different +investigators) towards comprehension of the actual neuroses. In the +details of their symptomatology, and also in the peculiarity by which +all the bodily systems and functions are affected together, they exhibit +an unmistakable similarity with pathological conditions resulting from +the chronic effect or the sudden removal of foreign toxins—i.e. with +states of intoxication or of abstinence. The two groups of affections +are brought still closer together by comparison with conditions like +Basedow’s disease[49] that have also been found to result from +poisoning, not, however, from poisons derived externally, but from such +as arise in the internal metabolism. In my opinion these analogies +necessitate our regarding the neuroses as the effects of disturbances in +the sexual metabolism, due either to more of these sexual toxins being +produced than the person can dispose of, or else to internal and even +mental conditions which interfere with the proper disposal of these +substances. Assumptions of this kind about the nature of sexual desire +have found acceptance in the mind of the people since the beginning of +time; love is called an “intoxication,” it can be induced by +“potions”—in these ideas the agency at work is to some extent projected +on to the outer world. We find occasion at this point to remember the +erotogenic zones, and to reflect upon the proposition that sexual +excitation may arise in the most various organs. Beyond this the subject +of ‘sexual metabolism’ or the ‘chemistry of sexuality’ is an empty +chapter: we know nothing about it, and cannot even determine whether to +assume two kinds of sexual substances, to be called ‘male’ and ‘female,’ +or to content ourselves with _one_ sexual toxin as the agent of all the +stimuli effected by the Libido. The edifice of psycho-analytic doctrine +which we have erected is in reality but a superstructure, which will +have to be set on its organic foundation at some time or other; but this +foundation is still unknown to us. + +As a science psycho-analysis is characterized by the methods with which +it works, not by the subject-matter with which it deals. These methods +can be applied without violating their essential nature to the history +of civilization, to the science of religion, and to mythology as well as +to the study of the neuroses. Psycho-Analysis aims at and achieves +nothing more than the discovery of the unconscious in mental life. The +problems of the actual neuroses, in which the symptoms probably arise +through direct toxic injury, offer no point of attack for +psycho-analysis; it can supply little towards elucidation of them and +must leave this task to biological and medical research. Now perhaps you +understand better why I chose this arrangement of my material. If I had +intended an _Introduction to the Study of the Neuroses_ it would +undoubtedly have been correct to begin with the simple forms of (actual) +neuroses and proceed from them to the more complicated psychical +disorders resulting from disturbances of the Libido. I should have had +to collect from various quarters what we know or think we know about the +former, and about the latter psycho-analysis would have been introduced +as the most important technical means of obtaining insight into these +conditions. An _Introduction to Psycho-Analysis_ was what I had +undertaken and announced, however; I thought it more important to give +you an idea of psycho-analysis than to teach you something about the +neuroses; and therefore the actual neuroses which yield nothing towards +the study of psycho-analysis could not suitably be put in the +foreground. I think too that my choice was the wiser for you, since the +radical axioms and far-reaching connections of psycho-analysis make it +worthy of every educated person’s interest; the theory of the neuroses, +however, is a chapter of medicine like any other. + +However, you are justified in expecting that we should take some +interest in the actual neuroses; their close clinical connection with +the psychoneuroses even necessitates this. I will tell you then that we +distinguish three pure forms of actual neurosis: _neurasthenia_, +_anxiety-neurosis_ and _hypochondria_. Even this classification has been +disputed; the terms are certainly all in use, but their connotation is +vague and unsettled. There are some medical men who are opposed to all +discrimination in the confusing world of neurotic manifestations, who +object to any distinguishing of clinical entities or types of disease, +and do not even recognize the difference between actual neuroses and +psychoneuroses; in my opinion they go too far, and the direction they +have chosen does not lead to progress. The three kinds of neurosis named +above are occasionally found in a pure form; more frequently, it is +true, they are combined with one another and with a psychoneurotic +affection. This fact need not make us abandon the distinctions between +them. Think of the difference between the science of minerals and that +of ores in mineralogy: the minerals are classified individually, in part +no doubt because they are frequently found as crystals, sharply +differentiated from their surroundings; the ores consist of mixtures of +minerals which have indeed coalesced, not accidentally, but according to +the conditions at their formation. In the theory of the neuroses we +still understand too little of the process of their development to +formulate anything similar to our knowledge of ores; but we are +certainly working in the right direction in first isolating from the +mass the recognizable clinical elements, which are comparable to the +individual minerals. + +A noteworthy connection between the symptoms of the actual neuroses and +the psychoneuroses adds a valuable contribution to our knowledge of +symptom-formation in the latter; the symptom of the actual neurosis is +frequently the nucleus and incipient stage of the psychoneurotic +symptom. A connection of this kind is most clearly observable between +neurasthenia and the transference neurosis known as conversion-hysteria, +between the anxiety-neurosis and anxiety-hysteria, but also between +hypochondria and forms of a neurosis which we shall deal with later on, +namely, paraphrenia (dementia præcox and paranoia). As an example, let +us take an hysterical headache or backache. Analysis shows that by means +of condensation and displacement it has become a substitutive +satisfaction for a whole series of libidinal phantasies or memories; at +one time, however, this pain was real, a direct symptom of a sexual +toxin, the bodily expression of a sexual excitation. We do not by any +means maintain that all hysterical symptoms have a nucleus of this kind, +but it remains true that this very often is so, and that all effects +(whether normal or pathological) of the libidinal excitation upon the +body are specially adapted to serve the purposes of hysterical +symptom-formation. They play the part of the grain of sand which the +oyster envelopes in mother-of-pearl. The temporary signs of sexual +excitation accompanying the sexual act serve the psychoneurosis in the +same way, as the most suitable and convenient material for +symptom-formation. + +There is a similar process of special diagnostic and therapeutic +interest. In persons who are disposed to be neurotic without having yet +developed a neurosis on a grand scale, some morbid organic +condition—perhaps an inflammation, or an injury—very commonly sets the +work of symptom-formation in motion; so that the latter process swiftly +seizes upon the symptom supplied by reality, and uses it to represent +those unconscious phantasies that have only been lying in wait for some +means of expression. In such a case the physician will try first one +therapy and then the other; will either endeavour to abolish the organic +foundation on which the symptom rests, without troubling about the +clamorous neurotic elaboration of it; or will attack the neurosis which +this opportunity has brought to birth, while leaving on one side the +organic stimulus which incited it. Sometimes one and sometimes the other +procedure will be found justified by success; no general rules can be +prescribed for mixed cases of this kind. + + + + + TWENTY-FIFTH LECTURE + ANXIETY + + +You will certainly have judged the information that I gave you in the +last lecture about ordinary nervousness as the most fragmentary and most +inadequate of all my accounts. I know that it was; and I expect that +nothing surprised you more than that I made no mention of the ‘anxiety’ +which most nervous people complain of and themselves describe as their +most terrible burden. Anxiety or dread can really develop tremendous +intensity and in consequence be the cause of the maddest precautions. +But in this matter at least I wished not to cut you short; on the +contrary, I had determined to put the problem of nervous anxiety to you +as clearly as possible and to discuss it at some length. + +_Anxiety_ (or _dread_)[50] itself needs no description; everyone has +personally experienced this sensation, or to speak more correctly this +affective condition, at some time or other. But in my opinion not enough +serious consideration has been given to the question why nervous persons +in particular suffer from anxiety so much more intensely, and so much +more altogether, than others. Perhaps it has been taken for granted that +they should; indeed, the words “nervous” and “anxious” are used +interchangeably, as if they meant the same thing. This is not +justifiable, however; there are anxious people who are otherwise not in +any way nervous and there are, besides, neurotics with numerous symptoms +who exhibit no tendency to dread. + +However this may be, one thing is certain, that the problem of anxiety +is a nodal point, linking up all kinds of most important questions; a +riddle, of which the solution must cast a flood of light upon our whole +mental life. I do not claim that I can give you a complete solution; but +you will certainly expect psycho-analysis to have attacked this problem +too in a different manner from that adopted by academic medicine. +Interest there centres upon the anatomical processes by which the +anxiety condition comes about. We learn that the medulla oblongata is +stimulated, and the patient is told that he is suffering from a neurosis +in the vagal nerve. The medulla oblongata is a wondrous and beauteous +object; I well remember how much time and labour I devoted to the study +of it years ago. But to-day I must say I know of nothing less important +for the psychological comprehension of anxiety than a knowledge of the +nerve-paths by which the excitations travel. + +One may consider anxiety for a long time without giving a thought to +nervousness. You will understand me at once when I describe this form of +anxiety as REAL ANXIETY, in contrast to neurotic anxiety. Now _real_ +anxiety or dread appears to us a very natural and rational thing; we +should call it a reaction to the perception of an external danger, of an +injury which is expected and foreseen; it is bound up with the reflex of +flight, and may be regarded as an expression of the instinct of +self-preservation. The occasions of it, i.e. the objects and situations +about which anxiety is felt, will obviously depend to a great extent +upon the state of the person’s knowledge and feeling of power regarding +the outer world. It seems to us quite natural that a savage should be +afraid of a cannon or of an eclipse of the sun, while a white man who +can handle the weapon and foretell the phenomenon remains unafraid in +the same situation. At other times it is knowledge itself which inspires +fear, because it reveals the danger sooner; thus a savage will recoil +with terror at the sight of a track in the jungle which conveys nothing +to an ignorant white man, but means that some wild beast is near at +hand; and an experienced sailor will perceive with dread a little cloud +on the horizon because it means an approaching hurricane, while to a +passenger it looks quite insignificant. + +The view that real anxiety is rational and expedient, however, will on +deeper consideration be admitted to need thorough revision. In face of +imminent danger the only expedient behaviour, actually, would be first a +cool appraisement of the forces at disposal as compared with the +magnitude of the danger at hand, and then a decision whether flight or +defence, or possibly attack, offered the best prospect of a successful +outcome. Dread, however, has no place in this scheme; everything to be +done will be accomplished as well and probably better if dread does not +develop. You will see too that when dread is excessive it becomes in the +highest degree inexpedient; it paralyses every action, even that of +flight. The reaction to danger usually consists in a combination of the +two things, the fear-affect and the defensive action; the frightened +animal is afraid _and_ flees, but the expedient element in this is the +‘flight,’ not the ‘being afraid.’ + +One is tempted therefore to assert that the development of anxiety is +never expedient; perhaps a closer dissection of the situation in dread +will give us a better insight into it. The first thing about it is the +‘readiness’ for danger, which expresses itself in heightened sensorial +perception and in motor tension. This expectant readiness is obviously +advantageous; indeed, absence of it may be responsible for grave +results. It is then followed on the one hand by a motor action, taking +the form primarily of flight and, on a higher level, of defensive +action; and on the other hand by the condition we call a sensation of +‘anxiety’ or dread. The more the development of dread is limited to a +flash, to a mere signal, the less does it hinder the transition from the +state of anxious readiness to that of action, and the more expediently +does the whole course of events proceed. The _anxious readiness_ +therefore seems to me the expedient element, and the _development_ of +anxiety the inexpedient element, in what we call anxiety or dread. + +I shall not enter upon a discussion whether the words anxiety, fear, +fright, mean the same or different things in common usage. In my +opinion, _anxiety_ relates to the condition and ignores the object, +whereas in the word _fear_ attention is directed to the object; _fright_ +does actually seem to possess a special meaning—namely, it relates +specifically to the condition induced when danger is unexpectedly +encountered without previous anxious readiness. It might be said then +that anxiety is a protection against fright. + +It will not have escaped you that a certain ambiguity and indefiniteness +exists in the use of the word ‘anxiety.’ It is generally understood to +mean the subjective condition arising upon the perception of what we +have called ‘developed’ anxiety; such a condition is called an affect. +Now what is an affect, in a dynamic sense? It is certainly something +very complex. An affect comprises first of all certain motor +innervations or discharges; and, secondly, certain sensations, which +moreover are of two kinds—namely, the perceptions of the motor actions +which have been performed, and the directly pleasurable or painful +sensations which give the affect what we call its dominant note. But I +do not think that this description penetrates to the essence of an +affect. With certain affects one seems to be able to see deeper, and to +recognize that the core of it, binding the whole complex structure +together, is of the nature of a _repetition_ of some particular very +significant previous experience. This experience could only have been an +exceedingly early impression of a universal type, to be found in the +previous history of the species rather than of the individual. In order +to be better understood I might say that an affective state is +constructed like an hysterical attack, i.e. is the precipitate of a +reminiscence. An hysterical attack is therefore comparable to a +newly-formed individual affect, and the normal affect to a universal +hysteria which has become a heritage. + +Do not imagine that what I am telling you now about affects is the +common property of normal psychology. On the contrary, these conceptions +have grown on the soil of psycho-analysis and are only indigenous there. +What psychology has to say about affects—the James-Lange theory, for +instance—is utterly incomprehensible to us psycho-analysts and +impossible for us to discuss. We do not however regard what we know of +affects as at all final; it is a first attempt to take our bearings in +this obscure region. To continue, then: we believe we know what this +early impression is which is reproduced as a repetition in the +anxiety-affect. We think it is the experience of _birth_—an experience +which involves just such a concatenation of painful feelings, of +discharges of excitation, and of bodily sensations, as to have become a +prototype for all occasions on which life is endangered, ever after to +be reproduced again in us as the dread or ‘anxiety’ condition. The +enormous increase in stimulation effected by the interruption of the +renewal of blood (the internal respiration) was the cause of the anxiety +experience at birth—the first anxiety was therefore toxically induced. +The name _Angst_ (anxiety)—_angustiæ_, _Enge_, a narrow place, a +strait—accentuates the characteristic tightening in the breathing which +was then the consequence of a real situation and is subsequently +repeated almost invariably with an affect. It is very suggestive too +that the first anxiety state arose on the occasion of the separation +from the mother. We naturally believe that the disposition to reproduce +this first anxiety condition has become so deeply ingrained in the +organism, through countless generations, that no single individual can +escape the anxiety affect; even though, like the legendary Macduff, he +‘was from his mother’s womb untimely ripped’ and so did not himself +experience the act of birth. What the prototype of the anxiety condition +may be for other animals than mammals we cannot say; neither do we know +what the complex of sensations in them is which is equivalent to fear in +us. + +It may perhaps interest you to know how it was possible to arrive at +such an idea as this—that birth is the source and prototype of the +anxiety _affect_. Speculation had least of all to do with it; on the +contrary, I borrowed a thought from the naïve intuitive mind of the +people. Many years ago a number of young house-physicians, including +myself, were sitting round a dinner-table, and one of the assistants at +the obstetrical clinic was telling us all the funny stories of the last +midwives’ examination. One of the candidates was asked what it meant +when the meconium (child’s excreta) was present in the waters at birth, +and promptly replied: “That the child is frightened.” She was ridiculed +and failed. But I silently took her part and began to suspect that the +poor unsophisticated woman’s unerring perception had revealed a very +important connection. + +Now let us turn to neurotic anxiety; what are the special manifestations +and conditions found in the anxiety of nervous persons? There is a great +deal to be described here. First of all, we find a general +apprehensiveness in them, a ‘free-floating’ anxiety, as we call it, +ready to attach itself to any thought which is at all appropriate, +affecting judgements, inducing expectations, lying in wait for any +opportunity to find a justification for itself. We call this condition +‘_expectant dread_’ or ‘anxious expectation.’ People who are tormented +with this kind of anxiety always anticipate the worst of all possible +outcomes, interpret every chance happening as an evil omen, and exploit +every uncertainty to mean the worst. The tendency to this kind of +expectation of evil is found as a character-trait in many people who +cannot be described as ill in any other way, and we call them +‘overanxious’ or pessimistic; but a marked degree of expectant dread is +an invariable accompaniment of the nervous disorder which I have called +anxiety-neurosis and include among the actual neuroses. + +In contrast to this type of anxiety, a second form of it is found to be +much more circumscribed in the mind, and attached to definite objects +and situations. This is the anxiety of the extraordinarily various and +often very peculiar phobias. Stanley Hall, the distinguished American +psychologist, has recently taken the trouble to designate a whole series +of these phobias by gorgeous Greek titles; they sound like the ten +plagues of Egypt, except that there are far more than ten of them. Just +listen to the things that can become the object or content of a phobia: +darkness, open air, open spaces, cats, spiders, caterpillars, snakes, +mice, thunder, sharp points, blood, enclosed places, crowds, loneliness, +crossing bridges, travelling by land or sea, and so on. As a first +attempt to take one’s bearings in this chaos we may divide them into +three groups. Many of the objects and situations feared are rather +sinister, even to us normal people, they have some connection with +danger; and these phobias are not entirely incomprehensible to us, +although their intensity seems very much exaggerated. Most of us, for +instance, have a feeling of repulsion upon encountering a snake. It may +be said that the snake-phobia is universal in mankind. Charles Darwin +has described most vividly how he could not control his dread of a snake +that darted at him, although he knew that he was protected from it by a +thick plate of glass. The second group consists of situations that still +have some relation to danger, but to one that is usually belittled or +not emphasized by us; most situation-phobias belong to this group. We +know that there is more chance of meeting with a disaster in a railway +train than at home—namely, a collision; we also know that a ship may +sink, whereupon it is usual to be drowned; but we do not brood upon +these dangers and we travel without anxiety by train and boat. Nor can +it be denied that if a bridge were to break at the moment we were +crossing it we should be hurled into the torrent, but that only happens +so very occasionally that it is not a danger worth considering. Solitude +too has its dangers, which in certain circumstances we avoid, but there +is no question of never being able to endure it for a moment under any +conditions. The same thing applies to crowds, enclosed spaces, +thunderstorms, and so on. What is foreign to us in these phobias is not +so much their content as their intensity. The anxiety accompanying a +phobia is positively indescribable! And we sometimes get the impression +that neurotics are not really at all fearful of those things which can, +under certain conditions, arouse anxiety in us and which they call by +the same names. + +There remains a third group which is entirely unintelligible to us. When +a strong full-grown man is afraid to cross a street or square in his own +so familiar town, or when a healthy well-developed woman becomes almost +senseless with fear because a cat has brushed against her dress or a +mouse has scurried through the room, how can we see the connection with +danger which is obviously present to these people? With this kind of +animal-phobia it is no question of an increased intensity of common +human antipathies; to prove the contrary, there are numbers of people +who, for instance, cannot pass a cat without attracting and petting it. +A mouse is a thing that so many women are afraid of, and yet it is at +the same time a very favourite pet name;[51] many a girl who is +delighted to be called so by her lover will scream with terror at the +sight of the dainty little creature itself. The behaviour of the man who +is afraid to cross streets and squares only suggests one thing to +us—that he behaves like a little child. A child is directly taught that +such situations are dangerous, and the man’s anxiety too is allayed when +he is led by someone across the open space. + +The two forms of anxiety described, the ‘free-floating’ expectant dread +and that attached to phobias, are independent of each other. The one is +not the other at a further stage; they are only rarely combined, and +then as if fortuitously. The most intense general apprehensiveness does +not necessarily lead to a phobia; people who have been hampered all +their lives by agoraphobia may be quite free from pessimistic expectant +dread. Many phobias, e.g. fear of open spaces, of railway travelling, +are demonstrably acquired first in later life; others, such as fear of +darkness, thunder, animals, seem to have existed from the beginning. The +former signify serious illness, the latter are more of the nature of +idiosyncrasies, peculiarities; anyone exhibiting one of these latter may +be suspected of harbouring others similar to it. I must add that we +group all these phobias under _anxiety-hysteria_, that is, we regard +them as closely allied to the well-known disorder called +conversion-hysteria. + +The third form taken by neurotic anxiety brings us to an enigma; there +is no visible connection at all between the anxiety and the danger +dreaded. This anxiety occurs in hysteria, for instance, accompanying the +hysterical symptoms; or under various conditions of excitement in which, +it is true, we should expect some affect to be displayed, but least of +all an anxiety-affect; or without reference to any conditions, +incomprehensible both to us and to the patient, an unrelated +anxiety-attack. We may look far and wide without discovering a danger or +an occasion which could even be exaggerated to account for it. These +spontaneous attacks show therefore that the complex condition which we +describe as anxiety can be split up into components. The whole attack +can be represented (as a substitute) by a single intensively developed +symptom—shuddering, faintness, palpitation of the heart, inability to +breathe—and the general feeling which we recognize as anxiety may be +absent or may have become unnoticeable. And yet these states which are +termed ‘anxiety-equivalents’ have the same clinical and ætiological +validity as anxiety itself. + +Two questions arise now: Is it possible to bring neurotic anxiety, in +which such a small part or none at all is played by danger, into +relation with ‘real anxiety,’ which is essentially a reaction to danger? +And, how is neurotic anxiety to be understood? We will at present hold +fast to the expectation that where there is anxiety there must be +something of which one is afraid. + +Clinical observation yields various clues to the comprehension of +neurotic anxiety, and I will now discuss their significance with you. + +(_a_) It is not difficult to see that expectant dread or general +apprehensiveness stands in intimate relation to certain processes in the +sexual life—let us say, to certain modes of Libido-utilization. The +simplest and most instructive case of this kind arises in people who +expose themselves to what is called frustrated excitation, i.e. when a +powerful sexual excitation experiences insufficient discharge and is not +carried on to a satisfying termination. This occurs, for instance, in +men during the time of an engagement to marry, and in women whose +husbands are not sufficiently potent, or who perform the sexual act too +rapidly or incompletely with a view to preventing conception. Under +these conditions the libidinal excitation disappears and anxiety appears +in place of it, both in the form of expectant dread and in that of +attacks and anxiety-equivalents. The precautionary measure of _coitus +interruptus_, when practised as a customary sexual régime, is so +regularly the cause of anxiety-neurosis in men, and even more so in +women, that medical practitioners would be wise to enquire first of all +into the possibility of such an ætiology in all such cases. Innumerable +examples show that the anxiety-neurosis vanishes when the sexual +malpractice is given up. + +So far as I know, the fact that a connection exists between sexual +restraint and anxiety conditions is no longer disputed, even by +physicians who hold aloof from psycho-analysis. Nevertheless I can well +imagine that they do not neglect to invert the connection, and to put +forward the view that such persons are predisposed to apprehensiveness +and consequently practise caution in sexual matters. Against this, +however, decisive evidence is found in the reactions in women, in whom +the sexual function is essentially passive, so that its course is +determined by the treatment accorded by the man. The more ‘temperament,’ +i.e. the more inclination for sexual intercourse and capacity for +satisfaction, a woman has, the more certainly will she react with +anxiety manifestations to the man’s impotence or to _coitus +interruptus_; whereas such abuse entails far less serious results with +anæsthetic women or those in whom the sexual hunger is less strong. + +Sexual abstinence, which is nowadays so warmly recommended by +physicians, of course only has the same significance for anxiety +conditions when the Libido which is denied a satisfactory outlet is +correspondingly insistent, and is not being utilized to a large extent +in sublimation. Whether or not illness will ensue is indeed always a +matter of the quantitative factor. Even apart from illness, it is easy +to see in the sphere of character-formation that sexual restraint goes +hand in hand with a certain anxiousness and cautiousness, whereas +fearlessness and a boldly adventurous spirit bring with them a free +tolerance of sexual needs. However these relations may be altered and +complicated by the manifold influences of civilization, it remains +incontestible that for the average human being anxiety is closely +connected with sexual limitation. + +I have by no means told you all the observations which point to this +genetic connection between Libido and anxiety. There is, for instance, +the effect upon anxiety states of certain periods of life, such as +puberty and the menopause, in which the production of Libido is +considerably augmented. In many states of excitement too, the mingling +of sexual excitation with anxiety may be directly observed, as well as +the final replacement of the libidinal excitation by anxiety. The +impression received from all this is a double one; first, that it is a +matter of an accumulation of Libido, debarred from its normal +utilization; and secondly, that the question is one of somatic processes +only. How anxiety develops out of sexual desire is at present obscure; +we can only ascertain that desire is lacking and anxiety is found in its +place. + +(_b_) A second clue is obtained from analysis of the psychoneuroses, in +particular, of hysteria. We have heard that anxiety frequently +accompanies the symptoms in this disease, and that unattached anxiety +may also be chronically present or come to expression in attacks. The +patients cannot say what it is they fear; they link it up by +unmistakable secondary elaboration to the most convenient phobias: of +dying, of going mad, of having a stroke, etc. When we subject to +analysis the situation in which the anxiety, or the symptom accompanied +by anxiety, arose, we can as a rule discover what normal mental process +has been checked in its course and replaced by a manifestation of +anxiety. To express it differently: we construe the unconscious process +as though it had not undergone repression and had gone through +unhindered into consciousness. This process would have been accompanied +by a particular affect and now we discover, to our astonishment, that +this affect, which would normally accompany the mental process through +into consciousness, is in every case replaced by anxiety, no matter what +particular type it had previously been. So that when we have a +hysterical anxiety condition before us, its unconscious correlative may +be an excitation of a similar character, such as apprehension, shame, +embarrassment; or quite as possibly a ‘positive’ libidinal excitation; +or an antagonistic, aggressive one, such as rage or anger. Anxiety is +thus general current coin for which all the affects are exchanged, or +can be exchanged, when the corresponding ideational content is under +repression. + +(_c_) A third observation is provided by patients whose symptoms take +the form of obsessive acts, and who seem to be remarkably immune from +anxiety. When we restrain them from carrying out their obsessive +performances, their washing, their ceremonies, etc., or when they +themselves venture an attempt to abandon one of their compulsions, they +are forced by an appalling dread to yield to the compulsion and to carry +out the act. We perceive that the anxiety was concealed under the +obsessive act and that this is only performed to escape the feeling of +dread. In the obsessional neurosis, therefore, the anxiety which would +otherwise ensue is replaced by the symptom-formation; and when we turn +to hysteria we find a similar relation existing—as a consequence of the +process of repression either a pure developed anxiety, or anxiety with +symptom-formation, or, symptom-formation without anxiety. In an abstract +sense, therefore, it seems correct to say that symptoms altogether are +formed purely for the purpose of escaping the otherwise inevitable +development of anxiety. Thus anxiety comes to the forefront of our +interest in the problems of the neuroses. + +We concluded from our observations on the anxiety-neurosis that the +diversion of the Libido away from its normal form of utilization, a +diversion which releases anxiety, took place on the basis of somatic +processes. The analyses of hysterical and obsessional neuroses furnish +the additional conclusion that a similar diversion with a similar result +can follow from opposition on the part of psychical agents +(_Instanzen_). We know as much as this, therefore, about the origin of +neurotic anxiety; it still sounds rather indefinite. But for the moment +I know of no path which will take us further. The second task we +undertook, that of establishing a connection between neurotic anxiety +(abnormally utilized Libido) and ‘real anxiety’ (which corresponds with +the reaction to danger), seems even more difficult to accomplish. One +would think there could be no comparison between the two things, and yet +there are no means by which the sensations of neurotic anxiety can be +distinguished from those of real anxiety. + +The desired connection may be found with the help of the antithesis, so +often put forward, between the Ego and the Libido. As we know, the +development of anxiety is the reaction of the Ego to danger and the +signal preparatory to flight; it is then not a great step to imagine +that in neurotic anxiety also the Ego is attempting a flight, from the +demands of its Libido, and is treating this internal danger as if it +were an external one. Then our expectation, that where anxiety is +present there must be something of which one is afraid, would be +fulfilled. The analogy goes further than this, however. Just as the +tension prompting the attempt to flee from external danger is resolved +into holding one’s ground and taking appropriate defensive measures, so +the development of neurotic anxiety yields to a symptom-formation, which +enables the anxiety to be ‘bound.’ + +Our difficulty in comprehension now lies elsewhere. The anxiety which +signifies the flight of the Ego from its Libido is nevertheless supposed +to have had its source in that Libido. This is obscure, and we are +warned not to forget that the Libido of a given person is fundamentally +part of that person and cannot be contrasted with him as if it were +something external. It is the question of the topographical dynamics of +anxiety-development that is still obscure to us—what kind of mental +energies are being expended and to what systems do they belong? I cannot +promise you to answer this question also; but we will not neglect to +follow up two other clues, and in so doing will again summon direct +observation and analytic investigation to aid our speculation. We will +turn to the sources of anxiety in children, and to the origin of the +neurotic anxiety which is attached to phobias. + +Apprehensiveness is very common among children, and it is difficult +enough to decide whether it is real or neurotic anxiety. Indeed the very +value of this distinction is called in question by the attitude of +children themselves. For on the one hand we are not surprised that +children are afraid of strangers, of strange objects and situations, and +we account for this reaction to ourselves very easily by reflecting on +their weakness and ignorance. Thus we ascribe to the child a strong +tendency to real anxiety and should regard it as only practical if this +apprehensiveness had been transmitted by inheritance. The child would +only be repeating the behaviour of prehistoric man and of primitive man +to-day who, in consequence of his ignorance and helplessness, +experiences a dread of anything new and strange, and of much that is +familiar to him, none of which any longer inspires fear in us. It would +also correspond to our expectations if the phobias of children were at +least in part such as might be attributed to those primeval periods of +human development. + +On the other hand, it cannot be overlooked that children are not all +equally apprehensive, and that the very children who are more than +usually timid in the face of all kinds of objects and situations are +just those who later on become neurotic. The neurotic disposition is +therefore betrayed, amongst other signs, by a marked tendency to real +anxiety; apprehensiveness rather than nervousness appears to be primary; +and we arrive at the conclusion that the child, and later the adult, +experiences a dread of the strength of his Libido, simply because he is +afraid of everything. The derivation of anxiety from the Libido itself +would then be discarded; and investigation of the conditions of real +anxiety would logically lead to the view that the consciousness of +personal weakness and helplessness—inferiority, as A. Adler calls +it—when it is able to maintain itself into later life is the final cause +of neurosis. + +This sounds so simple and plausible that it has a claim on our +attention. It is true that it would involve shifting the point of view +from which we regard the problem of nervousness. That such feelings of +inferiority do persist into later life—together with a disposition to +anxiety and symptom-formation—seems so well established that much more +explanation is required when, in an exceptional case, what we call +‘health’ is the outcome. But what can be learnt from the close +observation of apprehensiveness in children? The small child is first of +all afraid of strange people; situations become important only on +account of the people concerned in them, and objects always much later. +But the child is not afraid of these strange people because he +attributes evil intentions to them, comparing their strength with his +weakness, and thus recognizing in them a danger to his existence, his +safety, and his freedom from pain. Such a conception of a child, so +suspicious and terrified of an overpowering aggressivity in the world, +is a very poor sort of theoretical construction. On the contrary, the +child starts back in fright from a strange figure because he is used +to—and therefore expects—a beloved and familiar figure, primarily his +mother. It is his disappointment and longing which are transformed into +dread—his Libido, unable to be expended, and at that time not to be held +suspended, is discharged through being converted into dread. It can +hardly be a coincidence too that in this situation, which is the +prototype of childish anxiety, the condition of the primary anxiety +state during birth, a separation from the mother, is again reproduced. + +The first phobias of situations in children concern darkness and +loneliness; the former is often retained throughout life; common to both +is the desire for the absent attendant, for the mother, therefore. I +once heard a child who was afraid of the darkness call out: “Auntie, +talk to me, I’m frightened.” “But what good will that do? You can’t see +me;” to which the child replied: “If someone talks, it gets lighter.” +The longing felt _in_ the darkness is thus transformed into fear _of_ +the darkness. Far from finding that neurotic anxiety is only secondary +and a special case of real anxiety, we see on the contrary that there is +something in the small child which behaves like real anxiety and has an +essential feature in common with neurotic anxiety—namely, origin in +undischarged Libido. Of genuine ‘real anxiety’ the child seems to bring +very little into the world. In all those situations which can become the +conditions of phobias later, on heights, on narrow bridges over water, +in trains and boats, the small child shows no fear—the less it knows the +less it fears. It is much to be wished that it had inherited more of +these life-preserving instincts; the task of looking after it and +preventing it from exposing itself to one danger after another would +have been very much lightened. Actually, you see, a child overestimates +his powers, to begin with, and behaves without fear because he does not +recognize dangers. He will run along the edge of the water, climb upon +the window-sill, play with sharp things and with fire, in short, do +anything that injures him and alarms his attendants. Since he cannot be +allowed to learn it himself through bitter experience, it is entirely +due to training that real anxiety does eventually awake in him. + +Now if some children embrace this training in apprehensiveness very +readily, and then find for themselves dangers which they have not been +warned against, it is explicable on the ground that these children have +inherently a greater amount of libidinal need in their constitution than +others, or else that they have been spoiled early with libidinal +gratifications. It is no wonder if those who later become nervous also +belong to this type as children; we know that the most favourable +circumstance for the development of a neurosis lies in the inability to +tolerate a considerable degree of pent-up Libido for any length of time. +You will observe now that here the constitutional factor, which we have +never denied, comes into its own. We protest only when others emphasize +it to the exclusion of all other claims, and when they introduce the +constitutional factor even where according to the unanimous findings +both of observation and of analysis, it does not belong, or only plays a +minor part. + +Let us sum up the conclusions drawn from the observation of +apprehensiveness in children: Infantile dread has very little to do with +real anxiety (dread of real danger), but is, on the other hand, closely +allied to the neurotic anxiety of adults. It is derived like the latter +from undischarged Libido, and it substitutes some other external object +or some situation for the love-object which it misses. + +Now you will be glad to hear that the analysis of phobias has little +more to teach us than we have learnt already. The same thing happens in +them as in the anxiety of children; Libido that cannot be discharged is +continuously being converted into an apparently ‘real’ anxiety, and so +an insignificant external danger is taken as a representative of what +the Libido desires. The agreement between the two forms of anxiety is +not surprising; for infantile phobias are not merely prototypes of those +which appear later in anxiety-hysteria, but they are a direct +preliminary condition and prelude of them. Every hysterical phobia can +be traced back to a childish dread, of which it is a continuation, even +if it has a different content and must be called by a different name. +The difference between the two conditions lies in their mechanism. In +order that the Libido should be converted into anxiety in the adult it +is no longer sufficient that the Libido should be momentarily unable to +be utilized. The adult has long since learned to maintain such Libido +suspended, or to apply it in different ways. But, when the Libido is +attached to a mental excitation which has undergone repression, +conditions similar to those in the child, in whom there is not yet any +distinction between conscious and unconscious, are re-established; and +by a regression to the infantile phobia a bridge, so to speak, is +provided by which the conversion of Libido into anxiety can be +conveniently effected. As you will remember, we have treated repression +at some length, but in so doing we have been concerned exclusively with +the fate of the _idea_ to be repressed; naturally, because this was +easier to recognize and to present. But we have so far ignored the +question of what happened to the _affect_ attached to this idea, and now +we learn for the first time that it is the immediate fate of the affect +to be converted into anxiety, no matter what quality of affect it would +otherwise have been had it run a normal course. This transformation of +affect is, moreover, by far the more important effect of the process of +repression. It is not so easy to present to you; for we cannot maintain +the existence of unconscious affects in the same sense as that of +unconscious ideas. An idea remains up to a point the same, whether it is +conscious or unconscious; we can indicate something that corresponds to +an unconscious idea. But an affect is a process involving a discharge of +energy, and it is to be regarded quite differently from an idea; without +searching examination and clarification of our hypotheses concerning +mental processes, we cannot tell what corresponds with it in the +Unconscious—and that cannot be undertaken here. However, we will +preserve the impression we have gained, that the development of anxiety +is closely connected with the unconscious system. + +I said that conversion into anxiety, or better, discharge in the form of +anxiety, was the immediate fate of Libido which encounters repression; I +must add that it is not the only or the final fate of it. In the +neuroses, processes take place which are intended to prevent the +development of anxiety, and which succeed in so doing by various means. +In the phobias, for instance, two stages in the neurotic process are +clearly discernible. The first effects the repressions and conversion of +the Libido into anxiety, which is then attached to some external danger. +The second consists in building up all those precautions and safeguards +by which all contact with this externalized danger shall be avoided. +Repression is an attempt at flight on the part of the Ego from the +Libido which it feels to be dangerous; the phobia may be compared to a +fortification against the outer danger which now stands for the dreaded +Libido. The weakness of this defensive system in the phobias is of +course that the fortress which is so well guarded from without remains +exposed to danger from within; projection externally of danger from +Libido can never be a very successful measure. In the other neuroses, +therefore, other defensive systems are employed against the possibility +of the development of anxiety; this is a very interesting part of the +psychology of the neuroses. Unfortunately it would take us too far +afield and also it would require a thorough grounding in special +knowledge of the subject. I will merely add this. I have already spoken +of the ‘counter-charges’ that are instituted by the Ego upon repression, +which must be maintained so that the repression can persist. It is the +task of this counter-charge to carry out the various forms of defence +against the development of anxiety after repression. + +To return to the phobias: I may now hope that you realize how inadequate +it is to attempt merely to explain their content, and to take no +interest in them apart from their derivation—this or that object or +situation which has been made into a phobia. The content of the phobia +has an importance comparable to that of the manifest dream—it is a +façade. With all due modifications, it is to be admitted that among the +contents of the various phobias many are found which, as Stanley Hall +points out, are specially suited by phylogenetic inheritance to become +objects of dread. It is even in agreement with this that many of these +dreaded things have no connection with danger, except through a +_symbolic_ relation to it. + +Thus we are convinced of the quite central position which the problem of +anxiety fills in the psychology of the neuroses. We have received a +strong impression of how the development of anxiety is bound up with the +fate of the Libido and with the unconscious system. There is only one +unconnected thread, only one gap in our structure, the fact, which after +all can hardly be disputed, that ‘real anxiety’ must be regarded as an +expression of the Ego’s instinct for self-preservation. + + + + + TWENTY-SIXTH LECTURE + THE THEORY OF THE LIBIDO: NARCISSISM + + +We have repeatedly, and again quite recently, referred to the +distinction between the sexual and the Ego-instincts. First of all, +repression showed how they can oppose each other, how the sexual +instincts are then apparently brought to submission, and required to +procure their satisfaction by circuitous regressive paths, where in +their impregnability they obtain compensation for their defeat. Then it +appeared that from the outset they each have a different relation to the +task-mistress Necessity, so that their developments are different and +they acquire different attitudes to the reality-principle. Finally we +believe we can observe that the sexual instincts are connected by much +closer ties with the affective state of anxiety than are the +Ego-instincts—a conclusion which in one important point only still seems +incomplete. In support of it we may bring forward the further remarkable +fact that want of satisfaction of hunger or thirst, the two most +elemental of the self-preservative instincts, never results in +conversion of them into anxiety, whereas the conversion of unsatisfied +Libido into anxiety is, as we have heard, a very well-known and +frequently-observed phenomenon. + +Our justification for distinguishing between sexual and Ego-instincts +can surely not be contested; it is indeed assumed by the existence of +the sexual instinct as a special activity in the individual. The only +question is what significance is to be attached to this distinction, how +radical and decisive we intend to consider it. The answer to this +depends upon what we can ascertain about the extent to which the sexual +instincts, both in their bodily and their mental manifestations, conduct +themselves differently from the other instincts which we set against +them; and how important the results arising from these differences are +found to be. We have of course no motive for maintaining any difference +in the fundamental nature of the two groups of instincts, and, by the +way, it would be difficult to apprehend any. They both present +themselves to us merely as descriptions of the sources of energy in the +individual, and the discussion whether fundamentally they are one, or +essentially different, and if one, when they became separated from each +other, cannot be carried through on the basis of these concepts alone, +but must be grounded on the biological facts underlying them. At present +we know too little about this, and even if we knew more it would not be +relevant to the task of psycho-analysis. + +We should clearly also profit very little by emphasizing the primordial +unity of all the instincts, as Jung has done, and describing all the +energies which flow from them as ‘Libido.’ We should then be compelled +to speak of sexual and asexual Libido, since the sexual function is not +to be eliminated from the field of mental life by any such device. The +name Libido, however, remains properly reserved for the instinctive +forces of the sexual life, as we have hitherto employed it. + +In my opinion, therefore, the question how far the quite justifiable +distinction between sexual and self-preservative instincts is to be +carried has not much importance for psycho-analysis, nor is +psycho-analysis competent to deal with it. From the biological point of +view there are certainly various indications that the distinction is +important. For the sexual function is the only function of a living +organism which extends beyond the individual and secures its connection +with its species. It is undeniable that the exercise of this function +does not always bring advantage to the individual, as do his other +activities, but that for the sake of an exceptionally high degree of +pleasure he is involved by this function in dangers which jeopardize his +life and often enough exact it. Quite peculiar metabolic processes, +different from all others, are probably required in order to preserve a +portion of the individual’s life as a disposition for posterity. And +finally, the individual organism that regards itself as first in +importance and its sexuality as a means like any other to its own +satisfaction is from a biological point of view only an episode in a +series of generations, a short-lived appendage to a germplasm which is +endowed with virtual immortality, comparable to the temporary holder of +an entail that will survive his death. + +We are not concerned with such far-reaching considerations, however, in +the psycho-analytic elucidation of the neuroses. By means of following +up the distinction between the sexual and the Ego-instincts we have +gained the key to comprehension of the group of transference neuroses. +We were able to trace back their origin to a fundamental situation in +which the sexual instincts had come into conflict with the +self-preservative instincts, or—to express it biologically, though at +the same time less exactly—in which the Ego in its capacity of +independent individual organism had entered into opposition with itself +in its other capacity as a member of a series of generations. Such a +dissociation perhaps only exists in man, so that, taken all in all, his +superiority over the other animals may come down to his capacity for +neurosis. The excessive development of his Libido and the rich +elaboration of his mental life (perhaps directly made possible by it) +seem to constitute the conditions which give rise to a conflict of this +kind. It is at any rate clear that these are the conditions under which +man has progressed so greatly beyond what he has in common with the +animals, so that his capacity for neurosis would merely be the obverse +of his capacity for cultural development. However, these again are but +speculations which distract us from the task in hand. + +Our work so far has been conducted on the assumption that the +manifestations of the sexual and the Ego-instincts can be distinguished +from one another. In the transference neuroses this is possible without +any difficulty. We called the investments of energy directed by the Ego +towards the object of its sexual desires ‘Libido,’ and all the other +investments proceeding from the self-preservative instincts its +‘interest’; and by following up the investments with Libido, their +transformations, and their final fates, we were able to acquire our +first insight into the workings of the forces in mental life. The +transference neuroses offered the best material for this exploration. +The Ego, however,—its composition out of various organizations with +their structure and mode of functioning—remained undiscovered; we were +led to believe that analysis of other neurotic disturbances would be +required before light could be gained on these matters. + +The extension of psycho-analytic conceptions on to these other +affections was begun in early days. Already in 1908 K. Abraham expressed +the view after a discussion with me that the main characteristic of +dementia præcox (reckoned as one of the psychoses) is that in this +disease _the investment of objects with Libido is lacking_. (_The +Psycho-Sexual Differences between Hysteria and Dementia Præcox_). But +then the question arose: what happens to the Libido of dementia patients +when it is diverted from its objects? Abraham did not hesitate to answer +that it is turned back upon the Ego, and that _this reflex reversion of +it is the origin of the delusions of grandeur in dementia præcox_. The +delusion of grandeur is in every way comparable to the well-known +overestimation of the object in a love-relationship. Thus we came for +the first time to understand a feature of a psychotic affection by +bringing it into relation to the normal mode of loving in life. + +I will tell you at once that these early views of Abraham’s have been +retained in psycho-analysis and have become the basis of our position +regarding the psychoses. We became slowly accustomed to the conception +that the Libido, which we find attached to certain objects and which is +the expression of a desire to gain some satisfaction in these objects, +can also abandon these objects and set the Ego itself in their place; +and gradually this view developed itself more and more consistently. The +name for this utilization of the Libido—NARCISSISM—we borrowed from a +perversion described by P. Näcke, in which an adult individual lavishes +upon his own body all the caresses usually expended only upon a sexual +object other than himself. + +Reflection then at once disclosed that if a fixation of this kind to the +subject’s own body and his own person can occur it cannot be an entirely +exceptional or meaningless phenomenon. On the contrary, it is probable +that this _narcissism_ is the universal original condition, out of which +_object-love_ develops later without thereby necessarily effecting a +disappearance of the narcissism. One also had to remember the evolution +of object-Libido, in which to begin with many of the sexual impulses are +gratified on the child’s own body—as we say, auto-erotically—and that +this capacity for auto-erotism accounts for the backwardness of +sexuality in learning to conform to the reality-principle. Thus it +appeared that auto-erotism was the sexual activity of the narcissistic +phase of direction of the Libido. + +To put it briefly, we formed an idea of the relation between the +Ego-Libido and the object-Libido which I can illustrate to you by a +comparison taken from zoology. Think of the simplest forms of life +consisting of a little mass of only slightly differentiated protoplasmic +substances. They extend protrusions which are called pseudopodia into +which the protoplasm overflows. They can, however, again withdraw these +extensions of themselves and reform themselves into a mass. We compare +this extending of protrusions to the radiation of Libido on to the +objects, while the greatest volume of Libido may yet remain within the +Ego; we infer that under normal conditions Ego-Libido can transform +itself into object-Libido without difficulty and that this can again +subsequently be absorbed into the Ego. + +With the help of these conceptions it is now possible to explain a whole +series of mental states, or, to express it more modestly, to describe in +terms of the Libido-theory conditions that belong to normal life; for +instance, the mental attitude pertaining to the conditions of “being in +love,” of organic illness, and of sleep. Of the condition of sleep we +assumed that it is founded upon a withdrawal from the outer world and a +concentration upon the wish to sleep. We found that the nocturnal mental +activity which is expressed in dreams served the purpose of the wish to +sleep, and, moreover, that it was governed exclusively by egoistic +motives. In the light of the Libido-theory we may carry this further and +say that sleep is a condition in which all investments of objects, the +libidinal as well as the egoistic, are abandoned and withdrawn again +into the Ego. Does not this shed a new light upon the recuperation +afforded by sleep and upon the nature of fatigue in general? The +likeness we see in the condition which the sleeper conjures up again +every night to the blissful isolation of the intra-uterine existence is +thus confirmed and amplified in its mental aspects. In the sleeper the +primal state of the Libido-distribution is again reproduced, that of +absolute narcissism, in which Libido and Ego-interests dwell together +still, united and indistinguishable in the self-sufficient Self. + +Two observations are in place here. First, how is the concept +‘narcissism’ distinguished from ‘egoism’? In my opinion, narcissism is +the libidinal complement of egoism. When one speaks of egoism one is +thinking only of the _interests_ of the person concerned, narcissism +relates also to the satisfaction of his libidinal needs. It is possible +to follow up the two separately for a considerable distance as practical +motives in life. A man may be absolutely egoistic and yet have strong +libidinal attachments to objects, in so far as libidinal satisfaction in +an object is a need of his Ego: his egoism will then see to it that his +desires towards the object involve no injury to his Ego. A man may be +egoistic and at the same time strongly narcissistic (i.e. feel very +little need for objects), and this again either in the form taken by the +need for direct sexual satisfaction, or in those higher forms of feeling +derived from the sexual needs which are commonly called “love,” and as +such are contrasted with “sensuality.” In all these situations egoism is +the self-evident, the constant element, and narcissism the variable one. +The antithesis of egoism, “altruism,” is not an alternative term for the +investment of an object with Libido; it is distinct from the latter in +its lack of the desire for sexual satisfaction in the object. But when +the condition of love is developed to its fullest intensity altruism +coincides with the investment of an object with Libido. As a rule the +sexual object draws to itself a portion of the Ego’s narcissism, which +becomes apparent in what is called the ‘sexual overestimation’ of the +object. If to this is added an altruism directed towards the object and +derived from the egoism of the lover, the sexual object becomes supreme; +it has entirely swallowed up the Ego. + +I think you will find it a relief if, after these scientific phantasies, +which are after all very dry, I submit to you a poetic description of +the ‘economic’ contrast between the condition of narcissism and that of +love in full intensity. I take it from a dialogue between Zuleika and +her lover in Goethe’s _Westöstliche Divan_:— + + ZULEIKA: + + The slave, the lord of victories, + The crowd, with single voice, confess + In sense of personal being lies + A child of earth’s true happiness. + There’s not a life he need refuse + If his true self he does not miss: + There’s not a thing he cannot lose + If he remains the man he is. + + HÂTEM: + + So it is held! so well may be! + But down a different track I come + Of all the bliss earth holds for me + I in Zuleika find the sum. + Does she expend her being on me, + Myself grows to myself of cost; + Turns she away, then instantly + I to my very self am lost. + And then with Hâtem all were over; + Though yet I should but change my state; + Swift, should she grace some happy lover, + In him I were incorporate.[52] + +The second observation is an amplification of the theory of dreams. The +way in which a dream originates is not explicable unless we assume that +what is repressed in the Unconscious has acquired a certain independence +of the Ego, so that it does not subordinate itself to the wish for sleep +and maintains its investments, although all the object-investments +proceeding from the Ego have been withdrawn for the purpose of sleep. +Only this makes it possible to understand how it is that this +unconscious material can make use of the abrogation or diminution in the +activities of the censorship which takes place at night, and that it +knows how to mould the day’s residue so as to form a forbidden +dream-wish from the material to hand in that residue. On the other hand, +some of the resistance against the wish to sleep and the withdrawal of +Libido thereby induced may have its origin in an association already in +existence between this residue and the repressed unconscious material. +This important dynamic factor must therefore now be incorporated into +the conception of dream-formation which we formed in our earlier +discussions. + +Certain conditions—organic illness, painful accesses of stimulation, an +inflammatory condition of an organ—have clearly the effect of loosening +the Libido from its attachment to its objects. The Libido which has thus +been withdrawn attaches itself again to the Ego in the form of a +stronger investment of the diseased region of the body. Indeed, one may +venture the assertion that in such conditions the withdrawal of the +Libido from its objects is more striking than the withdrawal of egoistic +interests from their concerns in the outer world. This seems to lead to +a possibility of understanding hypochondria, in which some organ, +without being perceptibly diseased, becomes in a very similar way the +subject of a solicitude on the part of the Ego. I shall, however, resist +the temptation to follow this up, or to discuss other situations which +become explicable or capable of exposition on this assumption of a +return of the object-Libido into the Ego; for I feel bound to meet two +objections which I know have all your attention at the moment. First of +all, you want to know why when I discuss sleep, illness, and similar +conditions, I insist upon distinguishing between Libido and ‘interests,’ +sexual instincts and Ego-instincts, while the observations are +satisfactorily explained by assuming a single uniform energy which is +freely mobile, can invest either object or Ego, and can serve the +purposes of the one as well as of the other. Secondly, you will want to +know how I can be so bold as to treat the detachment of the Libido from +its objects as the origin of a pathological condition, if such a +transformation of object-Libido into Ego-Libido—or into Ego-energy in +general—is a normal mental process repeated every day and every night. + +The answer is: Your first objection sounds a good one. Examination of +the conditions of sleep, illness, and falling in love would probably +never have led to a distinction between Ego-Libido and object-Libido, or +between Libido and ‘interests.’ But in this you omit to take into +account the investigations with which we started, in the light of which +we now regard the mental situations under discussion. The necessity of +distinguishing between Libido and ‘interests,’ between sexual and +self-preservative instincts, has been forced upon us by our insight into +the conflict from which the transference neuroses arise. We have to +reckon with this distinction henceforward. The assumption that +object-Libido can transform itself into Ego-Libido, in other words, that +we shall also have to reckon with an Ego-Libido, appears to be the only +one capable of solving the riddle of what are called the narcissistic +neuroses, e.g. dementia præcox, or of giving any satisfactory +explanation of their likeness to hysteria and obsessions and differences +from them. We then apply what we have found undeniably proved in these +cases to illness, sleep, and the condition of intense love. We are at +liberty to apply them in any direction and see where they will take us. +The single conclusion which is not directly based on analytical +experience is that Libido is Libido and remains so, whether it is +attached to objects or to the Ego itself, and is never transformed into +egoistic ‘interests’ and vice versa. This statement, however, is another +way of expressing the distinction between sexual instincts and +Ego-instincts which we have already critically examined, and which we +shall hold to from heuristic motives until such time as it may prove +valueless. + +Your second objection too raises a justifiable question, but it is +directed to a false issue. The withdrawal of object-Libido into the Ego +is certainly not pathogenic; it is true that it occurs every night +before sleep can ensue, and that the process is reversed upon awakening. +The protoplasmic animalcule draws in its protrusions and sends them out +again at the next opportunity. But it is quite a different matter when a +definite, very forcible process compels the withdrawal of the Libido +from its objects. The Libido that has then become narcissistic can no +longer find its way back to its objects, and this obstruction in the way +of the free movement of the Libido certainly does prove pathogenic. It +seems that an accumulation of narcissistic Libido over and above a +certain level becomes intolerable. We might well imagine that it was +this that first led to the investment of objects, that the Ego was +obliged to send forth its Libido in order not to fall ill of an +excessive accumulation of it. If it were part of our scheme to go more +particularly into the disorder of dementia præcox I would show you that +the process which detaches the Libido from its objects and blocks the +way back to them again is closely allied to the process of repression, +and is to be regarded as a counterpart of it. In any case you would +recognize familiar ground under your feet when you found that the +preliminary conditions giving rise to these processes are almost +identical, so far as we know at present, with those of repression. The +conflict seems to be the same and to be conducted between the same +forces. Since the outcome is so different from that of hysteria, for +instance, the reason can only lie in some difference in the disposition. +The weak point in the Libido-development in these patients is found at a +different phase of the development; the decisive fixation which, as you +will remember, enables the process of symptom-formation to break out is +at another point, probably at the stage of primary narcissism, to which +dementia præcox finally returns. It is most remarkable that for all the +narcissistic neuroses we have to assume fixation-points of the Libido at +very much earlier phases of development than those found in hysteria or +the obsessional neurosis. You have heard, however, that the concepts we +have elicited from the study of the transference neuroses also suffice +to show us our bearings in the narcissistic neuroses, which are in +practice so much more severe. There is a very wide community between +them; fundamentally they are phenomena of a single class. You may +imagine how hopeless a task it is for anyone to attempt to explain these +disorders (which properly belong to psychiatry) without being first +equipped with the analytic knowledge of the transference neuroses. + +The picture formed by the symptoms of dementia præcox, incidentally a +very variable one, is not determined exclusively by the symptoms arising +from the forcing of the Libido back from the objects and the +accumulation of it as narcissism in the Ego. Other phenomena occupy a +large part of the field, and may be traced to the efforts made by the +Libido to reach its objects again, which correspond therefore to +attempts at restitution and recovery. These are in fact the conspicuous, +clamorous symptoms; they exhibit a marked similarity to those of +hysteria, or more rarely of the obsessional neurosis; they are +nevertheless different in every respect. It seems that in dementia +præcox the efforts of the Libido to get back to its objects, that is, to +the mental idea of its objects, do really succeed in conjuring up +something of them, something that at the same time is only the shadow of +them—namely, the verbal images, the words, attached to them. This is not +the place to discuss this matter further, but in my opinion this +reversed procedure on the part of the Libido gives us an insight into +what constitutes the real difference between a conscious and an +unconscious idea. + +This has now brought us into the field where the next advances in +analytic work are to be expected. Since the time when we resolved upon +our formulation of the conception of Ego-Libido, the narcissistic +neuroses have become accessible to us; the task before us was to find +the dynamic factors in these disorders, and at the same time to amplify +our knowledge of mental life by a comprehension of the Ego. The +psychology of the Ego, at which we are aiming, cannot be founded upon +data provided by our own self-perceptions; it must be based, as is that +of the Libido, upon analysis of the disturbances and disintegrations of +the Ego. We shall probably think very little of our present knowledge of +the fate of the Libido, gained from the study of the transference +neuroses, when that further, greater work has been achieved. But as yet +we have not got very far towards it. The narcissistic neuroses can +hardly be approached at all by the method which has availed for the +transference neuroses; you shall soon hear why this is. With these +patients it always happens that after one has penetrated a little way +one comes up against a stone wall which cannot be surmounted. You know +that in the transference neuroses, too, barriers of resistance of this +kind are met with, but that it is possible bit by bit to pull them down. +In the narcissistic neuroses the resistance is insuperable; at the most +we can satisfy our curiosity by craning our necks for a glimpse or two +at what is going on over the wall. Our technique will therefore have to +be replaced by other methods; at present we do not know whether we shall +succeed in finding a substitute. There is no lack of material with these +patients; they bring forward a great deal, although not in answer to our +questions; at present all we can do is to interpret what they say in the +light of the understanding gained from the study of the transference +neuroses. The agreement between the two forms of disease goes far enough +to ensure us a satisfactory start with them. How much we shall be able +to achieve by this method remains to be seen. + +There are other difficulties, besides this, in the way of our progress. +The narcissistic disorders and the psychoses related to them can only be +unriddled by observers trained in the analytic study of the transference +neuroses. But our psychiatrists do not study psycho-analysis and we +psycho-analysts see too little of psychiatric cases. We shall have to +develop a breed of psychiatrists who have gone through the training of +psycho-analysis as a preparatory science. A beginning in this direction +is being made in America, where several of the leading psychiatrists +lecture on psycho-analytic doctrines to their students, and where +medical superintendents of institutions and asylums endeavour to observe +their patients in the light of this theory. But all the same it has +sometimes been possible for us here to take a peep over the wall of +narcissism, so I will now proceed to tell you what we think we have +discovered in this way. + +The disease of paranoia, a chronic form of systematic insanity, has a +very uncertain position in the attempts at classification made by +present-day psychiatry. There is no doubt, however, that it is closely +related to dementia præcox; I have in fact proposed that they should +both be included under the common designation of _paraphrenia_. The +forms taken by paranoia are described according to the content of the +delusion, e.g. delusions of grandeur, of persecution, of jealousy, of +being loved (erotomania), etc. We do not expect attempts at explanation +from psychiatry; as an example, an antiquated and not very fair example, +I grant, I will tell you the attempt which was made to derive one of +these symptoms from another, by means of a piece of intellectual +rationalization: The patient who has a primary tendency to believe +himself persecuted draws from this the conclusion that he must +necessarily be a very important person and therefore develops a delusion +of grandeur. According to our analytic conception, the delusion of +grandeur is the direct consequence of the inflation of the Ego by the +Libido withdrawn from the investment of objects, a secondary narcissism +ensuing as a return of the original early infantile form. In the case of +delusions of persecution, however, we observed things which led us to +follow up a certain clue. In the first place we noticed that in the +great majority of cases the persecuting person was of the same sex as +the persecuted one; this was capable of a harmless explanation, it is +true, but in certain cases which were closely studied it appeared that +the person of the same sex who had been most beloved while the patient +was normal became the persecutor after the disease broke out. A further +development of this becomes possible through the well-known paths of +association by which a loved person may be replaced by someone else, +e.g. the father by masters or persons in authority. From these +observations, which were continually corroborated, we drew the +conclusion that persecutory paranoia is the means by which a person +defends himself against a homosexual impulse which has become too +powerful. The conversion of the affectionate feeling into the hate +which, as is well-known, can seriously endanger the life of the loved +and hated object then corresponds to the conversion of libidinal +impulses into anxiety, which is a regular result of the process of +repression. As an illustration I will quote the last case I had of this +type. A young doctor had to be sent away from the place where he lived +because he had threatened the life of the son of a university professor +there who had previously been his greatest friend. He imputed superhuman +power and the most devilish intentions to this friend; he was to blame +for all the misfortunes which had occurred in recent years to the family +of the patient and for all his ill-luck in public and in private. This +was not enough, however; the wicked friend and his father, the +professor, had caused the war and brought the Russians over the border; +he had ruined his life in a thousand ways; our patient was convinced +that the death of this criminal would be the end of all evil in the +world. And yet his old love for him was still so strong that it had +paralysed his hand when he had an opportunity of shooting his enemy at +sight. In the short conversation which I had with the patient it came to +light that this intimate friendship between the two men went right back +to their school-days; on at least one occasion it had passed beyond the +boundaries of friendship, a night spent together had been the occasion +of complete sexual intercourse. The patient had never developed any of +the feeling towards women that would have been natural at his age with +his attractive personality. He had been engaged to a handsome, +well-connected girl, but she had broken off the engagement because her +lover was so cold. Years after, his disease broke out at the very moment +when he had for the first time succeeded in giving full sexual +gratification to a woman; as she encircled him in her arms in gratitude +and devotion he suddenly felt a mysterious stab of pain running like a +sharp knife round the crown of his head. Afterwards he described the +sensation as being like that of the incision made at a post-mortem to +bare the brain; and as his friend was a pathological anatomist he slowly +came to the conclusion that he alone could have sent him this woman as a +temptation. Then his eyes began to be opened about the other +persecutions of which he had been the victim by the machinations of his +former friend. + +But how about those cases in which the persecutor is of a different sex +from that of the persecuted one, and which appear therefore to +contradict our explanation of this disease as a defence against +homosexual Libido? Some time ago I had an opportunity of examining a +case of the kind, and behind the apparent contradiction I was able to +elicit a confirmation. A young girl imagined herself persecuted by a man +with whom she had twice had intimate relations; actually she had first +of all cherished the delusion against a woman who could be recognized to +be a mother-substitute. Not until after the second meeting with him did +she make the advance of transferring the delusional idea from the woman +to the man; so that in this case also the condition that the sex of the +persecutor is the same as that of the victim originally held good also. +In her complaint to the lawyer and the doctor the patient had not +mentioned the previous phase of her delusion and this gave rise to an +apparent contradiction of our theory of paranoia. + +The homosexual choice of object is originally more closely related to +narcissism than the heterosexual; hence, when a strong unwelcome +homosexual excitation suffers repudiation, the way back to narcissism is +especially easy to find. I have so far had very little opportunity in +these lectures of speaking about the fundamental plan on which the +course of the love-impulse during life is based, so far as we know it; +nor can I supplement it now. I will only select this to tell you: that +the choice of object, the step forward in the development of the Libido +which comes after the narcissistic stage, can proceed according to two +types. These are: either _the narcissistic type_, according to which, in +place of the Ego itself, someone as nearly as possible resembling it is +adopted as an object; or _the anaclitic type_ (_Anlehnungstypus_)[53] in +which those persons who became prized on account of the satisfactions +they rendered to the primal needs in life are chosen as objects by the +Libido also. A strong Libido-fixation on the narcissistic type of +object-choice is also found as a trait in the disposition of manifest +homosexuals. + +You will remember that in the first lecture given this session I +described to you a case of delusional jealousy in a woman. Now that we +have so nearly reached the end you will certainly want to know how we +account for a delusion psycho-analytically. I have less to say about it +than you would expect, however. The inaccessibility of delusions to +logical arguments and to actual experience is to be explained, as it is +with obsessions, by the connection they bear to the unconscious material +which is both expressed by, and held in check by, the delusion or the +obsession. The differences between the two are based on the +topographical and dynamic differences in the two affections. + +As with paranoia, so also with melancholia (under which, by the way, +very different clinical types are classified), it has been possible to +obtain a glimpse into the inner structure of the disorder. We have +perceived that the self-reproaches with which these sufferers torment +themselves so mercilessly actually relate to another person, to the +sexual object they have lost or whom they have ceased to value on +account of some fault. From this we concluded that the melancholic has +indeed withdrawn his Libido from the object, but that by a process which +we must call ‘narcissistic identification’ he has set up the object +within the Ego itself, projected it on to the Ego. I can only give you a +descriptive representation of this process, and not one expressed in +terms of topography and dynamics. The Ego itself is then treated as +though it were the abandoned object; it suffers all the revengeful and +aggressive treatment which is designed for the object. The suicidal +impulses of melancholics also become more intelligible on the +supposition that the bitterness felt by the diseased mind concerns the +Ego itself at the same time as, and equally with, the loved and hated +object. In melancholia, as in the other narcissistic disorders, a +feature of the emotional life which, after Bleuler, we are accustomed to +call _ambivalence_ comes markedly to the fore; by this we mean a +directing of antithetical feelings (affectionate and hostile) towards +the same person. It is unfortunate that I have not been able to say more +about ambivalence in these lectures. + +There is also, besides the narcissistic, an hysterical form of +identification which has long been known to us. I wish it were possible +to make the differences between them clear to you in a few definite +statements. I can tell you something of the periodic and cyclic forms of +melancholia which will interest you. It is possible in favourable +circumstances—I have twice achieved it—to prevent the recurrence of the +condition, or of its antithesis, by analytic treatment during the lucid +intervals between the attacks. One learns from this that in melancholia +and mania as well as other conditions a special kind of solution of a +conflict is going on, which in all its pre-requisites agrees with those +of the other neuroses. You may imagine how much there remains for +psycho-analysis to do in this field. + +I also told you that by analysis of the narcissistic disorders we hoped +to gain some knowledge of the composition of the Ego and of its +structure out of various faculties and elements. We have made a +beginning towards this at one point. From analysis of the delusion of +observation we have come to the conclusion that in the Ego there exists +a faculty that incessantly watches, criticizes, and compares, and in +this way is set against the other part of the Ego. In our opinion, +therefore, the patient reveals a truth which has not been appreciated as +such when he complains that at every step he is spied upon and observed, +that his every thought is known and examined. He has erred only in +attributing this disagreeable power to something outside himself and +foreign to him; he perceives within his Ego the rule of a faculty which +measures his actual Ego and all his activities by an _Ego-ideal_, which +he has created for himself in the course of his development. We also +infer that he created this ideal for the purpose of recovering thereby +the self-satisfaction bound up with the primary infantile narcissism, +which since those days has suffered so many shocks and mortifications. +We recognize in this self-criticizing faculty the Ego-censorship, the +‘conscience’; it is the same censorship as that exercised at night upon +dreams, from which the repressions against inadmissible wish-excitations +proceed. When this faculty disintegrates in the delusion of being +observed, we are able to detect its origin and that it arose out of the +influence of parents and those who trained the child, together with his +social surroundings, by a process of identification with certain of +these persons who were taken as a model. + +These are some of the results yielded by the application of +psycho-analysis to the narcissistic disorders. They are still not very +numerous, and many of them still lack that sharpness of outline which +cannot be achieved in a new field until some degree of familiarity has +been attained. All of them have been made possible by employing the +conception of Ego-Libido, or narcissistic Libido, by means of which we +can extend the conclusions established for the transference neuroses on +to the narcissistic neuroses. But now you will put the question whether +it is possible for us to bring all the disorders of the narcissistic +neuroses and of the psychoses into the range of the Libido-theory, for +us to find the libidinal factor in mental life always and everywhere +responsible for the development of disease, and for us never to have to +attribute any part in the causation to the same alteration in the +functions of the self-preservative instincts. Well now, it seems to me +that decision on this point is not very urgent, and above all that the +time is not yet ripe for us to make it; we may leave it calmly to be +decided by advance in the work of science. I should not be astonished if +it should prove that the capacity to induce a pathogenic effect were +actually a prerogative of the libidinal impulses, so that the theory of +the Libido would triumph all along the line from the actual neuroses to +the severest psychotic form of individual derangement. For we know it to +be characteristic of the Libido that it refuses to subordinate itself to +reality in life, to Necessity. But I consider it extremely probable that +the Ego-instincts are involved secondarily and that disturbances in +their functions may be necessitated by the pathogenic affections of the +Libido. Nor can I see that the direction taken by our investigations +will be invalidated if we should have to recognize that in severe +psychosis the Ego-instincts themselves are primarily deranged; the +future will decide—for you, at least. + +Let me return for a moment to anxiety, in order to throw light upon the +one obscure point we left there. We said that the relation between +anxiety and Libido, otherwise so well defined, is with difficulty +harmonized with the almost indisputable assumption that real anxiety in +the face of danger is the expression of the self-preservative instincts. +But how if the anxiety-affect is provided, not by self-interest on the +part of the Ego-instincts, but by the Ego-Libido? The condition of +anxiety is after all invariably detrimental; its disadvantage becomes +conspicuous when it reaches an intense degree. It then interferes with +the action that alone would be expedient and would serve the purposes of +self-preservation, whether it be flight or self-defence. Therefore if we +ascribe the affective component of real anxiety to the Ego-Libido, and +the action undertaken to the Ego-preservative instincts, every +theoretical difficulty will be overcome. You will hardly maintain +seriously that we run away _because_ we perceive fear? No, we perceive +fear _and_ we take to flight, out of the common impulse that is roused +by the perception of danger. Men who have survived experiences of +imminent danger to life tell us that they did not perceive any fear, +that they simply acted—for instance, pointed their gun at the oncoming +beast—which was undoubtedly the best thing they could do. + + + + + TWENTY-SEVENTH LECTURE + TRANSFERENCE + + +Now that we are coming to the end of our discussions you will feel a +certain expectation which must not be allowed to mislead you. You are +probably thinking that I surely have not led you through all these +complicated mazes of psycho-analysis only to dismiss you at the end +without a word about the therapy, upon which after all the possibility +of undertaking psycho-analytic work depends. As a matter of fact I could +not possibly leave out this aspect of it; for some of the phenomena +belonging to it will teach you a new fact, without knowledge of which +you would be quite unable to assimilate properly your understanding of +the diseases we have been studying. + +I know you do not expect directions in the technique of practising +analysis for therapeutic purposes; you only want to know in a general +way by what means the psycho-analytic therapy works and to gain a +general idea of what it accomplishes. And you have an undeniable right +to learn this; nevertheless I am not going to tell you—I am going to +insist upon your finding it out for yourselves. + +Think for a moment! You have already learnt everything essential, from +the conditions by which illness is provoked to all the factors which +take effect within the diseased mind. Where is the opening in all this +for therapeutic influence? First of all there is the hereditary +disposition,—we do not often mention it because it is so strongly +emphasized in other quarters and we have nothing new to say about it. +But do not suppose that we underestimate it; as practitioners we are +well aware of its power. In any event we can do nothing to change it; +for us also it is a fixed datum in the problem, which sets a limit to +our efforts. Next, there is the influence of the experiences of early +childhood, which we are accustomed in analysis to rank as very +important; they belong to the past, we cannot undo them. Then there is +all that unhappiness in life which we have included under ‘privation in +reality,’ from which all the absence of love in life proceeds—namely, +poverty, family strife, mistaken choice in marriage, unfavourable social +conditions, and the severity of the demands by which moral convention +oppresses the individual. There is indeed a wide opening for a very +effective treatment in all this; but it would have to follow the course +of the dispensations of Kaiser Joseph in the Viennese legend—the +benevolent despotism of a potentate before whose will men bow and +difficulties disappear! But who are we that we can exert such +beneficence as a therapeutic measure? Poor as we are and without +influence socially, with our living to earn by our medical practice, we +are not even in a position to extend our efforts to penniless folk, as +other physicians with other methods can do; our treatment takes too much +time and labour for that. But perhaps you are still clinging on to one +of the factors put forward, and believe you see an opening for our +influence there. If the conventional restrictions imposed by society +have had a part in the privations forced upon the patient, the treatment +could give him the courage and even directly advise him to defy these +obstacles, and to seize satisfactions and health for himself at the cost +of failing to achieve an ideal which, though highly esteemed, is after +all often set at naught by the world. Health is to be won by “free +living,” then. There would be this blot upon analysis, to be sure, that +it would not be serving general morality; what it gave to the individual +it would take from the rest of the world. + +But now, who has given you such a false impression of analysis? It is +out of the question that part of the analytic treatment should consist +of advice to “live freely”—if for no other reason because we ourselves +tell you that a stubborn conflict is going on in the patient between +libidinal desires and sexual repression, between sensual and ascetic +tendencies. This conflict is not resolved by helping one side to win a +victory over the other. It is true we see that in neurotics asceticism +has gained the day; the result of which is that the suppressed sexual +impulses have found a vent for themselves in the symptoms. If we were to +make victory possible to the sensual side instead, the disregarded +forces repressing sexuality would have to indemnify themselves by +symptoms. Neither of these measures will succeed in ending the inner +conflict; one side in either event will remain unsatisfied. There are +but few cases in which the conflict is so unstable that a factor like +medical advice can have any effect upon it, and these cases do not +really require analytic treatment. People who can be so easily +influenced by physicians would have found their own way to that solution +without this influence. After all, you know that a young man living in +abstinence who makes up his mind to illicit sexual intercourse, or an +unsatisfied wife who seeks compensation with a lover, does not as a rule +wait for the permission of a physician, still less of an analyst, to do +so. + +In considering this question people usually overlook the essential point +of the whole difficulty—namely, that the pathogenic conflict in a +neurotic must not be confounded with a normal struggle between +conflicting impulses all of which are in the same mental field. It is a +battle between two forces of which one has succeeded in coming to the +level of the preconscious and conscious part of the mind, while the +other has been confined on the unconscious level. That is why the +conflict can never have a final outcome one way or the other; the +antagonists meet each other as little as the whale and the polar bear in +the well-known story. An effective decision can be reached only when +they confront each other on the same ground. And, in my opinion, to +accomplish this is the sole task of the treatment. + +Besides this, I can assure you that you are quite misinformed if you +imagine that advice and guidance concerning conduct in life forms an +integral part of the analytic method. On the contrary, so far as +possible we refrain from playing the part of mentor; we want nothing +better than that the patient should find his own solutions for himself. +To this end we expect him to postpone all vital decisions affecting his +life, such as choice of career, business enterprises, marriage or +divorce, during treatment and to execute them only after it has been +completed. Now confess that you had imagined something very different. +Only with certain very young or quite helpless and defenceless persons +is it impossible to keep within such strict limitations as we should +wish. With them we have to combine the positions of physician and +educator; we are then well aware of our responsibility and act with the +necessary caution. + +You must not be led away by my eagerness to defend myself against the +accusation that in analytic treatment neurotics are encouraged to “live +a free life” and conclude from it that we influence them in favour of +conventional morality. That is at least as far removed from our purpose +as the other. We are not reformers, it is true; we are merely observers; +but we cannot avoid observing with critical eyes, and we have found it +impossible to give our support to conventional sexual morality or to +approve highly of the means by which society attempts to arrange the +practical problems of sexuality in life. We can demonstrate with ease +that what the world calls its code of morals demands more sacrifices +than it is worth, and that its behaviour is neither dictated by honesty +nor instituted with wisdom. We do not absolve our patients from +listening to these criticisms; we accustom them to an unprejudiced +consideration of sexual matters like all other matters; and if after +they have become independent by the effect of the treatment they choose +some intermediate course between unrestrained sexual licence and +unconditional asceticism, our conscience is not burdened whatever the +outcome. We say to ourselves that anyone who has successfully undergone +the training of learning and recognizing the truth about himself is +henceforth strengthened against the dangers of immorality, even if his +standard of morality should in some respect deviate from the common one. +Incidentally, we must beware of overestimating the importance of +abstinence in affecting neurosis; only a minority of pathogenic +situations due to privation and the subsequent accumulation of Libido +thereby induced can be relieved by the kind of sexual intercourse that +is procurable without any difficulty. + +So you cannot explain the therapeutic effect of psycho-analysis by +supposing that it permits patients free sexual indulgence; you must look +round for something else. I think that one of the remarks I made while I +was disposing of this conjecture on your part will have put you on the +right track. Probably it is the substitution of something conscious for +something unconscious, the transformation of the unconscious thoughts +into conscious thoughts, that makes our work effective. You are right; +that is exactly what it is. By extending the unconscious into +consciousness the repressions are raised, the conditions of +symptom-formation are abolished, and the pathogenic conflict exchanged +for a normal one which must be decided one way or the other. We do +nothing for our patients but enable this one mental change to take place +in them; the extent to which it is achieved is the extent of the benefit +we do them. Where there is no repression or mental process analogous to +it to be undone there is nothing for our therapy to do. + +The aim of our efforts may be expressed in various formulas—making +conscious the unconscious, removing the repressions, filling in the gaps +in memory; they all amount to the same thing. But perhaps you are +dissatisfied with this declaration; you imagined the recovery of a +nervous person rather differently, that after he had been subjected to +the laborious process of psycho-analysis he would emerge a different +person altogether, and then you hear that the whole thing only amounts +to his having a little less that is unconscious and a little more that +is conscious in him than before. Well, you probably do not appreciate +the importance of an inner change of this kind. A neurotic who has been +cured has really become a different person, although at bottom of course +he remains the same—that is, he has become his best self, what he would +have been under the most favourable conditions. That, however, is a +great deal. Then when you hear of all that has to be done, of the +tremendous exertion required to carry out this apparently trifling +change in his mental life, the significance attached to these +differences between the various mental levels will appear more +comprehensible to you. + +I will digress a moment to enquire whether you know what ‘a causal +therapy’ means? This name is given to a procedure which puts aside the +manifestations of a disease and looks for a point of attack in order to +eradicate the cause of the illness. Now is psycho-analysis a causal +therapy or not? The answer is not a simple one, but it may give us an +opportunity to convince ourselves of the futility of such questions. In +so far as psycho-analytic therapy does not aim immediately at removing +the symptoms it is conducted like a causal therapy. In other respects +you may say it is not, for we have followed the causal chain back far +beyond the repressions to the instinctive predispositions, their +relative intensity in the constitution, and the aberrations in the +course of their development. Now suppose that it were possible by some +chemical means to affect this mental machinery, to increase or decrease +the amount of Libido available at any given moment, or to reinforce the +strength of one impulse at the expense of another—that would be a causal +therapy in the literal sense, and our analysis would be the +indispensable preliminary work of reconnoitring the ground. As you know, +there is at present no question of any such influence upon the processes +of the Libido; our mental therapy makes its attack at another point in +the concatenation, not quite at the place where we perceive the +manifestations to be rooted, but yet comparatively far behind the +symptoms themselves, at a place which becomes accessible to us in very +remarkable circumstances. + +What then have we to do in order to bring what is unconscious in the +patient into consciousness? At one time we thought that would be very +simple; all we need do would be to identify this unconscious matter and +then tell the patient what it was. However, we know already that that +was a short-sighted mistake. Our knowledge of what is unconscious in him +is not equivalent to his knowledge of it; when we tell him what we know +he does not assimilate it _in place of_ his own unconscious thoughts, +but _alongside_ of them, and very little has been changed. We have +rather to regard this unconscious material topographically; we have to +look for it in his memory at the actual spot where the repression of it +originally ensued. This repression must be removed, and then the +substitution of conscious thought for unconscious thought can be +effected straightaway. How is a repression such as this to be removed? +Our work enters upon a second phase here; first, the discovery of the +repression, and then the removal of the resistance which maintains this +repression. + +How can this resistance be got rid of? In the same way: by finding it +out and telling the patient about it. The resistance too arises in a +repression, either from the very one which we are endeavouring to +dispel, or in one that occurred earlier. It is set up by the +counter-charge which rose up to repress the repellent impulse. So that +we now do just the same as we were trying to do before; we interpret, +identify, and inform the patient; but this time we are doing it at the +right spot. The counter-charge or the resistance is not part of the +Unconscious, but of the Ego which co-operates with us, and this is so, +even if it is not actually conscious. We know that a difficulty arises +here in the ambiguity of the word ‘unconscious,’ on the one hand, as a +phenomenon, on the other hand, as a system. That sounds very obscure and +difficult; but after all it is only a repetition of what we have said +before, is it not? We have come to this point already long ago.—Well +then, we expect that this resistance will be abandoned, and the +counter-charge withdrawn, when we have made the recognition of them +possible by our work of interpretation. What are the instinctive +propelling forces at our disposal to make this possible? First, the +patient’s desire for recovery, which impelled him to submit himself to +the work in co-operation with us, and secondly, the aid of his +intelligence which we reinforce by our interpretation. There is no doubt +that it is easier for the patient to recognize the resistance with his +intelligence, and to identify the idea in his Unconscious which +corresponds to it, if we have first given him an idea which rouses his +expectations in regard to it. If I say to you: “Look up at the sky and +you will see a balloon,” you will find it much more quickly than if I +merely tell you to look up and see whether you can see anything; a +student who looks through a microscope for the first time is told by the +instructor what he is to see; otherwise he sees nothing, although it is +there and quite visible. + +And now for the fact! In quite a number of the various forms of nervous +illness, in the hysterias, anxiety conditions, obsessional neuroses, our +hypothesis proves sound. By seeking out the repression in this way, +discovering the resistances, indicating the repressed, it is actually +possible to accomplish the task, to overcome the resistances, to break +down the repression, and to change something unconscious into something +conscious. As we do this we get a vivid impression of how, as each +individual resistance is being mastered, a violent battle goes on in the +soul of the patient—a normal mental struggle between two tendencies on +the same ground, between the motives striving to maintain the +counter-charge and those which are ready to abolish it. The first of +these are the old motives which originally erected the repression; among +the second are found new ones more recently acquired, which it is hoped +will decide the conflict in our favour. We have succeeded in revivifying +the old battle of the repression again, in bringing the issue, so long +ago decided, up for revision again. The new contribution we make to it +lies, first of all, in demonstrating that the original solution led to +illness and in promising that a different one would pave the way to +health, and secondly, in pointing out that the circumstances have all +changed immensely since the time of that original repudiation of these +impulses. Then, the Ego was weak, infantile, and perhaps had reason to +shrink with horror from the claims of the Libido as being dangerous to +it. To-day it is strong and experienced and moreover has a helper at +hand in the physician. So we may expect to lead the revived conflict +through to a better outcome than repression; and, as has been said, in +hysteria, anxiety-neurosis, and the obsessional neurosis success in the +main justifies our claims. + +There are other forms of illness, however, with which our therapeutic +treatment never is successful, in spite of the similarity of the +conditions. In them also there was originally a conflict between Ego and +Libido, leading to repression—although this conflict may be +characterized by topographical differences from the conflict of the +transference neuroses; in them too it is possible to trace out the point +in the patient’s life at which the repressions occurred; we apply the +same method, are ready to make the same assurances, offer the same +assistance by telling the patient what to look out for; and here also +the interval in time between the present and the point at which the +repressions were established is all in favour of a better outcome of the +conflict. And yet we cannot succeed in overcoming one resistance or in +removing one of the repressions. These patients, paranoiacs, +melancholics, and those suffering from dementia præcox, remain on the +whole unaffected, proof against psycho-analytic treatment. What can be +the cause of this? It is not due to lack of intelligence; a certain +degree of intellectual capacity must naturally be stipulated for +analysis, but there is no deficiency in this respect in, for instance, +the very quick-witted deductive paranoiac. Nor are any of the other +propelling forces regularly absent: melancholics, for instance, in +contrast to paranoiacs, experience a very high degree of realization +that they are ill and that their sufferings are due to this; but they +are not on that account any more accessible to influence. In this we are +confronted with a fact that we do not understand, and are therefore +called upon to doubt whether we have really understood all the +conditions of the success possible with the other neuroses. + +When we keep to consideration of hysterical and obsessional neurotics we +are very soon confronted with a second fact, for which we were quite +unprepared. After the treatment has proceeded for a while we notice that +these patients behave in a quite peculiar manner towards ourselves. We +thought indeed that we had taken into account all the motive forces +affecting the treatment and had reasoned out the situation between +ourselves and the patient fully, so that it balanced like a sum in +arithmetic; and then after all something seems to slip in which was +quite left out of our calculation. This new and unexpected feature is in +itself many-sided and complex; I will first of all describe some of its +more frequent and simpler forms to you. + +We observe then that the patient, who ought to be thinking of nothing +but the solution of his own distressing conflicts, begins to develop a +particular interest in the person of the physician. Everything connected +with this person seems to him more important than his own affairs and to +distract him from his illness. Relations with the patient then become +for a time very agreeable; he is particularly docile, endeavours to show +his gratitude wherever he can, exhibits a fineness of character and +other good qualities which we had perhaps not anticipated in him. The +analyst thus forms a very good opinion of the patient and values his +luck in being able to render assistance to such an admirable +personality. If the physician has occasion to see the patient’s +relatives he hears with satisfaction that this esteem is mutual. The +patient at home is never tired of praising the analyst and attributing +new virtues to him. “He has quite lost his head over you; he puts +implicit trust in you; everything you say is like a revelation to him,” +say the relatives. Here and there one among this chorus having sharper +eyes will say: “It is positively boring the way he never speaks of +anything but you: he quotes you all the time.” + +We will hope that the physician is modest enough to ascribe the +patient’s estimate of his value to the hopes of recovery which he has +been able to offer to him, and to the widening in the patient’s +intellectual horizon consequent upon the surprising revelations entailed +by the treatment and their liberating influence. The analysis too makes +splendid progress under these conditions, the patient understands the +suggestions offered to him, concentrates upon the tasks appointed by the +treatment, the material needed—his recollections and associations—is +abundantly available; he astonishes the analyst by the sureness and +accuracy of his interpretations, and the latter has only to observe with +satisfaction how readily and willingly a sick man will accept all the +new psychological ideas that are so hotly contested by the healthy in +the world outside. A general improvement in the patient’s condition, +objectively confirmed on all sides, also accompanies this harmonious +relationship in the analysis. + +But such fair weather cannot last for ever. There comes a day when it +clouds over. There begin to be difficulties in the analysis; the patient +says he cannot think of anything more to say. One has an unmistakable +impression that he is no longer interested in the work, and that he is +casually ignoring the injunction given him to say everything that comes +into his mind and to yield to none of the critical objections that occur +to him. His behaviour is not dictated by the situation of the treatment; +it is as if he had not made an agreement to that effect with the +physician; he is obviously preoccupied with something which at the same +time he wishes to reserve to himself. This is a situation in which the +treatment is in danger. Plainly a very powerful resistance has risen up. +What can have happened? + +If it is possible to clear up this state of things, the cause of the +disturbance is found to consist in certain intense feelings of affection +which the patient has transferred on to the physician, not accounted for +by the latter’s behaviour nor by the relationship involved by the +treatment. The form in which this affectionate feeling is expressed and +the goal it seeks naturally depend upon the circumstances of the +situation between the two persons. If one of them is a young girl and +the other still a fairly young man, the impression received is that of +normal love; it seems natural that a girl should fall in love with a man +with whom she is much alone and can speak of very intimate things, and +who is in the position of an adviser with authority—we shall probably +overlook the fact that in a neurotic girl some disturbance of the +capacity for love is rather to be expected. The farther removed the +situation between the two persons is from this supposed example, the +more unaccountable it is to find that nevertheless the same kind of +feeling comes to light in other cases. It may be still comprehensible +when a young woman who is unhappily married seems to be overwhelmed by a +serious passion for her physician, if he is still unattached, and that +she should be ready to seek a divorce and give herself to him, or, where +circumstances would prevent this, to enter into a secret love-affair +with him. That sort of thing, indeed, is known to occur outside +psycho-analysis. But in this situation girls and women make the most +astonishing confessions which reveal a quite peculiar attitude on their +part to the therapeutic problem: they had always known that nothing but +love would cure them, and from the beginning of the treatment they had +expected that this relationship would at last yield them what life had +so far denied them. It was only with this hope that they had taken such +pains over the analysis and had conquered all their difficulties in +disclosing their thoughts. We ourselves can add: ‘and had understood so +easily all that is usually so hard to accept.’ But a confession of this +kind astounds us; all our calculations are blown to the winds. Could it +be that we have omitted the most important element in the whole problem? + +And actually it is so; the more experience we gain the less possible +does it become for us to contest this new factor, which alters the whole +problem and puts our scientific calculations to shame. The first few +times one might perhaps think that the analytic treatment had stumbled +upon an obstruction in the shape of an accidental occurrence, extraneous +to its purpose and unconnected with it in origin. But when it happens +that this kind of attachment to the physician regularly evinces itself +in every fresh case, under the most unfavourable conditions, and always +appears in circumstances of a positively grotesque incongruity—in +elderly women, in relation to grey-bearded men, even on occasions when +our judgement assures us that no temptations exist—then we are compelled +to give up the idea of a disturbing accident and to admit that we have +to deal with a phenomenon in itself essentially bound up with the nature +of the disease. + +The new fact which we are thus unwillingly compelled to recognize we +call TRANSFERENCE. By this we mean a transference of feelings on to the +person of the physician, because we do not believe that the situation in +the treatment can account for the origin of such feelings. We are much +more disposed to suspect that the whole of this readiness to develop +feeling originates in another source; that it was previously formed in +the patient, and has seized the opportunity provided by the treatment to +transfer itself on to the person of the physician. The transference can +express itself as a passionate petitioning for love, or it can take less +extreme forms; where a young girl and an elderly man are concerned, +instead of the wish to be wife or mistress, a wish to be adopted as a +favourite daughter may come to light, the libidinous desire can modify +itself and propose itself as a wish for an everlasting, but ideally +platonic friendship. Many women understand how to sublimate the +transference and to mould it until it acquires a sort of justification +for its existence; others have to express it in its crude, original, +almost impossible form. But at bottom it is always the same, and its +origin in the same source can never be mistaken. + +Before we enquire where we are to range this new fact, we will amplify +the description of it a little. How is it with our male patients? There +at least we might hope to be spared the troublesome element of sex +difference and sex attraction. Well, the answer is very much the same as +with women. The same attachment to the physician, the same +overestimation of his qualities, the same adoption of his interests, the +same jealousy against all those connected with him. The sublimated kinds +of transference are the forms more frequently met with between man and +man, and the directly sexual declaration more rarely, in the same degree +to which the manifest homosexuality of the patient is subordinated to +the other ways by which this component-instinct can express itself. +Also, it is in male patients that the analyst more frequently observes a +manifestation of the transference which at the first glance seems to +controvert the description of it just given—that is, the hostile or +_negative_ transference. + +First of all, let us realize at once that the transference exists in the +patient from the beginning of the treatment, and is for a time the +strongest impetus in the work. Nothing is seen of it and one does not +need to trouble about it as long as its effect is favourable to the work +in which the two persons are co-operating. When it becomes transformed +into a resistance, attention must be paid to it; and then it appears +that two different and contrasting states of mind have supervened in it +and have altered its attitude to the treatment: first, when the +affectionate attraction has become so strong and betrays signs of its +origin in sexual desire so clearly that it was bound to arouse an inner +opposition against itself; and secondly, when it consists in +antagonistic instead of affectionate feeling. The hostile feelings as a +rule appear later than the affectionate and under cover of them; when +both occur simultaneously they provide a very good exemplification of +that ambivalence in feeling which governs most of our intimate +relationships with other human beings. The hostile feelings therefore +indicate an attachment of feeling quite similar to the affectionate, +just as defiance indicates a similar dependence upon the other person to +that belonging to obedience, though with a reversed prefix. There can be +no doubt that the hostile feelings against the analyst deserve the name +of ‘transference,’ for the situation in the treatment certainly gives no +adequate occasion for them; the necessity for regarding the negative +transference in this light is a confirmation of our previous similar +view of the positive or affectionate variety. + +Where the transference springs from, what difficulties it provides for +us, how we can overcome them, and what advantage we can finally derive +from it, are questions which can only be adequately dealt with in a +technical exposition of the analytic method; I can merely touch upon +them here. It is out of the question that we should yield to the demands +made by the patient under the influence of his transference; it would be +nonsensical to reject them unkindly, and still more so, indignantly. The +transference is overcome by showing the patient that his feelings do not +originate in the current situation, and do not really concern the person +of the physician, but that he is reproducing something that had happened +to him long ago. In this way we require him to transform his +_repetition_ into _recollection_. Then the transference which, whether +affectionate or hostile, every time seemed the greatest menace to the +cure becomes its best instrument, so that with its help we can unlock +the closed doors in the soul. I should like, however, to say a few words +to dispel the unpleasant effects of the shock that this unexpected +phenomenon must have been to you. After all, we must not forget that +this illness of the patient’s which we undertake to analyse is not a +finally accomplished, and as it were consolidated thing; but that it is +growing and continuing its development all the time like a living thing. +The beginning of the treatment puts no stop to this development; but, as +soon as the treatment has taken a hold upon the patient, it appears that +the entire productivity of the illness henceforward becomes concentrated +in one direction—namely, upon the relationship to the physician. The +transference then becomes comparable to the cambium layer between the +wood and the bark of a tree, from which proceeds the formation of new +tissue and the growth of the trunk in diameter. As soon as the +transference has taken on this significance the work upon the patient’s +recollections recedes far into the background. It is then not incorrect +to say that we no longer have to do with the previous illness, but with +a newly-created and transformed neurosis which has replaced the earlier +one. This new edition of the old disease has been followed from its +inception, one sees it come to light and grow, and is particularly +familiar with it since one is oneself its central object. All the +patient’s symptoms have abandoned their original significance and have +adapted themselves to a new meaning, which is contained in their +relationship to the transference; or else only those symptoms remain +which were capable of being adapted in this way. The conquest of this +new artificially-acquired neurosis coincides with the removal of the +illness which existed prior to the treatment, that is, with +accomplishing the therapeutic task. The person who has become normal and +free from the influence of repressed instinctive tendencies in his +relationship to the physician remains so in his own life when the +physician has again been removed from it. + +The transference has this all-important, absolutely central significance +for the cure in hysteria, anxiety-hysteria, and the obsessional +neurosis, which are in consequence rightly grouped together as the +‘transference neuroses.’ Anyone who has grasped from analytic experience +a true impression of the fact of transference can never again doubt the +nature of the suppressed impulses which have manufactured an outlet for +themselves in the symptoms; and he will require no stronger proof of +their libidinal character. We may say that our conviction of the +significance of the symptoms as a substitutive gratification of the +Libido was only finally and definitely established by evaluating the +phenomenon of transference. + +Now, however, we are called upon to correct our former dynamic +conception of the process of cure and to bring it into agreement with +the new discovery. When the patient has to fight out the normal conflict +with the resistances which we have discovered in him by analysis, he +requires a powerful propelling force to influence him towards the +decision we aim at, leading to recovery. Otherwise it might happen that +he would decide for a repetition of the previous outcome, and allow that +which had been raised into consciousness to slip back again under +repression. The outcome in this struggle is not decided by his +intellectual insight—it is neither strong enough nor free enough to +accomplish such a thing—but solely by his relationship to the physician. +In so far as his transference bears the positive sign, it clothes the +physician with authority, transforms itself into faith in his findings +and in his views. Without this kind of transference or with a negative +one, the physician and his arguments would never even be listened to. +Faith repeats the history of its own origin; it is a derivative of love +and at first it needed no arguments. Not until later does it admit them +so far as to take them into critical consideration if they have been +offered by someone who is loved. Without this support arguments have no +weight with the patient, never do have any with most people in life. A +human being is therefore on the whole only accessible to influence, even +on the intellectual side, in so far as he is capable of investing +objects with Libido; and we have good cause to recognize, and to fear, +in the measure of his narcissism a barrier to his susceptibility to +influence, even by the best analytic technique. + +The capacity for the radiation of Libido towards other persons in object +investment must, of course, be ascribed to all normal people; the +tendency to transference in neurotics, so-called, is only an exceptional +intensification of a universal characteristic. Now it would be very +remarkable if a human character-trait of this importance and +universality had never been observed and made use of. And this has +really been done. Bernheim, with unerring perspicacity, based the theory +of hypnotic manifestations upon the proposition that all human beings +are more or less open to suggestion, are ‘suggestible.’ What he called +suggestibility is nothing else but the tendency to transference, rather +too narrowly circumscribed so that the negative transference did not +come within its scope. But Bernheim could never say what suggestion +actually was nor how it arises; it was an axiomatic fact to him and he +could give no explanation of its origin. He did not recognize the +dependence of ‘suggestibility’ on sexuality, on the functioning of the +Libido. And we have to admit that we have only abandoned hypnosis in our +methods in order to discover suggestion again in the shape of +transference. + +But now I will pause and let you take up the thread. I observe that an +objection is invading your thoughts with such violence that it would +deprive you of all power of attention if it were not given expression. +“So now at last you have confessed that you too work with the aid of +suggestion like the hypnotists. We have been thinking so all along. But +then, what is the use of all these roundabout routes by way of past +experiences, discovering the unconscious material, interpreting and +retranslating the distortions, and the enormous expenditure of time, +trouble, and money, when after all the only effective agent is +suggestion? Why do you not suggest directly against the symptoms, as +others do who are honest hypnotists? And besides, if you are going to +make out that by these roundabout routes you have made numerous +important psychological discoveries, which are concealed in direct +suggestion, who is to vouch for their validity? Are not they too the +result of suggestion, of unintentional suggestion, that is? Cannot you +impress upon the patient what you please and whatever seems good to you +in this direction also?” + +What you charge me with in this way is exceedingly interesting and must +be answered. But I cannot do that to-day; our time is up. Till next +time, then. You will see that I shall be answerable to you. To-day I +must finish what I began. I promised to explain to you through the +factor of the transference why it is that our therapeutic efforts have +no success in the narcissistic neuroses. + +I can do it in a few words, and you will see how simply the riddle is +solved, and how well everything fits together. Experience shows that +persons suffering from the narcissistic neuroses have no capacity for +transference, or only insufficient remnants of it. They turn from the +physician, not in hostility, but in indifference. Therefore they are not +to be influenced by him; what he says leaves them cold, makes no +impression on them, and therefore the process of cure which can be +carried through with others, the revivification of the pathogenic +conflict and the overcoming of the resistance due to the repressions, +cannot be effected with them. They remain as they are. They have often +enough undertaken attempts at recovery on their own account which have +led to pathological results; we can do nothing to alter this. + +On the basis of our clinical observations of these patients we stated +that they must have abandoned the investment of objects with Libido and +transformed object-Libido into Ego-Libido. By this we differentiated +them from the first group of neurotics (hysteria, anxiety, and +obsessional neurosis). Their behaviour during the attempt to cure them +confirms this suspicion. They produce no transference, and are, +therefore, inaccessible to our efforts, not to be cured by us. + + + + + TWENTY-EIGHTH LECTURE + THE ANALYTIC THERAPY + + +You know what we are going to discuss to-day. When I admitted that the +influence of the psycho-analytic therapy is essentially founded upon +transference, i.e. upon suggestion, you asked me why we do not make use +of direct suggestion, and you linked this up with a doubt whether, in +view of the fact that suggestion plays such a large part, we can still +vouch for the objectivity of our psychological discoveries. I promised +to give you a comprehensive answer. + +Direct suggestion is suggestion delivered directly against the forms +taken by the symptoms, a struggle between your authority and the motives +underlying the disease. In this struggle you do not trouble yourself +about these motives, you only require the patient to suppress the +manifestation of them in the form of symptoms. In the main it makes no +difference whether you place the patient under hypnosis or not. +Bernheim, with his characteristic acuteness, repeatedly stated that +suggestion was the essence of the manifestations of hypnotism, and that +hypnosis itself was already a result of suggestion, a suggested +condition; he preferred to use suggestion in the waking state, which can +achieve the same results as suggestion in hypnosis. + +Now which shall I take first, the results of experience or theoretical +considerations? + +Let us begin with experience. I sought out Bernheim in Nancy in 1889 and +became a pupil of his; I translated his book on suggestion into German. +For years I made use of hypnotic treatment, first with prohibitory +suggestions and later combined with Breuer’s system of the fullest +enquiry into the patient’s life; I can therefore speak from wide +experience about the results of the hypnotic or suggestive therapy. +According to an old medical saying an ideal therapy should be rapid, +reliable and not disagreeable to the patient; Bernheim’s method +certainly fulfilled two of these requirements. It was much more rapid, +that is, incomparably more rapid in its course than the analytic, and it +involved the patient in no trouble or discomfort. For the physician it +eventually became monotonous; it meant treating every case in the same +way, always employing the same ritual to prohibit the existence of the +most diverse symptoms, without being able to grasp anything of their +meaning or significance. It was a sort of mechanical drudgery—hodman’s +work—not scientific work; it was reminiscent of magic, conjuring, and +hocus-pocus, yet in the patient’s interests one had to ignore that. In +the third desideratum, however, it failed; it was not reliable in any +respect. It could be employed in certain cases only and not in others; +with some much could be achieved by it, and with others very little, one +never knew why. But worse than its capricious nature was the lack of +permanence in the results; after a time, if one heard from the patient +again, the old malady had reappeared or had been replaced by another. +Then one could begin to hypnotize again. In the background there was the +warning of experienced men against robbing the patient of his +independence by frequent repetitions of hypnosis, and against +accustoming him to this treatment as though it were a narcotic. It is +true, on the other hand, that at times everything fell out just as one +could wish; one obtained complete and lasting success with little +difficulty; but the conditions of this satisfactory outcome remained +hidden. In one case, when I had completely removed a severe condition by +a short hypnotic treatment, it recurred unchanged after the patient (a +woman) had developed ill feeling against me without just cause; then +after a reconciliation I was able to effect its disappearance again and +this time far more thoroughly; but it reappeared again when she had a +second time become hostile to me. Another time I had the following +experience; during the treatment of an especially obstinate attack in a +patient whom I had several times relieved of nervous symptoms, she +suddenly threw her arms round my neck. Whether one wished to do so or +not, this kind of thing finally made it imperative to enquire into the +problem of the nature and source of one’s suggestive authority. + +So much for experience; it shows that in abandoning direct suggestion we +have given up nothing irreplaceable. Now let us link on to the facts a +few comments. The exercise of the hypnotic method makes as little demand +for effort on the part of the patient as it does on the physician. The +method is in complete harmony with the view of the neuroses generally +accepted by the majority of medical men. The practitioner says to the +nervous person: “There is nothing the matter with you; it is merely +nervousness, therefore a few words from me will scatter all your +troubles to the winds in five minutes.” But it is contrary to all our +beliefs about energy in general that a minimal exertion should be able +to remove a heavy load by approaching it directly without the assistance +of any suitably-devised appliance. In so far as the circumstances are at +all comparable, experience shows that this trick cannot be performed +successfully with the neuroses. I know, however, that this argument is +not unassailable; there are such things as explosions. + +In the light of the knowledge we have obtained through psycho-analysis, +the difference between hypnotic and psycho-analytic suggestion may be +described as follows: The hypnotic therapy endeavours to cover up and as +it were to whitewash something going on in the mind, the analytic to lay +bare and to remove something. The first works cosmetically, the second +surgically. The first employs suggestion to interdict the symptoms; it +reinforces the repressions, but otherwise it leaves unchanged all the +processes that have led to symptom-formation. Analytic therapy takes +hold deeper down nearer the roots of the disease, among the conflicts +from which the symptoms proceed; it employs suggestion to change the +outcome of these conflicts. Hypnotic therapy allows the patient to +remain inactive and unchanged, consequently also helpless in the face of +every new incitement to illness. Analytic treatment makes as great +demands for efforts on the part of the patient as on the physician, +efforts to abolish the inner resistances. The patient’s mental life is +permanently changed by overcoming these resistances, is lifted to a +higher level of development, and remains proof against fresh +possibilities of illness. The labour of overcoming the resistances is +the essential achievement of the analytic treatment; the patient has to +accomplish it and the physician makes it possible for him to do this by +suggestions which are in the nature of an _education_. It has been truly +said therefore, that psycho-analytic treatment is a kind of +_re-education_. + +I hope I have now made clear to you the difference between our method of +employing suggestion therapeutically and the method which is the only +possible one in hypnotic therapy. Since we have traced the influence of +suggestion back to the transference, you also understand the striking +capriciousness of the effect in hypnotic therapy, and why analytic +therapy is within its limits dependable. In employing hypnosis we are +entirely dependent upon the condition of the patient’s transference and +yet we are unable to exercise any influence upon this condition itself. +The transference of a patient being hypnotized may be negative, or, as +most commonly, ambivalent, or he may have guarded himself against his +transference by adopting special attitudes; we gather nothing about all +this. In psycho-analysis we work upon the transference itself, dissipate +whatever stands in the way of it, and manipulate the instrument which is +to do the work. Thus it becomes possible for us to derive entirely new +benefits from the power of suggestion; we are able to control it; the +patient alone no longer manages his suggestibility according to his own +liking, but in so far as he is amenable to its influence at all, we +guide his suggestibility. + +Now you will say that, regardless of whether the driving force behind +the analysis is called transference or suggestion, the danger still +remains that our influence upon the patient may bring the objective +certainty of our discoveries into doubt; and that what is an advantage +in therapy is harmful in research. This is the objection that has most +frequently been raised against psycho-analysis; and it must be admitted +that, even though it is unjustified, it cannot be ignored as +unreasonable. If it were justified, psycho-analysis after all would be +nothing else but a specially well-disguised and particularly effective +kind of suggestive treatment; and all its conclusions about the +experiences of the patient’s past life, mental dynamics, the +Unconscious, and so on, could be taken very lightly. So our opponents +think; the significance of sexual experiences in particular, if not the +experiences themselves, we are supposed to have “put into the patient’s +mind,” after having first concocted these conglomerations in our own +corrupt minds. These accusations are more satisfactorily refuted by the +evidence of experience than by the aid of theory. Anyone who has himself +conducted psycho-analyses has been able to convince himself numberless +times that it is impossible to suggest things to a patient in this way. +There is no difficulty, of course, in making him a disciple of a +particular theory, and thus making it possible for him to share some +mistaken belief possibly harboured by the physician. He behaves like +anyone else in this, like a pupil; but by this one has only influenced +his intellect, not his illness. The solving of his conflicts and the +overcoming of his resistances succeeds only when what he is told to look +for in himself corresponds with what actually does exist in him. +Anything that has been inferred wrongly by the physician will disappear +in the course of the analysis; it must be withdrawn and replaced by +something more correct. One’s aim is, by a very careful technique, to +prevent temporary successes arising through suggestion; but if they do +arise no great harm is done, for we are not content with the first +result. We do not consider the analysis completed unless all obscurities +in the case are explained, the gaps in memory filled out, and the +original occasions of the repressions discovered. When results appear +prematurely, one regards them as obstacles rather than as furtherances +of the analytic work, and one destroys them again by continually +exposing the transference on which they are founded. Fundamentally it is +this last feature which distinguishes analytic treatment from that of +pure suggestion, and which clears the results of analysis from the +suspicion of being the results of suggestion. In every other suggestive +treatment the transference is carefully preserved and left intact; in +analysis it is itself the object of the treatment and is continually +being dissected in all its various forms. At the conclusion of the +analysis the transference itself must be dissolved; if success then +supervenes and is maintained it is not founded on suggestion, but on the +overcoming of the inner resistances effected by the help of suggestion, +on the inner change achieved within the patient. + +That which probably prevents single effects of suggestion from arising +during the treatment is the struggle that is incessantly being waged +against the resistances, which know how to transform themselves into a +negative (hostile) transference. Nor will we neglect to point to the +evidence that a great many of the detailed findings of analysis, which +would otherwise be suspected of being produced by suggestion, are +confirmed from other, irreproachable sources. We have unimpeachable +witnesses on these points, namely, dements and paranoiacs, who are of +course quite above any suspicion of being influenced by suggestion. All +that these patients relate in the way of phantasies and translations of +symbols, which have penetrated through into their consciousness, +corresponds faithfully with the results of our investigations into the +Unconscious of transference neurotics, thus confirming the objective +truth of the interpretations made by us which are so often doubted. I do +not think you will find yourselves mistaken if you choose to trust +analysis in these respects. + +We now need to complete our description of the process of recovery by +expressing it in terms of the Libido-theory. The neurotic is incapable +of enjoyment or of achievement—the first because his Libido is attached +to no real object, the last because so much of the energy which would +otherwise be at his disposal is expended in maintaining the Libido under +repression, and in warding off its attempts to assert itself. He would +be well if the conflict between his Ego and his Libido came to an end, +and if his Ego again had the Libido at its disposal. The task of the +treatment, therefore, consists in the task of loosening the Libido from +its previous attachments, which are beyond the reach of the Ego, and in +making it again serviceable to the Ego. Now where is the Libido of a +neurotic? Easily found: it is attached to the symptoms, which offer it +the substitutive satisfaction that is all it can obtain as things are. +We must master the symptoms then, dissolve them—just what the patient +asks of us. In order to dissolve the symptoms it is necessary to go back +to the point at which they originated, to review the conflict from which +they proceeded, and with the help of propelling forces which at that +time were not available to guide it towards a new solution. This +revision of the process of repression can only partially be effected by +means of the memory-traces of the processes which led up to repression. +The decisive part of the work is carried through by creating—in the +relationship to the physician, in “the transference”—new editions of +those early conflicts, in which the patient strives to behave as he +originally behaved, while one calls upon all the available forces in his +soul to bring him to another decision. The transference is thus the +battlefield where all the contending forces must meet. + +All the Libido and the full strength of the opposition against it are +concentrated upon the one thing, upon the relationship to the physician; +thus it becomes inevitable that the symptoms should be deprived of their +Libido; in place of the patient’s original illness appears the +artificially-acquired transference, the transference-disorder; in place +of a variety of unreal objects of his Libido appears the one object, +also ‘phantastic,’ of the person of the physician. This new struggle +which arises concerning this object is by means of the analyst’s +suggestions lifted to the surface, to the higher mental levels, and is +there worked out as a normal mental conflict. Since a new repression is +thus avoided, the opposition between the Ego and the Libido comes to an +end; unity is restored within the patient’s mind. When the Libido has +been detached from its temporary object in the person of the physician +it cannot return to its earlier objects, but is now at the disposal of +the Ego. The forces opposing us in this struggle during the therapeutic +treatment are on the one hand the Ego’s aversion against certain +tendencies on the part of the Libido, which had expressed itself in +repressing tendencies; and on the other hand the tenacity or +‘adhesiveness’ of the Libido, which does not readily detach itself from +objects it has once invested. + +The therapeutic work thus falls into two phases; in the first all the +Libido is forced away from the symptoms into the transference and there +concentrated, in the second the battle rages round this new object and +the Libido is made free from it. The change that is decisive for a +successful outcome of this renewed conflict lies in the preclusion of +repression, so that the Libido cannot again withdraw itself from the Ego +by a flight into the Unconscious. It is made possible by changes in the +Ego ensuing as a consequence of the analyst’s suggestions. At the +expense of the Unconscious the Ego becomes wider by the work of +interpretation which brings the unconscious material into consciousness; +through education it becomes reconciled to the Libido and is made +willing to grant it a certain degree of satisfaction; and its horror of +the claims of its Libido is lessened by the new capacity it acquires to +expend a certain amount of the Libido in sublimation. The more nearly +the course of the treatment corresponds with this ideal description the +greater will be the success of the psycho-analytic therapy. Its barriers +are found in the lack of mobility in the Libido, which resists being +released from its objects, and in the rigidity of the patient’s +narcissism, which will not allow more than a certain degree of +object-transference to develop. Perhaps the dynamics of the process of +recovery will become still clearer if we describe it by saying that, in +attracting a part of it to ourselves through transference, we gather in +the whole amount of the Libido which has been withdrawn from the Ego’s +control. + +It is as well here to make clear that the distributions of the Libido +which ensue during and by means of the analysis afford no direct +inference of the nature of its disposition during the previous illness. +Given that a case can be successfully cured by establishing and then +resolving a powerful father-transference to the person of the physician, +it would not follow that the patient had previously suffered in this way +from an unconscious attachment of the Libido to his father. The +father-transference is only the battlefield on which we conquer and take +the Libido prisoner; the patient’s Libido has been drawn hither away +from other ‘positions.’ The battlefield does not necessarily constitute +one of the enemy’s most important strongholds; the defence of the +enemy’s capital city need not be conducted immediately before its gates. +Not until after the transference has been again resolved can one begin +to reconstruct in imagination the dispositions of the Libido that were +represented by the illness. + +In the light of the Libido-theory there is a final word to be said about +dreams. The dreams of a neurotic, like his “errors” and his free +associations, enable us to find the meaning of the symptoms and to +discover the dispositions of the Libido. The forms taken by the +wish-fulfilment in them show us what are the wish-impulses that have +undergone repression, and what are the objects to which the Libido has +attached itself after withdrawal from the Ego. The interpretation of +dreams therefore plays a great part in psycho-analytic treatment, and in +many cases it is for lengthy periods the most important instrument at +work. We already know that the condition of sleep in itself produces a +certain relaxation of the repressions. By this diminution in the heavy +pressure upon it the repressed desire is able to create for itself a far +clearer expression in a dream than can be permitted to it by day in the +symptoms. Hence the study of dreams becomes the easiest approach to a +knowledge of the repressed Unconscious, which is where the Libido which +has withdrawn from the Ego belongs. + +The dreams of neurotics, however, differ in no essential from those of +normal people; they are indeed perhaps not in any way distinguishable +from them. It would be illogical to account for the dreams of neurotics +in a way that would not also hold good of the dreams of normal people. +We have to conclude therefore that the difference between neurosis and +health prevails only by day; it is not sustained in dream-life. It thus +becomes necessary to transfer to healthy persons a number of conclusions +arrived at as a result of the connections between the dreams and the +symptoms of neurotics. We have to recognize that the healthy man as well +possesses those factors in mental life which alone can bring about the +formation of a dream or of a symptom, and we must conclude further that +the healthy also have instituted repressions and have to expend a +certain amount of energy to maintain them; that their unconscious minds +too harbour repressed impulses which are still suffused with energy, and +that _a part of the Libido is in them also withdrawn from the disposal +of the Ego_. The healthy man too is therefore virtually a neurotic, but +the only symptom that he _seems_ capable of developing is a dream. To be +sure when you subject his waking life also to a critical investigation +you discover something that contradicts this specious conclusion; for +this apparently healthy life is pervaded by innumerable trivial and +practically unimportant symptom-formations. + +The difference between nervous health and nervous illness (neurosis) is +narrowed down therefore to a practical distinction, and is determined by +the practical result—how far the person concerned remains capable of a +sufficient degree of capacity for enjoyment and active achievement in +life. The difference can probably be traced back to the proportion of +the energy which has remained free relative to that of the energy which +has been bound by repression, i.e. it is a quantitative and not a +qualitative difference. I do not need to remind you that this view +provides a theoretical basis for our conviction that the neuroses are +essentially amenable to cure, in spite of their being based on a +constitutional disposition. + +So much, therefore, in the way of knowledge of the characteristics of +health may be inferred from the identity of the dreams dreamt by +neurotic and by healthy persons. Of dreams themselves, however, a +further inference must be drawn—namely, that it is not possible to +detach them from their connection with neurotic symptoms; that we are +not at liberty to believe that their essential nature is exhausted by +compressing them into the formula of ‘a translation of thoughts into +archaic forms of expression’; and that we are bound to conclude that +they disclose dispositions of the Libido and objects of desire which are +actually in operation and valid at the moment. + + +We have now come very nearly to the end. Perhaps you are disappointed +that under the heading of psycho-analytic therapy I have limited myself +to theory, and have told you nothing of the conditions under which the +cure is undertaken, or of the results it achieves. I omit both, however: +the first, because in fact I never intended to give you a practical +training in the exercise of the analytic method; and the last, because I +have several motives against it. At the beginning of these discussions I +said emphatically that under favourable conditions we achieve cures that +are in no way inferior to the most brilliant in other fields of medical +therapy; I may perhaps add that these results could be achieved by no +other method. If I said more I should be suspected of wishing to drown +the depreciatory voices of our opponents by self-advertisement. Medical +“colleagues” have, even at public congresses, repeatedly held out a +threat to psycho-analysts that by publishing a collection of the +failures and harmful effects of analysis they will open the eyes of the +injured public to the worthlessness of this method of treatment. Apart +from the malicious, denunciatory character of such a measure, however, a +collection of that kind would not even be valid evidence upon which a +correct estimate of the therapeutic results of analysis might be formed. +Analytic therapy, as you know, is still young; it needed many years to +elaborate the technique, which could only be done in the course of the +work under the influence of increasing experience. On account of the +difficulties of imparting instruction in the methods the beginner is +thrown much more upon his own resources for development of his capacity +than any other kind of specialist, and the results of his early years +can never be taken as indicating the full possible achievements of +analytic therapy. + +Many attempts at treatment made in the beginning of psycho-analysis were +failures because they were undertaken with cases altogether unsuited to +the procedure, which nowadays we should exclude by following certain +indications. These indications, however, could only be discovered by +trying. In the beginning we did not know that paranoia and dementia +præcox, when fully developed, are not amenable to analysis; we were +still justified in trying the method on all kinds of disorders. Most of +the failures of those early years, however, were not due to the fault of +the physician, or to the unsuitability in the choice of subject, but to +unpropitious external conditions. I have spoken only of the inner +resistances, those on the part of the patient, which are inevitable and +can be overcome. The external resistances which the patient’s +circumstances and surroundings set up against analysis have little +theoretic interest but the greatest practical importance. +Psycho-Analytic treatment is comparable to a surgical operation and, +like that, for its success it has the right to expect to be carried out +under the most favourable conditions. You know the preliminary +arrangements a surgeon is accustomed to make—a suitable room, a good +light, expert assistance, exclusion of the relatives, and so on. Now ask +yourselves how many surgical operations would be successful if they had +to be conducted in the presence of the patient’s entire family poking +their noses into the scene of the operation and shrieking aloud at every +cut. In psycho-analytic treatment the intervention of the relatives is a +positive danger and, moreover, one which we do not know how to deal +with. We are armed against the inner resistances of the patient, which +we recognize as necessary, but how can we protect ourselves against +these outer resistances? It is impossible to get round the relatives by +any sort of explanation, nor can one induce them to hold aloof from the +whole affair; one can never take them into one’s confidence because then +we run the danger of losing the patient’s trust in us, for he—quite +rightly, of course—demands that the man he confides in should take his +part. Anyone who knows anything of the dissensions commonly splitting up +family life will not be astonished in his capacity of analyst to find +that those nearest to the patient frequently show less interest in his +recovery than in keeping him as he is. When as so often occurs the +neurosis is connected with conflicts between different members of a +family, the healthy person does not make much of putting his own +interest before the patient’s recovery. After all, it is not surprising +that the husband does not favour a treatment in which, as he correctly +supposes, his sins will all come to light; nor do we wonder at this, but +then we cannot blame ourselves when our efforts remain fruitless and are +prematurely broken off because the husband’s resistance is added to that +of the sick wife. We had simply undertaken something which, under the +existing conditions, it was impossible to carry out. + +Instead of describing many cases to you I will tell you of one only, in +which I had to suffer for the sake of professional conscientiousness. I +took a young girl—many years ago—for analytic treatment; for a +considerable time previously she had been unable to go out of doors on +account of a dread, nor could she stay at home alone. After much +hesitation the patient confessed that her thoughts had been a good deal +occupied by some signs of affection that she had noticed by chance +between her mother and a well-to-do friend of the family. Very +tactlessly—or else very cleverly—she then gave the mother a hint of what +had been discussed during the analysis; she did this by altering her +behaviour to her mother, by insisting that no one but her mother could +protect her against the dread of being alone, and by holding the door +against her when she attempted to leave the house. The mother herself +had formerly been very nervous, but had been cured years before by a +visit to a hydropathic establishment—or, putting it otherwise, we may +say she had there made the acquaintance of the man with whom she had +established a relationship that had proved satisfying in more than one +respect. Made suspicious by her daughter’s passionate demands the mother +suddenly _understood_ what the girl’s dread signified. She had become +ill in order to make her mother a prisoner and rob her of the freedom +necessary for her to maintain her relations with her lover. The mother’s +decision was instantly taken; she put an end to the harmful treatment. +The girl was sent to a home for nervous patients, and for many years was +there pointed out as an “unhappy victim of psycho-analysis”; for just as +long I was pursued by damaging rumours about the unfortunate results of +the treatment. I maintained silence because I supposed myself bound by +the rules of professional secrecy. Years later I learned from a +colleague who had visited the home and there seen the girl with +agoraphobia that the intimacy between the mother and the wealthy man was +common knowledge, and that in all probability it was connived at by the +husband and father. To this “secret” the girl’s cure had been +sacrificed. + +In the years before the war, when the influx of patients from many +countries made me independent of the goodwill or disfavour of my native +city, I made it a rule never to take for treatment anyone who was not +_sui juris_, independent of others in all the essential relations of +life. Every psycho-analyst cannot make these stipulations. Perhaps you +will conclude from my warnings about relatives that one should take the +patient out of his family circle in the interests of analysis, and +restrict this therapy to those living in private institutions. I could +not support this suggestion, however; it is far more advantageous for +the patients—those who are not in a condition of severe prostration, at +least—to remain during the treatment in those circumstances in which +they have to struggle with the demands that their ordinary life makes on +them. But the relatives ought not to counteract this advantage by their +behaviour, and above all should not oppose their hostility to one’s +professional efforts. But how are you going to induce people who are +inaccessible to you to take up this attitude? You will naturally also +conclude that the social atmosphere and degree of cultivation of the +patient’s immediate surroundings have considerable influence upon the +prospects of the treatment. + +This is a gloomy outlook for the efficacy of psycho-analysis as a +therapy, even if we may explain the overwhelming majority of our +failures by taking into account these disturbing external factors! +Friends of analysis have advised us to counterbalance a collection of +failures by drawing up a statistical enumeration of our successes. I +have not taken up this suggestion either. I brought forward the argument +that statistics would be valueless if the units collated were not alike, +and the cases which had been treated were in fact not equivalent in many +respects. Further, the period of time that could be reviewed was too +short for one to be able to judge of the permanence of the cures; and of +many cases it would be impossible to give any account. They were persons +who had kept both their illness and their treatment secret, and whose +recovery in consequence had similarly to be kept secret. The strongest +reason against it, however, lay in the recognition of the fact that in +matters of therapy humanity is in the highest degree irrational, so that +there is no prospect of influencing it by reasonable arguments. A +novelty in therapeutics is either taken up with frenzied enthusiasm, as +for instance when Koch first published his results with tuberculin; or +else it is regarded with abysmal distrust, as happened for instance with +Jenner’s vaccination, actually a heaven-sent blessing, but one which +still has its implacable opponents. A very evident prejudice against +psycho-analysis made itself apparent. When one had cured a very +difficult case one would hear: “That is no proof of anything; he would +have got well of himself after all this time.” And when a patient who +had already gone through four cycles of depression and mania came to me +in an interval after the melancholia and three weeks later again began +to develop an attack of mania, all the members of the family, and also +all the high medical authorities who were called in, were convinced that +the fresh attack could be nothing but a consequence of the attempted +analysis. Against prejudice one can do nothing, as you can now see once +more in the prejudices that each group of the nations at war has +developed against the other. The most sensible thing to do is to wait +and allow them to wear off with the passage of time. A day comes when +the same people regard the same things in quite a different light from +what they did before; why they thought differently before remains a dark +secret. + +It is possible that the prejudice against the analytic therapy has +already begun to relax. The continual spread of analytic doctrine and +the numbers of medical men taking up analytic treatment in many +countries seem to point in that direction. As a young man I was caught +in just such a storm of indignation roused in the medical profession by +the hypnotic suggestion-treatment, which nowadays is held up in +opposition to psycho-analysis by the “sober-minded.” As a therapeutic +instrument, however, hypnotism did not bear out the hopes placed in it; +we psycho-analysts may claim to be its rightful heirs and should not +forget how much encouragement and theoretic enlightenment we owe to it. +The harmful effects reported of psycho-analysis are essentially confined +to transitory manifestations of an exacerbation of the conflict, which +may occur when the analysis is clumsily handled, or when it is broken +off suddenly. You have heard an account of what we do with our patients, +and you can form your own judgement whether our efforts are likely to +lead to lasting injury. Misuse of analysis is possible in various ways: +the transference especially, in the hands of an unscrupulous physician, +is a dangerous instrument. But no medical remedy is proof against +misuse; if a knife will not cut, neither will it serve a surgeon. + +I have now reached the end. It is more than a conventional formality +when I say that I myself am heavily oppressed by the many defects of the +lectures I have delivered before you. I regret most of all that I have +so often promised to return again in another place to a subject that I +had just touched upon shortly, and that then the context in which I +could keep my word did not offer itself. I undertook to give you an +account of a thing that is still unfinished, still developing, and now +my short summary itself has become an incomplete one. In many places I +laid everything ready for drawing a conclusion, and then I did not draw +it. But I could not aim at making you experts in psycho-analysis; I only +wished to put you in the way of some understanding of it, and to arouse +your interest in it. + + + + + INDEX + + + ABEL, C., 150, 194 + + ABRAHAM, K., 275, 346 + + Act: + accidental, 48 + sexual, 271, 297, 326 + introductory, 257, 260, 271 + symptomatic, 48, 209, 215 + + Actions, erroneous performance of, 62 + + Actual neuroses, 322–7 + + ADLER, A., 201, 318, 339 + + ‘Advantage through illness,’ 320 + + Ætiology of neuroses, 216, 287–93, 295, 303–5, 308, 313, 322 + + Affects: + anxiety and, 330, 337 + in dreams, 181–2 + James-Lange theory of, 331 + repression and, 336, 341–2 + + Agoraphobia, 224, 229, 334, 386 + + ALEXANDER, the Great, 14 + dream of, 69, 200 + + Altruism, 348 + + Ambivalence, 279, 357, 370, 377 + + Amnesia: + of childhood, 168, 239, 263, 274 + of neuroses, 239, 240 + + Anal-erotism, 265, 268 + + Anal-sadistic stage of libido-development, 275–6, 289 + + ANDREAS, LOU, 265 + + _Anthropophyteia_, 137–8 + + Antithetical sense of primal words, 150, 194 + + Anus, 257, 265 + + Anxiety, 225, 328–44, 359 + development of, 330, 338, 342 + ‘free-floating,’ 332, 334 + in children, 338 + in dreams, 181–3, 230 + + Anxiety-equivalents, 334 + + Anxiety-hysteria, 229, 244, 252, 304, 334, 372 + + Anxiety-neurosis, 325, 332, 335, 337, 365–6, 374 + + Anxious readiness, 330 + + _Apotropaea_, 138 + + Apprehensiveness, 338–40 + + ARISTOTLE, 71 + + Art, and phantasy, 314 + + Association-experiment, 90 + + Associations: + resistance against, 96, 243 + to dreams, 87, 90, 94–102, 126, 198 + to names, 88 + to numbers, 88 + + Attention theory, 22 + + Auto-erotism, 199, 265, 276, 298, 307–10 + + + BERNHEIM, 84, 234, 373, 375 + + BINET, 292 + + BINZ, 70 + + Birth: + experience of, 331 + infantile theories of, 135, 268 + symbolism of, 128, 135 + + BLEULER, 90, 357 + + BLOCH, I., 258 + + BOECKLIN, 145 + + BÖLSCHE, W., 297 + + Breasts, 131, 165 + + BREUER, J., 218, 228, 232, 247 + FREUD and, 233, 236, 246, 375 + + BREUGHEL, P., 256 + + Brothers and sisters, 172, 280 + symbols of, 128, 134 + + BRÜCKE, von, 286 + + + Castration, 175, 267, 309–11 + circumcision and, 139 + symbolism of, 131, 139, 161, 227 + + CHARCOT, 122 + + ‘Charge of energy,’ 301 + + Childhood-experiences, 169, 302–11, 360, 378 + + Childhood-memories, 169, 281, 308 + + Children: + anxiety in, 338 + birth-phantasies of, 135, 268 + dreams of, 105–13, 180 + egoism in, 172, 279 + intimidation of, 266, 309 + neurosis in, 304 + phobias in, 340 + purity of, 177, 263, 273 + sexual curiosity of, 176, 186, 190, 267, 274, 280 + sexual life of, 176, 261–84, 296, 302–11 + + Clitoris, 130, 226, 267 + + _Coitus interruptus_, 335 + + Complex, 90 + the castration, 175, 267 + the Oedipus, 175, 277–84 + + Component-instincts (component-impulses), 266, 271–2, 275–6, 288–90, + 302–3, 313 + + Compromise-formations, 52, 108, 253, 300 + + Compulsions, 220, 337 + + Condensation, 301, 307 + in dreams, 144, 160, 199, 250, 307 + + Conflict, mental, 260, 293–5, 300–2, 306, 312–13, 319, 345, 351, 361–3, + 366, 372, 379 + + Conscience, 358 + + Conscious, _see_ Mental Processes + + Consciousness, 16, 211, 239, 248–50, 301–2, 336, 363 + psychology of, 16, 235 + + Conversion-hysteria, 252, 326, 334 + + Convictions, 207 + + COPERNICUS, 241 + + ‘Countercharge,’ 301, 314, 342, 365 + + + DARWIN, C., 61, 241 + + Day-dreams, 80, 109, 312, 314 + + Death, symbols of, 129, 136 + + Death-wishes, 282 + in dreams, 119, 159, 166, 170–4 + + ‘Degeneration,’ 221, 235, 258, 269 + + Delusions, 69, 211–17, 346, 354–7 + + Dementia præcox, 228, 326, 346, 351–2, 366, 384 + + Determinism, 21, 87 + + DIDEROT, 283 + + Displacement, 220, 290, 301, 307 + in dreams, 117, 146, 198, 250, 307 + + Disposition, hereditary, 213, 297, 302–4, 313, 352, 360 + + Dream: + of Alexander the Great, 69, 200 + of an obsessional neurotic, 166 + of “love service,” 115, 119, 178 + of “three bad theatre tickets,” 102, 117, 149, 186, 190 + + _Dream, The Prisoner’s_, 113 + + Dreams: + affects in, 181–2 + anxiety in, 181–3, 230 + archaic features in, 152, 168–79 + compared with hieroglyphics, 147, 168, 194 + condensation in, 144, 160, 199, 250, 307 + confounded with latent thoughts, 153, 188, 200–2 + death-wishes in, 119, 159, 166, 170–4 + displacement in, 117, 146, 198, 250, 307 + distortion in, 95, 97, 101–8, 113–20, 125, 142–4, 152, 178, 180–4 + examples of, 98–102, 106, 111, 115, 155–67, 199 + experimentally produced, 74, 202 + form of, 149, 179 + hallucinatory experience in, 80, 108, 180 + indefiniteness of, 68, 149, 194, 195 + incestuous desires in, 119, 177, 278, 284 + infantile features in, 168–80 + inversion in, 164, 193 + manifest and latent content of, 94–104, 107, 118, 143, 146, 152 + mathematical calculations in, 153 + medical view of, 70, 106, 149 + neurotic symptoms and, 190, 202, 250, 383 + no associations to, 87, 125 + objectionable tendencies in, 119, 170, 178, 284 + occasioned by physical needs, 77, 110, 182 + of animals, 109 + of children, 105–13, 180 + opposites in, 150, 164, 182 + preserving sleep, 107, 112, 184 + problems, resolves, etc., in, 187 + reactions to stimuli, 72–9, 107, 180, 201, 250 + regression in, 152, 177–9, 189 + residue from previous day, 179, 191, 201, 250, 349 + secondary elaboration in, 153 + sexual need and, 77, 129 + symbolism in, 125–42, 151, 161–6 + theory of, 181, 349, 381–3 + thought-relations in, 148 + two possible interpretations of, 145, 193, 201 + typical, 230, 278 + undistorted, 105, 107, 110 + visual images in, 73, 78, 101, 143, 147, 152 + wish-fulfilment in, 107–13, 121, 130, 143, 171, 180–92, 301, 382 + wit in, 99, 199, 200 + word-representation in, 101, 147 + + Dream-censorship, 114–24, 142, 175, 178–9, 181–4, 250, 349, 358 + + Dream-interpretation: + ancient and popular, 69, 126 + doubts and criticisms of, 181, 187, 193–203 + resistance against, 96, 118, 121, 181, 197, 200 + in analytic treatment, 125, 155, 382 + results of, 120–3, 193, 197 + technique of, 86, 95, 193, 242 + + Dream-work, 114, 118, 143–54, 168, 179, 180–1, 189 + + Dropping and breaking objects, 42, 61 + + DU PREL, 111 + + Dynamic conception of mental life, 53, 238, 246, 288, 313, 338 + + Dynamics of cure, 365, 372 + + + ‘Economic’ aspect of mental processes, 232, 298, 313 + + Education, 262, 298, 305, 377 + + Ego: + character-traits of the, 245, 251 + counter-charges from the, 301, 314, 342 + development of the, 295–9 + disintegrations of the, 353, 358 + Libido and, 312, 318, 323, 338, 345–7, 366, 380 + neurosis and the, 319–21 + psychology of, 352, 357 + repression and, 248 + sexuality and, 294, 318, 346 + + Ego-ideal, 357 + + Ego-instincts, 291, 294–5, 297–9, 344–6, 350, 358 + + Ego-Libido, 347, 350, 358, 374 + + Egoism: + in children, 172, 279 + in dreams, 119, 172, 191 + in neurosis, 319 + narcissism and, 348 + + Erotogenic zones, 259, 264–5, 270, 275–6, 324 + + Errors: + accumulated and combined, 43 + attention theory of, 22 + counter-will in, 58, 59 + fatigue, excitement, etc., as a cause of, 21, 35–6 + interference of two tendencies in, 33, 36, 48–54 + subsequent confirmation of meaning in, 45 + + Excretory functions, 257, 265, 268 + + Excretory organs, 260 + + Expectant dread, 332, 334–5 + + + Fact, a mental, 37 + + Fairy tales, 133, 134, 140, 158, 182, 268 + + Faith, 372 + + Faith-healers, 15 + + Family relationships, 172–5 + + Father: + erotic attachment to, 228, 231, 233 + hostility towards, 173, 245, 282–3 + + FECHNER, G. T., 73 + + FEDERN, P., 130 + + FERENCZI, 295 + + Fetichism, 257, 292 + + Fixation: + neurosis and, 233 + of Libido, 286–97, 301–3, 305, 308, 312, 347, 352 + upon traumata, 231–3 + + FLAUBERT, G., 256 + + _Fliegende Blätter_, 22, 322 + + FLIESS, W., 269 + + ‘Flight into illness,’ 320 + + Folk-lore, 133, 139, 141 + + Forgetting, 19, 22, 44 + as an excuse, 41 + names, 21, 40, 59–61, 91 + resolutions, 41, 57 + to avoid pain, 60 + + Free association, 88, 95, 128, 157, 242, 381 + + “Free living,” 361 + + + Gazing-impulse, _see_ Skoptophilia + + Genital organs: + replaced by other organs, 176, 257, 259–60, 265, 271–2 + symbols of, 129–33, 136–8, 161–4, 226, 227 + + Genital zone, primacy of, 275–6, 288, 290 + + GOETHE, 30, 283, 349 + + Grief, 233 + + + Hate-impulses, 119, 171–4, 280, 282 + + Homosexuality, 176, 256, 259, 370 + and paranoia, 354 + + HUG-HELLMUTH, FRAU DR. v., 114 + + Human nature: + good and evil in, 12, 122–3 + self-love in, 240 + sense of guilt in, 279 + + Hypnosis: + experiments under, 85, 234 + treatment by, 246, 373–9 + + Hypochondria, 325–6 + + Hysteria, 219, 244, 252, 288, 351–2, 365–7, 372, 374 + agoraphobia and, 229 + amnesia in, 239, 240 + attacks, 240, 331 + Breuer’s case of, 218, 228, 232, 246 + symptoms of, 229, 239, 253, 259, 273, 302, 314, 326, 334 + + + Identification, 222, 357 + + _Imago_, 141 + + Incest, horror of, 177, 281 + + Inferiority, feeling of, 339 + + Inhibition, 285, 305, 314, 323 + + Insomnia, 184 + + Interference of two tendencies, 33, 36, 48–54 + + _Interpretation of Dreams_, 143 + + Intra-uterine existence, 71, 348 + + Introversion, 313 + + + JANET, P., 218 + + JENNER, 387 + + JODL, 70 + + Jokes, 34, 133, 145, 146 + in dreams, 99, 199, 200 + + JONES, ERNEST, 44 + + JUNG, C. G., 90, 228, 313, 345 + + + Kiss, the, 270, 273 + + Knowing, various kinds of, 237 + + Knowledge, unconscious possession of, 51, 84, 124, 139, 234 + + KOCH, 387 + + KRAUS, F. S., 137. + + + Language: + development of, 140, 150, 154 + implications in, 80, 109, 133, 140 + of sexual origin, 141 + the Chinese, 195 + + Latency period, 274, 277 + + LEURET, 218 + + LEVY, L., 136 + + Libido, 119, 263 + ‘adhesiveness’ of, 292, 380 + anxiety and, 335–43, 359 + attachment to objects, 284, 350–6, 373, 374, 379–81 + regression of, 285–9, 301–6, 312 + symptom-formation and, 300–15, 323 + theory of the, 344–59, 379–81 + + Libido-development, 274–7, 285–99, 352–3 + genital stage of, 275–6, 290 + inhibition of, 285, 305 + pre-genital stage of, 275–6 + + LICHTENBERG, 30, 56 + + LIÉBAULT, 84 + + LINDNER, DR., 264 + + Looking-impulse, _see_ Skoptophilia + + Losing and mislaying objects, 42, 44, 61 + + Love-impulse, 172, 277, 289 + + LÖWENFELD, 208 + + _Lutschen_, 263–4 + + + MAEDER, A., 45, 200 + + Magic: + ceremonies, 227 + precautions, 231 + words and, 13 + + Masochism, 257 + + Masturbation, 254, 260, 274, 296, 322 + + MAURY, 70 + experiments by, 74–6 + + Meaning: + in dreams, 67, 70, 72, 74, 82, 86 + in errors, 27–63 + in symptoms, 67, 218–30, 235, 237, 323, 372 + + Melancholia, 356, 366, 387 + + Memory, _see_ Amnesia + + Mental activities, systems of, 248–50, 287–8, 301 + + Mental life, conceptions of: + dynamic, 53, 238, 246, 288, 313, 338 + economic, 232, 298, 313 + topographic, 249, 287–8, 338, 364, 366 + + Mental processes: + conscious, 16, 94, 121, 249–50, 287–8, 301, 312, 362 + preconscious, 199, 249–50, 287–8, 301, 312, 362 + unconscious, 16, 94, 121, 124, 202, 301 + in symptom-formation, 234–8, 307 + made conscious, 237, 239, 363, 372 + symbolism and, 127, 139 + under repression, 248–50, 287, 336 + wishes as, 123, 125, 171, 189, 278–9 + + MERINGER and MAYER, 25 + + Milk, dislike of, 306 + + Mind: + a psychological attitude of, 15 + distribution of forces in, 203 + play of forces in, 53 + psycho-analytical definition of, 16 + the scientific habit of, 40 + + Misprints, 23 + + Misreading, 56 + + Mistaking of objects, 62 + + Mother: + daughter and, 173–4 + love-object, 156, 174–7, 277–82, 339 + + MOURLY VOLD, J., 70, 74, 130, 202 + + Mouth, 257, 270, 275 + + Myths, mythology, 133, 135, 139, 141, 145, 281, 308 + + + NÄCKE, P., 347 + + Names: + forgetting of, 21, 40, 59–61, 91 + wrong pronunciation of, 33 + + Narcissism, 347–59, 381 + object-love and, 347–9 + + Narcissistic neuroses, 287–8, 318, 351–3, 358, 374 + + Necessity, 298, 344, 358 + + Nervousness, 316–27 + + Neurasthenia, 325–6 + + Neuroses: + actual, 322–7 + ætiology (or causation) of, 216, 287–93, 295, 303–5, 308, 313, 322 + amnesia of, 239–40 + characteristics of, 231, 235, 239, 289, 339 + dynamic conception of, 246 + grief and, 233 + in children, 304 + narcissistic, 287–8, 318, 351–3, 358, 374 + prevention of, 305 + transference, 252, 287–8, 294, 323, 346, 350, 352, 366, 372 + traumatic, 232, 319 + with organic disease, 327 + + NORDENSKJÖLD, 111 + + Nutrition: + function of, 263, 265 + organs of, 260 + + + Object-choice: + incestuous, 119, 177, 274–88 + types of, 356 + + Object-Libido, 347, 350, 374 + + Object-love, 347 + + Obsessional neurosis, 252, 337, 365–7, 372–4 + a case of, 221, 224, 239, 251, 259 + doubt in, 220, 225, 230, 244 + masturbation and, 260 + rituals of, 224, 229, 239, 253 + sadism and, 260, 289 + symptoms of, 219–21, 229, 231, 235, 239–40, 314, 318, 337, 352 + + Obsessions, 219, 257, 289, 351, 356 + + Obsessive acts, 219, 221, 234, 239, 259, 260, 337 + + Obsessive ideas, 68, 235, 289 + + Oedipus complex, 175, 277–84 + + Omens, 46 + + Onanism, 160, 264, 266, 310 + castration and, 131, 139 + + Opposites (polarity): + in dreams, 150, 164, 182 + in the mind, 61, 121, 185, 220, 253, 275 + + Oral phase of Libido-development, 275–6 + + ‘Organ-pleasure,’ 272, 273 + + + Pain, avoidance of, 60, 298, 313 + + Paranoia, 53, 259, 319, 326, 366, 384 + and homosexuality, 354 + + Paraphrenia, 326, 354 + + Parents: + coitus of, 186, 227, 252, 268, 309 + detachment from, 283 + relationship to, 172–5, 277–83 + symbols of, 128, 134 + + Patient, relatives of, 13, 237, 367, 384–6 + + Penis, 129, 267, 309 + + Perversions, 176, 256–62, 266, 269–72, 289, 292, 297, 301 + + PFISTER, DR., 197 + + Phantasies, 80, 116, 227, 254, 258, 260, 307–15 + artists and, 314 + symptom-formation and, 312 + typical, 309 + + ‘Phantasy-making, retrogressive,’ 282 + + Philosophy, 15, 70, 79 + + Phobias, 332–4, 341–3 + in children, 340 + symbolism in, 343 + + Phylogenetic development, 168, 307 + + Phylogenetic inheritance, 297, 311 + + Physician, 319, 321 + transference to, 245, 367–81 + + PLATO, 122 + + Pleasure, 265 + + Pleasure-principle, 299, 307, 319 + + Polarity, _see_ Opposites + + Preconscious, _see under_ Mental Processes + + Primacy of genital zone, 275–6, 288, 290 + + Privation, 252, 260, 289–91, 293–5, 301, 312, 360 + + Psychiatry, 16, 207–17, 218, 221, 235, 353 + + Psychical systems, 248–50, 287–8, 301 + + Psycho-Analysis: + as a science, 325 + attitude to sexual matters, 129 + based on observations, 208 + compared with mineralogy, 326 + conventional morality and, 362 + criticisms of, 247, 294, 378 + difficulties of, 11–18 + implicit in literature, 28, 29, 133, 175, 278, 283 + infancy of, 84, 252, 383 + opposition against, 12, 17, 37, 63, 175, 208, 240, 244, 318, 383 + prejudices against, 16, 18, 387 + study of, 12, 14 + treatment (or therapy), 11–13, 155, 169, 217, 219, 226, 237, 239, + 242, 252, 360–88 + advice and guidance during, 362 + education by, 377, 381 + fundamental rule of technique in, 243 + misuse of, 387 + repetition and recollection during, 371 + resistances during, 242–47, 267, 353, 369, 379, 384 + suggestion in, 373–9 + technique of, 242, 353, 378 + warnings against, 11, 12 + + Psychology, experimental, 15, 79, 88, 90 + + Psycho-neuroses, 323, 336 + + _Psycho-pathology of Everyday Life_, 43 + + Puberty, 262, 282 + + Puberty-rites, 139, 281 + + + RANK, O., 29, 112, 135, 141, 156, 175, 283 + + Rationalization, 354 + + Reaction-formations, 314, 319 + + Real anxiety, 329, 335, 337–41, 343, 359 + + Reality: + depreciation of, 308 + material and psychical, 56, 309 + the ‘testing’ of, 311 + + Reality-principle, 299, 307, 344, 347 + + Reason under affective influence, 208, 247 + + Regression: + in dreams, 152, 177–9, 189 + of Ego, 299 + of Libido, 285–9, 301–6, 312 + to phantasies, 312 + + REIK, TH., 281 + + Repetition of previous experience, 331 + + Repression, 248–51, 295, 297, 306, 342, 351, 354, 361, 363–7, 380, 382 + regression and, 287, 289 + transformation of affect and, 337, 341 + + Reproduction, function of, 255, 262, 266, 268, 269, 271 + + Resistance: + against associations, 96, 243 + during treatment, 242–47, 267, 353, 369, 379, 384 + overcoming of, 246, 365, 374, 378–81 + to dream-interpretation, 96, 118, 121, 181, 197, 200 + + ROUX, 303 + + + SACHS, H., 141, 174 + + Sadism, 257, 260, 268, 275–6, 289 + + SCHERNER, K. A., 77, 127, 133 + + SCHILLER, 28 + + SCHUBERT, 137 + + Screen-memories, 169 + + Secondary elaboration: + in dreams, 153 + in paranoia, 319 + + Seduction, 309–10 + + Self-analysis, 15 + + Self-preservation, 295, 298, 329, 343–6, 350, 358 + + Self-punishment, 62, 185, 278 + + Series, complemental, 292, 303, 305, 310 + + Sexual: + abstinence, 290, 336, 361, 363 + act, 255, 271, 297, 326 + introductory, 257, 260, 271 + aim, 257–8, 277, 311 + anæsthesia, 267 + curiosity, 186, 275 + in children, 176, 186, 190, 267, 274, 280 + experiences, in childhood, 302–11 + instinct and civilization, 17, 262, 290 + instincts and Ego-instincts, 291, 294–5, 297–9, 344–6, 350 + intercourse, 226, 265, 296, 355, 363 + parental, 186, 227, 252, 268, 309 + sadistic conception of, 268 + symbols of, 132, 138, 164 + object, 256–8, 264, 277, 311 + of component-impulses, 276 + organizations, _see_ Libido-development + the term, 255, 264, 268–70, 273 + toxins, 324, 326 + + Sexuality: + infantile, 176, 261–84, 296, 302–11 + perverted, 176, 256–62, 266, 269–72, 289, 292, 297, 301 + + SHAKESPEARE, 29, 78 + + SHAW, G. B., 42, 173 + + SILBERER, H., 201, 255 + + Skoptophilia (gazing-impulse), 186, 190, 257, 260, 271, 275–6, 310 + + Sleep, the condition of, 71, 86, 184, 348, 350, 382 + + Slips of the pen, 55 + + Slips of the tongue, 24–40, 49–54, 82, 145, 199 + + Slips of the tongue in literature, 28, 29 + + Spatial, _see_ Topographical + + SPERBER, H., 140 + + STEKEL, W., 201 + + Struggle for existence, 262, 298 + + _Struwelpeter_, 309 + + Sublimation, 17, 290, 314, 381 + + Sucking: + for nourishment, 263–4, 306 + for pleasure, 263–4, 275 + + Suggestion, treatment by, 373–9 + + Symbolism: + a mode of expression, 139, 168 + in dreams, 125–42, 151, 161–6 + in phobias, 343 + in symptom-formation, 222, 226–7 + + Symptomatic acts, 48, 209, 215 + + Symptom-formation, 293, 300–15, 318–19, 326, 352 + phantasy and, 312 + repression and, 251 + + Symptoms, Neurotic: + analysis of, and past life, 232, 237, 261 + ascetic character of, 253, 361 + conflict expressed in, 260, 300, 306, 319 + dreams and, 190, 202, 250, 383 + meaning of, 67, 218–30, 235, 237, 323, 372 + purpose of, 223, 251, 253 + substitutes, 236, 248, 251, 253, 259, 293, 306, 323, 326, 372, 380 + typical, 229 + ‘whence,’ and ‘whither’ or ‘why’ of, 234, 240 + + Systems of mental activities, 248–50, 287–8, 301 + + + Taboos, 216 + + Topographical (spatial) conception of mental life, 249, 287–8, 338, + 364, 366 + + _Totem und Tabu_, 216, 279 + + Toxins, 324, 326 + + Transference, 245, 367–81 + + Transference neuroses, 252, 287–8, 294, 323, 346, 350, 352, 366, 372 + + Traumatic neuroses, 232, 319 + + Treatment, _see under_ Psycho-Analysis + + + Unconscious, _see under_ Mental Processes + + Unconscious, the: + affects and, 342 + dreams and, 127, 312 + Ego and, 318, 349 + Janet’s view of, 218 + meaning of term, 248 + mechanisms of, 179, 199, 202, 307 + memories in, 169 + opposites in, 185 + psycho-analysis and, 235, 325 + symbolism and, 127, 139 + symptoms and, 238–40 + system, 178–9, 248–50, 287–8, 301–2, 365 + wishes in, 278–9 + + Urination, 265, 268 + + + Vagina, 257, 265, 267 + + Virginity, 226, 253 + + + War, the, 12, 122, 387 + + Wish-fulfilment: + in dreams, 107–13, 121, 130, 143, 171, 180–92, 301, 382 + in phantasy, 311 + in symptoms, 223, 252, 260, 302 + + _Wit_, 98 + + Word-association, 90 + + Words: + an exchange of, 13 + magic and, 13 + sound-values of, 36 + verbal images, 352 + + WUNDT, 36, 70, 90 + + + ZOLA, ÉMILE, 221 + + + _Printed in Great Britain by_ + UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, THE GRESHAM PRESS, LONDON AND WOKING + + +----- + +Footnote 1: + + [Literally: “that wishes to build in the dark and fish in murky + waters.”—TR.] + +Footnote 2: + + In German—_Versprechen_. + +Footnote 3: + + _Verschreiben._ + +Footnote 4: + + _Verlesen._ + +Footnote 5: + + _Verhören._ + +Footnote 6: + + _Vergessen._ + +Footnote 7: + + _Verlegen._ + +Footnote 8: + + [The equivalent English prefix is “mis-,” but is not so widely + employed.—TR.] + +Footnote 9: + + In German—_Vergreifen_. + +Footnote 10: + + [English example.—TR.] + +Footnote 11: + + [_Komfortabel_ is a slang Viennese expression for a one-horse cab. An + English example of this is as follows: In a play during a scene of a + funeral procession the actor was made to say, “Stand back, my Lord, + and let the _parson cough_!” instead of “the coffin pass.”—TR.] + +Footnote 12: + + [English examples.—TR.] + +Footnote 13: + + [English examples.—TR.] + +Footnote 14: + + “Ja, das draut” = das _dauert_ ... eine _traurige_ Geschichte. + +Footnote 15: + + “Dann aber sind Tatsachen zum _Vorschwein_ gekommen” = _Vorschein_ ... + _Schweinerei_. + +Footnote 16: + + [The two words “_begleiten_” and “_beleidigen_” are a good deal more + obvious in the German “_begleidigen_” than in the translation.—TR.] + +Footnote 17: + + [Two untranslatable examples are given in the text, _apopos_ for + _apropos_ and _Eischeissweibchen_ for _Eiweisscheibchen_. (Meringer + and Mayer.)—TR.] + +Footnote 18: + + _Vor_schussmitglieder instead of _Aus_schussmitglieder. + +Footnote 19: + + From C. G. Jung. + +Footnote 20: + + From A. A. Brill. + +Footnote 21: + + From B. Dattner. + +Footnote 22: + + Also in the writings of A. Maeder (_French_), A. A. Brill and Ernest + Jones (_English_), and J. Stärcke (_Dutch_) and others. + +Footnote 23: + + From R. Reitler. + +Footnote 24: + + [German: _Zurückdrängen_ = to force back. This word is stronger than + _unterdrücken_ = to press under, which we translate by suppress (not a + technical term); _zurückdrängen_ contains already the _drängen_ of + _verdrängen_, the technical word used by Freud to denote the strongest + pressure of all, _repression_. In the examples discussed here, the + agency withholding the intention from expression may be either + conscious or unconscious (groups one, two, and three, according to the + degree of unconsciousness); Freud does not use _verdrängen_ = + “repression,” the technical word for _unconscious_ agency only, here, + but one very near to it in sense.—TR.] + +Footnote 25: + + Joseph Breuer, in the years 1880–1882. Cf. my Lectures on + Psycho-Analysis, delivered in the United States in 1909. + +Footnote 26: + + [It should be noted that in using the word “unconscious” to translate + the German “_unbewusst_” we are deflecting it from its customary + English sense, which is “absence of unawareness,” such as in the + phrases “he lay unconscious,” “a stone is unconscious,” etc. + _Unbewusst_ is rather “unconscious’d,” i.e. something of which the + subject is not aware. Of it two statements may therefore be + predicated, not only that it is not conscious in itself or of itself, + but also that the subject is not conscious of its existence.—TR.] + +Footnote 27: + + [Lit.: “Tablers”—TR.] + +Footnote 28: + + [This example has been altered in translation to bring in the play + upon words in English.—TR.] + +Footnote 29: + + [See note on preceding example.—TR.] + +Footnote 30: + + See Frontispiece. + +Footnote 31: + + Frau Dr. von Hug-Hellmuth. + +Footnote 32: + + [_Liebesdienst_ = “love service,” a popular expression adapted from + “military service.”—TR.] + +Footnote 33: + + [Cf. sweetheart, sweetest.—TR.] + +Footnote 34: + + [In German, an old acquaintance is often addressed as “old house” + (_altes Haus_); the expression “giving him one on the roof” (_einem + eins aufs Dachl geben_) corresponds to “hitting him over the head.”] + +Footnote 35: + + [The _portal_ vein carries nourishment from the bowels to the body + _via_ the liver. The _pylorus_ (from πύλη = gate) is the entrance to + the small intestine. In German, the apertures of the body are called + _Leibespforten_ (gates of the body).—TR.] + +Footnote 36: + + [Cf. the Russian expression, “Little father.”—TR.] + +Footnote 37: + + [Cf. “I am a wall and my breasts like towers: then was I in his eyes + as one that found favour.” Cant. viii. 10.—TR.] + +Footnote 38: + + [This is certainly so with English patients.—TR.] + +Footnote 39: + + Whilst correcting these pages, my eye happened to fall upon a + newspaper paragraph which I reproduce here as affording unexpected + confirmation of the above words. + + + DIVINE RETRIBUTION + + A BROKEN ARM FOR A BROKEN MARRIAGE-VOW. + + Frau Anna M., the wife of a soldier in the reserve, accused Frau + Clementine K. of unfaithfulness to her husband. In her accusation she + stated that Frau K. had had an illicit relationship with Karl M. + during her husband’s absence at the front, and while he was sending + her as much as 70 crowns a month. Besides this, she had already + received a large sum of money from her (Frau M.’s) husband, while his + wife and children had to live in hunger and misery. Some of her + husband’s comrades had informed her that he and Frau K. had visited + public-houses together and remained there drinking late into the + night. The accused woman had once actually asked the husband of the + accuser, in the presence of several soldiers, whether he would not + soon leave his “old woman” and come to her, and the caretaker of the + house where Frau K. lived had repeatedly seen the plaintiff’s husband + in Frau K.’s room, in a state of complete undress. + + Yesterday, before a magistrate in the Leopoldstadt, Frau K. denied + knowing M. at all: any intimate relations between them were out of the + question, she said. + + Albertine M., a witness, however, gave evidence of having surprised + Frau K. in the act of kissing the accuser’s husband. + + M., who had been called as a witness in some earlier proceedings, had + then denied any intimate relations with the accused. Yesterday, a + letter was handed to the magistrate, in which the witness retracted + his former denial and confessed that up to the previous June he had + carried on illicit relations with Frau K. In the earlier proceedings + he had denied his relations with the accused only because she had come + to him before the action came into court and begged him on her knees + to save her and say nothing. “To-day,” wrote the witness, “I feel + compelled to lay a full confession before the court, for I have broken + my left arm and regard this as God’s punishment for my offence.” + + The judge decided that the penal offence had been committed too long + ago for the action to stand, whereupon the accuser withdrew her + accusation and the accused was discharged. + +Footnote 40: + + [Both senses of cleave are still alive in English: to cleave (= + separate) and to cleave to (= adhere).—TR.] + +Footnote 41: + + [The principal park of Vienna.—TR.] + +Footnote 42: + + Another interpretation of the number _three_, occurring in the dream + of this childless woman, lies very close; but I will not mention it + here, because this analysis did not furnish any material illustrating + it. + +Footnote 43: + + _Verranntheit._ + +Footnote 44: + + Cf. _Totem und Tabu_, 1913. + +Footnote 45: + + [_Zwangsneurose_, sometimes called in English + compulsion-neurosis.—TR.] + +Footnote 46: + + E. Toulouse, _Émile Zola. Enquête medico-psychologique._ Paris, 1896. + +Footnote 47: + + See p. 222. + +Footnote 48: + + Ferenczi, _Contributions to Psycho-Analysis_. English translation by + Ernest Jones, 1916. Chap. viii, p. 181. + +Footnote 49: + + [I.e. Grave’s disease, exophthalmic goitre.—TR.] + +Footnote 50: + + [_Angst._ The German word denotes a more intense feeling than the + English ‘anxiety’; the latter however, derived from the same root, has + become established as the technical English term.—TR.] + +Footnote 51: + + [In Germany it replaces the use of “duck” for this purpose in + English.—TR.] + +Footnote 52: + + [Taken, with very slight modifications, from Ernest Dowden’s + translation.—TR.] + +Footnote 53: + + [This name is based on a reference to a relationship with an older + person in early life.—TR.] + + + _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ + + + The Interpretation of Dreams + + _Demy 8vo._ _16s. net._ + +“This is certainly the author’s greatest and most important work. 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