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Title: Psychopathology of Everyday Life
Author: Sigmund Freud
Translator: A. A. Brill
Release Date: February 5, 2022 [eBook #67332]
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PSYCHOPATHOLOGY OF EVERYDAY
LIFE ***
PSYCHOPATHOLOGY
OF EVERYDAY LIFE
BY
PROFESSOR DR. SIGMUND FREUD, LL.D.
AUTHORIZED ENGLISH EDITION, WITH
INTRODUCTION BY
A. A. BRILL, Ph.B., M.D.
_Chief of Clinic of Psychiatry Columbia University; Chief of the
Neurological Department, Bronx Hospital and Dispensary;
former Assistant Physician in the Central Islip State
Hospital, and in the Clinic of Psychiatry, Zurich_
NEW YORK
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1914
(_All rights reserved_)
INTRODUCTION
Professor Freud developed his system of psychoanalysis while studying
the so-called border-line cases of mental diseases, such as hysteria
and compulsion neurosis. By discarding the old methods of treatment
and strictly applying himself to a study of the patient’s life he
discovered that the hitherto puzzling symptoms had a definite meaning,
and that there was nothing arbitrary in any morbid manifestation.
Psychoanalysis always showed that they referred to some definite
problem or conflict of the person concerned. It was while tracing back
the abnormal to the normal state that Professor Freud found how faint
the line of demarcation was between the normal and neurotic person,
and that the psychopathologic mechanisms so glaringly observed in the
psychoneuroses and psychoses could usually be demonstrated in a lesser
degree in normal persons. This led to a study of the faulty actions
of everyday life and later to the publication of the _Psychopathology
of Everyday Life_, a book which passed through four editions in
Germany and is considered the author’s most popular work. With great
ingenuity and penetration the author throws much light on the complex
problems of human behaviour, and clearly demonstrates that the hitherto
considered impassable gap between normal and abnormal mental states is
more apparent than real.
This translation is made of the fourth German edition, and while the
original text was strictly followed, linguistic difficulties often made
it necessary to modify or substitute some of the author’s cases by
examples comprehensible to the English-speaking reader.
A. A. BRILL.
NEW YORK.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
INTRODUCTION v
I. FORGETTING OF PROPER NAMES 3
II. FORGETTING OF FOREIGN WORDS 17
III. FORGETTING OF NAMES AND ORDER OF WORDS 29
IV. CHILDHOOD AND CONCEALING MEMORIES 57
V. MISTAKES IN SPEECH 71
VI. MISTAKES IN READING AND WRITING 117
VII. FORGETTING OF IMPRESSIONS AND RESOLUTIONS 135
VIII. ERRONEOUSLY CARRIED-OUT ACTIONS 177
IX. SYMPTOMATIC AND CHANCE ACTIONS 215
X. ERRORS 249
XI. COMBINED FAULTY ACTS 265
XII. DETERMINISM, CHANCE, AND SUPERSTITIOUS BELIEFS 277
INDEX 339
I
FORGETTING OF PROPER NAMES
During the year 1898 I published a short essay _On the Psychic
Mechanism of Forgetfulness_.[1] I shall now repeat its contents and
take it as a starting-point for further discussion. I have there
undertaken a psychologic analysis of a common case of temporary
forgetfulness of proper names, and from a pregnant example of my
own observation I have reached the conclusion that this frequent
and practically unimportant occurrence of a failure of a psychic
function--of memory--admits an explanation which goes beyond the
customary utilization of this phenomenon.
If an average psychologist should be asked to explain how it happens
that we often fail to recall a name which we are sure we know, he would
probably content himself with the answer that proper names are more
apt to be forgotten than any other content of memory. He might give
plausible reasons for this “forgetting preference” for proper names,
but he would not assume any deep determinant for the process.
I was led to examine exhaustively the phenomenon of temporary
forgetfulness through the observation of certain peculiarities,
which, although not general, can, nevertheless, be seen clearly in
some cases. In these there is not only _forgetfulness_, but also
false _recollection_: he who strives for the escaped name brings to
consciousness others--substitutive names--which, although immediately
recognized as false, nevertheless obtrude themselves with great
tenacity. The process which should lead to the reproduction of the lost
name is, as it were, displaced, and thus brings one to an incorrect
substitute.
Now it is my assumption that the displacement is not left to psychic
arbitrariness, but that it follows lawful and rational paths. In other
words, I assume that the substitutive name (or names) stands in direct
relation to the lost name, and I hope, if I succeed in demonstrating
this connection, to throw light on the origin of the forgetting of
names.
In the example which I selected for analysis in 1898 I vainly strove
to recall the name of the master who made the imposing frescoes of
the “Last Judgment” in the dome of _Orvieto_. Instead of the lost
name--_Signorelli_--two other names of artists--_Botticelli_ and
_Boltraffio_--obtruded themselves, names which my judgment immediately
and definitely rejected as being incorrect. When the correct name was
imparted to me by an outsider I recognized it at once without any
hesitation. The examination of the influence and association paths
which caused the displacement from _Signorelli_ to _Botticelli_ and
_Boltraffio_ led to the following results:--
(_a_) The reason for the escape of the name _Signorelli_ is neither
to be sought in the strangeness in itself of this name nor in the
psychologic character of the connection in which it was inserted. The
forgotten name was just as familiar to me as one of the substitutive
names--Botticelli--and somewhat more familiar than the other
substitute--Boltraffio--of the possessor of which I could hardly say
more than that he belonged to the Milanese School. The connection,
too, in which the forgetting of the name took place appeared to me
harmless, and led to no further explanation. I journeyed by carriage
with a stranger from Ragusa, Dalmatia, to a station in Herzegovina. Our
conversation drifted to travelling in Italy, and I asked my companion
whether he had been in Orvieto and had seen there the famous frescoes
of----
(_b_) The forgetting of the name could not be explained until after I
had recalled the theme discussed immediately before this conversation.
This forgetting then made itself known _as a disturbance of the
newly emerging theme caused by the theme preceding it_. In brief,
before I asked my travelling companion if he had been in Orvieto we
had been discussing the customs of the Turks living in _Bosnia_ and
_Herzegovina_. I had related what I heard from a colleague who was
practising medicine among them, namely, that they show full confidence
in the physician and complete submission to fate. When one is compelled
to inform them that there is no help for the patient, they answer:
“_Sir_ (Herr), what can I say? I know that if he could be saved you
would save him.” In these sentences alone we can find the words and
names: _Bosnia_, _Herzegovina_, and _Herr_ (sir), which may be inserted
in an association series between _Signorelli_, _Botticelli_, and
_Boltraffio_.
(_c_) I assume that the stream of thoughts concerning the customs
of the Turks in Bosnia, etc., was able to disturb the next thought,
because I withdrew my attention from it before it came to an end. For
I recalled that I wished to relate a second anecdote which was next to
the first in my memory. These Turks value the sexual pleasure above
all else, and at sexual disturbances merge into an utter despair which
strangely contrasts with their resignation at the peril of losing their
lives. One of my colleague’s patients once told him: “For you know, sir
(Herr), if that ceases, life no longer has any charm.”
I refrained from imparting this characteristic feature because I did
not wish to touch upon such a delicate theme in conversation with a
stranger. But I went still further; I also deflected my attention from
the continuation of the thought which might have associated itself in
me with the theme “Death and Sexuality.” I was at that time under the
after-effects of a message which I had received a few weeks before,
during a brief sojourn in _Trafoi_. A patient on whom I had spent
much effort had ended his life on account of an incurable sexual
disturbance. I know positively that this sad event, and everything
connected with it, did not come to my conscious recollection on that
trip in Herzegovina. However, the agreement between _Trafoi_ and
_Boltraffio_ forces me to assume that this reminiscence was at that
time brought to activity despite all the intentional deviation of my
attention.
(_d_) I can no longer conceive the forgetting of the name Signorelli
as an accidental occurrence. I must recognize in this process the
influence of a _motive_. There were motives which actuated the
interruption in the communication of my thoughts (concerning the
customs of the Turks, etc.), and which later influenced me to exclude
from my consciousness the thought connected with them, and which might
have led to the message concerning the incident in Trafoi--that is,
I wanted to forget something, I _repressed_ something. To be sure,
I wished to forget something other than the name of the master of
Orvieto; but this other thought brought about an associative connection
between itself and this name, so that my act of volition missed the
aim, and I _forgot the one against my will_, while I _intentionally_
wished to forget the other. The disinclination to recall directed
itself against the one content; the inability to remember appeared
in another. The case would have been obviously simpler if this
disinclination and the inability to remember had concerned the same
content. The substitutive names no longer seem so thoroughly justified
as they were before this explanation. They remind me (after the form of
a compromise) as much of what I wished to forget as of what I wished to
remember, and show me that my object to forget something was neither a
perfect success nor a failure.
(_e_) The nature of the association formed between the lost name and
the repressed theme (death and sexuality, etc.), containing the names
of Bosnia, Herzegovina, and Trafoi, is also very strange. In the scheme
inserted here, which originally appeared in 1898, an attempt is made to
graphically represent these associations.
[Illustration:
+------+ /-----\
|Signor| _elli_ (Bo) tic_elli_ (Bo) l traffio
+------+ | / \--|--/
| | | / |
| | | /----------/ |
| | | / |
| +---+ |--/ |
| |Her| zegovina and (Bo) snia |
| +---+ |
+----+ |
|Herr| Sir, What can I say, etc. |
+----+ \ |
\ /--|--\
Death and Sexuality Trafoi
\ \-----/
\ /
Repressed thoughts------------------/
]
The name Signorelli was thus divided into two parts. One pair of
syllables (_elli_) returned unchanged in one of the substitutions,
while the other had gained, through the translation of _signor_
(sir, Herr), many and diverse relations to the name contained in the
repressed theme, but was lost through it in the reproduction. Its
substitution was formed in a way to suggest that a displacement took
place along the same associations--“Herzegovina and Bosnia”--regardless
of the sense and acoustic demarcation. The names were therefore treated
in this process like the written pictures of a sentence which is to be
transformed into a picture-puzzle (rebus). No information was given
to consciousness concerning the whole process, which, instead of the
name Signorelli, was thus changed to the substitutive names. At first
sight no relation is apparent between the theme that contained the name
Signorelli and the repressed one which immediately preceded it.
Perhaps it is not superfluous to remark that the given explanation does
not contradict the conditions of memory reproduction and forgetting
assumed by other psychologists, which they seek in certain relations
and dispositions. Only in certain cases have we added another _motive_
to the factors long recognized as causative in forgetting names,
and have thus laid bare the mechanism of faulty memory. The assumed
dispositions are indispensable also in our case, in order to make it
possible for the repressed element to associatively gain control
over the desired name and take it along into the repression. Perhaps
this would not have occurred in another name having more favourable
conditions of reproduction. For it is quite probable that a suppressed
element continually strives to assert itself in some other way, but
attains this success only where it meets with suitable conditions. At
other times the suppression succeeds without disturbance of function,
or, as we may justly say, without symptoms.
When we recapitulate the conditions for forgetting a name with faulty
recollection we find: (1) a certain disposition to forget the same;
(2) a process of suppression which has taken place shortly before;
and (3) the possibility of establishing an _outer_ association
between the concerned name and the element previously suppressed. The
last condition will probably not have to be much overrated, for the
slightest claim on the association is apt in most cases to bring it
about. But it is a different and farther-reaching question whether such
outer association can really furnish the proper condition to enable
the suppressed element to disturb the reproduction of the desired
name, or whether after all a more intimate connection between the two
themes is not necessarily required. On superficial consideration one
may be willing to reject the latter requirement and consider the
temporal meeting in perfectly dissimilar contents as sufficient. But
on more thorough examination one finds more and more frequently that
the two elements (the repressed and the new one) connected by an outer
association, possess besides a connection in content, and this can also
be demonstrated in the example _Signorelli_.
The value of the understanding gained through the analysis of the
example _Signorelli_ naturally depends on whether we must explain this
case as a typical or as an isolated process. I must now maintain that
the forgetting of a name associated with faulty recollection uncommonly
often follows the same process as was demonstrated in the case of
_Signorelli_. Almost every time that I observed this phenomenon in
myself I was able to explain it in the manner indicated above as being
motivated by repression.
I must mention still another view-point in favour of the typical nature
of our analysis. I believe that one is not justified in separating
the cases of name-forgetting with faulty recollection from those in
which incorrect substitutive names have not obtruded themselves. These
substitutive names occur spontaneously in a number of cases; in other
cases, where they do not come spontaneously, they can be brought to
the surface by concentration of attention, and they then show the same
relation to the repressed element and the lost name as those that
come spontaneously. Two factors seem to play a part in bringing to
consciousness the substitutive names: first, the effort of attention,
and second, an inner determinant which adheres to the psychic material.
I could find the latter in the greater or lesser facility which forms
the required outer associations between the two elements. A great many
of the cases of name-forgetting without faulty recollection therefore
belong to the cases with substitutive name formation, the mechanism
of which corresponds to the one in the example _Signorelli_. But I
surely shall not venture to assert that all cases of name-forgetting
belong to the same group. There is no doubt that there are cases of
name-forgetting that proceed in a much simpler way. We shall represent
this state of affairs carefully enough if we assert that _besides the
simple forgetting of proper names there is another forgetting which is
motivated by repression_.
II
FORGETTING OF FOREIGN WORDS
The ordinary vocabulary of our own language seems to be protected
against forgetting within the limits of normal function, but it is
quite different with words from a foreign language. The tendency
to forget such words extends to all parts of speech. In fact,
depending on our own general state and the degree of fatigue, the
first manifestation of functional disturbance evinces itself in the
irregularity of our control over foreign vocabulary. In a series
of cases this forgetting follows the same mechanism as the one
revealed in the example _Signorelli_. As a demonstration of this I
shall report a single analysis, characterized, however, by valuable
features, concerning the forgetting of a word, not a noun, from a Latin
quotation. Before proceeding, allow me to give a full and clear account
of this little episode.
Last summer, while journeying on my vacation, I renewed the
acquaintance of a young man of academic education, who, as I soon
noticed, was conversant with some of my works. In our conversation we
drifted--I no longer remember how--to the social position of the race
to which we both belonged. He, being ambitious, bemoaned the fact that
his generation, as he expressed it, was destined to grow crippled, that
it was prevented from developing its talents and from gratifying its
desires. He concluded his passionately felt speech with the familiar
verse from Virgil: _Exoriare_ ... in which the unhappy _Dido_ leaves
her vengeance upon _Æneas_ to posterity. Instead of “concluded,” I
should have said “wished to conclude,” for he could not bring the
quotation to an end, and attempted to conceal the open gap in his
memory by transposing the words:--
“_Exoriar(e) ex nostris ossibus ultor!_”
He finally became piqued and said: “Please don’t make such a mocking
face, as if you were gloating over my embarrassment, but help me. There
is something missing in this verse. How does it read in its complete
form?”
“With pleasure,” I answered, and cited it correctly:--
“_Exoriar(e) aliquis nostris ex ossibus ultor!_”
“It is too stupid to forget such a word,” he said. “By the way, I
understand you claim that forgetting is not without its reasons; I
should be very curious to find out how I came to forget this indefinite
pronoun ‘_aliquis_.’”
I gladly accepted the challenge, as I hoped to get an addition to
my collection, and said, “We can easily do this, but I must ask you
to tell me frankly and without any criticism everything that occurs
to your mind after you focus your attention, without any particular
intention, on the forgotten word.”[2]
“Very well, the ridiculous idea comes to me to divide the word in the
following way: _a_ and _liquis_.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“What else does that recall to you?”
“The thought goes on to _reliques_--_liquidation_--_liquidity_--_fluid_.”
“Does that mean anything to you now?”
“No, not by a long shot.”
“Just go ahead.”
“I now think,” he said, laughing sarcastically, “of Simon of Trent,
whose relics I saw two years ago in a church in Trent. I think of the
old accusation which has been brought against the Jews again, and
of the work of _Kleinpaul_, who sees in these supposed sacrifices
reincarnations or revivals, so to speak, of the Saviour.”
“This stream of thoughts has some connection with the theme which we
discussed before the Latin word escaped you.”
“You are right. I now think of an article in an Italian journal which I
have recently read. I believe it was entitled: ‘What St. Augustine said
Concerning Women.’ What can you do with this?”
I waited.
“Now I think of something which surely has no connection with the
theme.”
“Oh, please abstain from all criticism, and----”
“Oh, I know! I recall a handsome old gentleman whom I met on my journey
last week. He was really an _original_ type. He looked like a big bird
of prey. His name, if you care to know, is Benedict.”
“Well, at least you give a grouping of saints and Church fathers: _St.
Simon_, _St. Augustine_, and _St. Benedict_. I believe that there was a
Church father named _Origines_. Three of these, moreover, are Christian
names, like _Paul_ in the name _Kleinpaul_.”
“Now I think of _St. Januarius_ and his blood miracle--I find that the
thoughts are running mechanically.”
“Just stop a moment; both _St. Januarius_ and _St. Augustine_ have
something to do with the calendar. Will you recall to me the blood
miracle?”
“Don’t you know about it? The blood of St. Januarius is preserved in
a phial in a church in Naples, and on a certain holiday a miracle
takes place causing it to liquefy. The people think a great deal of
this miracle, and become very excited if the liquefying process is
retarded, as happened once during the French occupation. The General
in command--or Garibaldi, if I am not mistaken--then took the priest
aside, and with a very significant gesture pointed out to him the
soldiers arrayed without, and expressed his hope that the miracle would
soon take place. And it actually took place....”
“Well, what else comes to your mind? Why do you hesitate?”
“Something really occurred to me ... but it is too intimate a matter to
impart ... besides, I see no connection and no necessity for telling
it.”
“I will take care of the connection. Of course I cannot compel you
to reveal what is disagreeable to you, but then you should not have
demanded that I tell you why you forgot the word ‘_aliquis_.’”
“Really? Do you think so? Well, I suddenly thought of a woman from whom
I could easily get a message that would be very annoying to us both.”
“That she missed her courses?”
“How could you guess such a thing?”
“That was not very difficult. You prepared me for it long enough. Just
think of the _saints of the calendar, the liquefying of the blood on a
certain day, the excitement if the event does not take place, and the
distinct threat that the miracle must take place_.... Indeed, you have
elaborated the miracle of St. Januarius into a clever allusion to the
courses of the woman.”
“It was surely without my knowledge. And do you really believe that my
inability to reproduce the word ‘_aliquis_’ was due to this anxious
expectation?”
“That appears to me absolutely certain. Don’t you recall dividing
it into _a-liquis_ and the associations: _reliques_, _liquidation_,
_fluid_? Shall I also add to this connection the fact that St. Simon,
to whom you got by way of the _reliques_, was sacrificed as a child?”
“Please stop. I hope you do not take these thoughts--if I really
entertained them--seriously. I will, however, confess to you that the
lady is Italian, and that I visited Naples in her company. But may not
all this be coincidental?”
“I must leave to your own judgment whether you can explain all these
connections through the assumption of coincidence. I will tell you,
however, that every similar case that you analyse will lead you to just
such remarkable ‘coincidences!’”
I have more than one reason for valuing this little analysis, for
which I am indebted to my travelling companion. First, because in
this case I was able to make use of a source which is otherwise
inaccessible to me. Most of the examples of psychic disturbances
of daily life that I have here compiled I was obliged to take from
observation of myself. I endeavoured to evade the far richer material
furnished me by my neurotic patients, because I had to preclude the
objection that the phenomena in question were only the result and
manifestation of the neurosis. It was therefore of special value for
my purpose to have a stranger free from a neurosis offer himself as
a subject for such examination. This analysis is also important in
other respects, inasmuch as it elucidates a case of word-forgetting
_without_ substitutive recollection, and thus confirms the principle
formulated above, namely, that the appearance or nonappearance of
incorrect substitutive recollections does not constitute an essential
distinction[3].
But the principal value of the example _aliquis_ lies in another of
its distinctions from the case _Signorelli_. In the latter example the
reproduction of the name becomes disturbed through the after-effects of
a stream of thought which began shortly before and was interrupted, but
whose content had no distinct relation to the new theme which contained
the name Signorelli. Between the repression and the theme of the
forgotten name there existed only the relation of temporal contiguity,
which reached the other in order that the two should be able to form
a connection through an outer association.[4] On the other hand, in
the example _aliquis_ one can note no trace of such an independent
repressed theme which could occupy conscious thought immediately before
and then re-echo as a disturbance. The disturbance of the reproduction
proceeded here from the inner part of the theme touched upon, and was
brought about by the fact that unconsciously a contradiction arose
against the wish-idea represented in the quotation.
The origin must be construed in the following manner: The speaker
deplored the fact that the present generation of his people was being
deprived of its rights, and like Dido he presaged that a new generation
would take upon itself vengeance against the oppressors. He therefore
expressed the wish for posterity. In this moment he was interrupted by
the contradictory thought: “Do you really wish so much for posterity?
That is not true. Just think in what a predicament you would be if you
should now receive the information that you must expect posterity from
the quarter you have in mind! No, you want no posterity--as much as you
need it for your vengeance.” This contradiction asserts itself, just
as in the example _Signorelli_, by forming an outer association between
one of his ideation elements and an element of the repressed wish, but
here it is brought about in a most strained manner through what seems
an artificial detour of associations. Another important agreement with
the example _Signorelli_ results from the fact that the contradiction
originates from repressed sources and emanates from thoughts which
would cause a deviation of attention.
So much for the diversity and the inner relationship of both paradigms
of the forgetting of names. We have learned to know a second mechanism
of forgetting, namely, the disturbance of thought through an inner
contradiction emanating from the repression. In the course of this
discussion we shall repeatedly meet with this process, which seems to
me to be the more easily understood.
III
FORGETTING OF NAMES AND ORDER OF WORDS
Experiences like those mentioned concerning the process of forgetting
a part of the order of words from a foreign language may cause one
to wonder whether the forgetting of the order of words in one’s own
language requires an essentially different explanation. To be sure, one
is not wont to be surprised if after awhile a formula or poem learned
by heart can only be reproduced imperfectly, with variations and gaps.
Still, as this forgetting does not affect equally all the things
learned together, but seems to pick out therefrom definite parts, it
may be worth our effort to investigate analytically some examples of
such faulty reproductions.
Brill reports the following example:--
“While conversing one day with a very brilliant young woman she had
occasion to quote from Keats. The poem was entitled ‘Ode to Apollo,’
and she recited the following lines:--
“‘In thy western house of gold
Where thou livest in thy state,
Bards, that once sublimely told
Prosaic truths that came too late.’
She hesitated many times during the recitation, being sure that
there was something wrong with the last line. To her great surprise,
on referring to the book she found that not only was the last line
misquoted but that there were many other mistakes. The correct lines
read as follows:--
ODE TO APOLLO
“‘In thy western _halls_ of gold
_When_ thou _sittest_ in thy state,
Bards, that _erst_ sublimely told
_Heroic deeds and sang of fate_.’
The words italicized are those that have been forgotten and replaced by
others during the recitation.
“She was astonished at her many mistakes, and attributed them to a
failure of memory. I could readily convince her, however, that there
was no qualitative or quantitative disturbance of memory in her case,
and recalled to her our conversation immediately before quoting these
lines.
“We were discussing the over-estimation of personality among lovers,
and she thought it was Victor Hugo who said that love is the greatest
thing in the world because it makes an angel or a god out of a grocery
clerk. She continued: ‘Only when we are in love have we blind faith
in humanity; everything is perfect, everything is beautiful, and
... everything is so poetically unreal. Still, it is a wonderful
experience; worth going through, notwithstanding the terrible
disappointments that usually follow. It puts us on a level with the
gods and incites us to all sorts of artistic activities. We become
real poets; we not only memorize and quote poetry, but we often become
Apollos ourselves.’ She then quoted the lines given above.
“When I asked on what occasion she memorized the lines she could
not recall. As a teacher of elocution she was wont to memorize so
much and so often that it was difficult to tell just when she had
memorized these lines. ‘Judging by the conversation,’ I suggested,
‘it would seem that this poem is intimately associated with the idea
of over-estimation of personality of one in love. Have you perhaps
memorized this poem when you were in such a state?’ She became
thoughtful for a while and soon recalled the following facts: Twelve
years before, when she was eighteen years old, she fell in love.
She met the young man while participating in an amateur theatrical
performance. He was at the time studying for the stage, and it was
predicted that some day he would be a matinée idol. He was endowed
with all the attributes needed for such a calling. He was well built,
fascinating, impulsive, very clever, and ... very fickle-minded. She
was warned against him, but she paid no heed, attributing it all to
the envy of her counsellors. Everything went well for a few months,
when she suddenly received word that her Apollo, for whom she had
memorized these lines, had eloped with and married a very wealthy young
woman. A few years later she heard that he was living in a Western
city, where he was taking care of his father-in-law’s interests.
“The misquoted lines are now quite plain. The discussion about the
over-estimation of personality among lovers unconsciously recalled to
her a disagreeable experience, when she herself over-estimated the
personality of the man she loved. She thought he was a god, but he
turned out to be even worse than the average mortal. The episode could
not come to the surface because it was determined by very disagreeable
and painful thoughts, but the unconscious variations in the poem
plainly showed her present mental state. The poetic expressions were
not only changed to prosaic ones, but they clearly alluded to the whole
episode.”
Another example of forgetting the order of words of a poem well known
to the person I shall cite from Dr. C. G. Jung,[5] quoting the words of
the author:--
“A man wished to recite the familiar poem, ‘A Pine-tree Stands Alone,’
etc. In the line ‘He felt drowsy’ he became hopelessly stuck at the
words ‘with the white sheet.’ This forgetting of such a well-known
verse seemed to me rather peculiar, and I therefore asked him to
reproduce what came to his mind when he thought of the words ‘with the
white sheet.’ He gave the following series of associations ‘The white
sheet makes one think of a white sheet on a corpse--a linen sheet
with which one covers a dead body--[pause]--now I think of a near
friend--his brother died quite recently--he is supposed to have died
of heart disease--he was also very corpulent--my friend is corpulent,
too, and I thought that he might meet the same fate--probably he
doesn’t exercise enough--when I heard of this death I suddenly became
frightened: the same thing might happen to me, as my own family is
predisposed to obesity--my grandfather died of heart disease--I, also,
am somewhat too corpulent, and for that reason I began an obesity cure
a few days ago.’”
Jung remarks: “The man had unconsciously immediately identified himself
with the pine-tree which was covered with a white sheet.”
For the following example of forgetting the order of words I am
indebted to my friend Dr. Ferenczi, of Budapest. Unlike the former
examples, it does not refer to a verse taken from poetry, but to a
self-coined saying. It may also demonstrate to us the rather unusual
case where the forgetting places itself at the disposal of discretion
when the latter is in danger of yielding to a momentary desire. The
mistake thus advances to a useful function. After we have sobered down
we justify that inner striving which at first could manifest itself
only by way of inability, as in forgetting or psychic impotence.
“At a social gathering some one quoted, _Tout comprendre c’est tout
pardonner_, to which I remarked that the first part of the sentence
should suffice, as ‘pardoning’ is an exemption which must be left to
God and the priest. One of the guests thought this observation very
good, which in turn emboldened me to remark--probably to ensure myself
of the good opinion of the well-disposed critic--that some time ago I
thought of something still better. But when I was about to repeat this
clever idea I was unable to recall it. Thereupon I immediately withdrew
from the company and wrote my concealing thoughts. I first recalled
the name of the friend who had witnessed the birth of this (desired)
thought, and of the street in Budapest where it took place, and then
the name of another friend, whose name was Max, whom we usually called
Maxie. That led me to the word ‘maxim,’ and to the thought that at
that time, as in the present case, it was a question of varying a
well-known maxim. Strangely enough, I did not recall any maxim but
the following sentence: ‘_God created man in His own image_,’ and its
changed conception, ‘_Man created God in his own image_.’ Immediately I
recalled the sought-for recollection.
“My friend said to me at that time in Andrassy Street, ‘_Nothing human
is foreign to me_.’ To which I remarked, basing it on psychoanalytic
experience, ‘You should go further and acknowledge _that nothing animal
is foreign to you_.’
“But after I had finally found the desired recollection I was even then
prevented from telling it in this social gathering. The young wife of
the friend whom I had reminded of the animality of the unconscious was
also among those present, and I was perforce reminded that she was not
at all prepared for the reception of such unsympathetic views. The
forgetting spared me a number of unpleasant questions from her and a
hopeless discussion, and just that must have been the motive of the
‘temporary amnesia.’
“It is interesting to note that as a concealing thought there emerged a
sentence in which the deity is degraded to a human invention, while in
the sought-for sentence there was an allusion to the animal in the man.
The _capitis diminutio_ is therefore common to both. The whole matter
was apparently only a continuation of the stream of thought concerning
understanding and forgiving which was stimulated by the discussion.
“That the desired thought so rapidly appeared may be also due to the
fact that I withdrew into a vacant room, away from the society in which
it was censored.”
I have since then analysed a large number of cases of forgetting
or faulty reproduction of the order of words, and the consistent
result of these investigations led me to assume that the mechanisms
of forgetting, as demonstrated in the examples “_aliquis_” and “_Ode
to Apollo_,” are almost of universal validity. It is not always very
convenient to report such analyses, for, just as those cited, they
usually lead to intimate and painful things in the person analysed; I
shall therefore add no more to the number of such examples. What is
common to all these cases, regardless of the material, is the fact that
the forgotten or distorted material becomes connected through some
associative road with an unconscious stream of thought, which gives
rise to the influence that comes to light as forgetting.
I am now returning to the forgetting of names, concerning which we
have so far considered exhaustively neither the casuistic elements nor
the motives. As this form of faulty acts can at times be abundantly
observed in myself, I am not at a loss for examples. The slight
attacks of migraine, from which I am still suffering, are wont to
announce themselves hours before through the forgetting of names, and
at the height of the attack, during which I am not forced, however, to
give up my work, I am often unable to recall all proper names.
Still, just such cases as mine may furnish the cause for a strong
objection to our analytic efforts. Should not one be forced to conclude
from such observations that the causation of the forgetfulness,
especially the forgetting of names, is to be sought in circulatory or
functional disturbances of the brain, and spare himself the trouble of
searching for psychologic explanations for these phenomena? Not at all;
that would mean to interchange the mechanism of a process, which is the
same in all cases, with its variations. But instead of an analysis I
shall cite a comparison which will settle the argument.
Let us assume that I was so reckless as to take a walk at night in an
uninhabited neighbourhood of a big city, and was attacked and robbed
of my watch and purse. At the nearest police-station I report the
matter in the following words: “I was in this or that street, and was
there robbed of my watch and purse by _lonesomeness_ and _darkness_.”
Although these words would not express anything that is incorrect,
I would, nevertheless, run the danger of being considered--judging
from the wording of this report--as not quite right in the head. To
be correct, the state of affairs could only be described by saying
that, _favoured_ by the lonesomeness of the place and under _cover_ of
darkness, I was robbed of my valuables by _unknown malefactors_.
Now, then, the state of affairs in forgetting names need not be
different. Favoured by exhaustion, circulatory disturbances, and
intoxication, I am robbed by an unknown psychic force of the disposal
over the proper names belonging to my memory; it is the same force
which in other cases may bring about the same failure of memory during
perfect health and mental capacity.
When I analyse those cases of name-forgetting occurring in myself, I
find almost regularly that the name withheld shows some relation to a
theme which concerns my own person, and is apt to provoke in me strong
and often painful emotions. Following the convenient and commendable
practice of the Zurich School (Bleuler, Jung, Riklin), I might express
the same thing in the following form: The name withheld has touched
a “personal complex” in me. The relation of the name to my person is
an unexpected one, and is mostly brought about through superficial
associations (words of double meaning and of similar sounds); it may
generally be designated as a side association. A few simple examples
will best illustrate the nature of the same:--
(_a_) A patient requested me to recommend to him a sanatorium in the
Riviera. I knew of such a place very near Genoa, I also recalled the
name of the German colleague who was in charge of the place, but the
place itself I could not name, well as I believed I knew it. There was
nothing left to do but ask the patient to wait, and to appeal quickly
to the women of the family.
“Just what is the name of the place near Genoa where Dr. X. has his
small institution in which Mrs. So-and-so remained so long under
treatment?”
“Of course you would forget a name of that sort. The name is Nervi.”
To be sure, I have enough to do with nerves.
(_b_) Another patient spoke about a neighbouring summer resort, and
maintained that besides the two familiar inns there was a third. I
disputed the existence of any third inn, and referred to the fact that
I had spent seven summers in the vicinity and therefore knew more about
the place than he. Instigated by my contradiction, he recalled the
name. The name of the third inn was “The Hochwartner.” Of course, I had
to admit it; indeed, I was forced to confess that for seven summers
I had lived near this very inn whose existence I had so strenuously
denied. But why should I have forgotten the name and the object? I
believe because the name sounded very much like that of a Vienna
colleague who practised the same specialty as my own. It touched in me
the “professional complex.”
(_c_) On another occasion, when about to buy a railroad ticket on the
Reichenhall Station, I could not recall the very familiar name of the
next big railroad station which I had so often passed. I was forced
to look it up in the time-table. The name was Rosehome (Rosenheim). I
soon discovered through what associations I lost it. An hour earlier I
had visited my sister in her home near Reichenhall; my sister’s name
is Rose, hence also a Rosehome. This name was taken away by my “family
complex.”
(_d_) This predatory influence of the “family complex” I can
demonstrate in a whole series of complexes.
One day I was consulted by a young man, a younger brother of one of my
female patients, whom I saw any number of times, and whom I used to
call by his first name. Later, while wishing to talk about his visit, I
forgot his first name, in no way an unusual one, and could not recall
it in any way. I walked into the street to read the business signs and
recognized the name as soon as it met my eyes.
The analysis showed that I had formed a parallel between the visitor
and my own brother which centred in the question: “Would my brother,
in a similar case, have behaved like him or even more contrarily?” The
outer connection between the thoughts concerning the stranger and my
own family was rendered possible through the accident that the name
of the mothers in each case was the same, Amelia. Subsequently I also
understood the substitutive names, Daniel and Frank, which obtruded
themselves without any explanation. These names, as well as Amelia,
belong to Schiller’s play _The Robbers_; they are all connected with a
joke of the Vienna pedestrian, Daniel Spitzer.
(_e_) On another occasion I was unable to find a patient’s name
which had a certain reference to my early life. The analysis had to
be followed over a long devious road before the desired name was
discovered. The patient expressed his apprehension lest he should
lose his eyesight; this recalled a young man who became blind from a
gunshot, and this again led to a picture of another youth who shot
himself, and the latter bore the same name as my first patient, though
not at all related to him. The name became known to me, however, only
after the anxious apprehension from these two juvenile cases was
transferred to a person of my own family.
Thus an incessant stream of “self-reference” flows through my thoughts
concerning which I usually have no inkling, but which betrays itself
through such name-forgetting. It seems as if I were forced to compare
with my own person all that I hear about strangers, as if my personal
complexes became stirred up at every information from others. It seems
impossible that this should be an individual peculiarity of my own
person; it must, on the contrary, point to the way we grasp outside
matters in general. I have reasons to assume that other individuals
meet with experiences quite similar to mine.
The best example of this kind was reported to me by a gentleman named
Lederer as a personal experience. While on his wedding trip in Venice
he came across a man with whom he was but slightly acquainted, and
whom he was obliged to introduce to his wife. As he forgot the name of
the stranger he got himself out of the embarrassment the first time
by mumbling the name unintelligibly. But when he met the man a second
time, as is inevitable in Venice, he took him aside and begged him
to help him out of the difficulty by telling him his name, which he
unfortunately had forgotten. The answer of the stranger pointed to a
superior knowledge of human nature: “I readily believe that you did not
grasp my name. My name is like yours--Lederer!”
One cannot suppress a slight feeling of unpleasantness on discovering
his own name in a stranger. I had recently felt it very plainly when I
was consulted during my office hours by a man named S. Freud. However,
I am assured by one of my own critics that in this respect he behaves
in quite the opposite manner.
(_f_) The effect of personal relation can be recognized also in the
following examples reported by Jung.[6]
“Mr. Y. falls in love with a lady who soon thereafter marries Mr. X. In
spite of the fact that Mr. Y. was an old acquaintance of Mr. X., and
had business relations with him, he repeatedly forgot the name, and
on a number of occasions, when wishing to correspond with X., he was
obliged to ask other people for his name.”
However, the motivation for the forgetting is more evident in this case
than in the preceding ones, which were under the constellation of the
personal reference. Here the forgetting is manifestly a direct result
of the dislike of Y. for the happy rival; he does not wish to know
anything about him.
(_g_) The following case, reported by Ferenczi, the analysis of which
is especially instructive through the explanation of the substitutive
thoughts (like _Botticelli-Boltraffio_ to _Signorelli_), shows in a
somewhat different way how self-reference leads to the forgetting of a
name:--
“A lady who heard something about psychoanalysis could not recall the
name of the psychiatrist, Young (Jung).
“Instead, the following names occurred to her: Kl. (a
name)--Wilde--Nietzsche--Hauptmann.
“I did not tell her the name, and requested her to repeat her free
associations to every thought.
“To Kl. she at once thought of Mrs. Kl., that she was an embellished
and affected person who looked very well for her age. ‘She does not
age.’ As a general and principal conception of Wilde and Nietzsche, she
gave the association ‘mental disease.’ She then added jocosely: ‘The
Freudians will continue looking for the causes of mental diseases until
they themselves become insane.’ She continued: ‘I cannot bear Wilde
and Nietzsche. I do not understand them. I hear that they were both
homosexual. Wilde has occupied himself with _young_ people’ (although
she uttered in this sentence the correct name she still could not
remember it).
“To Hauptmann she associated the words _half_ and _youth_, and only
after I called her attention to the word _youth_ did she become aware
that she was looking for the name Young (Jung).”
It is clear that this lady, who had lost her husband at the age of
thirty-nine, and had no prospect of marrying a second time, had
cause enough to avoid reminiscences recalling youth or old age. The
remarkable thing is that the concealing thoughts of the desired name
came to the surface as simple associations of content without any
sound-associations.
(_h_) Still different and very finely motivated is an example of
name-forgetting which the person concerned has himself explained.
“While taking an examination in philosophy as a minor subject I was
questioned by the examiner about the teachings of Epicurus, and was
asked whether I knew who took up his teachings centuries later. I
answered that it was Pierre Gassendi, whom two days before while in a
café I had happened to hear spoken of as a follower of Epicurus. To the
question how I knew this I boldly replied that I had taken an interest
in Gassendi for a long time. This resulted in a certificate with a
_magna cum laude_, but later, unfortunately, also in a persistent
tendency to forget the name Gassendi. I believe that it is due to my
guilty conscience that even now I cannot retain this name despite all
efforts. I had no business knowing it at that time.”
To have a proper appreciation of the intense repugnance entertained by
our narrator against the recollection of this examination episode, one
must have realized how highly he prizes his doctor’s degree, and for
how many other things this substitute must stand.
I add here another example of forgetting the name of a city, an
instance which is perhaps not as simple as those given before, but
which will appear credible and valuable to those more familiar with
such investigations. The name of an Italian city withdrew itself
from memory on account of its far-reaching sound-similarity to a
woman’s first name, which was in turn connected with various emotional
reminiscences which were surely not exhaustively treated in this
report. Dr. S. Ferenczi, who observed this case of forgetting in
himself, treated it--quite justly--as an analysis of a dream or an
erotic idea.
“To-day I visited some old friends, and the conversation turned to
cities of Northern Italy. Some one remarked that they still showed the
Austrian influence. A few of these cities were cited. I, too, wished
to mention one, but the name did not come to me, although I knew that
I had spent two very pleasant days there; this, of course, does not
quite concur with Freud’s theory of forgetting. Instead of the desired
name of the city there obtruded themselves the following thoughts:
‘Capua--Brescia--the lion of Brescia.’ This lion I saw objectively
before me in the form of a marble statue, but I soon noticed that he
resembled less the lion of the statue of liberty in Brescia (which
I saw only in a picture) than the other marble lion which I saw in
Lucerne on the monument in honour of the Swiss Guard fallen in the
Tuileries. I finally thought of the desired name: it was Verona.
“I knew at once the cause of this amnesia. No other than a former
servant of the family whom I visited at the time. Her name was
Veronica; in Hungarian Verona. I felt a great antipathy for her on
account of her repulsive physiognomy, as well as her hoarse, shrill
voice and her unbearable self-assertion (to which she thought herself
entitled on account of her long service). Also the tyrannical way in
which she treated the children of the family was insufferable to me.
Now I knew the significance of the substitutive thoughts.
“To Capua I immediately associated _caput mortuum_. I had often
compared Veronica’s head to a skull. The Hungarian word _kapzoi_ (greed
after money) surely furnished a determinant for the displacement.
Naturally I also found those more direct associations which connected
Capua and Verona as geographical ideas and as Italian words of the same
rhythm.
“The same held true for Brescia; here, too, I found concealed
side-tracks of associations of ideas.
“My antipathy at that time was so violent that I thought Veronica very
ugly, and have often expressed my astonishment at the fact that any one
should love her: ‘Why, to kiss her,’ I said, ‘must provoke nausea.’
“Brescia, at least in Hungary, is very often mentioned not in
connection with the lion but with another wild beast. The most hated
name in this country, as well as in North Italy, is that of General
Haynau, who is briefly referred to as the hyena of Brescia. From the
hated tyrant Haynau one stream of thought leads over Brescia to the
city of Verona, and the other over the idea of the _grave-digging
animal with the hoarse voice_ (which corresponds to the thought of a
monument to the dead), to the skull, and to the disagreeable organ
of Veronica, which was so cruelly insulted in my unconscious mind.
Veronica in her time ruled as tyrannically as did the Austrian General
after the Hungarian and Italian struggles for liberty.
“Lucerne is associated with the idea of the summer which Veronica spent
with her employers in a place near Lucerne. The Swiss Guard again
recalls that she tyrannized not only the children but also the adult
members of the family, and thus played the part of the ‘Garde-Dame.’
“I expressly observe that this antipathy of mine against V. consciously
belongs to things long overcome. Since that time she has changed in her
appearance and manner, very much to her advantage, so that I am able to
meet her with sincere regard (to be sure I hardly find such occasion).
As usual, however, my unconscious sticks more tenaciously to those
impressions; it is old in its resentment.
“The Tuileries represent an allusion to a second personality, an old
French lady who actually ‘guarded’ the women of the house, and who was
in high regard and somewhat feared by everybody. For a long time I was
her _élève_ in French conversation. The word _élève_ recalls that when
I visited the brother-in-law of my present host in northern Bohemia I
had to laugh a great deal because the rural population referred to the
_élèves_ (pupils) of the school of forestry as _löwen_ (lions). Also
this jocose recollection might have taken part in the displacement of
the hyena by the lion.”
(_i_) The following example can also show how a personal complex
swaying the person at the time being may by devious ways bring about
the forgetting of a name.[7]
Two men, an elder and a younger, who had travelled together in Sicily
six months before, exchanged reminiscences of those pleasant and
interesting days.
“Let’s see, what was the name of that place,” asked the younger, “where
we passed the night before taking the trip to Selinunt? _Calatafini_,
was it not?”
The elder rejected this by saying: “Certainly not; but I have forgotten
the name, too, although I can recall perfectly all the details of the
place. Whenever I hear some one forget a name it immediately produces
forgetfulness in me. Let us look for the name. I cannot think of any
other name except _Caltanisetta_, which is surely not correct.”
“No,” said the younger, “the name begins with, or contains, a _w_.”
“But the Italian language contains no _w_,” retorted the elder.
“I really meant a _v_, and I said _w_ because I am accustomed to
interchange them in my mother tongue.”
The elder, however, objected to the _v_. He added: “I believe that I
have already forgotten many of the Sicilian names. Suppose we try to
find out. For example, what is the name of the place situated on a
height which was called _Enna_ in antiquity?”
“Oh, I know that: _Castrogiovanni_.” In the next moment the younger
man discovered the lost name. He cried out ‘_Castelvetrano_,’ and was
pleased to be able to demonstrate the supposed _v_.
For a moment the elder still lacked the feeling of recognition, but
after he accepted the name he was able to state why it had escaped him.
He thought: “Obviously because the second half, _vetrano_, suggests
_veteran_. I am aware that I am not quite anxious to think of ageing,
and react peculiarly when I am reminded of it. Thus, _e.g._, I had
recently reminded a very esteemed friend in most unmistakable terms
that he had ‘long ago passed the years of youth,’ because before this
he once remarked in the most flattering manner, ‘I am no longer a
young man.’ That my resistance was directed against the second half of
the name _Castelvetrano_ is shown by the fact that the initial sound of
the same returned in the substitutive name Caltanisetta.”
“What about the name Caltanisetta itself?” asked the younger.
“That always seemed to me like a pet name of a young woman,” admitted
the elder.
Somewhat later he added: “The name for _Enna_ was also only
a substitutive name. And now it occurs to me that the name
_Castrogiovanni_, which obtruded itself with the aid of a
rationalization, alludes as expressly to _giovane_, young, as the last
name, _Castelvetrano_, to _veteran_.”
The older man believed that he had thus accounted for his forgetting
the name. What the motive was that led the young man to this memory
failure was not investigated.
In some cases one must have recourse to all the fineness of
psychoanalytic technique in order to explain the forgetting of a
name. Those who wish to read an example of such work I refer to a
communication by Professor E. Jones.[8]
I could multiply the examples of name-forgetting and prolong the
discussion very much further if I did not wish to avoid elucidating
here almost all the view-points which will be considered in later
themes. I shall, however, take the liberty of comprehending in a few
sentences the results of the analyses reported here.
The mechanism of forgetting, or rather of losing or temporary
forgetting of a name, consists in the disturbance of the intended
reproduction of the name through a strange stream of thought
unconscious at the time. Between the disturbed name and the disturbing
complex there exists a connection either from the beginning or such
a connection has been formed--perhaps by artificial means--through
superficial (outer) associations.
The self-reference complex (personal, family or professional) proves to
be the most effective of the disturbing complexes.
A name which by virtue of its many meanings belongs to a number of
thought associations (complexes) is frequently disturbed in its
connection to one series of thoughts through a stronger complex
belonging to the other associations.
To avoid the awakening of pain through memory is one of the objects
among the motives of these disturbances.
In general one may distinguish two principal cases of name-forgetting;
when the name itself touches something unpleasant, or when it is
brought into connection with other associations which are influenced by
such effects. So that names can be disturbed on their own account or
on account of their nearer or more remote associative relations in the
reproduction.
A review of these general principles readily convinces us that the
temporary forgetting of a name is observed as the most frequent faulty
action of our mental functions.
However, we are far from having described all the peculiarities of
this phenomenon. I also wish to call attention to the fact that
name-forgetting is extremely contagious. In a conversation between
two persons the mere mention of having forgotten this or that name by
one often suffices to induce the same memory slip in the other. But
wherever the forgetting is induced, the sought for name easily comes to
the surface.
There is also a continuous forgetting of names in which whole chains
of names are withdrawn from memory. If in the course of endeavouring
to discover an escaped name one finds others with which the latter
is intimately connected, it often happens that these new names also
escape. The forgetting thus jumps from one name to another, as if to
demonstrate the existence of a hindrance not to be easily removed.
IV
CHILDHOOD AND CONCEALING MEMORIES
In a second essay[9] I was able to demonstrate the purposive nature
of our memories in an unexpected field. I started with the remarkable
fact that the earliest recollections of a person often seemed to
preserve the unimportant and accidental, whereas (frequently though
not universally!) not a trace is found in the adult memory of the
weighty and affective impressions of this period. As it is known that
the memory exercises a certain selection among the impressions at
its disposal, it would seem logical to suppose that this selection
follows entirely different principles in childhood than at the time
of intellectual maturity. However, close investigation points to the
fact that such an assumption is superfluous. The indifferent childhood
memories owe their existence to a process of displacement. It may be
shown by psychoanalysis that in the reproduction they represent the
substitute for other really significant impressions, whose direct
reproduction is hindered by some resistance. As they do not owe their
existence to their own contents, but to an associative relation of
their contents to another repressed thought, they deserve the title of
“concealing memories,” by which I have designated them.
In the aforementioned essay I only touched upon, but in no way
exhausted, the varieties in the relations and meanings of concealed
memories. In the given example fully analysed I particularly emphasized
a peculiarity in the temporal relation between the concealing memory
and the contents of the memory concealed by it. The content of the
concealing memory in that example belonged to one of the first years
of childhood, while the thoughts represented by it, which remained
practically unconscious, belonged to a later period of the individual
in question. I called this form of displacement a retro-active
or _regressive_ one. Perhaps more often one finds the reversed
relation--that is, an indifferent impression of the most remote period
becomes a concealing memory in consciousness, which simply owes its
existence to an association with an earlier experience, against
whose direct reproduction there are resistances. We would call these
_encroaching_ or _interposing_ concealing memories. What most concerns
the memory lies here chronologically beyond the concealing memory.
Finally, there may be a third possible case, namely, the concealing
memory may be connected with the impression it conceals, not only
through its contents, but also through contiguity of time; this is the
_contemporaneous_ or _contiguous_ concealing memory.
How large a portion of the sum total of our memory belongs to the
category of concealing memories, and what part it plays in various
neurotic hidden processes, these are problems into the value of which I
have neither inquired nor shall I enter here. I am concerned only with
emphasizing the sameness between the forgetting of proper names with
faulty recollection and the formation of concealing memories.
At first sight it would seem that the diversities of both phenomena are
far more striking than their exact analogies. There we deal with proper
names, here with complete impressions experienced either in reality
or in thought; there we deal with a manifest failure of the memory
function, here with a memory act which appears strange to us. Again,
there we are concerned with a momentary disturbance--for the name just
forgotten could have been reproduced correctly a hundred times before,
and will be so again from to-morrow on; here we deal with lasting
possession without a failure, for the indifferent childhood memories
seem to be able to accompany us through a great part of life. In both
these cases the riddle seems to be solved in an entirely different way.
There it is the forgetting, while here it is the remembering which
excites our scientific curiosity.
After deeper reflection one realizes that, although there is a
diversity in the psychic material and in the duration of time of the
two phenomena, yet these are by far outweighed by the conformities
between the two. In both cases we deal with the failure of remembering:
what should be correctly reproduced by the memory fails to appear,
and instead something else comes as a substitute. In the case of
forgetting a name there is no lack of memory function in the form
of name substitution. The formation of a concealing memory depends
on the forgetting of other important impressions. In both cases we
are reminded by an intellectual feeling of the intervention of a
disturbance, which in each case takes a different form. In the case
of forgetting of names we are aware that the substitutive names
are incorrect, while in concealing memories we are surprised that
we have them at all. Hence, if psychologic analysis demonstrates
that the substitutive formation in each case is brought about in
the same manner--that is, through displacement along a superficial
association--we are justified in saying that the diversities in
material, in duration of time, and in the centring of both phenomena
serve to enhance our expectation, that we have discovered something
that is important and of general value. This generality purports that
the stopping and straying of the reproducing function indicates more
often than we suppose that there is an intervention of a prejudicial
factor, a tendency which favours one memory and at the same time works
against another.
The subject of childhood memories appears to me so important and
interesting that I would like to devote to it a few additional remarks
which go beyond the views expressed so far.
How far back into childhood do our memories reach? I am familiar
with some investigations on this question by V. and C. Henri[10] and
Potwin.[11] They assert that such examinations show wide individual
variations, inasmuch as some trace their first reminiscences to
the sixth month of life, while others can recall nothing of their
lives before the end of the sixth or even the eighth year. But what
connection is there between these variations in the behaviour of
childhood reminiscences, and what signification may be ascribed to
them? It seems that it is not enough to procure the material for this
question by simple inquiry, but it must later be subjected to a study
in which the person furnishing the information must participate.
I believe we accept too indifferently the fact of infantile
amnesia--that is, the failure of memory for the first years of our
lives--and fail to find in it a strange riddle. We forget of what
great intellectual accomplishments and of what complicated emotions
a child of four years is capable. We really ought to wonder why the
memory of later years has, as a rule, retained so little of these
psychic processes, especially as we have every reason for assuming that
these same forgotten childhood activities have not glided off without
leaving a trace in the development of the person, but that they have
left a definite influence for all future time. Yet in spite of this
unparalleled effectiveness they were forgotten! This would suggest that
there are particularly formed conditions of memory (in the sense of
conscious reproduction) which have thus far eluded our knowledge. It
is quite possible that the forgetting of childhood may give us the key
to the understanding of those amnesias which, according to our newer
studies, lie at the basis of the formation of all neurotic symptoms.
Of these retained childhood reminiscences, some appear to us readily
comprehensible, while others seem strange or unintelligible. It is not
difficult to correct certain errors in regard to both kinds. If the
retained reminiscences of a person are subjected to an analytic test,
it can be readily ascertained that a guarantee for their correctness
does not exist. Some of the memory pictures are surely falsified and
incomplete, or displaced in point of time and place. The assertions of
persons examined that their first memories reach back perhaps to their
second year are evidently unreliable. Motives can soon be discovered
which explain the disfigurement and the displacement of these
experiences, but they also demonstrate that these memory lapses are not
the result of a mere unreliable memory. Powerful forces from a later
period have moulded the memory capacity of our infantile experiences,
and it is probably due to these same forces that the understanding of
our childhood is generally so very strange to us.
The recollection of adults, as is known, proceeds through different
psychic material. Some recall by means of visual pictures--their
memories are of a visual character; other individuals can scarcely
reproduce in memory the most paltry sketch of an experience; we
call such persons “_auditifs_” and “_moteurs_” in contrast to the
“_visuels_,” terms proposed by Charcot. These differences vanish
in dreams; all our dreams are preponderatingly visual. But this
development is also found in the childhood memories; the latter are
plastic and visual, even in those people whose later memory lacks the
visual element. The visual memory, therefore, preserves the type of
the infantile recollections. Only my earliest childhood memories are
of a visual character; they represent plastically depicted scenes,
comparable only to stage settings.
In these scenes of childhood, whether they prove true or false, one
usually sees his own childish person both in contour and dress. This
circumstance must excite our wonder, for adults do not see their
own persons in their recollections of later experiences.[12] It is,
moreover, against our experiences to assume that the child’s attention
during his experiences is centred on himself rather than exclusively
on outside impressions. Various sources force us to assume that the
so-called earliest childhood recollections are not true memory traces
but later elaborations of the same, elaborations which might have been
subjected to the influences of many later psychic forces. Thus the
“childhood reminiscences” of individuals altogether advance to the
signification of “concealing memories,” and thereby form a noteworthy
analogy to the childhood reminiscences as laid down in the legends and
myths of nations.
Whoever has examined mentally a number of persons by the method of
psychoanalysis must have gathered in this work numerous examples
of concealing memories of every description. However, owing to
the previously discussed nature of the relations of the childhood
reminiscences to later life, it becomes extraordinarily difficult
to report such examples. For, in order to attach the value of the
concealing memory to an infantile reminiscence, it would be often
necessary to present the entire life-history of the person concerned.
Only seldom is it possible, as in the following good example, to take
out from its context and report a single childhood memory.
A twenty-four-year-old man preserved the following picture from the
fifth year of his life: In the garden of a summer-house he sat on a
stool next to his aunt, who was engaged in teaching him the alphabet.
He found difficulty in distinguishing the letter _m_ from _n_, and he
begged his aunt to tell him how to tell one from the other. His aunt
called his attention to the fact that the letter _m_ had one whole
portion (a stroke) more than the letter _n_. There was no reason to
dispute the reliability of this childhood recollection; its meaning,
however, was discovered only later, when it showed itself to be the
symbolic representation of another boyish inquisitiveness. For just as
he wanted to know the difference between _m_ and _n_ at that time,
so he concerned himself later about the difference between boy and
girl, and he would have been willing that just this aunt should be his
teacher. He also discovered that the difference was a similar one; that
the boy again had one whole portion more than the girl, and at the time
of this recognition his memory awoke to the corresponding childish
inquisitiveness.
I would like to show by one more example the sense that may be gained
by a childhood reminiscence through analytic work, although it may
seem to contain no sense before. In my forty-third year, when I began
to interest myself in what remained in my memory of my own childhood,
a scene struck me which for a long time, as I afterwards believed,
had repeatedly come to consciousness, and which through reliable
identification could be traced to a period before the completion of my
third year. I saw myself in front of a chest, the door of which was
held open by my half-brother, twenty years my senior. I stood there
demanding something and screaming; my mother, pretty and slender, then
suddenly entered the room, as if returning from the street.
In these words I formulated this scene so vividly seen, which, however,
furnished no other clue. Whether my brother wished to open or lock the
chest (in the first explanation it was a “cupboard”), why I cried,
and what bearing the arrival of my mother had, all these questions
were dim to me; I was tempted to explain to myself that it dealt with
the memory of a hoax by my older brother, which was interrupted by my
mother. Such misunderstandings of childhood scenes retained in memory
are not uncommon; we recall a situation, but it is not centralized;
we do not know on which of the elements to place the psychic accent.
Analytic effort led me to an entirely unexpected solution of the
picture. I missed my mother and began to suspect that she was locked in
this cupboard or chest, and therefore demanded that my brother should
unlock it. As he obliged me, and I became convinced that she was not in
the chest, I began to cry; this is the moment firmly retained in the
memory, which was directly followed by the appearance of my mother, who
appeased my worry and anxiety.
But how did the child get the idea of looking for the absent mother
in the chest? Dreams which occurred at the same time pointed dimly to
a nurse, concerning whom other reminiscences were retained; as, for
example, that she conscientiously urged me to deliver to her the small
coins which I received as gifts, a detail which in itself may lay claim
to the value of a concealing memory for later things. I then concluded
to facilitate for myself this time the task of interpretation, and
asked my now aged mother about that nurse. I found out all sorts of
things, among others the fact that this shrewd but dishonest person had
committed extensive robberies during the confinement of my mother, and
that my half-brother was instrumental in bringing her to justice.
This information gave me the key to the scene from childhood, as
through a sort of inspiration. The sudden disappearance of the nurse
was not a matter of indifference to me; I had just asked this brother
where she was, probably because I had noticed that he had played a
part in her disappearance, and he, evasive and witty as he is to this
day, answered that she was “boxed in.” I understood this answer in
the childish way, but asked no more, as there was nothing else to be
discovered. When my mother left me shortly thereafter I suspected that
the naughty brother had treated her in the same way as he did the
nurse, and therefore pressed him to open the chest.
I also understand now why in the translation of the visual childhood
scene my mother’s slenderness was accentuated; she must have struck
me as being newly restored. I am two and a half years older than the
sister born at that time, and when I was three years of age I was
separated from my half-brother.
V
MISTAKES IN SPEECH
Although the ordinary material of speech of our mother-tongue seems to
be guarded against forgetting, its application, however, more often
succumbs to another disturbance which is familiar to us as “slips
of the tongue.” What we observe in normal persons as slips of the
tongue gives the same impression as the first step of the so-called
“paraphasias” which manifest themselves under pathologic conditions.
I am in the exceptional position of being about to refer to a previous
work on the subject. In the year 1895 Meringer and C. Mayer published
a study on _Mistakes in Speech and Reading_, with whose view-points I
do not agree. One of the authors, who is the spokesman in the text,
is a philologist actuated by a linguistic interest to examine the
rules governing those slips. He hoped to deduce from these rules the
existence “of a definite psychic mechanism,” “whereby the sounds of a
word, of a sentence, and even the words themselves, would be associated
and connected with one another in a quite peculiar manner” (p. 10).
The authors grouped the examples of speech-mistakes collected by
them first according to purely descriptive view-points, such as
interchangings (_e.g._, the Milo of Venus instead of the Venus of
Milo), as anticipations (_e.g._, the shoes made her sorft ... the shoes
made her feet sore), as echoes and post positions, as contaminations
(_e.g._, “I will soon him home,” instead of “I will soon go home and
I will see him”), and substitutions (_e.g._, “he entrusted his money
to a savings crank,” instead of “a savings bank”).[13] Besides these
principal categories there are some others of lesser importance (or
of lesser significance for our purpose). In this grouping it makes no
difference whether the transposition, disfigurement, fusion, etc.,
affects single sounds of the word or syllables, or whole words of the
concerned sentence.
To explain the various forms of mistakes in speech, Meringer assumes a
varied psychic value of phonetics. As soon as the innervation affects
the first syllable of a word, or the first word of a sentence, the
stimulating process immediately strikes the succeeding sounds, and the
following words, and in so far as these innervations are synchronous
they may effect some changes in one another. The stimulus of the
psychically more intensive sound “rings” before or continues echoing,
and thus disturbs the less important process of innervation. It is
necessary therefore to determine which are the most important sounds
of a word. Meringer states: “If one wishes to know which sound of a
word possesses the greatest intensity he should examine himself while
searching for a forgotten word, for example, a name. That which first
returns to consciousness invariably had the greatest intensity prior to
the forgetting (p. 160). Thus the most important sounds are the initial
sound of the root-syllable and the initial sound of the word itself, as
well as one or another of the accentuated vowels” (p. 162).
Here I cannot help voicing a contradiction. Whether or not the initial
sound of the name belongs to the most important elements of the word,
it is surely not true that in the case of the forgetting of the word
it first returns to consciousness; the above rule is therefore of no
use. When we observe ourselves during the search for a forgotten name
we are comparatively often forced to express the opinion that it begins
with a certain letter. This conviction proves to be as often unfounded
as founded. Indeed, I would even go so far as to assert that in the
majority of cases one reproduces a false initial sound. Also in our
example _Signorelli_ the substitutive name lacked the initial sound,
and the principal syllables were lost; on the other hand, the less
important pair of syllables _elli_ returned to consciousness in the
substitutive name _Botticelli_.
How little substitutive names respect the initial sound of the lost
names may be learned from the following case. One day I found it
impossible to recall the name of the small country whose capital is
Monte Carlo. The substitutive names were as follows: _Piedmont_,
_Albania_, _Montevideo_, _Colico_. In place of Albania _Montenegro_
soon appeared, and then it struck me that the syllable _Mont_
(pronounced _Mon_) occurred in all but the last of the substitutive
names. It thus became easy for me to find from the name of Prince
Albert the forgotten name _Monaco_. _Colico_ practically imitates the
syllabic sequence and rhythm of the forgotten name.
If we admit the conjecture that a mechanism similar to that pointed
out in the forgetting of names may also play a part in the phenomena
of speech-blunders, we are then led to a better founded judgment of
cases of speech-blunders. The speech disturbance which manifests
itself as a speech-blunder may in the first place be caused by the
influence of another component of the same speech, that is, through a
fore-sound or an echo, or through another meaning within the sentence
or context which differs from that which the speaker wishes to utter.
In the second place, however, the disturbance could be brought about
analogously to the process in the case _Signorelli_, through influences
outside this word, sentence or context, from elements which we did not
intend to express, and of whose incitement we became conscious only
through the disturbance. In both modes of origin of the mistake in
speech the common element lies in the simultaneity of the stimulus,
while the differentiating elements lie in the arrangement within or
without the same sentence or context.
The difference does not at first appear as wide as when it is taken
into consideration in certain conclusions drawn from the symptomatology
of speech-mistakes. It is clear, however, that only in the first case
is there a prospect of drawing conclusions from the manifestations of
speech-blunders concerning a mechanism which connects together sounds
and words for the reciprocal influence of their articulation; that is,
conclusions such as the philologist hopes to gain from the study of
speech-blunders. In the case of disturbance through influence outside
of the same sentence or context, it would before all be a question of
becoming acquainted with the disturbing elements, and then the question
would arise whether the mechanism of this disturbance cannot also
suggest the probable laws of the formation of speech.
We cannot maintain that Meringer and Mayer have overlooked the
possibility of speech disturbance through “complicated psychic
influences,” that is, through elements outside of the same word or
sentence or the same sequence of words. Indeed, they must have observed
that the theory of the psychic variation of sounds applies, strictly
speaking, only to the explanation of sound disturbances as well as to
fore-sounds and after-sounds. Where the word disturbances cannot be
reduced to sound disturbances, as, for example, in the substitutions
and contaminations of words, they, too, have without hesitation sought
the cause of the mistake in speech outside of the intended context,
and proved this state of affairs by means of fitting examples.[14]
According to the author’s own understanding it is some similarity
between a certain word in the intended sentence and some other not
intended, which allows the latter to assert itself in consciousness
by causing a disfigurement, a composition, or a compromise formation
(contamination).
Now, in my work on the _Interpretation of Dreams_ I have shown the
part played by the process of condensation in the origin of the
so-called manifest contents of the dream from the latent thoughts of
the dream. Any similarity of objects or of word-presentations between
two elements of the unconscious material is taken as a cause for the
formation of a third, which is a composite or compromise formation.
This element represents both components in the dream content, and
in view of this origin it is frequently endowed with numerous
contradictory individual determinants. The formation of substitutions
and contaminations in speech-mistakes is, therefore, the beginning of
that work of condensation which we find taking a most active part in
the construction of the dream.
In a small essay destined for the general reader,[15] Meringer
advanced a theory of very practical significance for certain cases of
interchanging of words, especially for such cases where one word is
substituted by another of opposite meaning. He says: “We may still
recall the manner in which the President of the Austrian House of
Deputies opened the session some time ago: ‘Honoured Sirs! I announce
the presence of so and so many gentlemen, and therefore declare
the session as “closed”’!” The general merriment first attracted
his attention and he corrected his mistake. In the present case
the probable explanation is that the President wished himself in a
position to close this session, from which he had little good to
expect, and the thought broke through at least partially--a frequent
manifestation--resulting in his use of “closed” in place of “opened,”
that is, the opposite of the statement intended. Numerous observations
have taught me, however, that we frequently interchange contrasting
words; they are already associated in our speech consciousness; they
lie very close together and are easily incorrectly evoked.
Still, not in all cases of contrast substitution is it so simple
as in the example of the President as to appear plausible that the
speech-mistake occurs merely as a contradiction which arises in the
inner thought of the speaker opposing the sentence uttered. We have
found the analogous mechanism in the analysis of the example _aliquis_;
there the inner contradiction asserts itself in the form of forgetting
a word instead of a substitution through its opposite. But in order to
adjust the difference we may remark that the little word _aliquis_ is
incapable of a contrast similar to “closing” and “opening,” and that
the word “opening” cannot be subject to forgetting on account of its
being a common component of speech.
Having been shown by the last examples of Meringer and Mayer that
speech disturbance may be caused through the influence of fore-sounds,
after-sounds, words from the same sentence that were intended for
expression, as well as through the effect of words outside the sentence
intended, _the stimulus of which would otherwise not have been
suspected_, we shall next wish to discover whether we can definitely
separate the two classes of mistakes in speech, and how we can
distinguish the example of the one from a case of the other class.
But at this stage of the discussion we must also think of the
assertions of Wundt, who deals with the manifestations of
speech-mistakes in his recent work on the development of language.[16]
Psychic influences, according to Wundt, never lack in these as well as
in other phenomena related to them. “The uninhibited stream of _sound_
and _word associations_ stimulated by spoken sounds belongs here in the
first place as a positive determinant. This is supported as a negative
factor by the relaxation or suppression of the influences of the will
which inhibit this stream, and by the active attention which is here a
function of volition. Whether that play of association manifests itself
in the fact that a coming sound is anticipated or a preceding sound
reproduced, or whether a familiar practised sound becomes intercalated
between others, or finally, whether it manifests itself in the fact
that altogether different sounds associatively related to the spoken
sounds act upon these--all these questions designate only differences
in the direction, and at most in the play of the occurring associations
but not in the general nature of the same. In some cases it may be
also doubtful to which form a certain disturbance may be attributed,
or whether it would not be more correct to refer such disturbance
to a concurrence of many motives, _following the principle of the
complication of causes_[17] (cf. pp. 380-81).”
I consider these observations of Wundt as absolutely justified and very
instructive. Perhaps we could emphasize with even greater firmness
than Wundt that the positive factor favouring mistakes in speech (the
uninhibited stream of associations, and its negative, the relaxation of
the inhibiting attention) regularly attain synchronous action, so that
both factors become only different determinants of the same process.
With the relaxation, or, more unequivocally expressed, _through_ this
relaxation, of the inhibiting attention the uninhibited stream of
associations becomes active.
Among the examples of the mistakes in speech collected by me I can
scarcely find one in which I would be obliged to attribute the speech
disturbance simply and solely to what Wundt calls “contact effect
of sound.” Almost invariably I discover besides this a disturbing
influence of something outside of the intended speech. The disturbing
element is either a single unconscious thought, which comes to light
through the speech-blunder, and can only be brought to consciousness
through a searching analysis, or it is a more general psychic motive,
which directs itself against the entire speech.
(_Example_ _a_) Seeing my daughter make an unpleasant face while biting
into an apple, I wished to quote the following couplet:--
“The ape he is a funny sight,
When in the apple he takes a bite.”
But I began: “The apel....” This seems to be a contamination of “ape”
and “apple” (compromise formation), or it may be also conceived as
an anticipation of the prepared “apple.” The true state of affairs,
however, was this: I began the quotation once before, and made no
mistake the first time. I made the mistake only during the repetition,
which was necessary because my daughter, having been distracted from
another side, did not listen to me. This repetition with the added
impatience to disburden myself of the sentence I must include in
the motivation of the speech-blunder, which represented itself as a
function of condensation.
(_b_) My daughter said, “I wrote to Mrs. Schresinger.” The woman’s name
was Schlesinger. This speech-blunder may depend on the tendency to
facilitate articulation. I must state, however, that this mistake was
made by my daughter a few moments after I had said _apel_ instead of
_ape_. Mistakes in speech are in a great measure contagious; a similar
peculiarity was noticed by Meringer and Mayer in the forgetting of
names. I know of no reason for this psychic contagiousness.
(_c_) “I _sut_ up like a pocket-knife,” said a patient in the beginning
of treatment, instead of “I _shut_ up.” This suggests a difficulty
of articulation which may serve as an excuse for the interchanging
of sounds. When her attention was called to the speech-blunder, she
promptly replied, “Yes, that happened because you said ‘_earnesht_’
instead of ‘_earnest_.’” As a matter of fact I received her with the
remark, “To-day we shall be in earnest” (because it was the last hour
before her discharge from treatment), and I jokingly changed the word
into _earnesht_. In the course of the hour she repeatedly made mistakes
in speech, and I finally observed that it was not only because she
imitated me but because she had a special reason in her unconscious to
linger at the word earnest (Ernst) as a name.[18]
(_d_) A woman, speaking about a game invented by her children and
called by them “the man in the box,” said “the manx in the boc.”
I could readily understand her mistake. It was while analysing
her dream, in which her husband is depicted as very generous in
money matters--just the reverse of reality--that she made this
speech-blunder. The day before she had asked for a new set of furs,
which her husband denied her, claiming that he could not afford to
spend so much money. She upbraided him for his stinginess, “for putting
away so much into the strong-box,” and mentioned a friend whose husband
has not nearly his income, and yet he presented his wife with a _mink_
coat for her birthday. The mistake is now comprehensible. The word
_manx_ (_manks_) reduces itself to the “minks” which she longs for, and
the _box_ refers to her husband’s stinginess.
(_e_) A similar mechanism is shown in the mistake of another patient
whose memory deserted her in the midst of a long-forgotten childish
reminiscence. Her memory failed to inform her on what part of the body
the prying and lustful hand of another had touched her. Soon thereafter
she visited one of her friends, with whom she discussed summer homes.
Asked where her cottage in M. was located, she answered, “Near the
_mountain loin_” instead of “_mountain lane_.”
(_f_) Another patient, whom I asked at the end of her visit how her
uncle was, answered: “I don’t know, I only see him now _in flagranti_.”
The following day she said, “I am really ashamed of myself for having
given you yesterday such a stupid answer. Naturally you must have
thought me a very uneducated person who always mistakes the meaning
of foreign words. I wished to say _en passant_.” We did not know at
the time where she got the incorrectly used foreign words, but during
the same session she reproduced a reminiscence as a continuation of
the theme from the previous day, in which being caught _in flagranti_
played the principal part. The mistake of the previous day had
therefore anticipated the recollection, which at that time had not yet
become conscious.
(_g_) In discussing her summer plans, a patient said, “I shall remain
most of the summer in _Elberlon_.” She noted her mistake, and asked me
to analyse it. The associations to _Elberlon_ elicited: seashore on
the Jersey coast--summer resort--vacation travelling. This recalled
travelling in Europe with her cousin, a topic which we had discussed
the day before during the analysis of a dream. The dream dealt with
her dislike for this cousin, and she admitted that it was mainly due
to the fact that the latter was the favourite of the man whom they met
together while travelling abroad. During the dream analysis she could
not recall the name of the city in which they met this man, and I did
not make any effort at the time to bring it to her consciousness, as we
were engrossed in a totally different problem. When asked to focus her
attention again on Elberlon and reproduce her associations, she said,
“It brings to mind _Elberlawn_--_lawn_--_field_--and _Elberfield_.”
_Elberfeld_ was the lost name of the city in Germany. Here the mistake
served to bring to consciousness in a concealed manner a memory which
was connected with a painful feeling.
(_h_) A woman said to me, “If you wish to buy a carpet, go to
_Merchant_ (Kaufmann) in _Matthew Street_ (Mathäusgasse).” I repeated,
“Then at Matthew’s--I mean at Merchant’s----” It would seem that my
repeating of one name in place of the other was simply the result of
distraction. The woman’s remark really did distract me, as she turned
my attention to something else much more vital to me than carpet. In
Matthew Street stands the house in which my wife lived as a bride.
The entrance to the house was in another street, and now I noticed
that I had forgotten its name and could only recall it through a
roundabout method. The name Matthew, which kept my attention, is thus
a substitutive name for the forgotten name of the street. It is more
suitable than the name Merchant, for Matthew is exclusively the name of
a person, while Merchant is not. The forgotten street, too, bears the
name of a person: _Radetzky_.
(_i_) A patient consulted me for the first time, and from her history
it became apparent that the cause of her nervousness was largely an
unhappy married life. Without any encouragement she went into details
about her marital troubles. She had not lived with her husband for
about six months, and she saw him last at the theatre, when she saw
the play _Officer 606_. I called her attention to the mistake, and she
immediately corrected herself, saying that she meant to say _Officer
666_ (the name of a recent popular play). I decided to find out the
reason for the mistake, and as the patient came to me for analytic
treatment, I discovered that the immediate cause of the rupture between
herself and husband was the disease which is treated by “606.”[19]
(_k_) Before calling on me a patient telephoned for an appointment,
and also wished to be informed about my consultation fee. He was told
that the first consultation was ten dollars; after the examination was
over he again asked what he was to pay, and added: “I don’t like to owe
money to any one, especially to doctors; I prefer to pay right away.”
Instead of _pay_ he said _play_. His last voluntary remarks and his
mistake put me on my guard, but after a few more uncalled-for remarks
he set me at ease by taking money from his pocket. He counted four
paper dollars and was very chagrined and surprised because he had no
more money with him, and promised to send me a cheque for the balance.
I was sure that his mistake betrayed him, that he was only _playing_
with me, but there was nothing to be done. At the end of a few weeks I
sent him a bill for the balance, and the letter was returned to me by
the post-office authorities marked “Not found.”
(_l_) Miss X. spoke very warmly of Mr. Y., which was rather strange, as
before this she had always expressed her indifference, not to say her
contempt, for him. On being asked about this sudden change of heart she
said: “I really never had anything against him; he was always nice to
me, but I never gave him the chance to cultivate my acquaintance.” She
said “cuptivate.” This neologism was a contamination of _cultivate_ and
_captivate_, and foretold the coming betrothal.
(_m_) An illustration of the mechanisms of contamination and
condensation will be found in the following _lapsus linguæ_. Speaking
of Miss Z., Miss W. depicted her as a very “straitlaced” person who
was not given to levities, etc. Miss X. thereupon remarked: “Yes,
that is a very characteristic description, she always appealed to me
as very ‘_straicet-brazed_.’” Here the mistake resolved itself into
_straitlaced_ and _brazen-faced_, which corresponded to Miss W.’s
opinion of Miss Z.
(_n_) I shall quote a number of examples from a paper by my colleague,
Dr. W. Stekel, which appeared in the Berlin _Tageblatt_ of January,
1904, entitled “Unconscious Confessions.”
“An unpleasant trick of my unpleasant thoughts was revealed by the
following example: To begin with, I may state that in my capacity
as a physician I never consider my remuneration, but always keep in
view the patient’s interest only: this goes without saying. I was
visiting a patient who was convalescing from a serious illness. We
had passed through hard days and nights. I was happy to find her
improved, and I portrayed to her the pleasures of a sojourn in Abbazia,
concluding with: ‘If, as I hope, you will _not_ soon leave your bed.’
This obviously came from an unconscious selfish motive, to be able
to continue treating this wealthy patient, a wish which is entirely
foreign to my waking consciousness, and which I would reject with
indignation.”
(_o_) Another example (Dr. W. Stekel): “My wife engaged a French
governess for the afternoons, and later, coming to a satisfactory
agreement, wished to retain her testimonials. The governess begged
to be allowed to keep them, saying, ‘Je cherche encore pour les
_après-midis_--pardons, pour les _avant-midis_.’ She apparently
intended to seek another place which would perhaps offer more
profitable arrangements--an intention which she carried out.”
(_p_) I was to give a lecture to a woman. Her husband, upon whose
request this was done, stood behind the door listening. At the end of
my sermonizing, which had made a visible impression, I said: “Good-bye,
sir!” To the experienced person I thus betrayed the fact that the words
were directed towards the husband; that I had spoken to oblige him.
(_q_) Dr. Stekel reports about himself that he had under treatment
at the same time two patients from Triest, each of whom he always
addressed incorrectly. “Good morning, Mr. Peloni!” he would say to
Askoli, and to Peloni, “Good morning, Mr. Askoli!” He was at first
inclined to attribute no deeper motive to this mistake, but to explain
it through a number of similarities in both persons. However, he easily
convinced himself that here the interchange of names bespoke a sort
of boast--that is, he was acquainting each of his Italian patients
with the fact that neither was the only resident of Triest who came to
Vienna in search of his medical advice.
(_r_) Two women stopped in front of a drug-store, and one said to her
companion, “If you will wait a few _moments_ I’ll soon be back,” but
she said _movements_ instead. She was on her way to buy some castoria
for her child.
(_s_) Mr. L., who is fonder of being called on than of calling, spoke
to me through the telephone from a nearby summer resort. He wanted
to know when I would pay him a visit. I reminded him that it was his
turn to visit me, and called his attention to the fact that, as he was
the happy possessor of an automobile, it would be easier for him to
call on me. (We were at different summer resorts, separated by about
one half-hour’s railway trip.) He gladly promised to call, and asked:
“How about Labour Day (September 1st), will it be convenient for you?”
When I answered affirmatively, he said, “Very well, then, put me down
for _Election_ Day” (November). His mistake was quite plain. He likes
to visit me, but it was inconvenient to travel so far. In November we
would both be in the city. My analysis proved correct.
(_t_) A friend described to me a nervous patient, and wished to know
whether I could benefit him. I remarked: “I believe that in time I can
remove all his symptoms by psychoanalysis, because it is a durable
case,” wishing to say “curable”!
(_u_) I repeatedly addressed my patient as Mrs. Smith, her married
daughter’s name, when her real name is Mrs. James. My attention having
been called to it, I soon discovered that I had another patient of the
same name who refused to pay for the treatment. Mrs. Smith was also my
patient and paid her bills promptly.
(_v_) A _lapsus linguæ_ sometimes stands for a particular
characteristic. A young woman, who is the domineering spirit in her
home, said of her ailing husband that he had consulted the doctor about
a wholesome diet for himself, and then added: “The doctor said that
diet has nothing to do with his ailments, and that he can eat and drink
what _I_ want.”
(_w_) I cannot omit this excellent and instructive example, although,
according to my authority, it is about twenty years old. A lady once
expressed herself in society--the very words show that they were
uttered with fervour and under the pressure of a great many secret
emotions: “Yes, a woman must be pretty if she is to please the men. A
man is much better off. As long as he has _five_ straight limbs, he
needs no more!”
This example affords us a good insight into the intimate mechanisms of
a mistake in speech by means of condensation and contamination (cf.
p. 72). It is quite obvious that we have here a fusion of two similar
modes of expression:--
“As long as he has his four _straight limbs_.”
“As long as he has all his _five senses_.”
Or the term “straight” may be the common element of the two intended
expressions:--
“As long as he has his _straight_ limbs.”
“All five should be _straight_.”
It may also be assumed that both modes of expression--viz., those of
the five senses and those of the straight five--have co-operated to
introduce into the sentence about the straight limbs first a number and
then the mysterious five instead of the simple four. But this fusion
surely would not have succeeded if it had not expressed good sense in
the form resulting from the mistake; if it had not expressed a cynical
truth which, naturally, could not be uttered unconcealed, coming as it
did from a woman.
Finally, we shall not hesitate to call attention to the fact that
the woman’s saying, following its wording, could just as well be
an excellent witticism as a jocose speech-blunder. It is simply a
question whether she uttered these words with conscious or unconscious
intention. The behaviour of the speaker in this case certainly speaks
against the conscious intention, and thus excludes wit.
(_x_) Owing to similarity of material, I add here another case of
speech-blunder, the interpretation of which requires less skill. A
professor of anatomy strove to explain the nostril, which, as is known,
is a very difficult anatomical structure. To his question whether
his audience grasped his ideas he received an affirmative reply. The
professor, known for his self-esteem, thereupon remarked: “I can
hardly believe this, for the number of people who understand the
nostril, even in a city of millions like Vienna, can be counted _on a
finger_--pardon me, I meant to say _on the fingers_ of a hand.”
(_y_) I am indebted to Dr. Alf. Robitsek, of Vienna, for calling my
attention to two speech-blunders from an old French author, which I
shall reproduce in the original.
Brantôme (1527-1614), _Vies des Dames galantes_, Discours second: “Si
ay-je cogneu une très belle et honneste dame de par le monde, qui,
devisant avec un honneste gentilhomme de la cour des affaires de la
guerre durant ces civiles, elle luy dit: ‘J’ay ouy dire que le roy a
faiet rompre tous les c---- de ce pays là.’ Elle vouloit dire le ponts.
Pensez que, venant de coucher d’avec son mary, ou songeant à son amant,
elle avoit encor ce nom frais en la bouche; et le gentilhomme s’en
eschauffer en amours d’elle pour ce mot.
“Une autre dame que j’ai cogneue, entretenant une autre grand dame
plus qu’elle, et luy louant et exaltant ses beautez, elle luy dit
après: ‘Non, madame, ce que je vous en dis, ce n’est point pour vous
_adultérer_’; voulant dire _adulater_, comme elle le rhabilla ainsi:
pensez qu’elle songeoit à adultérer.”
In the psychotherapeutic procedure which I employ in the solution and
removal of neurotic symptoms, I am often confronted with the task
of discovering from the accidental utterances and fancies of the
patient the thought contents, which, though striving for concealment,
nevertheless unintentionally betray themselves. In doing this the
mistakes often perform the most valuable service, as I can show through
most convincing and still most singular examples.
For example, patients speak of an aunt and later, without noting the
mistake, call her “my mother,” or designate a husband as a “brother.”
In this way they attract my attention to the fact that they have
“identified” these persons with each other, that they have placed them
in the same category, which for their emotional life signifies the
recurrence of the same type. Or, a young man of twenty years presents
himself during my office hours with these words: “I am the father of
N. N., whom you have treated--pardon me, I mean the brother; why, he
is four years older than I.” I understand through this mistake that
he wishes to express that, like the brother, he, too, is ill through
the fault of the father; like his brother, he wishes to be cured, but
that the father is the one most in need of treatment. At other times an
unusual arrangement of words, or a forced expression, is sufficient to
disclose in the speech of the patient the participation of a repressed
thought having a different motive.
Hence, in coarse as well as in finer speech disturbances, which may,
nevertheless, be subsumed as “speech-blunders,” I find that it is
not the contact effects of the sound, but the thoughts outside the
intended speech, which determine the origin of the speech-blunder, and
also suffice to explain the newly formed mistakes in speech. I do not
doubt the laws whereby the sounds produce changes upon one another;
but they alone do not appear to me sufficiently forcible to mar the
correct execution of speech. In those cases which I have studied
and investigated more closely they merely represent the preformed
mechanism, which is conveniently utilized by a more remote psychic
motive. The latter does not, however, form a part of the sphere of
influence of these sound relations. _In a large number of substitutions
caused by mistakes in talking there is an entire absence of such
phonetic laws._ In this respect I am in full accord with Wundt, who
likewise assumes that the conditions underlying speech-blunders are
complex and go far beyond the contact effect of the sounds.
If I accept as certain “these more remote psychic influences,”
following Wundt’s expression, there is still nothing to detain me from
conceding also that in accelerated speech, with a certain amount of
diverted attention, the causes of speech-blunder may be easily limited
to the definite law of Meringer and Mayer. However, in a number of
examples gathered by these authors a more complicated solution is
quite apparent.
In some forms of speech-blunders we may assume that the disturbing
factor is the result of striking against obscene words and meanings.
The purposive disfigurement and distortion of words and phrases,
which is so popular with vulgar persons, aims at nothing else but the
employing of a harmless motive as a reminder of the obscene, and this
sport is so frequent that it would not be at all remarkable if it
appeared unintentionally and contrary to the will.
I trust that the readers will not depreciate the value of these
interpretations, for which there is no proof, and of these examples
which I have myself collected and explained by means of analysis. But
if secretly I still cherish the expectation that even the apparently
simple cases of speech-blunder will be traced to a disturbance caused
by a half-repressed idea outside of the intended context, I am tempted
to it by a noteworthy observation of Meringer. This author asserts that
it is remarkable that nobody wishes to admit having made a mistake in
speaking. There are many intelligent and honest people who are offended
if we tell them that they made a mistake in speaking. I would not risk
making this assertion as general as does Meringer, using the term
“nobody.” But the emotional trace which clings to the demonstration
of the mistake, which manifestly belongs to the nature of shame, has
its significance. It may be classed with the anger displayed at the
inability to recall a forgotten name, and with the surprise at the
tenaciousness of an apparently indifferent memory, and it invariably
points to the participation of a motive in the formation of the
disturbance.
The distorting of names amounts to an insult when done intentionally,
and could have the same significance in a whole series of cases
where it appears as unintentional speech-blunders. The person who,
according to Mayer’s report, once said “Freuder” instead of “Freud,”
because shortly before he pronounced the name “Breuer” (p. 38), and
who at another time spoke of the “Freuer-Breudian” method (p. 28), was
certainly not particularly enthusiastic over this method. Later, under
the mistakes in writing, I shall report a case of name disfigurement
which certainly admits of no other explanation.[20]
As a disturbing element in these cases there is an intermingling of a
criticism which must be omitted, because at the time being it does not
correspond to the intention of the speaker.
Or it may be just the reverse; the substituted name, or the adoption
of the strange name, signifies an appreciation of the same. The
identification which is brought about by the mistake is equivalent
to a recognition which for the moment must remain in the background.
An experience of this kind from his schooldays is related by Dr.
Ferenczi:--
“While in my first year at college I was obliged to recite a poem
before the whole class. It was the first experience of the kind in my
life, but I was well prepared. As soon as I began my recitation I was
dismayed at being disturbed by an outburst of laughter. The professor
later explained to me this strange reception. I started by giving the
title ‘From the Distance,’ which was correct, but instead of giving the
name of the real author, I mentioned--my own. The name of the poet is
Alexander Petöfi. The identity of the first name with my own favoured
the interchange of names, but the real reason was surely the fact that
I identified myself at that time with the celebrated poet-hero. Even
consciously I entertained for him a love and respect which verged on
adoration. The whole ambition-complex hides itself under this faulty
action.”
A similar identification was reported to me concerning a young
physician who timidly and reverently introduced himself to the
celebrated Virchow with the following words: “I am Dr. Virchow.”
The surprised professor turned to him and asked, “Is your name also
Virchow?” I do not know how the ambitious young man justified his
speech-blunder, whether he thought of the charming excuse that he
imagined himself so insignificant next to this big man that his own
name slipped from him, or whether he had the courage to admit that he
hoped that he, too, would some day be as great a man as Virchow, and
that the professor should therefore not treat him in too disparaging a
manner. One or both of these thoughts may have put this young man in an
embarrassing position during the introduction.
Owing to very personal motives I must leave it undecided whether a
similar interpretation may also apply in the case to be cited. At the
International Congress in Amsterdam, in 1907, my theories of hysteria
were the subject of a lively discussion. One of my most violent
opponents, in his diatribe against me, repeatedly made mistakes in
speech in such a manner that he put himself in my place and spoke in
my name. He said, for example, “Breuer and I, as is well known, have
demonstrated,” etc., when he wished to say “Breuer and Freud.” The name
of this opponent does not show the slightest sound similarity to my
own. From this example, as well as from other cases of interchanging
names in speech-blunders, we are reminded of the fact that the
speech-blunder can fully forego the facility afforded to it through
similar sounds, and can achieve its purpose if only supported in
content by concealed relations.
In other and more significant cases it is a self-criticism, an
internal contradiction against one’s own utterance, which causes the
speech-blunder, and even forces a contrasting substitution for the one
intended. We then observe with surprise how the wording of an assertion
removes the purpose of the same, and how the error in speech lays bare
the inner dishonesty. Here the _lapsus linguæ_ becomes a mimicking form
of expression, often, indeed, for the expression of what one does not
wish to say. It is thus a means of self-betrayal.
Brill relates: “I had recently been consulted by a woman who showed
many paranoid trends, and as she had no relatives who could co-operate
with me, I urged her to enter a State hospital as a voluntary patient.
She was quite willing to do so, but on the following day she told
me that her friends with whom she leased an apartment objected to
her going to a hospital, as it would interfere with their plans,
and so on. I lost patience and said: ‘There is no use listening to
your friends who know nothing about your mental condition; you are
quite _incompetent_ to take care of your own affairs.’ I meant to say
‘competent.’ Here the _lapsus linguæ_ expressed my true opinion.”
Favoured by chance the speech material often gives origin to examples
of speech-blunders which serve to bring about an overwhelming
revelation or a full comic effect, as shown by the following examples
reported by Brill:--
“A wealthy but not very generous host invited his friends for an
evening dance. Everything went well until about 11.30 p.m., when there
was an intermission, presumably for supper. To the great disappointment
of most of the guests there was no supper; instead, they were regaled
with thin sandwiches and lemonade. As it was close to Election day the
conversation centred on the different candidates; and as the discussion
grew warmer, one of the guests, an ardent admirer of the Progressive
Party candidate, remarked to the host: ‘You may say what you please
about Teddy, but there is one thing--he can always be relied upon;
he always gives you a _square meal_,’ wishing to say _square deal_.
The assembled guests burst into a roar of laughter, to the great
embarrassment of the speaker and the host, who fully understood each
other.”
“While writing a prescription for a woman who was especially weighed
down by the financial burden of the treatment, I was interested to hear
her say suddenly: ‘Please do not give me _big bills_, because I cannot
swallow them.’ Of course she meant to say _pills_.”
The following example illustrates a rather serious case of
self-betrayal through a mistake in talking. Some accessory details
justify full reproduction as first printed by Dr. A. A. Brill.[21]
“While walking one night with Dr. Frink we accidentally met a
colleague, Dr. P., whom I had not seen for years, and of whose private
life I knew nothing. We were naturally very pleased to meet again, and
on my invitation he accompanied us to a café, where we spent about two
hours in pleasant conversation. To my question as to whether he was
married he gave a negative answer, and added, ‘Why should a man like me
marry?’
“On leaving the café, he suddenly turned to me and said: ‘I should
like to know what you would do in a case like this: I know a nurse
who was named as co-respondent in a divorce case. The wife sued the
husband for divorce and named her as co-respondent, and _he_ got the
divorce.’ I interrupted him, saying, ‘You mean _she_ got the divorce.’
He immediately corrected himself, saying, ‘Yes, she got the divorce,’
and continued to tell how the excitement of the trial had affected this
nurse to such an extent that she became nervous and took to drink. He
wanted me to advise him how to treat her.
“As soon as I had corrected his mistake I asked him to explain it, but,
as is usually the case, he was surprised at my question. He wanted
to know whether a person had no right to make mistakes in talking. I
explained to him that there is a reason for every mistake, and that if
he had not told me that he was unmarried, I would say that he was the
hero of the divorce case in question, and that the mistake showed that
he wished he had obtained the divorce instead of his wife, so as not
to be obliged to pay alimony and to be permitted to marry again in New
York State.
“He stoutly denied my interpretation, but his emotional agitation,
followed by loud laughter, only strengthened my suspicions. To my
appeal that he should tell the truth ‘for science’ sake,’ he said,
‘Unless you wish me to lie you must believe that I was never married,
and hence your psychoanalytic interpretation is all wrong.’ He,
however, added that it was dangerous to be with a person who paid
attention to such little things. Then he suddenly remembered that he
had another appointment and left us.
“Both Dr. Frink and I were convinced that my interpretation of his
_lapsus linguæ_ was correct, and I decided to corroborate or disprove
it by further investigation. The next day I found a neighbour and old
friend of Dr. P., who confirmed my interpretation in every particular.
The divorce was granted to Dr. P.’s wife a few weeks before, and a
nurse was named as co-respondent. A few weeks later I met Dr. P., and
he told me that he was thoroughly convinced of the Freudian mechanisms.”
The self-betrayal is just as plain in the following case reported by
Otto Rank:--
A father who was devoid of all patriotic feeling and desirous of
educating his children to be just as free from this superfluous
sentiment, reproached his sons for participating in a patriotic
demonstration, and rejected their reference to a similar behaviour of
their uncle with these words: “You are not obliged to imitate him;
why, he is an _idiot_.” The astonished features of the children at
their father’s unusual tone aroused him to the fact that he had made a
mistake, and he remarked apologetically, “Of course, I wished to say
_patriot_.”
When such a speech-blunder occurs in a serious squabble and reverses
the intended meaning of one of the disputants, at once it puts him at a
disadvantage with his adversary--a disadvantage which the latter seldom
fails to utilize.
This clearly shows that although people are unwilling to accept
the theory of my conception and are not inclined to forego the
convenience that is connected with the tolerance of a faulty action,
they nevertheless interpret speech-blunders and other faulty acts in
a manner similar to the one presented in this book. The merriment and
derision which are sure to be evoked at the decisive moment through
such linguistic mistakes speak conclusively against the generally
accepted convention that such a speech-blunder is a _lapsus linguæ_
and psychologically of no importance. It was no less a man than the
German Chancellor, Prince Bülow, who endeavoured to save the situation
through such a protest when the wording of his defence of his Emperor
(November, 1907) turned into the opposite through a speech-blunder.
“Concerning the present, the new epoch of Emperor Wilhelm II, I can
only repeat what I said a year ago, that _it would be unfair and unjust
to speak of a coterie of responsible advisers around our Emperor_ (loud
calls, ‘Irresponsible!’)--to speak of _irresponsible_ advisers. Pardon
the _lapsus linguæ_” (hilarity).
A nice example of speech-blunder, which aims not so much at the
betrayal of the speaker as at the enlightenment of the listener outside
the scene, is found in Wallenstein (_Piccolomini_, Act I, Scene 5),
and shows us that the poet who here uses this means is well versed in
the mechanism and intent of speech-blunders. In the preceding scene
Max Piccolomini was passionately in favour of the ducal party, and was
enthusiastic over the blessings of the peace which became known to him
in the course of a journey while accompanying Wallenstein’s daughter
to the encampment. He leaves his father and the Court ambassador,
Questenberg, in great consternation. The scene proceeds as follows:--
QUESTENBERG. Woe unto us! Are matters thus? Friend, should we allow
him to go there with this false opinion, and not recall him at once in
order to open his eyes instantly.
OCTAVIO (_rousing himself from profound meditation_). He has already
opened mine, and I see more than pleases me.
QUESTENBERG. What is it, friend?
OCTAVIO. A curse on that journey!
QUESTENBERG. Why? What is it?
OCTAVIO. Come! I must immediately follow the unlucky trail, must see
with my own eyes--come----(_Wishes to lead him away._)
QUESTENBERG. What is the matter? Where?
OCTAVIO (_urging_). To _her_!
QUESTENBERG. To----?
OCTAVIO (_corrects himself_). To the duke! Let us go, etc.
The slight speech-blunder _to her_ in place of _to him_ is meant to
betray to us the fact that the father has seen through his son’s motive
for espousing the other cause, while the courtier complains that “he
speaks to him altogether in riddles.”
Another example wherein a poet makes use of a speech-blunder was
discovered by Otto Rank in Shakespeare. I quote Rank’s report from the
_Zentralblatt für Psychoanalyse_, I. 3.
“A poetic speech-blunder, very delicately motivated and technically
remarkably well utilized, which, like the one pointed out by Freud in
Wallenstein (_Zur Psychopathologie des Alltagslebens_, 2nd Edition, p.
48), not only shows that poets knew the mechanism and sense of this
error, but also presupposes an understanding of it on the part of the
hearer, can be found in Shakespeare’s _Merchant of Venice_ (Act III,
Scene 2). By the will of her father, Portia was bound to select a
husband through a lottery. She escaped all her distasteful suitors by
lucky chance. When she finally found in Bassanio the suitor after her
own heart, she had cause to fear lest he, too, should draw the unlucky
lottery. In the scene she would like to tell him that even if he chose
the wrong casket, he might, nevertheless, be sure of her love. But she
is hampered by her vow. In this mental conflict the poet puts these
words in her mouth, which were directed to the welcome suitor:--
“There is something tells me (but it is not love),
I would not lose you; and you know yourself
Hate counsels not in such a quality.
But lest you should not understand me well
(And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought),
I would detain you here some month or two,
Before you venture for me. 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 the very thing which she would like to hint to him gently,
because really she should keep it from him, namely, that even before
the choice she is wholly his--that she loves him, the poet, with
admirable psychologic sensitiveness, allows to come to the surface in
the speech-blunder. It is through this artifice that he manages to
allay the intolerable uncertainty of the lover as well as the like
tension of the hearer concerning the outcome of the choice.”
The interest merited by the confirmation of our conception of
speech-blunders through the great poets justifies the citation of a
third example which was reported by Dr. E. Jones.[22]
“Our great novelist, George Meredith, in his masterpiece, _The Egoist_,
shows an even finer understanding of the mechanism. The plot of the
novel is, shortly, as follows: Sir Willoughby Patterne, an aristocrat
greatly admired by his circle, becomes engaged to a Miss Constantia
Durham. She discovers in him an intense egoism, which he skilfully
conceals from the world, and to escape the marriage she elopes with a
Captain Oxford. Some years later Patterne becomes engaged to a Miss
Clara Middleton, and most of the book is taken up with a detailed
description of the conflict that arises in her mind on also discovering
his egoism. External circumstances and her conception of honour hold
her to her pledge, while he becomes more and more distasteful in her
eyes. She partly confided in his cousin and secretary, Vernon Whitford,
the man whom she ultimately marries, but from a mixture of motives he
stands aloof.
“In the soliloquy Clara speaks as follows: ‘If some noble gentleman
could see me as I am and not disdain to aid me! Oh! to be caught out of
this prison of thorns and brambles. I cannot tear my own way out. I am
a coward. A beckoning of a finger would change me, I believe. I could
fly bleeding and through hootings to a comrade.... Constantia met a
soldier. Perhaps she prayed and her prayer was answered. She did ill.
But, oh, how I love her for it! His name was Harry Oxford.... She did
not waver, she cut the links, she signed herself over. Oh, brave girl,
what do you think of me? But I have no Harry Whitford; I am alone....’
The sudden consciousness that she had put another name for Oxford
struck her a buffet, drowning her in crimson.
“The fact that both men’s names end in ‘ford’ evidently renders the
confounding of them more easy, and would by many be regarded as an
adequate cause for this, but the real underlying motive for it is
plainly indicated by the author. In another passage the same _lapsus_
occurs, and is followed by the hesitation and change of subject that
one is familiar with in psychoanalysis when a half-conscious complex
is touched. Sir Willoughby patronizingly says of Whitford: ‘False
alarm. The resolution to do anything unaccustomed is quite beyond
poor old Vernon.’ Clara replies: ‘But if Mr. Oxford--Whitford ...
your swans, coming sailing up the lake; how beautiful they look when
they are indignant! I was going to ask you, surely men witnessing a
marked admiration for some one else will naturally be discouraged?’ Sir
Willoughby stiffened with sudden enlightenment.
“In still another passage Clara, by another _lapsus_, betrays her
secret wish that she was on a more intimate footing with Vernon
Whitford. Speaking to a boy friend, she says, ‘Tell Mr. Vernon--tell
Mr. Whitford.’”
The conception of speech-blunders here defended can be readily verified
in the smallest details. I have been able to demonstrate repeatedly
that the most insignificant and most natural cases of speech-blunders
have their good sense, and admit of the same interpretation as the
more striking examples. A patient who, contrary to my wishes but
with firm personal motives, decided upon a short trip to Budapest,
justified herself by saying that she was going for only three days, but
she blundered and said for only three weeks. She betrayed her secret
feeling that, to spite me, she preferred spending three weeks to three
days in that society which I considered unfit for her.
One evening, wishing to excuse myself for not having called for my wife
at the theatre, I said: “I was at the theatre at ten minutes after
ten.” I was corrected: “You meant to say before ten o’clock.” Naturally
I wanted to say before ten. After ten would certainly be no excuse. I
had been told that the theatre programme read, “Finished before ten
o’clock.” When I arrived at the theatre I found the foyer dark and
the theatre empty. Evidently the performance was over earlier and my
wife did not wait for me. When I looked at the clock it still wanted
five minutes to ten. I determined to make my case more favourable
at home, and say that it was ten minutes to ten. Unfortunately, the
speech-blunder spoiled the intent and laid bare my dishonesty, in which
I acknowledged more than there really was to confess.
This leads us to those speech disturbances which can no longer be
described as speech-blunders, for they do not injure the individual
word, but affect the rhythm and execution of the entire speech, as,
for example, the stammering and stuttering of embarrassment. But here,
as in the former cases, it is the inner conflict that is betrayed to
us through the disturbance in speech. I really do not believe that any
one will make mistakes in talking in an audience with His Majesty,
in a serious love declaration, or in defending one’s name and honour
before a jury; in short, people make no mistakes where _they are all
there_, as the saying goes. Even in criticizing an author’s style we
are allowed and accustomed to follow the principle of explanation,
which we cannot miss in the origin of a single speech-blunder. A
clear and unequivocal manner of writing shows us that here the author
is in harmony with himself, but where we find a forced and involved
expression, aiming at more than one target, as appropriately expressed,
we can thereby recognize the participation of an unfinished and
complicated thought, or we can hear through it the stifled voice of
the author’s self-criticism.[23]
VI
MISTAKES IN READING AND WRITING
That the same view-points and observation should hold true for mistakes
in reading and writing as for lapses in speech is not at all surprising
when one remembers the inner relation of these functions. I shall here
confine myself to the reports of several carefully analysed examples
and shall make no attempt to include all of the phenomena.
A. LAPSES IN READING.
(_a_) While looking over a number of the _Leipziger Illustrierten_,
which I was holding obliquely, I read as the title of the front-page
picture, “A Wedding Celebration in the Odyssey.” Astonished and with my
attention aroused, I moved the page into the proper position only to
read correctly, “A Wedding Celebration in the Ostsee (Baltic Sea).” How
did this senseless mistake in reading come about?
Immediately my thoughts turned to a book by Ruth, _Experimental
Investigations of “Music Phantoms”_, etc., with which I had recently
been much occupied, as it closely touched the psychologic problems
that are of interest to me. The author promised a work in the near
future to be called _Analysis and Principles of Dream Phenomena_. No
wonder that I, having just published an _Interpretation of Dreams_,
awaited the appearance of this book with the most intense interest. In
Ruth’s work concerning music phantoms I found an announcement in the
beginning of the table of contents of the detailed inductive proof that
the old Hellenic myths and traditions originated mainly from slumber
and music phantoms, from dream phenomena and from deliria. Thereupon I
had immediately plunged into the text in order to find out whether he
was also aware that the scene where Odysseus appears before Nausicaa
was based upon the common dream of nakedness. One of my friends
called my attention to the clever passage in G. Keller’s _Grünem
Heinrich_, which explains this episode in the Odyssey as an objective
representation of the dream of the mariner straying far from home. I
added to it the reference to the exhibition dream of nakedness.[24]
(_b_) A woman who is very anxious to get children always reads _storks_
instead of _stocks_.
(_c_) One day I received a letter which contained very disturbing news.
I immediately called my wife and informed her that poor Mrs. Wm. H.
was seriously ill and was given up by the doctors. There must have been
a false ring to the words in which I expressed my sympathy, as my wife
grew suspicious, asked to see the letter, and expressed her opinion
that it could not read as stated by me, because no one calls the wife
by the husband’s name. Moreover, the correspondent was well acquainted
with the Christian name of the woman concerned. I defended my assertion
obstinately and referred to the customary visiting-cards, on which a
woman designates herself by the Christian name of her husband. I was
finally compelled to take up the letter, and, as a matter of fact, we
read therein “Poor W. M.” What is more, I had even overlooked “Poor Dr.
W. M.” My mistake in reading signified a spasmodic effort, so to speak,
to turn the sad news from the man towards the woman. The title between
the adjective and the name did not go well with my claim that the woman
must have been meant. That is why it was omitted in the reading. The
motive for this falsifying was not that the woman was less an object
of my sympathy than the man, but the fate of this poor man had excited
my fears regarding another and nearer person who, I was aware, had the
same disease.
(_d_) Both irritating and laughable is a lapse in reading to which I am
frequently subject when I walk through the streets of a strange city
during my vacation. I then read _antiquities_ on every shop sign that
shows the slightest resemblance to the word; this displays the questing
spirit of the collector.
(_e_) In his important work[25] Bleuler relates: “While reading I
once had the intellectual feeling of seeing my name two lines below.
To my astonishment I found only the words blood corpuscles. Of the
many thousands of lapses in reading in the peripheral as well as in
the central field of vision that I have analysed, this was the most
striking case. Whenever I imagined that I saw my name, the word that
induced this illusion usually showed a greater resemblance to my name
than the word _bloodcorpuscles_. In most cases all the letters of my
name had to be close together before I could commit such an error. In
this case, however, I could readily explain the delusion of reference
and the illusion. What I had just read was the end of a statement
concerning a form of bad style in scientific works, a tendency from
which I am not entirely free.”
B. LAPSES IN WRITING.
(_a_) On a sheet of paper containing principally short daily notes
of business interest, I found, to my surprise, the incorrect date,
“Thursday, October 20th,” bracketed under the correct date of the
month of September. It was not difficult to explain this anticipation
as the expression of a wish. A few days before I had returned fresh
from my vacation and felt ready for any amount of professional work,
but as yet there were few patients. On my arrival I had found a letter
from a patient announcing her arrival on the 20th of October. As I
wrote the same date in September I may certainly have thought “X. ought
to be here already; what a pity about that whole month!” and with this
thought I pushed the current date a month ahead. In this case the
disturbing thought can scarcely be called unpleasant; therefore after
noticing this lapse in writing, I immediately knew the solution. In
the fall of the following year I experienced an entirely analogous
and similarly motivated lapse in writing. E. Jones has made a study
of similar cases, and found that most mistakes in writing dates are
motivated.
(_b_) I received the proof sheets of my contribution to the annual
report on neurology and psychiatry, and I was naturally obliged to
review with special care the names of authors, which, because of
the many different nationalities represented, offer the greatest
difficulties to the compositor. As a matter of fact, I found some
strange-sounding names still in need of correction; but, oddly enough,
the compositor had corrected one single name in my manuscript,
and with very good reason. I had written _Buckrhard_, which the
compositor guessed to be _Burckhard_. I had praised the treatise of
this obstetrician entitled _The Influence of Birth on the Origin of
Infantile Paralysis_, and I was not conscious of the least enmity
toward him. But an author in Vienna, who had angered me by an adverse
criticism of my _Traumdeutung_, bears the same name. It was as if in
writing the name Burckhard, meaning the obstetrician, a wicked thought
concerning the other B. had obtruded itself. The twisting of the name,
as I have already stated in regard to lapses in speech, often signifies
a depreciation.[26]
(_c_) The following is seemingly a serious case of _lapsus calami_,
which it would be equally correct to describe as an erroneously carried
out action. I intended to withdraw from the postal savings bank the sum
of 300 crowns, which I wished to send to an absent relative to enable
him to take treatment at a watering-place. I noted that my account was
4,380 crowns, and I decided to bring it down to the round sum of 4,000
crowns, which was not to be touched in the near future. After making
out the regular cheque I suddenly noticed that I had written not 380
crowns, as I had intended, but exactly 438 crowns. I was frightened
at the untrustworthiness of my action. I soon realized that my fear
was groundless, as I had not grown poorer than I was before. But I
had to reflect for quite a while in order to discover what influence
diverted me from my first intention without making itself known to my
consciousness.
First I got on a wrong track: I subtracted 380 from 438, but after that
I did not know what to do with the difference. Finally an idea occurred
to me which showed me the true connection. 438 is exactly 10 per cent.
of the entire account of 4,380 crowns! But the bookseller, too, gives a
10 per cent. discount! I recalled that a few days before I had selected
several books, in which I was no longer interested, in order to offer
them to the bookseller for 300 crowns. He thought the price demanded
too high, but promised to give me a final answer within the next few
days. If he should accept my first offer he would replace the exact sum
that I was to spend on the sufferer. There is no doubt that I was sorry
about this expenditure. The emotion at the realization of my mistakes
can be more easily understood as a fear of growing poor through such
outlays. But both the sorrow over this expense and the fear of poverty
connected with it were entirely foreign to my consciousness; I did not
regret this expense when I promised the sum, and would have laughed
at the idea of any such underlying motive. I should probably not have
assigned such feelings to myself had not my psychoanalytic practice
made me quite familiar with the repressed elements of psychic life, and
if I had not had a dream a few days before which brought forth the same
solution.
(_d_) Although it is usually difficult to find the person responsible
for printers’ errors, the psychologic mechanisms underlying them
are the same as in other mistakes. Typographical errors also well
demonstrate the fact that people are not at all indifferent to such
trivialities as “mistakes,” and, judging by the indignant reactions of
the parties concerned, one is forced to the conclusion that mistakes
are not treated by the public at large as mere accidents. This state
of affairs is very well summed up in the following editorial from the
_New York Times_ of April 14, 1913. Not the least interesting are the
comments of the keen-witted editor, who seems to share our views:--
“A BLUNDER TRULY UNFORTUNATE.
“Typographical errors come only too frequently from even the
best-regulated newspaper presses. They are always humiliating, often
a cause of anger, and occasionally dangerous, but now and then they
are distinctly amusing. This latter quality they are most apt to have
when they are made in the office of a journalistic neighbour, a fact
that probably explains why we can read with smiling composure an
elaborate editorial apology which appears in the _Hartford Courant_.
“Its able political commentator tried the other day to say that,
_unfortunately_ for Connecticut, ‘J. H. is no longer a Member of
Congress. Printer and proof-reader combined to deprive the adverb of
its negative particle.’ At least, the able political commentator so
declares, and we wouldn’t question his veracity for the world; but
sorrowful experience has taught most of us that it’s safer to get
that sort of editorial disclaimer of responsibility into print before
looking up the copy, and perhaps--just perhaps--the world-enlightener,
who _knows_ that he wrote _unfortunate_, because that is what he
intended to write, didn’t rashly chance the discovery of his own guilt
before he convicted the composing-room of it.
“Be that as it may, the meaning of the sentence was cruelly changed,
and a friend was grieved or offended. Not so long ago a more
astonishing error than this one crept into a book review of ours--a
very solemn and scientific book. It consisted of the substitution
of the word ‘caribou’ for the word ‘carbon’ in a paragraph dealing
with the chemical composition of the stars. In that case the writer’s
fierce self-exculpation is at least highly plausible, as it seems
hardly possible that he wrote ‘caribou’ when he intended to write
‘carbon,’ but even he was cautious enough to make no deep inquiry into
the matter.”
(_e_) I cite the following case contributed by Dr. W. Stekel, for
the authenticity of which I can vouch: “An almost unbelievable
example of miswriting and misreading occurred in the editing of a
widely circulated weekly. It concerned an article of defence and
vindication which was written with much warmth and great pathos. The
editor-in-chief of the paper read the article, while the author himself
naturally read it from the manuscript and proof-sheets more than once.
Everybody was satisfied, when the printer’s reader suddenly noticed
a slight error which had escaped the attention of all. There it was,
plainly enough: ‘Our readers will bear witness to the fact that we have
always acted in a _selfish_ manner for the good of the community.’
It is quite evident that it was meant to read _unselfish_. The real
thoughts, however, broke through the pathetic speech with elemental
force.”
(_f_) The following example of misprinting is taken from a Western
gazette: The teacher was giving an instruction paper on mathematical
methods, and spoke of a plan “for the instruction of youth that might
be carried out _ad libidinem_.”
(_g_) Even the Bible did not escape misprints. Thus we have the “Wicked
Bible,” so called from the fact that the negative was left out of the
seventh commandment. This authorized edition of the Bible was published
in London in 1631, and it is said that the printer had to pay a fine of
two thousand pounds for the omission.
Another biblical misprint dates back to the year 1580, and is found
in the Bible of the famous library of Wolfenbuttel, in Hesse. In the
passage in Genesis where God tells Eve that Adam shall be her master
and shall rule over her, the German translation is “_Und er soll dein
Herr sein_.” The word _Herr_ (master) was substituted by _Narr_, which
means fool. Newly discovered evidence seems to show that the error was
a conscious machination of the printer’s suffragette wife, who refused
to be ruled by her husband.
(_h_) Dr. Ernest Jones reports the following case concerning A. A.
Brill: “Although by custom almost a teetotaler, he yielded to a
friend’s importunity one evening, in order to avoid offending him,
and took a little wine. During the next morning an exacerbation of an
eye-strain headache gave him cause to regret this slight indulgence,
and his reflection on the subject found expression in the following
slip of the pen. Having occasion to write the name of a girl mentioned
by a patient, he wrote not Ethel but Ethyl.[27] It happened that the
girl in question was rather too fond of drink, and in Dr. Brill’s mood
at the time this characteristic of hers stood out with conspicuous
significance.”[28]
(_i_) A woman wrote to her sister, felicitating her on the occasion
of taking possession of a new and spacious residence. A friend who
was present noticed that the writer put the wrong address on the
letter, and what was still more remarkable was the fact that she did
not address it to the previous residence, but to one long ago given
up, but which her sister had occupied when she first married. When
the friend called her attention to it the writer remarked, “You are
right; but what in the world made me do this?” to which her friend
replied: “Perhaps you begrudge her the nice big apartment into which
she has just moved because you yourself are cramped for space, and
for that reason you put her back into her first residence, where she
was no better off than yourself.” “Of course I begrudge her the new
apartment,” she honestly admitted. As an afterthought she added, “It is
a pity that one is so mean in such matters.”
(_k_) Ernest Jones reports the following example given to him by Dr.
A. A. Brill. In a letter to Dr. Brill a patient tried to attribute
his nervousness to business worries and excitement during the cotton
crisis. He went on to say: “My trouble is all due to that d---- frigid
wave; there isn’t even any seed to be obtained for new crops.” He
referred to a cold wave which had destroyed the cotton crops, but
instead of writing “wave” he wrote “wife.” In the bottom of his heart
he entertained reproaches against his wife on account of her marital
frigidity and childlessness, and he was not far from the cognition that
the enforced abstinence played no little part in the causation of his
malady.
Omissions in writing are naturally explained in the same manner as
mistakes in writing. A remarkable example of omission which is of
historic importance was reported by Dr. B. Dattner.[29] In one of
the legal articles dealing with the financial obligations of both
countries, which was drawn up in the year 1867 during the readjustment
between Austria and Hungary, the word “effective” was accidentally
omitted in the Hungarian translation. Dattner thinks it probable that
the unconscious desire of the Hungarian law-makers to grant Austria the
least possible advantages had something to do with this omission.
Another example of omission is the following related by Brill:
“A prospective patient, who had corresponded with me relative to
treatment, finally wrote for an appointment for a certain day. Instead
of keeping his appointment he sent regrets which began as follows:
‘Owing to _foreseen_ circumstances I am unable to keep my appointment.’
He naturally meant to write _unforeseen_. He finally came to me
months later, and in the course of the analysis I discovered that
my suspicions at the time were justified; there were no unforeseen
circumstances to prevent his coming at that time; he was advised not to
come to me. The unconscious does not lie.”
Wundt gives a most noteworthy proof for the easily ascertained fact
that we more easily make mistakes in writing than in speaking (_loc.
cit._, p. 374). He states: “In the course of normal conversation the
inhibiting function of the will is constantly directed toward bringing
into harmony the course of ideation with the movement of articulation.
If the articulation following the ideas becomes retarded through
mechanical causes, as in writing, such anticipations then readily make
their appearance.”
Observation of the determinants which favour lapses in reading gives
rise to doubt, which I do not like to leave unmentioned, because I am
of the opinion that it may become the starting-point of a fruitful
investigation. It is a familiar fact that in reading aloud the
attention of the reader often wanders from the text and is directed
toward his own thoughts. The results of this deviation of attention
are often such that when interrupted and questioned he cannot even
state what he has read. In other words, he has read automatically,
although the reading was nearly always correct. I do not think that
such conditions favour any noticeable increase in the mistakes. We are
accustomed to assume concerning a whole series of functions that they
are most precisely performed when done automatically, with scarcely
any conscious attention. This argues that the conditions governing
attention in mistakes in speaking, writing, and reading must be
differently determined than assumed by Wundt (cessation or diminution
of attention). The examples which we have subjected to analysis have
really not given us the right to take for granted a quantitative
diminution of attention. We found what is probably not exactly the
same thing, a disturbance of the attention through a strange obtruding
thought.
VII
FORGETTING OF IMPRESSIONS AND RESOLUTIONS
If any one should be inclined to overrate the state of our present
knowledge of mental life, all that would be needed to force him to
assume a modest attitude would be to remind him of the function of
memory. No psychologic theory has yet been able to account for the
connection between the fundamental phenomena of remembering and
forgetting; indeed, even the complete analysis of that which one can
actually observe has as yet scarcely been grasped. To-day forgetting
has perhaps grown more puzzling than remembering, especially since
we have learned from the study of dreams and pathologic states that
even what for a long time we believed forgotten may suddenly return to
consciousness.
To be sure, we are in possession of some view-points which we hope
will receive general recognition. Thus we assume that forgetting is
a spontaneous process to which we may ascribe a certain temporal
discharge. We emphasize the fact that, just as among the units of
every impression or experience, in forgetting, too, a certain selection
takes place among the existing impressions. We are acquainted with some
of the conditions that underlie the tenaciousness of memory and the
awakening of that which would otherwise remain forgotten. Nevertheless,
we can observe in innumerable cases of daily life how unreliable and
unsatisfactory our knowledge of the mechanism is. Thus we may listen
to two persons exchanging reminiscences concerning the same outward
impressions, say of a journey that they have taken together some time
before. What remains most firmly in the memory of the one is often
forgotten by the other, as if it had never occurred, even when there
is not the slightest reason to assume that this impression is of
greater psychic importance for the one than for the other. A great many
of those factors which determine the selective power of memory are
obviously still beyond our ken.
With the purpose of adding some small contribution to the knowledge of
the conditions of forgetting, I was wont to subject to a psychologic
analysis those cases in which forgetting concerned me personally. As
a rule I took up only a certain group of those cases, namely, those
in which the forgetting astonished me, because, in my opinion, I
should have remembered the experience in question. I wish further to
remark that I am generally not inclined to forgetfulness (of things
experienced, not of things learned), and that for a short period of my
youth I was able to perform extraordinary feats of memory. When I was a
schoolboy it was quite natural for me to be able to repeat from memory
the page of a book which I had read; and shortly before I entered the
University I could write down practically verbatim the popular lectures
on scientific subjects directly after hearing them. In the tension
before the final medical examination I must have made use of the
remnant of this ability, for in certain subjects I gave the examiners
apparently automatic answers, which proved to be exact reproductions
of the text-book, which I had skimmed through but once and then in
greatest haste.
Since those days I have steadily lost control over my memory; of
late, however, I became convinced that with the aid of a certain
artifice I can recall far more than I would otherwise credit myself
with remembering. For example, when, during my office hours, a patient
states that I have seen him before and I cannot recall either the fact
or the time, then I help myself by guessing--that is, I allow a number
of years, beginning from the present time, to come to my mind quickly.
Whenever this could be controlled by records of definite information
from the patient, it was always shown that in over ten years[30] I
have seldom missed it by more than six months. The same thing happens
when I meet a casual acquaintance and, from politeness, inquire about
his small child. When he tells of its progress I try to fancy how
old the child now is. I control my estimate by the information given
by the father, and at most I make a mistake of a month, and in older
children of three months. I cannot state, however, what basis I have
for this estimate. Of late I have grown so bold that I always offer my
estimate spontaneously, and still run no risk of grieving the father by
displaying my ignorance in regard to his offspring. Thus I extend my
conscious memory by invoking my larger unconscious memory.
I shall report some _striking_ examples of forgetting which for the
most part I have observed in myself. I distinguish forgetting of
impressions and experiences, that is, the forgetting of knowledge, from
forgetting of resolutions, that is, the forgetting of omissions. The
uniform result of the entire series of observations I can formulate
as follows: _The forgetting in all cases is proved to be founded on a
motive of displeasure._
A. FORGETTING OF IMPRESSIONS AND KNOWLEDGE.
(_a_) During the summer my wife once made me very angry, although
the cause in itself was trifling. We sat in a restaurant opposite a
gentleman from Vienna whom I knew, and who had cause to know me, and
whose acquaintance I had reasons for not wishing to renew. My wife,
who had heard nothing to the disrepute of the man opposite her, showed
by her actions that she was listening to his conversation with his
neighbours, for from time to time she asked me questions which took
up the thread of their discussion. I became impatient and finally
irritated. A few weeks later I complained to a relative about this
behaviour on the part of my wife, but I was not able to recall even
a single word of the conversation of the gentleman in the case. As I
am usually rather resentful and cannot forget a single incident of an
episode that has annoyed me, my amnesia in this case was undoubtedly
determined by respect for my wife.
A short time ago I had a similar experience. I wished to make merry
with an intimate friend over a statement made by my wife only a few
hours earlier, but I found myself hindered by the noteworthy fact that
I had entirely forgotten the statement. I had first to beg my wife to
recall it to me. It is easy to understand that my forgetting in this
case may be analogous to the typical disturbance of judgment which
dominates us when it concerns those nearest to us.
(_b_) To oblige a woman who was a stranger in Vienna I had undertaken
to procure a small iron safe for the preservation of documents and
money. When I offered my services, the image of an establishment in
the heart of the city where I was sure I had seen such safes floated
before me with extraordinary visual vividness. To be sure, I could
not recall the name of the street, but I felt certain that I would
discover the store in a walk through the city, for my memory told me
that I had passed it countless times. To my chagrin I could not find
this establishment with the safes, though I walked through the inner
part of the city in every direction. I concluded that the only thing
left to do was to search through a business directory, and if that
failed, to try to identify the establishment in a second round of the
city. It did not, however, require so much effort; among the addresses
in the directory I found one which immediately presented itself as
that which had been forgotten. It was true that I had passed the show
window countless times, each time, however, when I had gone to visit
the M. family, who have lived a great many years in this identical
building. After this intimate friendship had turned to an absolute
estrangement, I had taken care to avoid the neighbourhood as well as
the house, though without ever thinking of the reason for my action. In
my walk through the city searching for the safe in the show window I
had traversed every street in the neighbourhood but the right one, and
I had avoided this as if it were forbidden ground.
The motive of displeasure which was at the bottom of my disorientation
is thus comprehensible. But the mechanism of forgetting is no longer so
simple as in the former example. Here my aversion naturally does not
extend to the vendor of safes, but to another person, concerning whom
I wish to know nothing, and later transfers itself from the latter to
this incident where it brings about the forgetting. Similarly, in the
case of _Burckhard_ mentioned above, the grudge against the one brought
about the error in writing the name of the other. The similarity of
names which here established a connection between two essentially
different streams of thought was accomplished in the showcase window
instance by the contiguity of space and the inseparable environment.
Moreover, this latter case was more closely knit together, for money
played a great part in the causation of the estrangement from the
family living in this house.
(_c_) The B. and R. Company requested me to pay a professional call
on one of their officers. On my way to him I was engrossed in the
thought that I must already have been in the building occupied by the
firm. It seemed as if I used to see their signboard in a lower story
while my professional visit was taking me to a higher story. I could
not recall, however, which house it was nor when I had called there.
Although the entire matter was indifferent and of no consequence, I
nevertheless occupied myself with it, and at last learned in the usual
roundabout way, by collecting the thoughts that occurred to me in this
connection, that one story above the floor occupied by the firm B. and
R. was the _Pension Fischer_, where I had frequently visited patients.
Then I remembered the building which sheltered both the company and the
_pension_.
I was still puzzled, however, as to the motive that entered into
play in this forgetting. I found nothing disagreeable in my memory
concerning the firm itself or the _Pension Fischer_, or the patients
living there. I was also aware that it could not deal with anything
very painful, otherwise I hardly would have been successful in tracing
the thing forgotten in a roundabout way without resorting to external
aid, as happened in the preceding example. Finally it occurred to me
that a little before, while starting on my way to a new patient, a
gentleman whom I had difficulty in recalling greeted me in the street.
Some months previously I had seen this man in an apparently serious
condition and had made the diagnosis of general paresis, but later
I had learned of his recovery, consequently my judgment had been
incorrect. Was it not possible that we had in this case a remission,
which one usually finds in _dementia paralytica_? In that contingency
my diagnosis would still be justified. The influence emanating from
this meeting caused me to forget the neighbourhood of the B. and
R. Company, and my interest to discover the thing forgotten was
transferred from this case of disputed diagnosis. But the associative
connection in this loose inner relation was effected by means of a
similarity of names: the man who recovered, contrary to expectation,
was also an officer of a large company that recommends patients to me.
And the physician with whom I had seen the supposed paretic bore the
name of Fischer, the name of the _pension_ in the house which I had
forgotten.
(_d_) Mislaying a thing really has the same significance as forgetting
where we have placed it. Like most people delving in pamphlets and
books, I am well oriented about my desk, and can produce what I want
with one lunge. What appears to others as disorder has become for
me perfect order. Why, then, did I mislay a catalogue which was
sent to me not long ago so that it could not be found? What is more,
it had been my intention to order a book which I found announced
therein, entitled _Ueber die Sprache_, because it was written by an
author whose spirited, vivacious style I like, whose insight into
psychology and whose knowledge of the cultural world I have learned
to appreciate. I believe that was just why I mislaid the catalogue.
It was my habit to lend the books of this author among my friends for
their enlightenment, and a few days before, on returning one, somebody
had said: “His style reminds me altogether of yours, and his way of
thinking is identical.” The speaker did not know what he was stirring
up with this remark. Years ago, when I was younger and in greater need
of forming alliances, I was told practically the same thing by an
older colleague, to whom I had recommended the writings of a familiar
medical author. To put it in his words, “It is absolutely your style
and manner.” I was so influenced by these remarks that I wrote a letter
to this author with the object of bringing about a closer relation, but
a rather cool answer put me back “in my place.” Perhaps still earlier
discouraging experiences conceal themselves behind this last one,
for I did not find the mislaid catalogue. Through this premonition I
was actually prevented from ordering the advertised book, although
the disappearance of the catalogue formed no real hindrance, as I
remembered well both the name of the book and the author.
(_e_) Another case of mislaying merits our interest on account of
the conditions under which the mislaid object was rediscovered. A
younger man narrates as follows: “Several years ago there were some
misunderstandings between me and my wife. I found her too cold, and
though I fully appreciated her excellent qualities, we lived together
without evincing any tenderness for each other. One day on her return
from a walk she gave me a book which she had bought because she thought
it would interest me. I thanked her for this mark of ‘attention,’
promised to read the book, put it away, and did not find it again. So
months passed, during which I occasionally remembered the lost book,
and also tried in vain to find it.
“About six months later my beloved mother, who was not living with
us, became ill. My wife left home to nurse her mother-in-law. The
patient’s condition became serious and gave my wife the opportunity
to show the best side of herself. One evening I returned home full of
enthusiasm over what my wife had accomplished, and felt very grateful
to her. I stepped to my desk and, without definite intention but with
the certainty of a somnambulist, I opened a certain drawer, and in the
very top of it I found the long-missing, mislaid book.”
The following example of “misplacing” belongs to a type well known to
every psychoanalyst. I must add that the patient who experienced this
misplacing has himself found the solution of it.
This patient, whose psychoanalytic treatment had to be interrupted
through the summer vacation when he was in a state of resistance and
ill-health, put away his keys in the evening in their usual place, or
so he thought. He then remembered that he wished to take some things
from his desk, where he also had put the money which he needed on the
journey. He was to depart the next day, which was the last day of
treatment and the date when the doctor’s fee was due. But the keys had
disappeared.
He began a thorough and systematic search through his small apartment.
He became more and more excited over it, but his search was
unsuccessful. As he recognized this “misplacement” as a symptomatic
act--that is, as being intentional--he aroused his servant in order
to continue his search with the help of an “unprejudiced” person.
After another hour he gave up the search and feared that he had lost
the keys. The next morning he ordered new keys from the desk factory,
which were hurriedly made for him. Two acquaintances who had been with
him in a cab even recalled hearing something fall to the ground as he
stepped out of the cab, and he was therefore convinced that the keys
had slipped from his pocket. They were found lying between a thick book
and a thin pamphlet, the latter a work of one of my pupils, which he
wished to take along as reading matter for his vacation; and they were
so skilfully placed that no one would have supposed that they were
there. He himself was unable to replace the keys in such a position as
to render them invisible. The unconscious skill with which an object
is misplaced on account of secret but strong motives reminds one of
“somnambulistic sureness.” The motive was naturally ill-humour over the
interruption of the treatment and the secret rage over the fact that he
had to pay such a high fee when he felt so ill.
(_f_) Brill relates:[31] “A man was urged by his wife to attend a
social function in which he really took no interest. Yielding to his
wife’s entreaties, he began to take his dress-suit from the trunk when
he suddenly thought of shaving. After accomplishing this he returned to
the trunk and found it locked. Despite a long, earnest search the key
could not be found. A locksmith could not be found on Sunday evening,
so that the couple had to send their regrets. On having the trunk
opened the next morning the lost key was found within. The husband had
absent-mindedly dropped the key into the trunk and sprung the lock. He
assured me that this was wholly unintentional and unconscious, but we
know that he did not wish to go to this social affair. The mislaying of
the key therefore lacked no motive.”
Ernest Jones noticed in himself that he was in the habit of mislaying
his pipe whenever he suffered from the effects of over-smoking. The
pipe was then found in some unusual place where it did not belong and
which it normally did not occupy.
If one looks over the cases of mislaying it will be difficult to assume
that mislaying is anything other than the result of an unconscious
intention.
(_g_) In the summer of 1901 I once remarked to a friend with whom I
was then actively engaged in exchanging ideas on scientific questions:
“These neurotic problems can be solved only if we take the position of
absolutely accepting an original bi-sexuality in every individual.” To
which he replied: “I told you that two and a half years ago while we
were taking an evening walk in Br. At that time you wouldn’t listen to
it.”
It is truly painful to be thus requested to renounce one’s originality.
I could neither recall such a conversation nor my friend’s revelation.
One of us must be mistaken; and according to the principle of the
question _cui prodest_? I must be the one. Indeed, in the course of
the following weeks everything came back to me just as my friend had
recalled it. I myself remembered that at that time I gave the answer:
“I have not yet got so far, and I do not care to discuss it.” But since
this incident I have grown more tolerant when I miss any mention of my
name in medical literature in connection with ideas for which I deserve
credit.
It is scarcely accidental that the numerous examples of forgetting
which have been collected without any selection should require for
their solution the introduction of such painful themes as exposing of
one’s wife; a friendship that has turned into the opposite; a mistake
in medical diagnosis; enmity on account of similar pursuits, or the
borrowing of somebody’s ideas. I am rather inclined to believe that
every person who will undertake an inquiry into the motives underlying
his forgetting will be able to fill up a similar sample card of
vexatious circumstances. The tendency to forget the disagreeable seems
to me to be quite general; the capacity for it is naturally differently
developed in different persons. Certain _denials_ which we encounter
in medical practice can probably be ascribed to _forgetting_.[32] Our
conception of such forgetting confines the distinction between this and
that behaviour to purely psychologic relations, and permits us to see
in both forms of reaction the expression of the same motive. Of the
numerous examples of denials of unpleasant recollection which I have
observed in kinsmen of patients, one remains in my memory as especially
singular.
A mother telling me of the childhood of her nervous son, now in his
puberty, made the statement that, like his brothers and sisters, he
was subject to bed-wetting throughout his childhood, a symptom which
certainly has some significance in a history of a neurotic patient.
Some weeks later, while seeking information regarding the treatment, I
had occasion to call her attention to signs of a constitutional morbid
predisposition in the young man, and at the same time referred to the
bed-wetting recounted in the anamnesis. To my surprise she contested
this fact concerning him, denying it as well for the other children,
and asked me how I could possibly know this. Finally I let her know
that she herself had told me a short time before what she had thus
forgotten.[33]
One also finds abundant indications which show that even in healthy,
not neurotic, persons resistances are found against the memory of
disagreeable impressions and the idea of painful thoughts.[34] But the
full significance of this fact can be estimated only when we enter
into the psychology of neurotic persons. One is forced to make such
elementary defensive striving against ideas which can awaken painful
feelings, a striving which can be put side by side only with the
flight-reflex in painful stimuli, as the main pillar of the mechanism
which carries the hysterical symptoms. One need not offer any objection
to the acceptance of such defensive tendency on the ground that we
frequently find it impossible to rid ourselves of painful memories
which cling to us, or to banish such painful emotions as remorse and
reproaches of conscience. No one maintains that this defensive tendency
invariably gains the upper hand, that in the play of psychic forces it
may not strike against factors which stir up the contrary feeling for
other purposes and bring it about in spite of it.
_As the architectural principle of the psychic apparatus we may
conjecture a certain stratification or structure of instances deposited
in strata._ And it is quite possible that this defensive tendency
belongs to a lower psychic instance, and is inhibited by higher
instances. At all events, it speaks for the existence and force of
this defensive tendency, when we can trace it to processes such as
those found in our examples of forgetting. We see then that something
is forgotten for its own sake, and where this is not possible the
defensive tendency misses the target and causes something else to
be forgotten--something less significant, but which has fallen into
associative connection with the disagreeable material.
The views here developed, namely, that painful memories merge into
motivated forgetting with special ease, merits application in many
spheres where as yet it has found no, or scarcely any, recognition.
Thus it seems to me that it has not yet been strongly enough emphasized
in the estimation of testimony taken in court,[35] where the putting
of a witness under oath obviously leads us to place too great a
trust on the purifying influence of his psychic play of forces. It
is universally admitted that in the origin of the traditions and
folklore of a people care must be taken to eliminate from memory
such a motive as would be painful to the national feeling. Perhaps
on closer investigation it may be possible to form a perfect analogy
between the manner of development of national traditions and infantile
reminiscences of the individual. The great Darwin has formulated a
“golden rule” for the scientific worker from his insight into this
pain-motive of forgetting.[36]
Almost exactly as in the forgetting of names, faulty recollections can
also appear in the forgetting of impressions, and when finding credence
they may be designated as delusions of memory. The memory disturbance
in pathologic cases (in paranoia it actually plays the rôle of a
constituting factor in the formation of delusions) has brought to light
an extensive literature in which there is no reference whatever to its
being motivated. As this theme also belongs to the psychology of the
neuroses it goes beyond our present treatment. Instead, I will give
from my own experience a curious example of memory disturbance showing
clearly enough its determination through unconscious repressed material
and its connection with this material.
While writing the latter chapters of my volume on the interpretation
of dreams, I happened to be in a summer resort without access to
libraries and reference books, so that I was compelled to introduce
into the manuscript all kinds of references and citations from memory.
These I naturally reserved for future correction. In the chapter
on day-dreams I thought of the distinguished figure of the poor
book-keeper in Alphonse Daudet’s _Nabab_, through whom the author
probably described his own day-dreams. I imagined that I distinctly
remembered one fantasy of this man, whom I called Mr. Jocelyn, which he
hatched while walking the streets of Paris, and I began to reproduce
it from memory. This fantasy described how Mr. Jocelyn boldly hurled
himself at a runaway horse and brought it to a standstill; how the
carriage door opened and a great personage stepped from the coupé,
pressed Mr. Jocelyn’s hand and said: “You are my saviour--I owe my life
to you! What can I do for you?”
I assured myself that casual inaccuracies in the rendition of this
fantasy could readily be corrected at home on consulting the book. But
when I perused _Nabab_ in order to compare it with my manuscript, I
found to my very great shame and consternation that there was nothing
to suggest such a dream by Mr. Jocelyn; indeed, the poor book-keeper
did not even bear this name--he was called Mr. Joyeuse.
This second error then furnished the key for the solution of the first
mistake, the faulty reminiscence. Joyeux, of which Joyeuse is the
feminine form, was the only possible word which would translate my
own name _Freud_ into French. Whence, therefore, came this falsely
remembered fantasy which I had attributed to Daudet? It could only be
a product of my own, a day-dream which I myself had spun, and which
did not become conscious, or which was once conscious and had since
been absolutely forgotten. Perhaps I invented it myself in Paris, where
frequently enough I walked the streets alone, and full of longing for
a helper and protector, until Charcot took me into his circle. I had
often met the author of _Nabab_ in Charcot’s house. But the provoking
part of it all is the fact that there is scarcely anything to which I
am so hostile as the thought of being some one’s protégé. What we see
of this sort of thing in our country spoils all desire for it, and my
character is little suited to the rôle of a protected child. I have
always entertained an immense desire to “be the strong man myself.” And
it had to happen that I should be reminded of such a, to be sure, never
fulfilled, day-dream! Besides, this incident is a good example of how
the restraint relation to one’s ego, which breaks forth triumphantly in
paranoia, disturbs and entangles us in the objective grasp of things.
Another case of faulty recollection which can be satisfactorily
explained resembles the _fausse reconnaissance_ to be discussed later.
I related to one of my patients, an ambitious and very capable man,
that a young student had recently gained admittance into the circle
of my pupils by means of an interesting work, _Der Künstler, Versuch
einer Sexualpsychologie_. When, a year and a quarter later, this work
lay before me in print, my patient maintained that he remembered
with certainty having read somewhere, perhaps in a bookseller’s
advertisement, the announcement of the same book even before I first
mentioned it to him. He remembered that this announcement came to his
mind at that time, and he ascertained besides that the author had
changed the title, that it no longer read “_Versuch_” but “_Ansätze zu
einer Sexualpsychologie_.”
Careful inquiry of the author and comparison of all dates showed
conclusively that my patient was trying to recall the impossible. No
notice of this work had appeared anywhere before its publication,
certainly not a year and a quarter before it went to print. However, I
neglected to seek a solution for this false recollection until the same
man brought about an equally valuable renewal of it. He thought that he
had recently noticed a work on “agoraphobia” in the show window of a
bookshop, and as he was now looking for it in all available catalogues
I was able to explain to him why his effort must remain fruitless.
The work on agoraphobia existed only in his fantasy as an unconscious
resolution to write such a book himself. His ambition to emulate
that young man, and through such a scientific work to become one of
my pupils, had led him to the first as well as to the second false
recollection. He also recalled later that the bookseller’s announcement
which had occasioned his false reminiscence dealt with a work entitled
_Genesis, Das Gesetz der Zeugung_ (“Genesis, The Law of Generation”).
But the change in the title as mentioned by him was really instigated
by me; I recalled that I myself have perpetrated the same inaccuracy
in the repetition of the title by saying “_Ansätze_” in place of
“_Versuch_.”
B. FORGETTING OF INTENTIONS.
No other group of phenomena is better qualified to demonstrate the
thesis that lack of attention does not in itself suffice to explain
faulty acts as the forgetting of intentions. An intention is an impulse
for an action which has already found approbation, but whose execution
is postponed for a suitable occasion. Now, in the interval thus created
sufficient change may take place in the motive to prevent the intention
from coming to execution. It is not, however, forgotten, it is simply
revised and omitted.
We are naturally not in the habit of explaining the forgetting of
intentions which we daily experience in every possible situation as
being due to a recent change in the adjustment of motives. We generally
leave it unexplained, or we seek a psychologic explanation in the
assumption that at the time of execution the required attention for the
action, which was an indispensable condition for the occurrence of the
intention, and was then at the disposal of the same action, no longer
exists. Observation of our normal behaviour towards intentions urges
us to reject this tentative explanation as arbitrary. If I resolve in
the morning to carry out a certain intention in the evening, I may be
reminded of it several times in the course of the day, but it is not
at all necessary that it should become conscious throughout the day.
As the time for its execution approaches it suddenly occurs to me and
induces me to make the necessary preparation for the intended action.
If I go walking and take a letter with me to be posted, it is not
at all necessary that I, as a normal not nervous individual, should
carry it in my hand and continually look for a letter-box. As a matter
of fact I am accustomed to put it in my pocket and give my thoughts
free rein on my way, feeling confident that the first letter-box will
attract my attention and cause me to put my hand in my pocket and draw
out the letter.
This normal behaviour in a formed intention corresponds perfectly
with the experimentally produced conduct of persons who are under a
so-called “post-hypnotic suggestion” to perform something after a
certain time.[37] We are accustomed to describe the phenomenon in
the following manner: the suggested intention slumbers in the person
concerned until the time for its execution approaches. Then it awakes
and excites the action.
In two positions of life even the layman is cognizant of the fact
that forgetting referring to intended purposes can in no wise claim
consideration as an elementary phenomenon no further reducible, but
realizes that it ultimately depends on unadmitted motives. I refer
to affairs of love and military service. A lover who is late at the
appointed place will vainly tell his sweetheart that unfortunately
he has entirely forgotten their rendezvous. She will not hesitate
to answer him: “A year ago you would not have forgotten. Evidently
you no longer care for me.” Even if he should grasp the above cited
psychologic explanation, and should wish to excuse his forgetting
on the plea of important business, he would only elicit the answer
from the woman, who has become as keen-sighted as the physician in
the psychoanalytic treatment, “How remarkable that such business
disturbances did not occur before!” Of course the woman does not
wish to deny the possibility of forgetting; but she believes, and
not without reason, that practically the same inference of a certain
unwillingness may be drawn from the unintentional forgetting as from a
conscious subterfuge.
Similarly, in military service no distinction is recognized between
an omission resulting from forgetting and one in consequence of
intentional neglect. And rightly so. The soldier dares forget nothing
that military service demands of him. If he forgets in spite of this,
even when he is acquainted with the demands, then it is due to the fact
that the motives which urge the fulfilment of the military exactions
are opposed by contrary motives. Thus the one year’s volunteer[38] who
at inspection pleads forgetting as an excuse for not having polished
his buttons is sure to be punished. But this punishment is small in
comparison to the one he courts if he admits to his superiors that the
motive for his negligence is because “this miserable menial service is
altogether disgusting to me.” Owing to this saving of punishment for
economic reasons, as it were, he makes use of forgetting as an excuse,
or it comes about as a compromise.
The service of women (as well as the military service of the State)
demands that nothing relating to that service be subject to forgetting.
Thus it but suggests that forgetting is permissible in unimportant
matters, but in weighty matters its occurrence is an indication that
one wishes to treat weighty matters as unimportant: that is, that
their importance is disputed.[39] The view-point of psychic validity
is in fact not to be contested here. No person forgets to carry out
actions that seem important to himself without exposing himself to the
suspicion of being a sufferer from mental weakness. Our investigations
therefore can extend only to the forgetting of more or less secondary
intentions, for no intention do we deem absolutely indifferent,
otherwise it would certainly never have been formed.
As in the preceding functional disturbances, I have collected the cases
of neglect through forgetting which I have observed in myself, and
endeavoured to explain them. I have found that they could invariably
be traced to some interference of unknown and unadmitted motives--or,
as may be said, they were due to a counter-will. In a number of
these cases I found myself in a position similar to that of being in
some distasteful service: I was under a constraint to which I had not
entirely resigned myself, so that I showed my protest in the form of
forgetting. This accounts for the fact that I am particularly prone
to forget to send congratulations on such occasions as birthdays,
jubilees, wedding celebrations, and promotions to higher rank. I
continually make new resolutions, but I am more than ever convinced
that I shall not succeed. I am now on the point of giving it up
altogether, and to admit consciously the striving motives. In a period
of transition, I told a friend who asked me to send a congratulatory
telegram for him, at a certain time when I was to send one myself,
that I would probably forget both. It was not surprising that the
prophecy came true. It is undoubtedly due to painful experiences in
life that I am unable to manifest sympathy where this manifestation
must necessarily appear exaggerated, for the small amount of my feeling
does not admit the corresponding expression. Since I have learned that
I often mistook the pretended sympathy of others for real, I am in
rebellion against the conventions of expressing sympathy, the social
expediency of which I naturally acknowledge. Condolences in cases of
death are excepted from this double treatment; once I determine to
send them I do not neglect them. Where my emotional participation has
nothing more to do with social duty, its expression is never inhibited
by forgetting.
Cases in which we forget to carry out actions which we have promised
to do as a favour for others can similarly be explained as antagonism
to conventional duty and as an unfavourable inward opinion. Here
it regularly proves correct, inasmuch as the only person appealed
to believes in the excusing power of forgetfulness, while the one
requesting the favour has no doubt about the right answer: he has no
interest in this matter, otherwise he would not have forgotten it.
There are some who are noted as generally forgetful, and we
excuse their lapses in the same manner as we excuse those who are
short-sighted when they do not greet us in the street.[40] Such persons
forget all small promises which they have made; they leave unexecuted
all orders which they have received; they prove themselves unreliable
in little things; and at the same time demand that we shall not take
these slight offences amiss--that is, they do not want us to attribute
these failings to personal characteristics but to refer them to an
organic peculiarity.[41] I am not one of these people myself, and have
had no opportunity to analyse the actions of such a person in order to
discover from the selection of forgetting the motive underlying the
same. I cannot forego, however, the conjecture _per analogiam_, that
here the motive is an unusual large amount of unavowed disregard for
others which exploits the constitutional factor for its purpose.[42]
In other cases the motives for forgetting are less easy to discover,
and when found excite greater astonishment. Thus, in former years I
observed that of a great number of professional calls I only forgot
those that I was to make on patients whom I treated gratis or on
colleagues. The mortification caused by this discovery led me to
the habit of noting every morning the calls of the day in a form of
resolution. I do not know if other physicians have come to the same
practice by a similar road. Thus we get an idea of what causes the
so-called neurasthenic to make a memorandum of the communications
he wishes to make to the doctor. He apparently lacks confidence in
the reproductive capacity of his memory. This is true, but the scene
usually proceeds in this manner. The patient has recounted his various
complaints and inquiries at considerable length. After he has finished
he pauses for a moment, then he pulls out the memorandum and says
apologetically, “I have made some notes because I cannot remember
anything.” As a rule he finds nothing new on the memorandum. He repeats
each point and answers it himself: “Yes, I have already asked about
that.” By means of the memorandum he probably only demonstrates one of
his symptoms, the frequency with which his resolutions are disturbed
through the interference of obscure motives.
I am touching, moreover, on an affliction to which even most of my
healthy acquaintances are subject, when I admit that especially in
former years I had the habit of easily forgetting for a long time
to return borrowed books, also that it very often happened that I
deferred payments through forgetfulness. One morning not long ago I
left the tobacco-shop where I make my daily purchase of cigars without
paying. It was a most harmless omission, as I am known there and could
therefore expect to be reminded of my debt the next morning. But
this slight neglect, the attempt to contract a debt, was surely not
unconnected with reflections concerning the budget with which I had
occupied myself throughout the preceding day. Even among the so-called
respectable people one can readily demonstrate a double behaviour when
it concerns the theme of money and possession. The primitive greed of
the suckling which wishes to seize every object (in order to put it in
its mouth) has generally been only imperfectly subdued through culture
and training.[43]
I fear that in all the examples thus far given I have grown quite
commonplace. But it can be only a pleasure to me if I happen upon
familiar matters which every one understands, for my main object is
to collect everyday material and utilize it scientifically. I cannot
conceive why wisdom, which is, so to speak, the sediment of everyday
experiences, should be denied admission among the acquisitions of
knowledge. For it is not the diversity of objects but the stricter
method of verification and the striving for far-reaching connections
which make up the essential character of scientific work.
We have invariably found that intentions of some importance are
forgotten when obscure motives arise to disturb them. In still less
important intentions we find a second mechanism of forgetting. Here
a counter-will becomes transferred to the resolution from something
else after an external association has been formed between the latter
and the content of the resolution. The following example reported by
Brill illustrates this: “A patient found that she had suddenly become
very negligent in her correspondence. She was naturally punctual and
took pleasure in letter-writing, but for the last few weeks she simply
could not bring herself to write a letter without exerting the greatest
amount of effort. The explanation was quite simple. Some weeks before
she had received an important letter calling for a categorical answer.
She was undecided what to say, and therefore did not answer it at all.
This indecision in the form of inhibition was unconsciously transferred
to other letters and caused the inhibition against letter-writing in
general.”
Direct counter-will and more remote motivation are found together in
the following example of delaying: I had written a short treatise on
the dream for the series _Grenzfragen des Nerven- und Seelenlebens_,
in which I gave an abstract of my book, _The Interpretation of
Dreams_.[44] Bergmann, the publisher, had sent me the proof sheets
and asked for a speedy return of the same as he wished to issue the
pamphlet before Christmas. I corrected the sheets the same night, and
placed them on my desk in order to take them to the post office the
next morning. In the morning I forgot all about it, and only thought
of it in the afternoon at the sight of the paper cover on my desk.
In the same way I forgot the proofs that evening and the following
morning, and until the afternoon of the second day, when I quickly
took them to a letter-box, wondering what might be the basis of this
procrastination. Obviously I did not want to send them off, although I
could find no explanation for such an attitude.
After posting the letter I entered the shop of my Vienna publisher,
who put out my _Interpretation of Dreams_. I left a few orders; then,
as if impelled by a sudden thought, said, “You undoubtedly know that
I have written the ‘Dream’ book a second time?” “Ah!” he exclaimed,
“then I must ask you to----” “Calm yourself,” I interposed; “it is only
a short treatise for the Löwenfeld-Kurella collection.” But still he
was not satisfied; he feared that the abstract would hurt the sale of
the book. I disagreed with him, and finally asked: “If I had come to
you before, would you have objected to the publication?” “No; under no
circumstances,” he answered.
Personally I believe I acted within my full rights and did nothing
contrary to the general practice; still it seems certain to me that a
thought similar to that entertained by the publisher was the motive for
my procrastination in dispatching the proof sheets.
This reflection leads back to a former occasion when another publisher
raised some difficulties because I was obliged to take out several
pages of the text from an earlier work on cerebral infantile paralysis,
and put them unchanged into a work on the same theme in Nothnagel’s
handbook. There again the reproach received no recognition; that time
also I had loyally informed my first publisher (the same who published
_The Interpretation of Dreams_) of my intention.
However, if this series of recollections is followed back still farther
it brings to light a still earlier occasion relating to a translation
from the French, in which I really violated the property rights that
should be considered in a publication. I had added notes to the text
without asking the author’s permission, and some years later I had
cause to think that the author was dissatisfied with this arbitrary
action.
There is a proverb which indicates the popular knowledge that the
forgetting of intentions is not accidental. It says: “What one forgets
once he will often forget again.”
Indeed, we sometimes cannot help feeling that no matter what may be
said about forgetting and faulty actions, the whole subject is already
known to everybody as something self-evident. It is strange enough that
it is still necessary to push before consciousness such well-known
facts. How often I have heard people remark: “Please do not ask me to
do this, I shall surely forget it.” The coming true of this prophecy
later is surely nothing mysterious in itself. He who speaks thus
perceives the inner resolution not to carry out the request, and only
hesitates to acknowledge it to himself.
Much light is thrown, moreover, on the forgetting of resolutions
through something which could be designated as “forming false
resolutions.” I had once promised a young author to write a review of
his short work, but on account of inner resistances, not unknown to
me, I promised him that it would be done the same evening. I really
had serious intentions of doing so, but I had forgotten that I had
set aside that evening for the preparation of an expert testimony
that could not be deferred. After I thus recognized my resolution as
false, I gave up the struggle against my resistances and refused the
author’s request.
VIII
ERRONEOUSLY CARRIED-OUT ACTIONS
I shall give another passage from the above-mentioned work of Meringer
and Mayer (p. 98):
“Lapses in speech do not stand entirely alone. They resemble the errors
which often occur in our other activities and are quite foolishly
termed ‘forgetfulness.’”
I am therefore in no way the first to presume that there is a sense and
purpose behind the slight functional disturbances of the daily life of
healthy people.[45]
If the lapse in speech, which is without doubt a motor function,
admits of such a conception, it is quite natural to transfer to the
lapses of our other motor functions the same expectation. I have here
formed two groups of cases; all these cases in which the faulty effect
seems to be the essential element--that is, the deviation from the
intention--I denote as erroneously carried-out actions (_Vergreifen_);
the others, in which the entire action appears rather inexpedient,
I call “symptomatic and chance actions.” But no distinct line of
demarcation can be formed; indeed, we are forced to conclude that all
divisions used in this treatise are of only descriptive significance
and contradict the inner unity of the sphere of manifestation.
The psychologic understanding of erroneous actions apparently gains
little in clearness when we place it under the head of “ataxia,” and
especially under “cortical ataxia.” Let us rather try to trace the
individual examples to their proper determinants. To do this I shall
again resort to personal observations, the opportunities for which I
could not very frequently find in myself.
(_a_) In former years, when I made more calls at the homes of patients
than I do at present, it often happened, when I stood before a door
where I should have knocked or rung the bell, that I would pull the
key of my own house from my pocket, only to replace it, quite abashed.
When I investigated in what patients’ homes this occurred, I had to
admit that the faulty action--taking out my key instead of ringing the
bell--signified paying a certain tribute to the house where the error
occurred. It was equivalent to the thought “Here I feel at home,” as
it happened only where I possessed the patient’s regard. (Naturally, I
never rang my own door-bell.)
The faulty action was therefore a symbolic representation of a definite
thought which was not accepted consciously as serious; for in reality
the neurologist is well aware that the patient seeks him only so long
as he expects to be benefited by him, and that his own excessively
warm interest for his patient is evinced only as a means of psychic
treatment.
An almost identical repetition of my experience is described by A.
Maeder (“Contrib. à la psychopathologie de la vie quotidienne,” _Arch.
de Psychol._, vi., 1906): “Il est arrivé à chacun de sortir son
trousseau, en arrivant à la porte d’un ami particulièrement cher, de se
surprendre pour ainsi dire, en train d’ouvrir avec sa clé comme chez
soi. C’est un retard, puisqu’il faut sonner malgré tout, mais c’est
une preuve qu’on se sent--ou qu’on voudrait se sentir--comme chez soi,
auprès de cet ami.”
Jones speaks as follows about the use of keys:[46] “The use of keys is
a fertile source of occurrences of this kind, of which two examples may
be given. If I am disturbed in the midst of some engrossing work at
home by having to go to the hospital to carry out some routine work,
I am very apt to find myself trying to open the door of my laboratory
there with the key of my desk at home, although the two keys are quite
unlike each other. The mistake unconsciously demonstrates where I
would rather be at the moment.
“Some years ago I was acting in a subordinate position at a certain
institution, the front door of which was kept locked, so that it was
necessary to ring for admission. On several occasions I found myself
making serious attempts to open the door with my house key. Each one of
the permanent visiting staff, of which I aspired to be a member, was
provided with a key to avoid the trouble of having to wait at the door.
My mistake thus expressed the desire to be on a similar footing and to
be quite ‘at home’ there.”
A similar experience is reported by Dr. Hans Sachs of Vienna: “I always
carry two keys with me, one for the door of my office and one for my
residence. They are not by any means easily interchanged, as the office
key is at least three times as big as my house key. Besides, I carry
the first in my trouser pocket and the other in my vest pocket. Yet it
often happened that I noticed on reaching the door that while ascending
the stairs I had taken out the wrong key. I decided to undertake a
statistical examination; as I was daily in about the same emotional
state when I stood before both doors, I thought that the interchanging
of the two keys must show a regular tendency, if they were differently
determined psychically. Observation of later occurrences showed that
I regularly took out my house key before the office door. Only on one
occasion was this reversed: I came home tired, knowing that I would
find there a guest. I made an attempt to unlock the door with the,
naturally too big, office key.”
(_b_) At a certain time twice a day for six years I was accustomed
to wait for admission before a door in the second story of the same
house, and during this long period of time it happened twice (within a
short interval) that I climbed a story higher. On the first of these
occasions I was in an ambitious day-dream, which allowed me to “mount
always higher and higher.” In fact, at that time I heard the door in
question open as I put my foot on the first step of the third flight.
On the other occasion I again went too far “engrossed in thought.” As
soon as I became aware of it, I turned back and sought to snatch the
dominating fantasy; I found that I was irritated over a criticism of
my works, in which the reproach was made that I “always went too far,”
which I replaced by the less respectful expression “climbed too high.”
(_c_) For many years a reflex hammer and a tuning-fork lay side by side
on my desk. One day I hurried off at the close of my office hours, as
I wished to catch a certain train, and, despite broad daylight, put
the tuning-fork in my coat pocket in place of the reflex hammer. My
attention was called to the mistake through the weight of the object
drawing down my pocket. Any one unaccustomed to reflect on such slight
occurrences would without hesitation explain the faulty action by the
hurry of the moment, and excuse it. In spite of that, I preferred to
ask myself why I took the tuning-fork instead of the hammer. The haste
could just as well have been a motive for carrying out the action
properly in order not to waste time over the correction.
“Who last grasped the tuning-fork?” was the question which immediately
flashed through my mind. It happened that only a few days ago an
idiotic child, whose attention to sensory impressions I was testing,
had been so fascinated by the tuning-fork that I found it difficult to
tear it away from him. Could it mean, therefore, that I was an idiot?
To be sure, so it would seem, as the next thought which associated
itself with the hammer was _chamer_ (Hebrew for “ass”).
But what was the meaning of this abusive language? We must here inquire
into the situation. I hurried to a consultation at a place on the
Western railroad to see a patient who, according to the anamnesis which
I received by letter, had fallen from a balcony some months before,
and since then had been unable to walk. The physician who invited me
wrote that he was still unable to say whether he was dealing with a
spinal injury or traumatic neurosis--hysteria. That was what I was to
decide. This could therefore be a reminder to be particularly careful
in this delicate differential diagnosis. As it is, my colleagues think
that hysteria is diagnosed far too carelessly where more serious
matters are concerned. But the abuse is not yet justified. Yes, the
next association was that the small railroad station is the same place
in which, some years previous, I saw a young man who, after a certain
emotional experience, could not walk properly. At that time I diagnosed
his malady as hysteria, and later put him under psychic treatment; but
it afterward turned out that my diagnosis was neither incorrect nor
correct. A large number of the patient’s symptoms were hysterical,
and they promptly disappeared in the course of treatment. But back
of these there was a visible remnant that could not be reached by
therapy, and could be referred only to a multiple sclerosis. Those who
saw the patient after me had no difficulty in recognizing the organic
affection. I could scarcely have acted or judged differently, still the
impression was that of a serious mistake; the promise of a cure which I
had given him could naturally not be kept.
The mistake in grasping the tuning-fork instead of the hammer could
therefore be translated into the following words: “You fool, you ass,
get yourself together this time, and be careful not to diagnose again
a case of hysteria where there is an incurable disease, as you did in
this place years ago in the case of the poor man!” And fortunately for
this little analysis, even if unfortunately for my mood, this same
man, now having a very spastic gait, had been to my office a few days
before, one day after the examination of the idiotic child.
We observe that this time it is the voice of self-criticism which makes
itself perceptible through the mistake in grasping. The erroneously
carried-out action is specially suited to express self-reproach. The
present mistake attempts to represent the mistake which was committed
elsewhere.
(_d_) It is quite obvious that grasping the wrong thing may also serve
a whole series of other obscure purposes. Here is a first example: It
is very seldom that I break anything. I am not particularly dexterous,
but by virtue of the anatomic integrity of my nervous and muscular
apparatus there are apparently no grounds in me for such awkward
movements with undesirable results. I can recall no object in my home
the counterpart of which I have ever broken. Owing to the narrowness
of my study it has often been necessary for me to work in the most
uncomfortable position among my numerous antique clay and stone
objects, of which I have a small collection. So much is this true that
onlookers have expressed fear lest I topple down something and shatter
it. But it never happened. Then why did I brush to the floor the cover
of my simple inkwell so that it broke into pieces?
My inkstand is made of a flat piece of marble which is hollowed out
for the reception of the glass inkwell; the inkwell has a marble cover
with a knob of the same stone. A circle of bronze statuettes with small
terra-cotta figures is set behind this inkstand. I seated myself at the
desk to write, I made a remarkably awkward outward movement with the
hand holding the pen-holder, and so swept the cover of the inkstand,
which already lay on the desk, to the floor.
It is not difficult to find the explanation. Some hours before my
sister had been in the room to look at some of my new acquisitions. She
found them very pretty, and then remarked: “Now the desk really looks
very well, only the inkstand does not match. You must get a prettier
one.” I accompanied my sister out and did not return for several hours.
But then, as it seems, I performed the execution of the condemned
inkstand.
Did I perhaps conclude from my sister’s words that she intended to
present me with a prettier inkstand on the next festive occasion, and
did I shatter the unsightly old one in order to force her to carry out
her signified intention? If that be so, then my swinging motion was
only apparently awkward; in reality it was most skilful and designed,
as it understood how to avoid all the valuable objects located near it.
I actually believe that we must accept this explanation for a whole
series of seemingly accidental awkward movements. It is true that
on the surface these seem to show something violent and irregular,
similar to spastic-ataxic movements, but on examination they seem to
be dominated by some intention, and they accomplish their aim with a
certainty that cannot be generally credited to conscious arbitrary
motions. In both characteristics, the force as well as the sure aim,
they show besides a resemblance to the motor manifestations of the
hysterical neurosis, and in part also to the motor accomplishments of
somnambulism, which here as well as there point to the same unfamiliar
modification of the functions of innervation.
In latter years, since I have been collecting such observations, it
has happened several times that I have shattered and broken objects of
some value, but the examination of these cases convinced me that it
was never the result of accident or of my unintentional awkwardness.
Thus, one morning while in my bath-robe and straw slippers I followed a
sudden impulse as I passed a room, and hurled a slipper from my foot
against the wall so that it brought down a beautiful little marble
Venus from its bracket. As it fell to pieces I recited quite unmoved
the following verse from Busch:--
“Ach! Die Venus ist perdü--[47]
Klickeradoms!--von Medici!”
This crazy action and my calmness at the sight of the damage is
explained in the then existing situation. We had a very sick person in
the family, of whose recovery I had personally despaired. That morning
I had been informed that there was a great improvement; I know that I
had said to myself, “After all she will live.” My attack of destructive
madness served therefore as the expression of a grateful feeling
toward fate, and afforded me the opportunity of performing an “act
of sacrifice,” just as if I had vowed, “If she gets well I will give
this or that as a sacrifice.” That I chose the Venus of Medici as this
sacrifice was only gallant homage to the convalescent. But even to-day
it is still incomprehensible to me that I decided so quickly, aimed so
accurately, and struck no other object in close proximity.
Another breaking, in which I utilized a pen-holder falling from
my hand, also signified a sacrifice, but this time it was a pious
offering to avert some evil. I had once allowed myself to reproach a
true and worthy friend for no other reason than certain manifestations
which I interpreted from his unconscious activity. He took it amiss
and wrote me a letter in which he bade me not to treat my friends by
psychoanalysis. I had to admit that he was right and appeased him
with my answer. While writing this letter I had before me my latest
acquisition--a small, handsome glazed Egyptian figure. I broke it in
the manner mentioned, and then immediately knew that I had caused this
mischief to avert a greater one. Luckily, both the friendship and the
figure could be so cemented that the break would not be noticed.
A third case of breaking had a less serious connection; it was only a
disguised “execution,” to use an expression from Th. Vischer’s _Auch
Einer_, of an object that no longer suited my taste. For quite a while
I had carried a cane with a silver handle; through no fault of mine the
thin silver plate was once damaged and poorly repaired. Soon after the
cane was returned I mirthfully used the handle to angle for the leg of
one of my children. In that way it naturally broke, and I got rid of it.
The indifference with which we accept the resulting damage in all
these cases may certainly be taken as evidence for the existence of an
unconscious purpose in their execution.
(_e_) As can sometimes be demonstrated by analysis, the dropping of
objects or the overturning and breaking of the same are very frequently
utilized as the expression of unconscious streams of thought, but more
often they serve to represent the superstitious or odd significances
connected therewith in popular sayings. The meanings attached to the
spilling of salt, the overturning of a wineglass, the sticking of a
knife dropped to the floor, and so on, are well known. I shall discuss
later the right to investigate such superstitious interpretations;
here I shall simply observe that the individual awkward acts do not
by any means always have the same meaning, but, depending on the
circumstances, they serve to represent now this or that purpose.
Recently we passed through a period in my house during which an
unusual number of glass and china dishes were broken. I myself largely
contributed to this damage. This little endemic was readily explained
by the fact that it preceded the public betrothal of my eldest
daughter. On such festivities it is customary to break some dishes and
utter at the same time some felicitating expression. This custom may
signify a sacrifice or express any other symbolic sense.
When servants destroy fragile objects through dropping them, we
certainly do not think in the first place of a psychologic motive for
it; still, some obscure motives are not improbable even here. Nothing
lies farther from the uneducated than the appreciation of art and works
of art. Our servants are dominated by a foolish hostility against these
productions, especially when the objects, whose worth they do not
realize, become a source of a great deal of work for them. On the other
hand, persons of the same education and origin employed in scientific
institutions often distinguish themselves by great dexterity and
reliability in the handling of delicate objects, as soon as they begin
to identify themselves with their masters and consider themselves an
essential part of the staff.
I shall here add the report of a young mechanical engineer, which gives
some insight into the mechanism of damaging things.
“Some time ago I worked with many others in the laboratory of the
High School on a series of complicated experiments on the subject of
elasticity. It was a work that we undertook of our own volition, but it
turned out that it took up more of our time than we expected. One day,
while going to the laboratory with F., he complained of losing so much
time, especially on this day, when he had so many other things to do at
home. I could only agree with him, and he added half jokingly, alluding
to an incident of the previous week: ‘Let us hope that the machine will
refuse to work, so that we can interrupt the experiment and go home
earlier.’
“In arranging the work, it happened that F. was assigned to the
regulation of the pressure valve, that is, it was his duty to carefully
open the valve and let the fluid under pressure flow from the
accumulator into the cylinder of the hydraulic press. The leader of
the experiment stood at the manometer and called a loud ‘Stop!’ when
the maximum pressure was reached. At this command F. grasped the valve
and turned it with all his force--to the left (all valves, without
any exception, are closed to the right). This caused a sudden full
pressure in the accumulator of the press, and as there was no outlet,
the connecting pipe burst. This was quite a trifling accident to the
machine, but enough to force us to stop our work for the day and go
home.
“It is characteristic, moreover, that some time later, on discussing
this occurrence, my friend F. could not recall the remark that I
positively remember his having made.”
Similarly, to fall, to make a misstep, or to slip need not always be
interpreted as an entirely accidental miscarriage of a motor action.
The linguistic double meaning of these expressions points to diverse
hidden fantasies, which may present themselves through the giving up
of bodily equilibrium. I recall a number of lighter nervous ailments
in women and girls which made their appearance after falling without
injury, and which were conceived as traumatic hysteria as a result
of the shock of the fall. At that time I already entertained the
impression that these conditions had a different connection, that the
fall was already a preparation of the neurosis, and an expression of
the same unconscious fantasies of sexual content which may be taken as
the moving forces behind the symptoms. Was not this very thing meant in
the proverb which says, “When a maiden falls, she falls on her back?”
We can also add to these mistakes the case of one who gives a beggar a
gold piece in place of a copper or a silver coin. The solution of such
mishandling is simple: it is an act of sacrifice designed to mollify
fate, to avert evil, and so on. If we hear a tender mother or aunt
express concern regarding the health of a child, directly before taking
a walk during which she displays her charity, contrary to her usual
habit, we can no longer doubt the sense of this apparently undesirable
accident. In this manner our faulty acts make possible the practice of
all those pious and superstitious customs which must shun the light of
consciousness, because of the strivings against them of our unbelieving
reason.
(_f_) That accidental actions are really intentional will find no
greater credence in any other sphere than in sexual activity, where the
border between the intention and accident hardly seems discernible.
That an apparently clumsy movement may be utilized in a most refined
way for sexual purposes I can verify by a nice example from my own
experience. In a friend’s house I met a young girl visitor who excited
in me a feeling of fondness which I had long believed extinct, thus
putting me in a jovial, loquacious, and complaisant mood. At that time
I endeavoured to find out how this came about, as a year before this
same girl made no impression on me.
As the girl’s uncle, a very old man, entered the room, we both jumped
to our feet to bring him a chair which stood in the corner. She was
more agile than I and also nearer the object, so that she was the
first to take possession of the chair. She carried it with its back to
her, holding both hands on the edge of the seat. As I got there later
and did not give up the claim to carrying the chair, I suddenly stood
directly back of her, and with both my arms was embracing her from
behind, and for a moment my hands touched her lap. I naturally solved
the situation as quickly as it came about. Nor did it occur to anybody
how dexterously I had taken advantage of this awkward movement.
Occasionally I have had to admit to myself that the annoying, awkward
stepping aside on the street, whereby for some seconds one steps
here and there, yet always in the same direction as the other person,
until finally both stop facing each other, that this “barring one’s
way” repeats an ill-mannered, provoking conduct of earlier times
and conceals erotic purposes under the mask of awkwardness. From my
psychoanalysis of neurotics I know that the so-called naïveté of young
people and children is frequently only such a mask, employed in order
that the subject may say or do the indecent without restraint.
W. Stekel has reported similar observations in regard to himself: “I
entered a house and offered my right hand to the hostess. In a most
remarkable way I thereby loosened the bow which held together her loose
morning-gown. I was conscious of no dishonourable intent, still I
executed this awkward movement with the agility of a juggler.”
(_g_) The effects which result from mistakes of normal persons are, as
a rule, of a most harmless nature. Just for this reason it would be
particularly interesting to find out whether mistakes of considerable
importance, which could be followed by serious results, as, for
example, those of physicians or druggists, fall within the range of our
point of view.
As I am seldom in a position to deal with active medical matters, I
can only report one mistake from my own experience. I treated a very
old woman, whom I visited twice daily for several years. My medical
activities were limited to two acts, which I performed during my
morning visits: I dropped a few drops of an eye lotion into her eyes
and gave her a hypodermic injection of morphine. I prepared regularly
two bottles--a blue one, containing the eye lotion, and a white one,
containing the morphine solution. While performing these duties my
thoughts were mostly occupied with something else, for they had been
repeated so often that the attention acted as if free. One morning I
noticed that the automaton worked wrong; I had put the dropper into the
white instead of into the blue bottle, and had dropped into the eyes
the morphine instead of the lotion. I was greatly frightened, but then
calmed myself through the reflection that a few drops of a _two per
cent_. solution of morphine would not likely do any harm even if left
in the conjunctival sac. The cause of the fright manifestly belonged
elsewhere.
In attempting to analyse the slight mistake I first thought of the
phrase, “to seize the old woman by mistake,” which pointed out the
short way to the solution. I had been impressed by a dream which a
young man had told me the previous evening, the contents of which could
be explained only on the basis of sexual intercourse with his own
mother.[48] The strangeness of the fact that the Œdipus legend takes
no offence at the age of Queen Jocasta seemed to me to agree with the
assumption that in being in love with one’s mother we never deal with
the present personality, but with her youthful memory picture carried
over from our childhood. Such incongruities always show themselves
where one fantasy fluctuating between two periods is made conscious,
and is then bound to one definite period.
Deep in thoughts of this kind, I came to my patient of over ninety;
I must have been well on the way to grasp the universal character
of the Œdipus fable as the correlation of the fate which the oracle
pronounces, for I made a blunder in reference to or on the old woman.
Here, again, the mistake was harmless; of the two possible errors,
taking the morphine solution for the eye, or the eye lotion for the
injection, I chose the one by far the least harmful. The question still
remains open whether in mistakes in handling things which may cause
serious harm we can assume an unconscious intention as in the cases
here discussed.
The following case from Brill’s experience corroborates the assumption
that even serious mistakes are determined by unconscious intentions:
“A physician received a telegram informing him that his aged uncle was
very sick. In spite of important family affairs at home he at once
repaired to that distant town because his uncle was really his father,
who had cared for him since he was one and a half years old, when his
own father had died. On reaching there he found his uncle suffering
from pneumonia, and, as the old man was an octogenarian, the doctors
held out no hope for his recovery. ‘It was simply a question of a day
or two,’ was the local doctor’s verdict. Although a prominent physician
in a big city, he refused to co-operate in the treatment, as he found
that the case was properly managed by the local doctor, and he could
not suggest anything to improve matters.
“Since death was daily expected, he decided to remain to the end. He
waited a few days, but the sick man struggled hard, and although there
was no question of any recovery, because of the many new complications
which had arisen, death seemed to be deferred for a while. One night
before retiring he went into the sick-room and took his uncle’s pulse.
As it was quite weak, he decided not to wait for the doctor, and
administered a hypodermic injection. The patient grew rapidly worse
and died within a few hours. There was something strange in the last
symptoms, and on later attempting to replace the tube of hypodermic
tablets into the case, he found to his consternation that he had taken
out the wrong tube, and instead of a small dose of digitalis he had
given a large dose of hyoscine.
“This case was related to me by the doctor after he read my paper on
the Œdipus Complex.[49] We agreed that this mistake was determined not
only by his impatience to get home to his sick child, but also by an
old resentment and unconscious hostility toward his uncle (father).”
It is known that in the more serious cases of psychoneuroses one
sometimes finds self-mutilations as symptoms of the disease. That the
psychic conflict may end in suicide can never be excluded in these
cases. Thus I know from experience, which some day I shall support
with convincing examples, that many apparently accidental injuries
happening to such patients are really self-inflicted. This is brought
about by the fact that there is a constantly lurking tendency to
self-punishment, usually expressing itself in self-reproach, or
contributing to the formation of a symptom, which skilfully makes
use of an external situation. The required external situation may
accidentally present itself or the punishment tendency may assist it
until the way is open for the desired injurious effect.
Such occurrences are by no means rare even in cases of moderate
severity, and they betray the portion of unconscious intention through
a series of special features--for example, through the striking
presence of mind which the patients show in the pretended accidents.[50]
I will report exhaustively one in place of many such examples from
my professional experience. A young woman broke her leg below the
knee in a carriage accident so that she was bedridden for weeks. The
striking part of it was the lack of any manifestation of pain and the
calmness with which she bore her misfortune. This calamity ushered in
a long and serious neurotic illness, from which she was finally cured
by psychotherapy. During the treatment I discovered the circumstances
surrounding the accident, as well as certain impressions which preceded
it. The young woman with her jealous husband spent some time on
the farm of her married sister, in company with her numerous other
brothers and sisters with their wives and husbands. One evening she
gave an exhibition of one of her talents before this intimate circle;
she danced artistically the “cancan,” to the great delight of her
relatives, but to the great annoyance of her husband, who afterward
whispered to her, “Again you have behaved like a prostitute.” The words
took effect; we will leave it undecided whether it was just on account
of the dance. That night she was restless in her sleep, and the next
forenoon she decided to go out driving. She chose the horses herself,
refusing one team and demanding another. Her youngest sister wished
to have her baby with its nurse accompany her, but she opposed this
vehemently. During the drive she was nervous; she reminded the coachman
that the horses were getting skittish, and as the fidgety animals
really produced a momentary difficulty she jumped from the carriage
in fright and broke her leg, while those remaining in the carriage
were uninjured. Although after the disclosure of these details we can
hardly doubt that this accident was really contrived, we cannot fail
to admire the skill which forced the accident to mete out a punishment
so suitable to the crime. For as it happened “cancan” dancing with her
became impossible for a long time.
Concerning self-inflicted injuries of my own experience, I cannot
report anything in calm times, but under extraordinary conditions I do
not believe myself incapable of such acts. When a member of my family
complains that he or she has bitten his tongue, bruised her finger,
and so on, instead of the expected sympathy I put the question, “Why
did you do that?” But I have most painfully squeezed my thumb, after a
youthful patient acquainted me during the treatment with his intention
(naturally not to be taken seriously) of marrying my eldest daughter,
while I knew that she was then in a private hospital in extreme danger
of losing her life.
One of my boys, whose vivacious temperament was wont to put
difficulties in the management of nursing him in his illness, had a fit
of anger one morning because he was ordered to remain in bed during the
forenoon, and threatened to kill himself: a way out suggested to him
by the newspapers. In the evening he showed me a swelling on the side
of his chest which was the result of bumping against the door knob.
To my ironical question why he did it, and what he meant by it, the
eleven-year-old child explained, “That was my attempt at suicide which
I threatened this morning.” However, I do not believe that my views on
self-inflicted wounds were accessible to my children at that time.
Whoever believes in the occurrence of semi-intentional self-inflicted
injury--if this awkward expression be permitted--will become prepared
to accept through it the fact that aside from conscious intentional
suicide there also exists semi-intentional annihilation--with
unconscious intention--which is capable of aptly utilizing a threat
against life and masking it as a casual mishap. Such mechanism is by no
means rare. For the tendency to self-destruction exists to a certain
degree in many more persons than in those who bring it to completion.
Self-inflicted injuries are, as a rule, a compromise between this
impulse and the forces working against it, and even where it really
comes to suicide the inclination has existed for a long time with less
strength or as an unconscious and repressed tendency.
Even suicide consciously committed chooses its time, means, and
opportunity; it is quite natural that unconscious suicide should wait
for a motive to take upon itself one part of the causation and thus
free it from its oppression by taking up the defensive forces of the
person.[51] These are in no way idle discussions which I here bring
up; more than one case of apparently accidental misfortune (on a
horse or out of a carriage) has become known to me whose surrounding
circumstances justified the suspicion of suicide.
For example, during an officers’ horse-race one of the riders fell
from his horse and was so seriously injured that a few days later he
succumbed to his injuries. His behaviour after regaining consciousness
was remarkable in more than one way, and his conduct previous to the
accident was still more remarkable. He had been greatly depressed by
the death of his beloved mother, had crying spells in the society of
his comrades, and to his trusted friend had spoken of the _tædium
vitæ_. He had wished to quit the service in order to take part in a
war in Africa which had no interest for him.[52] Formerly a keen
rider, he had later evaded riding whenever possible. Finally, before
the horse-race, from which he could not withdraw, he expressed a sad
foreboding, which most expectedly in the light of our conception came
true. It may be contended that it is quite comprehensible without any
further cause that a person in such a state of nervous depression
cannot manage a horse as well as on normal days. I quite agree with
that, only I should like to look for the mechanism of this motor
inhibition through “nervousness” in the intention of self-destruction
here emphasized.
Dr. Ferenczi has left to me for publication the analysis of an
apparently accidental injury by shooting which he explained as an
unconscious attempt at suicide. I can only agree with his deduction:--
“J. Ad., 22 years old, carpenter, visited me on the 18th of January,
1908. He wished to know whether the bullet which pierced his left
temple March 20, 1907, could or should be removed by operation. Aside
from occasional, not very severe, headaches, he felt quite well, also
the objective examination showed nothing besides the characteristic
powder wound on the left temple, so that I advised against an
operation. When questioned concerning the circumstances of the case he
asserted that he injured himself accidentally. He was playing with his
brother’s revolver, and _believing that it was not loaded_ he pressed
it with his left hand against the left temple (he is not left-handed),
put his finger on the trigger, and the shot went off. _There were three
bullets in the six-shooter._
“I asked him how he came to carry the revolver, and he answered that it
was at the time of his army conscription, that he took it to the inn
the evening before because he feared fights. At the army examination
he was considered unfit for service on account of varicose veins,
which caused him much mortification. He went home and played with the
revolver. He had no intention of hurting himself, but the accident
occurred. On further questioning whether he was otherwise satisfied
with his fortune, he answered with a sigh, and related a love affair
with a girl who loved him in return, but nevertheless left him. She
emigrated to America out of sheer avariciousness. He wanted to follow
her, but his parents prevented him. His lady-love left on the 20th of
January, 1907, just two months before the accident.
“Despite all these suspicious elements the patient insisted that the
shot was an ‘accident.’ I was firmly convinced, however, that the
neglect to find out whether the revolver was loaded before he began to
play with it, as well as the self-inflicted injury, were psychically
determined. He was still under the depressing effects of the unhappy
love affair, and apparently wanted ‘to forget everything’ in the army.
When this hope, too, was taken away from him he resorted to playing
with the weapon--that is, to an unconscious attempt at suicide. The
fact that he did not hold the revolver in the right but in the left
hand speaks conclusively in favour of the fact that he was really only
‘playing’--that is, he did not wish consciously to commit suicide.”
Another analysis of an apparently accidental self-inflicted wound,
detailed to me by an observer, recalls the saying, “He who digs a pit
for others falls in himself.”[53]
“Mrs. X., belonging to a good middle-class family, is married and has
three children. She is somewhat nervous, but never needed any strenuous
treatment, as she could sufficiently adapt herself to life. One day she
sustained a rather striking though transitory disfigurement of her face
in the following manner: She stumbled in a street that was in process
of repair and struck her face against the house wall. The whole face
was bruised, the eyelids blue and œdematous, and as she feared that
something might happen to her eyes she sent for the doctor. After she
was calmed I asked her, ‘But why did you fall in such a manner?’ She
answered that just before this accident she warned her husband, who
had been suffering for some months from a joint affection, to be very
careful in the street, and she often had the experience that in some
remarkable way those things occurred to her against which she warned
others.
“I was not satisfied with this as the determination of her accident,
and asked her whether she had not something else to tell me. ‘Yes, just
before the accident she noticed a nice picture in a shop on the other
side of the street, which she suddenly desired as an ornament for her
nursery, and wished to buy it at once. She thereupon walked across to
the shop without looking at the street, stumbled over a heap of stones,
and fell with her face against the wall without making the slightest
effort to shield herself with her hands. The intention to buy the
picture was immediately forgotten, and she walked home in haste.’
“‘But why were you not more careful?’ I asked.
“‘Oh!’ she answered, ‘perhaps it was only a punishment for that episode
which I confided to you!’
“‘Has this episode still bothered you?’
“‘Yes, later I regretted it very much; I considered myself wicked,
criminal, and immoral, but at the time I was almost crazy with
nervousness.’
“She referred to an abortion which was started by a quack and had to be
brought to completion by a gynecologist. This abortion was initiated
with the consent of her husband, as both wished, on account of their
pecuniary circumstances, to be spared from being additionally blessed
with children.
“She said: ‘I had often reproached myself with the words, “You really
had your child killed,” and I feared that such a crime could not
remain unpunished. Now that you have assured me that there is nothing
seriously wrong with my eyes I am quite assured I have already been
sufficiently punished.’
“This accident, therefore, was, on the one hand, a retribution for
her sin, but, on the other hand, it may have served as an escape from
a more dire punishment which she had feared for many months. In the
moment that she ran to the shop to buy the picture the memory of this
whole history, with its fears (already quite active in her unconscious
at the time she warned her husband), became overwhelming and could
perhaps find expression in words like these: ‘But why do you want an
ornament for the nursery?--you who had your child killed! You are a
murderer! The great punishment is surely approaching!’
“This thought did not become conscious, but instead of it she made use
of the situation--I might say of the psychologic moment--to utilize
in a commonplace manner the heap of stones to inflict upon herself
this punishment. It was for this reason that she did not even attempt
to put out her arms while falling and was not much frightened. The
second, and probably lesser, determinant of her accident was obviously
the self-punishment for her unconscious wish to be rid of her husband,
who was an accessory to the crime in this affair. This was betrayed by
her absolutely superfluous warning to be very careful in the street on
account of the stones. For, just because her husband had a weak leg, he
was very careful in walking.”
If such a rage against one’s own integrity and one’s own life
can be hidden behind apparently accidental awkwardness and motor
insufficiency, then it is not a big step forward to grasp the
possibility of transferring the same conception to mistakes which
seriously endanger the life and health of others. What I can put
forward as evidence for the validity of this conception was taken
from my experience with neurotics, and hence does not fully meet the
demands of this situation. I will report a case in which it was not
an erroneously carried-out action, but what may be more aptly termed
a symbolic or chance action that gave me the clue which later made
possible the solution of the patient’s conflict.
I once undertook to improve the marriage relations of a very
intelligent man, whose differences with his tenderly attached young
wife could surely be traced to real causes, but as he himself admitted
could not be altogether explained through them. He continually occupied
himself with the thought of a separation, which he repeatedly rejected
because he dearly loved his two small children. In spite of this he
always returned to that resolution and sought no means to make the
situation bearable to himself. Such an unsettlement of a conflict
served to prove to me that there were unconscious and repressed
motives which enforced the conflicting conscious thoughts, and in such
cases I always undertake to end the conflict by psychic analysis. One
day the man related to me a slight occurrence which had extremely
frightened him. He was sporting with the older child, by far his
favourite. He tossed it high in the air and repeated this tossing till
finally he thrust it so high that its head almost struck the massive
gas chandelier. Almost, but not quite, or say “just about!” Nothing
happened to the child except that it became dizzy from fright. The
father stood transfixed with the child in his arms, while the mother
merged into an hysterical attack. The particular facility of this
careless movement, with the violent reaction in the parents, suggested
to me to look upon this accident as a symbolic action which gave
expression to an evil intention toward the beloved child.
I could remove the contradiction of the actual tenderness of this
father for his child by referring the impulse to injure it to the
time when it was the only one, and so small that as yet the father
had no occasion for tender interest in it. Then it was easy to assume
that this man, so little pleased with his wife at that time, might
have thought: “If this small being for whom I have no regard whatever
should die, I would be free and could separate from my wife.” The wish
for the death of this much loved being must therefore have continued
unconsciously. From here it was easy to find the way to the unconscious
fixation of this wish.
There was indeed a powerful determinant in a memory from the patient’s
childhood: it referred to the death of a little brother, which the
mother laid to his father’s negligence, and which led to serious
quarrels with threats of separation between the parents. The continued
course of my patient’s life, as well as the therapeutic success
confirmed my analysis.
IX
SYMPTOMATIC AND CHANCE ACTIONS
The actions described so far, in which we recognize the execution of
an unconscious intention, appeared as disturbances of other unintended
actions, and hid themselves under the pretext of awkwardness. Chance
actions, which we shall now discuss, differ from erroneously carried
out actions only in that they disdain the support of a conscious
intention and really need no pretext. They appear independently and
are accepted because one does not credit them with any aim or purpose.
We execute them “without thinking anything of them,” “by mere chance,”
“just to keep the hands busy,” and we feel confident that such
information will be quite sufficient should one inquire as to their
significance. In order to enjoy the advantage of this exceptional
position these actions which no longer claim awkwardness as an excuse
must fulfil certain conditions: they must not be striking, and their
effects must be insignificant.
I have collected a large number of such “chance actions” from myself
and others, and after thoroughly investigating the individual
examples, I believe that the name “symptomatic actions” is more
suitable. They give expression to something which the actor himself
does not suspect in them, and which as a rule he has no intention
of imparting to others, but aims to keep to himself. Like the other
phenomena considered so far, they thus play the part of symptoms.
The richest output of such chance or symptomatic actions is above all
obtained in the psychoanalytic treatment of neurotics. I cannot deny
myself the pleasure of showing by two examples of this nature how
far and how delicately the determination of these plain occurrences
are swayed by unconscious thoughts. The line of demarcation between
the symptomatic actions and the erroneously carried out actions is
so indefinite that I could have disposed of these examples in the
preceding chapter.
(_a_) During the analysis a young woman reproduced this idea which
suddenly occurred to her. Yesterday while cutting her nails “she had
cut into the flesh while engaged in trimming the cuticle.” This is
of so little interest that we ask in astonishment why it is at all
remembered and mentioned, and therefore come to the conclusion that
we deal with a symptomatic action. It was really the finger upon
which the wedding-ring is worn which was injured through this slight
awkwardness. It happened, moreover, on her wedding-day, which thus
gives to the injury of the delicate skin a very definite and easily
guessed meaning. At the same time she also related a dream which
alluded to the awkwardness of her husband and her anesthesia as a
woman. But why did she injure the ring finger of her left hand when the
wedding-ring is worn on the right? Her husband is a jurist, a “Doctor
of Laws” (_Doktor der Rechte_, literally a Doctor of Rights), and her
secret affection as a girl belonged to a physician who was jokingly
called _Doktor der Linke_ (literally Doctor of Left). Incidentally a
left-handed marriage has a definite meaning.
(_b_) A single young woman relates: “Yesterday, quite unintentionally,
I tore a hundred-dollar note in two pieces and gave half to a woman
who was visiting me. Is that, too, a symptomatic action?” After
closer investigation the matter of the hundred-dollar note elicited
the following associations: She dedicated a part of her time and
her fortune to charitable work. Together with another woman she was
taking care of the rearing of an orphan. The hundred dollars was the
contribution sent her by that woman, which she enclosed in an envelope
and provisionally deposited on her writing-desk.
The visitor was a prominent woman with whom she was associated in
another act of charity. This woman wished to note the names of a
number of persons to whom she could apply for charitable aid. There was
no paper, so my patient grasped the envelope from her desk, and without
thinking of its contents tore it in two pieces, one of which she kept,
in order to have a duplicate list of names, and gave the other to her
visitor.
Note the harmlessness of this aimless occurrence. It is known that a
hundred-dollar note suffers no loss in value when it is torn, provided
all the pieces are produced. That the woman would not throw away the
piece of paper was assumed by the importance of the names on it, and
there was just as little doubt that she would return the valuable
content as soon as she noticed it.
But to what unconscious thought should this chance action, which was
made possible through forgetfulness, give expression? The visitor in
this case had a very definite relation to my patient and myself. It was
she who at one time had recommended me as physician to the suffering
girl, and if I am not mistaken my patient considered herself indebted
for this advice. Should this halved hundred-dollar note perhaps
represent a fee for her mediation? That still remained enigmatic.
But other material was added to this beginning. Several days before a
woman mediator of a different sort had inquired of a relative whether
the gracious young lady wished to make the acquaintance of a certain
gentleman, and that morning, some hours before the woman’s visit, the
wooing letter of the suitor arrived, giving occasion for much mirth.
When therefore the visitor opened the conversation with inquiries
regarding the health of my patient, the latter could well have thought:
“You certainly found me the right doctor, but if you could assist me
in obtaining the right husband (and a child) I should be still more
grateful.”
Both mediators became fused into one in this repressed thought, and
she handed the visitor the fee which her fantasy was ready to give the
other. This resolution became perfectly convincing when I add that I
had told her of such chance or symptomatic actions only the previous
evening. She then took advantage of the next occasion to produce an
analogous action.
We can undertake a grouping of these extremely frequent chance and
symptomatic actions according to their occurrence as habitual, regular
under certain circumstances, and as isolated ones. The first group
(such as playing with the watch-chain, fingering one’s beard, and
so on), which can almost serve as a characteristic of the person
concerned, is related to the numerous tic movements, and certainly
deserves to be dealt with in connection with the latter. In the second
group I place the playing with one’s cane, the scribbling with one’s
pencil, the jingling of coins in one’s pocket, kneading dough and other
plastic materials, all sorts of handling of one’s clothing, and many
other actions of the same order.
These playful occupations during psychic treatment regularly conceal
sense and meaning to which other expression is denied. Generally the
person in question knows nothing about it; he is unaware whether he is
doing the same thing or whether he has imitated certain modifications
in his customary playing, and he also fails to see or hear the
effects of these actions. For example, he does not hear the noise
which is produced by the jingling of coins, and he is astonished and
incredulous when his attention is called to it. Of equal significance
to the physician, and worthy of his observation, is everything that
one does with his clothing often without noticing it. Every change in
the customary attire, every little negligence, such as an unfastened
button, every trace of exposure means to express something that the
wearer of the apparel does not wish to say directly, usually he is
entirely unconscious of it.
The interpretation of these trifling chance actions, as well as the
proof for their interpretation, can be demonstrated every time with
sufficient certainty from the surrounding circumstances during the
treatment, from the themes under discussion, and from the ideas that
come to the surface when attention is directed to the seeming accident.
Because of this connection I will refrain from supporting my assertions
by reporting examples with their analyses; but I mention these matters
because I believe that they have the same meaning in normal persons as
in my patients.
I cannot, however, refrain from showing by at least one example how
closely an habitually accomplished symbolic action may be connected
with the most intimate and important part of the life of a normal
individual.[54]
“As Professor Freud has taught us, the symbolism in the infantile life
of the normal plays a greater rôle than was expected from earlier
psychoanalytic experiences. In view of this the following brief
analysis may be of general interest, especially on account of its
medical aspects.
“A doctor on rearranging his furniture in a new house came across a
straight, wooden stethoscope, and, after pausing to decide where he
should put it, was impelled to place it on the side of his writing-desk
in such a position that it stood exactly between his chair and the
one reserved for his patients. The act in itself was certainly odd,
for in the first place the straight stethoscope served no purpose,
as he invariably used a binaural one; and in the second place all his
medical apparatus and instruments were always kept in drawers, with the
sole exception of this one. However, he gave no thought to the matter
until one day it was brought to his notice by a patient who had never
seen a wooden stethoscope, asking him what it was. On being told, she
asked why he kept it there. He answered in an offhand way that that
place was as good as any other. This, however, started him thinking,
and he wondered whether there had been an unconscious motive in his
action. Being interested in the psychoanalytic method, he asked me to
investigate the matter.
“The first memory that occurred to him was the fact that when a medical
student he had been struck by the habit his hospital interne had of
always carrying in his hand a wooden stethoscope on his ward visits,
although he never used it. He greatly admired this interne, and was
much attached to him. Later on, when he himself became an interne he
contracted the same habit, and would feel very uncomfortable if by
mistake he left the room without having the instrument to swing in his
hand. The aimlessness of the habit was shown, not only by the fact
that the only stethoscope he ever used was a binaural one, which he
carried in his pocket, but also in that it was continued when he was a
surgical interne and never needed any stethoscope at all.
“From this it was evident that the idea of the instrument in question
had in some way or other become invested with a greater psychic
significance than normally belongs to it--in other words, that to the
subject it stood for more than it does for other people. The idea
must have got unconsciously associated with some other one, which
it symbolized, and from which it derived its additional fulness of
meaning. I will forestall the rest of the analysis by saying what
this secondary idea was--namely, a phallic one; the way in which this
curious association had been formed will presently be related. The
discomfort he experienced in hospital on missing the instrument, and
the relief and assurance the presence of it gave him, was related to
what is known as a ‘castration-complex’--namely, a childhood fear,
often continued in a disguised form into adult life, lest a private
part of his body should be taken away from him, just as playthings so
often were. The fear was due to paternal threats that it would be cut
off if he were not a good boy, particularly in a certain direction.
This is a very common complex, and accounts for a great deal of general
nervousness and lack of confidence in later years.
“Then came a number of childhood memories relating to his family
doctor. He had been strongly attached to this doctor as a child, and
during the analysis long-buried memories were recovered of a double
phantasy he had in his fourth year concerning the birth of a younger
sister--namely, that she was the child (1) of himself and his mother,
the father being relegated to the background, and (2) of the doctor and
himself; in this he thus played both a masculine and feminine part.[55]
At the time, when his curiosity was being aroused by the event, he
could not help noticing the prominent share taken by the doctor in the
proceedings, and the subordinate position occupied by the father: the
significance of this for his later life will presently be pointed out.
“The stethoscope association was formed through many connections.
In the first place, the physical appearance of the instrument--a
straight, rigid, hollow tube, having a small bulbous summit at one
extremity and a broad base at the other--and the fact of its being
the essential part of the medical paraphernalia, the instrument with
which the doctor performed his magical and interesting feats, were
matters that attracted his boyish attention. He had had his chest
repeatedly examined by the doctor at the age of six, and distinctly
recollected the voluptuous sensation of feeling the latter’s head
near him pressing the wooden stethoscope into his chest, and of the
rhythmic to-and-fro respiratory movement. He had been struck by the
doctor’s habit of carrying his stethoscope inside his hat; he found it
interesting that the doctor should carry his chief instrument concealed
about his person, always handy when he went to see patients, and that
he only had to take off his hat (_i.e_., a part of his clothing) and
‘pull it out.’ At the age of eight he was impressed by being told by
an older boy that it was the doctor’s custom to get into bed with
his women patients. It is certain that the doctor, who was young and
handsome, was extremely popular among the women of the neighbourhood,
including the subject’s own mother. The doctor and his ‘instrument’
were therefore the objects of great interest throughout his boyhood.
“It is probable that, as in many other cases, unconscious
identification with the family doctor had been a main motive in
determining the subject’s choice of profession. It was here doubly
conditioned (1) by the superiority of the doctor on certain interesting
occasions to the father, of whom the subject was very jealous, and (2)
by the doctor’s knowledge of forbidden topics[56] and his opportunity
for illicit indulgence. The subject admitted that he had on several
occasions experienced erotic temptations in regard to his women
patients; he had twice fallen in love with one, and finally had married
one.
“The next memory was of a dream, plainly of a homosexual-masochistic
nature; in it a man, who proved to be a replacement figure of the
family doctor, attacked the subject with a ‘sword.’ The idea of a
sword, as is so frequently the case in dreams, represented the same
idea that was mentioned above to be associated with that of a wooden
stethoscope. The thought of a sword reminded the subject of the passage
in the _Nibelung Saga_, where Sigurd sleeps with his naked sword
(_Gram_) between him and Brunhilda, an incident that had always greatly
struck his imagination.
“The meaning of the symptomatic act now at last became clear. The
subject had placed his wooden stethoscope between him and his patients,
just as Sigurd had placed his sword (an equivalent symbol) between him
and the maiden he was not to touch. The act was a compromise-formation;
it served both to gratify in his imagination the repressed wish to
enter into nearer relations with an attractive patient (interposition
of phallus), and at the same time to remind him that this wish was not
to become a reality (interposition of sword). It was, so to speak, a
charm against yielding to temptation.
“I might add that the following passage from Lord Lytton’s _Richelieu_
made a great impression on the boy:--
‘_Beneath the rule of men entirely great
The pen is mightier than the sword_,’[57]
and that he became a prolific writer and uses an unusually large
fountain-pen. When I asked him what need he had of this pen, he replied
in a characteristic manner, ‘I have so much to express.’
“This analysis again reminds us of the profound views that are afforded
us in the psychic life through the ‘harmless’ and ‘senseless’ actions,
and how early in life the tendency to symbolization develops.”
I can also relate an experience from my psychotherapeutic practice in
which the hand, playing with a mass of bread-crumbs, gave evidence of
an eloquent declaration. My patient was a boy not yet thirteen years of
age, who had been very hysterical for two years. I finally took him for
psychoanalytic treatment, after a lengthy stay at a hydrotherapeutic
institution had proved futile. My supposition was that he must have
had sexual experiences, and that, corresponding to his age, he had
been troubled by sexual questions; but I was cautious about helping
him with explanations as I wished to test further my assumption. I was
therefore curious as to the manner in which the desired material would
evince itself in him.
One day it struck me that he was rolling something between the fingers
of his right hand; he would thrust it into his pocket and there
continue playing with it, then would draw it out again, and so on. I
did not ask what he had in his hand; but as he suddenly opened his hand
he showed it to me. It was bread-crumbs kneaded into a mass. At the
next session he again brought along a mass, and in the course of our
conversation, although his eyes were closed, modelled a figure with an
incredible rapidity which excited my interest. Without doubt it was a
manikin like the crudest prehistoric idols, with a head, two arms, two
legs, and an appendage between the legs which he drew out to a long
point.
This was scarcely completed when he kneaded the manikin together again:
later he allowed it to remain, but modelled an identical appendage on
the flat of the back and on other parts in order to veil the meaning of
the first. I wished to show him that I had understood him, but at the
same time I wanted to deprive him of the evasion that he had thought
of nothing while actively forming these figures. With this intention
I suddenly asked him whether he remembered the story of the Roman king
who gave his son’s envoy a pantomimic answer in his garden.
The boy did not wish to recall what he must have learned so much more
recently than I. He asked if that was the story of the slave on whose
bald skull the answer was written. I told him, “No, that belonged to
Greek history,” and related the following: “King Tarquinius Superbus
had induced his son Sextus to steal into a Latin city. The son, who had
later obtained a foothold in the city, sent a messenger to the king
asking what steps he should take next. The king gave no answer, but
went into his garden, had the question repeated there, and silently
struck off the heads of the largest and most beautiful poppies.
All that the messenger could do was to report this to Sextus, who
understood his father, and caused the most distinguished citizens of
the city to be removed by assassination.”
While I was speaking the boy stopped kneading, and as I was relating
what the king did in his garden, I noticed that at the words “silently
struck” he tore off the head of the manikin with a movement as quick
as lightning. He therefore understood me, and showed that he was also
understood by me. Now I could question him directly, and gave him the
information that he desired, and in a short time the neurosis came to
an end.
The symptomatic actions which we observe in inexhaustible abundance in
healthy as well as in nervous people are worthy of our interest for
more than one reason. To the physician they often serve as valuable
indications for orienting himself in new or unfamiliar conditions;
to the keen observer they often betray everything, occasionally even
more than he cares to know. He who is familiar with its application
sometimes feels like King Solomon, who, according to the Oriental
legend, understood the language of animals.
One day I was to examine a strange young man at his mother’s home. As
he came towards me I was attracted by a large stain on his trousers,
which by its peculiar stiff edges I recognized as one produced by
albumen. After a moment’s embarrassment the young man excused this
stain by remarking that he was hoarse and therefore drank a raw egg,
and that some of the slippery white of the egg had probably fallen on
his clothes. To confirm his statements he showed the eggshell which
could still be seen on a small plate in the room. The suspicious spot
was thus explained in this harmless way; but as his mother left us
alone I thanked him for having so greatly facilitated the diagnosis
for me, and without further procedure I took as the topic of our
discussion his confession that he was suffering from the effects of
masturbation.
Another time I called on a woman as rich as she was miserly and
foolish, who was in the habit of giving the physician the task of
working his way through a heap of her complaints before he could reach
the simple cause of her condition. As I entered she was sitting at
a small table engaged in arranging silver dollars in little piles:
as she rose she tumbled some of the pieces of money to the floor.
I helped her pick them up, but interrupted the recitation of her
misery by remarking: “Has your good son-in-law been spending so much
of your money again?” She bitterly denied this, only to relate a few
moments later the lamentable story of the aggravation caused by her
son-in-law’s extravagances. And she has not sent for me since. I cannot
maintain that one always makes friends of those to whom he tells the
meaning of their symptomatic actions.
He who observes his fellow-men while at table will be able to verify in
them the nicest and most instructive symptomatic actions.
Dr. Hans Sachs relates the following:--
“I happened to be present when an elderly couple related to me partook
of their supper. The lady had stomach trouble and was forced to follow
a strict diet. A roast was put before the husband, and he requested
his wife, who was not allowed to partake of this food, to give him
the mustard. The wife opened the closet and took out the small bottle
of stomach drops, and placed it on the table before her husband.
Between the barrel-shaped mustard-glass and the small drop-bottle
there was naturally no similarity through which the mishandling could
be explained; yet the wife only noticed the mistake after her husband
laughingly called her attention to it. The sense of this symptomatic
action needs no explanation.”
For an excellent example of this kind which was very skilfully utilized
by the observer, I am indebted to Dr. Bernh. Dattner (Vienna):--
“I dined in a restaurant with my colleague H., a doctor of philosophy.
He spoke about the injustice done to probationary students, and added
that even before he finished his studies he was placed as secretary to
the ambassador, or rather the extraordinary plenipotentiary Minister to
Chili. ‘But,’ he added, ‘the minister was afterwards transferred, and
I did not make any effort to meet the newly appointed.’ While uttering
the last sentence he was lifting a piece of pie to his mouth, but he
let it drop as if out of awkwardness. I immediately grasped the hidden
sense of this symptomatic action, and remarked to my colleague, who was
unacquainted with psychoanalysis, ‘You really allowed a very choice
morsel to slip from you.’ He did not realize, however, that my words
could equally refer to his symptomatic action, and he repeated the same
words I uttered with a peculiarly agreeable and surprising vividness,
as if I had actually taken the words from his mouth: ‘It was really
a very choice morsel that I allowed to get away from me.’ He then
followed this remark with a detailed description of his clumsiness,
which has cost him this very remunerative position.
“The sense of this symbolic action becomes clearer if we remember that
my colleague had scruples about telling me, almost a perfect stranger,
concerning his precarious material situation, and his repressed thought
took on the mask of symptomatic action which expressed symbolically
what was meant to be concealed, and the speaker thus got relief from
his unconscious.”
That the taking away or taking along things without any apparent
intention may prove to be senseful may be shown by the following
examples.
I. Dr. B. Dattner relates: “An acquaintance paid the first
after-marriage visit to a highly regarded lady friend of his youth. He
told me of this visit and expressed his surprise at the fact that he
failed in his resolution to visit with her only a short time, and then
reported to me a rather strange faulty act which happened to him there.
“The husband of this friend, who took part in the conversation, was
looking for a box of matches which he was sure was on the table when
he came there. My acquaintance, too, looked through his pockets to
ascertain whether he had not put it in his pocket, but without avail.
Some time later he actually found it in his pocket, and was struck by
the fact that there was only one match in the box.
“A dream a few days later showing the box symbolism in reference to
the friend of his youth confirmed my explanation. With the symptomatic
action my acquaintance meant to announce his priority-right and the
exclusiveness of his possession (it contained only one match).”
Dr. Hans Sachs relates the following: “Our cook is very fond of a
certain kind of pie. There is no possible doubt about this, as it is
the only kind of pastry which she always prepares well. One Sunday she
brought this pie to the table, took it off the pie-plate, and proceeded
to remove the dishes used in the former course, but on the top of this
pile she placed the pie, and disappeared with it into the kitchen. We
first thought that she had something to improve on the pie, but as she
failed to appear my wife rang the bell and asked, ‘Betty, what happened
to the pie?’ to which the girl answered, without comprehending the
question, ‘How is that?’ We had to call her attention to the fact that
she carried the pie back to the kitchen. She had put it on the pile of
dishes, taken it out, and put it away ‘without noticing it.’
“The next day, when we were about to consume the rest of the pie,
my wife noticed that there was as much of it as we had left the day
before--that is, the girl had disdained to eat the portion of her
favourite dish which was rightly hers. Questioned why she did not eat
the pie, she answered, somewhat embarrassed, that she did not care for
it.
“The infantile attitude is distinctly noticeable on both
occasions--first the childish insatiableness in refusing to share with
anybody the object of her wishes, then the reaction of spite which is
just as childish: ‘If you grudge it to me, keep it for yourself, I want
nothing of it.’”
Chance or symptomatic actions occurring in affairs of married life have
often a most serious significance, and could lead those who do not
concern themselves with the psychology of the unconscious to a belief
in omens. It is not an auspicious beginning if a young woman loses her
wedding-ring on her wedding-tour, even if it were only mislaid and soon
found.
I know a woman, now divorced, who in the management of her business
affairs frequently signed her maiden name many years before she
actually resumed it.
Once I was the guest of a newly married couple and heard the young
woman laughingly relate her latest experience, how, on the day
succeeding her return from the wedding tour she had sought out her
single sister in order to go shopping with her as in former times,
while her husband was attending business. Suddenly she noticed a man
on the opposite side of the street; nudging her sister she said, “Why,
that is surely Mr. L.” She forgot that for some weeks this man had been
her husband. I was chilled at this tale, but I did not dare draw any
inferences. The little story came back to me only several years later,
after this marriage had ended most unhappily.
The following observation, which could as well have found a place among
the examples of forgetting, was taken from a noteworthy work published
in French by A. Maeder.[58]
“Une dame nous racontait récement qu’elle avait oublie d’essayer sa
robe de noce et s’en souvint la veille du marriage, à huit heur du
soir, la couturière désespérait de voir sa cliente. Ce détail suffit à
montrer que la fiancée ne se sentait pas très heureuse de porter une
robe d’épouse, elle cherchait à oublier cette représentation pénible.
Elle est aujourd’hui ... divorcée.”
A friend who has learned to observe signs related to me that the great
actress Eleanora Duse introduces a symptomatic action into one of her
rôles which shows very nicely from what depth she draws her acting. It
is a drama dealing with adultery; she has just been discussing with
her husband and now stands soliloquizing before the seducer makes his
appearance. During this short interval she plays with her wedding-ring,
she pulls it off, replaces it, and finally takes it off again. She is
now ready for the other.
I know of an elderly man who married a young girl, and instead of
starting at once on his wedding tour he decided to spend the night in a
hotel. Scarcely had they reached the hotel, when he noticed with fright
that he was without his wallet, in which he had the entire sum of money
for the wedding tour; he must have mislaid or lost it. He was still
able to reach his servant by telephone; the latter found the missing
article in the coat discarded for the travelling clothes and brought it
to the hotel to the waiting bridegroom, who had thus entered upon his
marriage without means.
It is consoling to think that the “losing of objects” by people is
merely an unsuspected extension of a symptomatic action, and is thus
welcome at least to the secret intention of the loser. Often it is only
an expression of slight appreciation of the lost article, a secret
dislike for the same, or perhaps for the person from whom it came,
or the desire to lose this object was transferred to it from other
and more important objects through symbolic association. The loss of
valuable articles serves as an expression of diverse feelings; it
may either symbolically represent a repressed thought--that is, it
may bring back a memory which one would rather not hear--or it may
represent a sacrifice to the obscure forces of fate, the worship of
which is not yet entirely extinct even with us.[59]
The following examples will illustrate these statements concerning the
losing of objects:--
Dr. B. Dattner states: “A colleague related to me that he lost his
steel pencil which he had had for over two years, and which, on
account of its superior quality, was highly prized by him. Analysis
elicited the following facts: The day before he had received a very
disagreeable letter from his brother-in-law, the concluding sentence
of which read: ‘At present I have neither the desire nor the time to
assist you in your carelessness and laziness.’ The effect connected
with this letter was so powerful that the next day he promptly
sacrificed the pencil which was a present from this brother-in-law in
order not to be burdened with his favours.”
Brill reports the following example: “A doctor took exception to the
following statement in my book, ‘We never lose what we really want’
(_Psychanalysis, its Theories and Practical Application_, p. 214). His
wife, who is very interested in psychologic subjects, read with him
the chapter on “Psychopathology of Everyday Life”; they were both very
much impressed with the novelty of the ideas, and so on, and were very
willing to accept most of the statements. He could not, however, agree
with the above-given statement because, as he said to his wife, ‘I
surely did not wish to lose my knife.’ He referred to a valuable knife
given to him by his wife, which he highly prized, the loss of which
caused him much pain.
“It did not take his wife very long to discover the solution for this
loss in a manner to convince them both of the accuracy of my statement.
When she presented him with this knife he was a bit loath to accept
it. Although he considered himself quite emancipated, he nevertheless
entertained some superstition about giving or accepting a knife as a
gift, because it is said that a knife cuts friendship. He even remarked
this to his wife, who only laughed at his superstition. He had the
knife for years before it disappeared.
“Analysis brought out the fact that the disappearance of the knife was
directly connected with a period when there were violent quarrels
between himself and his wife, which threatened to end in separation.
They lived happily together until his step-daughter (it was his second
marriage) came to live with them. His daughter was the cause of many
misunderstandings, and it was at the height of these quarrels that he
lost the knife.
“The unconscious activity is very nicely shown in this symptomatic
action. In spite of his apparent freedom from superstition, he still
unconsciously believed that a donated knife may cut friendship between
the persons concerned. The losing of it was simply an unconscious
defence against losing his wife, and by sacrificing the knife he made
the superstitious ban impotent.”
In a lengthy discussion and with the aid of dream analysis[60] Otto
Rank made clear the sacrificial tendency with its deep-reaching
motivation. It must be said that just such symptomatic actions often
give us access to the understanding of the intimate psychic life of the
person.
Of the many isolated chance-actions, I will relate one example which
showed a deeper meaning even without analysis. This example clearly
explains the conditions under which such symptoms may be produced most
casually, and also shows that an observation of practical importance
may be attached to it. During a summer tour it happened that I had to
wait several days at a certain place for the arrival of my travelling
companions. In the meantime I made the acquaintance of a young man, who
also seemed lonely and was quite willing to join me. As we lived at the
same hotel it was quite natural that we should take all our meals and
our walks together.
On the afternoon of the third day he suddenly informed me that he
expected his wife to arrive on that evening’s express train. My
psychologic interest was now aroused, as it had already struck me
that morning that my companion rejected my proposal to make a long
excursion, and in our short walk he objected to a certain path as too
steep and dangerous. During our afternoon walk he suddenly thought that
I must be hungry and insisted that I should not delay my evening meal
on his account, that he would not sup before his wife’s arrival. I
understood the hint and seated myself at the table while he went to the
station.
The next morning we met in the foyer of the hotel. He presented me to
his wife, and added, “Of course, you will breakfast with us?” I had
to attend first to a small matter in the next street, but assured him
that I would return shortly. Later, as I entered the breakfast-room,
I noticed that the couple were at a small table near the window, both
seated on the same side of it. On the opposite side there was only one
chair, which was covered, however, with a man’s large and heavy coat.
I understood well the meaning of this unintentional, none the less
expressive, disposition of the coat. It meant this: “There is no room
for you here, you are superfluous now.”
The man did not notice that I remained standing before the table, being
unable to take the seat, but his wife noticed it, and quickly nudged
her husband and whispered: “Why, you have covered the gentleman’s place
with your coat.”
These as well as other similar experiences have caused me to think that
the actions executed unintentionally must inevitably become the source
of misunderstanding in human relations. The perpetrator of the act, who
is unaware of any associated intention, takes no account of it, and
does not hold himself responsible for it. On the other hand, the second
party, having regularly utilized even such acts as those of his partner
to draw conclusions as to their purpose and meaning, recognizes more
of the stranger’s psychic processes than the latter is ready either to
admit or believe that he has imparted. He becomes indignant when these
conclusions drawn from his symptomatic actions are held up to him; he
declares them baseless because he does not see any conscious intention
in their execution, and complains of being misunderstood by the other.
Close examination shows that such misunderstandings are based on the
fact that the person is too fine an observer and understands too much.
The more “nervous” two persons are the more readily will they give
each other cause for disputes, which are based on the fact that one as
definitely denies about his own person what he is sure to accept about
the other.
And this is, indeed, the punishment for the inner dishonesty to which
people grant expression under the guise of “forgetting,” of erroneous
actions and accidental emotions, a feeling which they would do better
to confess to themselves and others when they can no longer control
it. As a matter of fact it can be generally affirmed that every one
is continually practising psychoanalysis on his neighbours, and
consequently learns to know them better than each individual knows
himself. The road following the admonition γνῶθι σεαυτὁν leads through
the study of one’s own apparently casual commissions and omissions.
X
ERRORS
Errors of memory are distinguished from forgetting and false
recollections through one feature only, namely, that the error (false
recollection) is not recognized as such but finds credence. However,
the use of the expression “error” seems to depend on still another
condition. We speak of “erring” instead of “falsely recollecting” where
the character of the objective reality is emphasized in the psychic
material to be reproduced--that is, where something other than a fact
of my own psychic life is to be remembered, or rather something that
may be confirmed or refuted through the memory of others. The reverse
of the error in memory in this sense is formed by ignorance.
In my book _The Interpretation of Dreams_,[61] I was responsible for
a series of errors in historical, and above all, in material facts,
which I was astonished to discover after the appearance of the book.
On closer examination I found that they did not originate from my
ignorance, but could be traced to errors of memory explainable by means
of analysis.
(_a_) On page 361 I indicated as _Schiller’s_ birthplace the city of
_Marburg_, a name which recurs in _Styria_. The error is found in the
analysis of a dream during a night journey from which I was awakened
by the conductor calling out the name of the station _Marburg_. In the
contents of the dream inquiry is made concerning a book by _Schiller_.
But _Schiller_ was not born in the university town of _Marburg_ but in
the Swabian city _Marbach_. I maintain that I always knew this.
(_b_) On page 165 _Hannibal’s_ father is called _Hasdrubal_. This error
was particularly annoying to me, but it was most corroborative of my
conception of such errors. Few readers of the book are better posted
on the history of the _Barkides_ than the author who wrote this error
and overlooked it in three proofs. The name of Hannibal’s father was
_Hamilcar Barkas_; _Hasdrubal_ was the name of _Hannibal’s_ brother as
well as that of his brother-in-law and predecessor in command.
(_c_) On pages 217 and 492 I assert that _Zeus_ emasculates his father
_Kronos_, and hurls him from the throne. This horror I have erroneously
advanced by a generation; according to Greek mythology it was _Kronos_
who committed this on his father _Uranos_.[62]
How is it to be explained that my memory furnished me with false
material on these points, while it usually places the most remote and
unusual material at my disposal, as the readers of my books can verify?
And, what is more, in three carefully executed proof-readings I passed
over these errors as if struck blind.
Goethe said of Lichtenberg: “Where he cracks a joke, there lies a
concealed problem.” Similarly we can affirm of these passages cited
from my book: back of every error is a repression. More accurately
stated: the error conceals a falsehood, a disfigurement which is
ultimately based on repressed material. In the analysis of the dreams
there reported, I was compelled by the very nature of the theme to
which the dream thoughts related, on the one hand, to break off the
analysis in some places before it had reached its completion, and
on the other hand, to remove an indiscreet detail through a slight
disfigurement of its outline. I could not act differently, and had no
other choice if I was at all to offer examples and illustrations. My
constrained position was necessarily brought about by the peculiarity
of dreams, which give expression to repressed thoughts, or to material
which is incapable of becoming conscious. In spite of this it is said
that enough material remained to offend the more sensitive souls. The
disfigurement or concealment of the continuing thoughts known to me
could not be accomplished without leaving some trace. What I wished to
repress has often against my will obtruded itself on what I have taken
up, and evinced itself in the matter as an unnoticeable error. Indeed,
each of the three examples given is based on the same theme: the errors
are the results of repressed thoughts which occupy themselves with my
deceased father.
(_ad a_) Whoever reads through the dream analysed on page 361 will
find some parts unveiled; in some parts he will be able to divine
through allusions that I have broken off the thoughts which would have
contained an unfavourable criticism of my father. In the continuation
of this line of thoughts and memories there lies an annoying tale, in
which books and a business friend of my father, named _Marburg_, play
a part; it is the same name the calling out of which in the southern
railway-station had aroused me from sleep. I wished to suppress this
Mr. _Marburg_ in the analysis from myself and my readers: he avenged
himself by intruding where he did not belong, and changed the name of
Schiller’s birthplace from _Marbach_ to _Marburg_.
(_ad b_) The error _Hasdrubal_ in place of _Hamilcar_, the name of the
brother instead of that of the father, originated from an association
which dealt with the Hannibal fantasies of my college years and my
dissatisfaction with the conduct of my father towards the “enemies
of our people.” I could have continued and recounted how my attitude
toward my father was changed by a visit to England, where I made the
acquaintance of my half-brother, by a previous marriage of my father.
My brother’s oldest son was my age exactly. Thus the age relations were
no hindrance to a fantasy which may be stated thus: how much pleasanter
it would be had I been born the son of my brother instead of the son of
my father! This suppressed fantasy then falsified the text of my book
at the point where I broke off the analysis, by forcing me to put the
name of the brother for that of the father.
(_ad c_) The influence of the memory of this same brother is
responsible for my having advanced by a generation the mythological
horror of the Greek deities. One of the admonitions of my brother has
lingered long in my memory. “Do not forget one thing concerning your
conduct in life,” he said: “you belong not to the second but really
to the third generation of your father.” Our father had remarried at
an advanced age, and was therefore an old man to his children by the
second marriage. I commit the error mentioned where I discuss the
piety between parents and children.
Several times friends and patients have called my attention to the fact
that in reporting their dreams or alluding to them in dream analyses,
I have related inaccurately the circumstances experienced by us in
common. These are also historic errors. On re-examining such individual
cases I have found that my recollection of the facts was unreliable
only where I had purposely disfigured or concealed something in the
analysis. Here again we have _an unobserved error as a substitute for
an intentional concealment or repression_.
From these errors, which originate from repression, we must sharply
distinguish those which are based on actual ignorance. Thus, for
example, it was ignorance when on my excursion to Wachau I believed
that I had passed the resting-place of the revolutionary leader
Fischof. Only the name is common to both places. _Fischof’s Emmersdorf_
is located in Kärnthen. But I did not know any better.
Here is another embarrassing but instructive error, an example of
temporary ignorance if you like. One day a patient reminded me to give
him the two books on Venice which I had promised him, as he wished to
use them in planning his Easter tour. I answered that I had them ready
and went into the library to fetch them, though the truth of the
matter was that I had forgotten to look them up, since I did not quite
approve of my patient’s journey, looking upon it as an unnecessary
interruption to the treatment, and as a material loss to the physician.
Thereupon I made a quick survey of the library for the books.
One was _Venedig als Kunststätte_, and besides this I imagined I had an
historic work of a similar order. Certainly there was _Die Mediceer_
(_The Medicis_); I took them and brought them in to him, then,
embarrassed, I confessed my error. Of course I really knew that the
Medicis had nothing to do with Venice, but for a short time it did not
appear to me at all incorrect. Now I was compelled to practise justice;
as I had so frequently interpreted my patient’s symptomatic actions I
could save my prestige only by being honest and admitting to him the
secret motives of my averseness to his trip.
It may cause general astonishment to learn how much stronger is the
impulse to tell the truth than is usually supposed. Perhaps it is a
result of my occupation with psychoanalysis that I can scarcely lie any
more. As often as I attempt a distortion I succumb to an error or some
other faulty act, which betrays my dishonesty, as was manifest in this
and in the preceding examples.
Of all faulty actions the mechanism of the error seems to be the most
superficial. That is, the occurrence of the error invariably indicates
that the mental activity concerned had to struggle with some disturbing
influence, although the nature of the error need not be determined by
the quality of the disturbing idea, which may have remained obscure.
It is not out of place to add that the same state of affairs may be
assumed in many simple cases of lapses in speaking and writing. Every
time we commit a lapse in speaking or writing we may conclude that
through mental processes there has come a disturbance which is beyond
our intention. It may be conceded, however, that lapses in speaking
and writing often follow the laws of similarity and convenience, or
the tendency to acceleration, without allowing the disturbing element
to leave a trace of its own character in the error resulting from
the lapses in speaking or writing. It is the responsiveness of the
linguistic material which at first makes possible the determination of
the error, but it also limits the same.
In order not to confine myself exclusively to personal errors I will
relate a few examples which could just as well have been ranged under
“Lapses in Speech” or under “Erroneously Carried-out Actions,” but as
all these forms of faulty action have the same value they may as well
be reported here.
(_a_) I forbade a patient to speak on the telephone to his lady-love,
with whom he himself was willing to break off all relations, as each
conversation only renewed the struggling against it. He was to write
her his final decision, although there were some difficulties in the
way of delivering the letter to her. He visited me at one o’clock to
tell me that he had found a way of avoiding these difficulties, and
among other things he asked me whether he might refer to me in my
professional capacity.
At two o’clock while he was engaged in composing the letter of refusal,
he interrupted himself suddenly, and said to his mother, “Well, I
have forgotten to ask the Professor whether I may use his name in the
letter.” He hurried to the telephone, got the connection, and asked the
question, “May I speak to the Professor after his dinner?” In answer
he got an astonished “Adolf, have you gone crazy!” The answering voice
was the very voice which at my command he had listened to for the last
time. He had simply “made a mistake,” and in place of the physician’s
number had called up that of his beloved.
(_b_) During a summer vacation a schoolteacher, a poor but excellent
young man, courted the daughter of a summer resident, until the girl
fell passionately in love with him, and even prevailed upon her family
to countenance the matrimonial alliance in spite of the difference in
position and race. One day, however, the teacher wrote his brother a
letter in which he said: “Pretty, the lass is not at all, but she is
very amiable, and so far so good. But whether I can make up my mind to
marry a Jewess I cannot yet tell.” This letter got into the hands of
the fiancée, who put an end to the engagement, while at the same time
his brother was wondering at the protestations of love directed to him.
My informer assured me that this was really an error and not a cunning
trick.
I am familiar with another case in which a woman who was dissatisfied
with her old physician, and still did not openly wish to discharge him,
accomplished this purpose through the interchange of letters. Here, at
least, I can assert confidently that it was error and not conscious
cunning that made use of this familiar comedy-motive.
(_c_) Brill[63] tells of a woman who, inquiring about a mutual friend,
erroneously called her by her maiden name. Her attention having been
directed to this error, she had to admit that she disliked her friend’s
husband and had never been satisfied with her marriage.
Maeder[64] relates a good example of how a reluctantly repressed
wish can be satisfied by means of an “error.” A colleague wanted
to enjoy his day of leave of absence absolutely undisturbed, but he
also felt that he ought to go to Lucerne to pay a call which he did
not anticipate with any pleasure. After long reflection, however, he
concluded to go. For pastime on the train he read the daily newspapers.
He journeyed from Zurich to Arth Goldau, where he changed trains for
Lucerne, all the time engrossed in reading. Presently the conductor
informed him that he was in the wrong train--that is, he had got into
the one which was returning from Goldau to Zurich, whereas his ticket
was for Lucerne.
A very similar trick was played by me quite recently. I had promised my
oldest brother to pay him a long-due visit at a sea-shore in England;
as the time was short I felt obliged to travel by the shortest route
and without interruption. I begged for a day’s sojourn in Holland,
but he thought that I could stop there on my return trip. Accordingly
I journeyed from Munich through Cologne to Rotterdam--Hook of
Holland--where I was to take the steamer at midnight to Harwich. In
Cologne I had to change cars; I left my train to go into the Rotterdam
express, but it was not to be found. I asked various railway employees,
was sent from one platform to another, got into an exaggerated state of
despair, and could easily reckon that during this fruitless search I
had probably missed my connection.
After this was corroborated, I pondered whether or not I should spend
the night in Cologne. This was favoured by a feeling of piety, for
according to an old family tradition, my ancestors were once expelled
from this city during a persecution of the Jews. But eventually I
came to another decision; I took a later train to Rotterdam, where I
arrived late at night and was thus compelled to spend a day in Holland.
This brought me the fulfilment of a long-fostered wish--the sight
of the beautiful Rembrandt paintings at The Hague and in the Royal
Museum at Amsterdam. Not before the next forenoon, while collecting my
impressions during the railway journey in England, did I definitely
remember that only a few steps from the place where I got off at the
railroad station in Cologne, indeed, on the same platform, I had seen
a large sign, “Rotterdam--Hook of Holland.” There stood the train in
which I should have continued my journey.
If one does not wish to assume that, contrary to my brother’s orders, I
had really resolved to admire the Rembrandt pictures on my way to him,
then the fact that despite clear directions I hurried away and looked
for another train must be designated as an incomprehensible “blinding.”
Everything else--my well-acted perplexity, the emergence of the pious
intention to spend the night in Cologne--was only a contrivance to hide
my resolution until it had been fully accomplished.
One may possibly be disinclined to consider the class of errors which I
have here explained as very numerous or particularly significant. But I
leave it to your consideration whether there is no ground for extending
the same points of view also to the more important errors of judgment,
as evinced by people in life and science. Only for the most select
and most balanced minds does it seem possible to guard the perceived
picture of external reality against the distortion to which it is
otherwise subjected in its transit through the psychic individuality of
the one perceiving it.
XI
COMBINED FAULTY ACTS
Two of the last-mentioned examples, my error which transfers the
Medici to Venice and that of the young man who knew how to circumvent
a command against a conversation on the telephone with his lady love,
have really not been fully discussed, as after careful consideration
they may be shown to represent a union of forgetting with an error. I
can show the same union still more clearly in certain other examples.
(_a_) A friend related to me the following experience: “Some years
ago I consented to be elected to the committee of a certain literary
society, as I supposed the organization might some time be of use to
me in assisting me in the production of my drama. Although not much
interested, I attended the meetings regularly every Friday. Some months
ago I was definitely assured that one of my dramas would be presented
at the theatre in F., and since that time it regularly happened that
I forgot the meeting of the association. As I read their programme
announcements I was ashamed of my forgetfulness. I reproached myself,
feeling that it was certainly rude of me to stay away now when I no
longer needed them, and determined that I would certainly not forget
the next Friday. Continually I reminded myself of this resolution
until the hour came and I stood before the door of the meeting-room.
To my astonishment it was locked; the meeting was already over. I had
mistaken my day; it was already Saturday!”
(_b_) The next example is the combination of a symptomatic action
with a case of mislaying; it reached me by remote byways, but from a
reliable source.
A woman travelled to Rome with her brother-in-law, a renowned artist.
The visitor was highly honoured by the German residents of Rome, and
among other things received a gold medal of antique origin. The woman
was grieved that her brother-in-law did not sufficiently appreciate
the value of this beautiful gift. After she had returned home she
discovered in unpacking that--without knowing how--she had brought the
medal home with her. She immediately notified her brother-in-law of
this by letter, and informed him that she would send it back to Rome
the next day. The next day, however, the medal was so aptly mislaid
that it could not be found and could not be sent back, and then it
dawned on the woman what her “absent-mindedness” signified--namely,
that she wished to keep the medal herself.
(_c_) Here are some cases in which the falsified action persistently
repeats itself, and at the same time also changes its mode of action:--
Due to unknown motives, Jones[65] left a letter for several days on his
desk, forgetting each time to post it. He ultimately posted it, but
it was returned to him from the Dead-letter Office because he forgot
to address it. After addressing and posting it a second time it was
again returned to him, this time without a stamp. He was then forced to
recognize the unconscious opposition to the sending of the letter.
(_d_) A short account by Dr. Karl Weiss (Vienna)[66] of a case of
forgetting impressively describes the futile effort to accomplish
something in the face of opposition. “How persistently the unconscious
activity can achieve its purpose if it has cause to prevent a
resolution from being executed, and how difficult it is to guard
against this tendency, will be illustrated by the following incident:
An acquaintance requested me to lend him a book and bring it to him the
next day. I immediately promised it, but perceived a distinct feeling
of displeasure which I could not explain at the time. Later it became
clear to me: this acquaintance had owed me for years a sum of money
which he evidently had no intention of returning. I did not give this
matter any more thought, but I recalled it the following forenoon with
the same feeling of displeasure, and at once said to myself: ‘Your
unconscious will see to it that you forget the book, but you don’t wish
to appear unobliging and will therefore do everything not to forget
it.’ I came home, wrapped the book in paper, and put it near me on the
desk while I wrote some letters.
“A little later I went away, but after a few steps I recollected that I
had left on the desk the letters which I wished to post. (By the way,
one of the letters was written to a person who urged me to undertake
something disagreeable.) I returned, took the letters, and again left.
While in the street-car it occurred to me that I had undertaken to
purchase something for my wife, and I was pleased at the thought that
it would be only a small package. The association, ‘small package,’
suddenly recalled ‘book’--and only then I noticed that I did not have
the book with me. Not only had I forgotten it when I left my home the
first time, but I had overlooked it again when I got the letters near
which it lay.”
(_e_) A similar mechanism is shown in the following fully analysed
observation of Otto Rank[67]:--
“A scrupulously orderly and pedantically precise man reported the
following occurrence, which he considered quite remarkable: One
afternoon on the street wishing to find out the time, he discovered
that he had left his watch at home, an omission which to his knowledge
had never occurred before. As he had an engagement elsewhere and had
not enough time to return for his watch, he made use of a visit to a
woman friend to borrow her watch for the evening. This was the most
convenient way out of the dilemma, as he had a previous engagement to
visit this lady the next day. Accordingly, he promised to return her
watch at that time.
“But the following day when about to consummate this he found to his
surprise that he had left the watch at home; his own watch he had with
him. He then firmly resolved to return the lady’s property that same
afternoon, and even followed out his resolution. But on wishing to see
the time on leaving her he found to his chagrin and astonishment that
he had again forgotten to take his own watch.
“The repetition of this faulty action seemed so pathologic to this
order-loving man that he was quite anxious to know its psychologic
motivation, and when questioned whether he experienced anything
disagreeable on the critical day of the first forgetting, and in what
connection it had occurred, the motive was promptly found. He related
that he had conversed with his mother after luncheon, shortly before
leaving the house. She told him that an irresponsible relative, who had
already caused him much worry and loss of money, had pawned his (the
relative’s) watch, and, as it was needed in the house, the relative had
asked for money to redeem it. This almost “forced” loan affected our
man very painfully and brought back to his memory all the disagreeable
episodes perpetrated by this relative for many years.
“His symptomatic action therefore proves to be manifoldly determined.
First, it gives expression to a stream of thought which runs perhaps
as follows: ‘I won’t allow my money to be extorted this way, and if
a watch is needed I will leave my own at home.’ But as he needed it
for the evening to keep his appointment, this intention could only
be brought about on an unconscious path in the form of a symptomatic
action. Second, the forgetting expresses a sentiment something like
the following: ‘This everlasting sacrificing of money for this
good-for-nothing is bound to ruin me altogether, so that I will have to
give up everything.’ Although the anger, according to the report of
this man, was only momentary, the repetition of the same symptomatic
action conclusively shows that in the unconscious it continued to act
more intensely, and may be equivalent to the conscious expression:
‘I cannot get this story out of my head.[68] That the lady’s watch
should later meet the same fate will not surprise us after knowing this
attitude of the unconscious.’
“Yet there may be still other special motives which favour the
transference on the ‘innocent’ lady’s watch. The nearest motive is
probably that he would have liked to keep it as a substitute for his
own sacrificed watch, and that hence he forgot to return it the next
day. He also might have liked to possess this watch as a souvenir of
the lady. Moreover, the forgetting of the lady’s watch gave him the
excuse for calling on the admired one a second time; for he was obliged
to visit her in the morning in reference to another matter, and with
the forgetting of the watch he seemed to indicate that this visit for
which an appointment had been made so long ago was too good for him to
be used simply for the return of a watch.
“Twice forgetting his own watch and thus making possible the
substitution of the lady’s watch speaks for the fact that our man
unconsciously endeavoured to avoid carrying both watches at the same
time. He obviously thought of avoiding the appearance of superfluity
which would have stood out in striking contrast to the want of the
relative; but, on the other hand, he utilized this as a self-admonition
against his apparent intention to marry this lady, reminding himself
that he was tied to his family (mother) by indissoluble obligations.
“Finally, another reason for the forgetting of the lady’s watch may be
sought in the fact that the evening before he, a bachelor, was ashamed
to be seen with a lady’s watch by his friends, so that he only looked
at it stealthily, and in order to evade the repetition of this painful
situation he could not take the watch along. But as he was obliged
to return it, there resulted here, too, an unconsciously performed
symptomatic action which proved to be a compromise formation between
conflicting emotional feelings and a dearly bought victory of the
unconscious instance.”
In the same discussion Rank has also paid attention to the very
interesting relation of “faulty actions and dreams,” which cannot,
however, be followed here without a comprehensive analysis of the dream
with which the faulty action is connected. I once dreamed at great
length that I had lost my pocket-book. In the morning while dressing I
actually missed it; while undressing the night before the dream I had
forgotten to take it out of my trousers pocket and put it in its usual
place. This forgetting was therefore not unknown to me; probably it was
to give expression to an unconscious thought which was ready to appear
in the dream content.
I do not mean to assert that such cases of combined faulty actions can
teach anything new that we have not already seen in the individual
cases. But this change in form of the faulty action, which nevertheless
attains the same result, gives the plastic impression of a will working
towards a definite end, and in a far more energetic way contradicts
the idea that the faulty action represents something fortuitous and
requires no explanation. Not less remarkable is the fact that the
conscious intention thoroughly fails to check the success of the faulty
action. Despite all, my friend did not pay his visit to the meeting
of the literary society, and the woman found it impossible to give
up the medal. That unconscious something which worked against these
resolutions found another outlet after the first road was closed to it.
It requires something other than the conscious counter-resolution to
overcome the unknown motive; it requires a psychic work which makes the
unknown known to consciousness.
XII
DETERMINISM--CHANCE--AND SUPERSTITIOUS BELIEFS
POINTS OF VIEW.
As the general result of the preceding separate discussions we must
put down the following principle: _Certain inadequacies of our psychic
capacities--whose common character will soon be more definitely
determined--and certain performances which are apparently unintentional
prove to be well motivated when subjected to the psychoanalytic
investigation, and are determined through the consciousness of unknown
motives._
In order to belong to this class of phenomena thus explained a faulty
psychic action must satisfy the following conditions:--
(_a_) It must not exceed a certain measure, which is firmly established
through our estimation, and is designated by the expression “within
normal limits.”
(_b_) It must evince the character of the momentary and temporary
disturbance. The same action must have been previously performed more
correctly or we must always rely on ourselves to perform it more
correctly; if we are corrected by others we must immediately recognize
the truth of the correction and the incorrectness of our psychic action.
(_c_) If we at all perceive a faulty action, we must not perceive in
ourselves any motivation of the same, but must attempt to explain it
through “inattention” or attribute it to an “accident.”
Thus there remain in this group the cases of forgetting and the errors,
despite better knowledge, the lapses in speaking, reading, writing, the
erroneously carried-out actions, and the so-called chance actions. The
explanations of these so definite psychic processes are connected with
a series of observations which may in part arouse further interest.
I. By abandoning a part of our psychic capacity as unexplainable
through purposive ideas we ignore the realms of determinism in our
mental life. Here, as in still other spheres, determinism reaches
farther than we suppose. In the year 1900 I read an essay published
in the _Zeit_ written by the literary historian R. M. Meyer, in which
he maintains, and illustrates by examples, that it is impossible to
compose nonsense intentionally and arbitrarily. For some time I have
been aware that it is impossible to think of a number, or even of
a name, of one’s own free will. If one investigates this seeming
voluntary formation, let us say, of a number of many digits uttered
in unrestrained mirth, it always proves to be so strictly determined
that the determination seems impossible. I will now briefly discuss an
example of an “arbitrarily chosen” first name, and then exhaustively
analyse an analogous example of a “thoughtlessly uttered” number.
While preparing the history of one of my patients for publication I
considered what first name I should give her in the article. There
seemed to be a wide choice; of course, certain names were at once
excluded by me, in the first place the real name, then the names of
members of my family to which I would have objected, also some female
names having an especially peculiar pronunciation. But, excluding
these, there should have been no need of being puzzled about such
a name. It would be thought, and I myself supposed, that a whole
multitude of feminine names would be placed at my disposal. Instead of
this only one sprang up, no other besides it; it was the name Dora.
I inquired as to its determination: “Who else is called Dora?” I wished
to reject the next idea as incredulous; it occurred to me that the
nurse of my sister’s children was named Dora. But I possess so much
self-control, or practice in analysis, if you like, that I held firmly
to the idea and proceeded. Then a slight incident of the previous
evening soon flashed through my mind which brought the looked-for
determination. On my sister’s dining-room table I noticed a letter
bearing the address, “Miss Rosa W.” Astonished, I asked whose name this
was, and was informed that the right name of the supposed Dora was
really Rosa, and that on accepting the position she had to lay aside
her name, because Rosa would also refer to my sister. I said pityingly,
“Poor people! They cannot even retain their own names!” I now recall
that on hearing this I became quiet for a moment and began to think of
all sorts of serious matters which merged into the obscure, but which
I could now easily bring into my consciousness. Thus when I sought a
name for a person _who could not retain her own name_ no other except
“Dora” occurred to me. The exclusiveness here is based, moreover, on
firmer internal associations, for in the history of my patient it was a
stranger in the house, the governess, who exerted a decisive influence
on the course of the treatment.
This slight incident found its unexpected continuation many years
later. While discussing in a lecture the long-since published history
of the girl called Dora it occurred to me that one of my two women
pupils had the very name Dora which I was obliged to utter so often in
the different associations of the case. I turned to the young student,
whom I knew personally, with the apology that I had really not thought
that she bore the same name, and that I was ready to substitute it in
my lecture by another name.
I was now confronted with the task of rapidly choosing another name,
and reflected that I must not now choose the first name of the other
woman student, and so set a poor example to the class, who were already
quite conversant with psychoanalysis. I was therefore well pleased when
the name “Erna” occurred to me as the substitute for Dora, and Erna I
used in the discourse. After the lecture I asked myself whence the name
“Erna” could possibly have originated, and had to laugh as I observed
that the feared possibility in the choice of the substitutive name
had come to pass, in part at least. The other lady’s family name was
Lucerna, of which Erna was a part.
In a letter to a friend I informed him that I had finished reading the
proof-sheets of _The Interpretation of Dreams_, and that I did not
intend to make any further changes in it, “even if it contained _2,467_
mistakes.” I immediately attempted to explain to myself the number,
and added this little analysis as a postscript to the letter. It will
be best to quote it now as I wrote it when I caught myself in this
transaction:--
“I will add hastily another contribution to the Psychopathology of
Everyday Life. You will find in the letter the number 2,467 as a
jocose and arbitrary estimation of the number of errors that may be
found in the dream-book. I meant to write: no matter how large the
number might be, and this one presented itself. But there is nothing
arbitrary or undetermined in the psychic life. You will therefore
rightly suppose that the unconscious hastened to determine the number
which was liberated by consciousness. Just previous to this I had read
in the paper that General E. M. had been retired as Inspector-General
of Ordnance. You must know that I am interested in this man. While I
was serving as military medical student he, then a colonel, once came
into the hospital and said to the physician: ‘You must make me well in
eight days, as I have some work to do for which the Emperor is waiting.’
“At that time I decided to follow this man’s career, and just think,
to-day (1899) he is at the end of it--Inspector-General of Ordnance
and already retired. I wished to figure out in what time he had
covered this road, and assumed that I had seen him in the hospital in
1882. That would make 17 years. I related this to my wife, and she
remarked, ‘Then you, too, should be retired.’ And I protested, ‘The
Lord forbid!’ After this conversation I seated myself at the table to
write to you. The previous train of thought continued, and for good
reason. The figuring was incorrect; I had a definite recollection of
the circumstances in my mind. I had celebrated my coming of age, my
_24th_ birthday, in the military prison (for being absent without
permission). Therefore I must have seen him in 1880, which makes it 19
years ago. You then have the number 24 in 2,467! Now take the number
that represents my age, 43, and add 24 years to it and you get _67_!
That is, to the question whether I wished to retire I had expressed the
wish to work 24 years more. Obviously I am annoyed that in the interval
during which I followed Colonel M. I have not accomplished much myself,
and still there is a sort of triumph in the fact that he is already
finished, while I still have all before me. Thus we may justly say
that not even the unintentionally thrown-out number 2,467 lacks its
determination from the unconscious.”
Since this first example of the interpretation of an apparently
arbitrary choice of a number I have repeated a similar test with the
same result; but most cases are of such intimate content that they do
not lend themselves to report.
It is for this reason that I shall not hesitate to add here a very
interesting analysis of a “chance number” which Dr. Alfred Adler
(Vienna) received from a “perfectly healthy” man.[69] A. wrote to
me: “Last night I devoted myself to the _Psychopathology of Everyday_
Life, and I would have read it all through had I not been hindered
by a remarkable coincidence. When I read that every number that we
apparently conjure up quite arbitrarily in our consciousness has a
definite meaning, I decided to test it. The number 1,734 occurred
to my mind. The following associations then came up: 1,734 ÷ 17 =
102; 102 ÷ 17 = 6. I then separated the number into 17 and 34. I am
34 years old. I believe that I once told you that I consider 34 the
last year of youth, and for this reason I felt miserable on my last
birthday. The end of my 17th year was the beginning of a very nice and
interesting period of my development. I divide my life into periods of
17 years. What do the divisions signify? The number 102 recalls the
fact that volume 102 of the Reclam Universal Library is Kotzebue’s play
_Menschenhass und Reue_ (_Human Hatred and Repentance_).
“My present psychic state is ‘human hatred and repentance.’ No. 6 of
the U. L. (I know a great many numbers by heart) is Mullner’s ‘Schuld’
(Fault). I am constantly annoyed at the thought that it is through
my own fault that I have not become what I could have been with my
abilities.
“I then asked myself, ‘What is No. 17 of the U. L.?’ But I could not
recall it. But as I positively knew it before, I assumed that I wished
to forget this number. All reflection was in vain. I wished to continue
with my reading, but I read only mechanically without understanding
a word, for I was annoyed by the number 17. I extinguished the light
and continued my search. It finally came to me that number 17 must be
a play by Shakespeare. But which one? I thought of Hero and Leander.
Apparently a stupid attempt of my will to distract me. I finally arose
and consulted the catalogue of the U. L. Number 17 was _Macbeth_! To my
surprise I had to discover that I knew nothing of the play, despite the
fact that it did not interest me any less than any other Shakespearean
drama. I only thought of: murder, Lady Macbeth, witches, ‘nice is
ugly,’ and that I found Schiller’s version of _Macbeth_ very nice.
Undoubtedly I also wished to forget the play. Then it occurred to me
that 17 and 34 may be divided by 17 and result in 1 and 2. Numbers 1
and 2 of the U. L. is Goethe’s _Faust_. Formerly I found much of Faust
in me.”
We must regret that the discretion of the physician did not allow us
to see the significance of ideas. Adler remarked that the man did not
succeed in the synthesis of his analysis. His association would hardly
be worth reporting unless their continuation would bring out something
that would give us the key to the understanding of the number 1,734 and
the whole series of ideas.
To quote further: “To be sure this morning I had an experience which
speaks much for the correctness of the Freudian conception. My wife,
whom I awakened through my getting up at night, asked me what I wanted
with the catalogue of the U. L. I told her the story. She found it all
pettifogging but--very interesting. _Macbeth_, which caused me so much
trouble, she simply passed over. She said that nothing came to her mind
when she thought of a number. I answered, ‘Let us try it.’ She named
the number 117. To this I immediately replied: ‘17 refers to what I
just told you; furthermore, I told you yesterday that if a wife is in
the 82nd year and the husband is in the 35th year it must be a gross
misunderstanding.’ For the last few days I have been teasing my wife
by maintaining that she was a little old mother of 82 years. 82 + 35 =
117.”
The man who did not know how to determine his own number at once
found the solution when his wife named a number which was apparently
arbitrarily chosen. As a matter of fact, the woman understood very well
from which complex the number of her husband originated, and chose her
own number from the same complex, which was surely common to both, as
it dealt in his case with their relative ages. Now, we find it easy to
interpret the number that occurred to the man. As Dr. Adler indicates,
it expressed a repressed wish of the husband which, fully developed,
would read: “For a man of 34 years as I am, only a woman of 17 would be
suitable.”
Lest one should think too lightly of such “playing,” I will add that I
was recently informed by Dr. Adler that a year after the publication of
this analysis the man was divorced from his wife.[70]
Adler gives a similar explanation for the origin of obsessive numbers.
Also the choice of so-called “favourite numbers” is not without
relation to the life of the person concerned, and does not lack a
certain psychologic interest. A gentleman who evinced a particular
partiality for the numbers 17 and 19 could specify, after brief
reflection, that at the age of 17 he attained the greatly longed-for
academic freedom by having been admitted to the university, that at 19
he made his first long journey, and shortly thereafter made his first
scientific discovery. But the fixation of this preference followed
later, after two questionable affairs, when the same numbers were
invested with importance in his “love-life.”
Indeed, even those numbers which we use in a particular connection
extremely often and with apparent arbitrariness can be traced by
analysis to an unexpected meaning. Thus, one day it struck one of my
patients that he was particularly fond of saying, “I have already told
you this from 17 to 36 times.” And he asked himself whether there was
any motive for it. It soon occurred to him that he was born on the 27th
day of the month, and that his younger brother was born on the 26th
day of another month, and he had grounds for complaint that Fate had
robbed him of so many of the benefits of life only to bestow them on
his younger brother. Thus he represented this partiality of Fate by
deducting 10 from the date of his birth and adding it to the date of
his brother’s birthday. I am the elder and yet am so “cut short.”
I shall tarry a little longer at the analysis of chance numbers, for
I know of no other individual observation which would so readily
demonstrate the existence of highly organized thinking processes of
which consciousness has no knowledge. Moreover, there is no better
example of analysis in which the suggestion of the position, a frequent
accusation, is so distinctly out of consideration. I shall therefore
report the analysis of a chance number of one of my patients (with
his consent), to which I will only add that he is the youngest of many
children and that he lost his beloved father in his young years.
While in a particularly happy mood he let the number _426,718_ come to
his mind, and put to himself the question, “Well, what does it bring
to your mind?” First came a joke he had heard: “If your catarrh of the
nose is treated by a doctor it lasts 42 days, if it is not treated it
lasts--6 weeks.” This corresponds to the first digit of the number (42
= 6 × 7). During the obstruction that followed this first solution I
called his attention to the fact that the number of six digits selected
by him contains all the first numbers except 3 and 5. He at once found
the continuation of this solution:--
“We were altogether 7 children, I was the youngest. Number 3 in the
order of the children corresponds to my sister A., and 5 to my brother
L.; both of them were my enemies. As a child I used to pray to the Lord
every night that He should take out of my life these two tormenting
spirits. It seems to me that I have fulfilled for myself this wish: ‘3’
and ‘5,’ the _evil_ brother and the hated sister, are omitted.”
“If the number stands for your sisters and brothers, what significance
is there to 18 at the end? You were altogether only 7.”
“I often thought if my father had lived longer I should not have been
the youngest child. If one more would have come, we should have been
8, and there would have been a younger child, toward whom I could have
played the rôle of the older one.”
With this the number was explained, but we still wished to find the
connection between the first part of the interpretation and the part
following it. This came very readily from the condition required for
the last digits--if the father had lived longer. 42 = 6 × 7 signifies
the ridicule directed against the doctors who could not help the
father, and in this way expresses the wish for the continued existence
of the father. The whole number really corresponds to the fulfilment of
his two wishes in reference to his family circle--namely, that both the
evil brother and sister should die and that another little child should
follow him. Or, briefly expressed: _If only these two had died in place
of my father!_[71]
Another analysis of numbers I take from Jones.[72] A gentleman of his
acquaintance let the number 986 come to his mind, and defied him to
connect it to anything of special interest in his mind. “Six years
ago, on the hottest day he could remember, he had seen a joke in an
evening newspaper, which stated that the thermometer had stood at
98·6° F., evidently an exaggeration of 98·6° F. We were at the time
seated in front of a very hot fire, from which he had just drawn back,
and he remarked, probably quite correctly, that the heat had aroused
his dormant memory. However, I was curious to know why this memory had
persisted with such vividness as to be so readily brought out, for with
most people it surely would have been forgotten beyond recall, unless
it had become associated with some other mental experience of more
significance.
“He told me that on reading the joke he had laughed uproariously, and
that on many subsequent occasions he had recalled it with great relish.
As the joke was obviously of an exceedingly tenuous nature, this
strengthened my expectation that more lay behind. His next thought was
the general reflection that the conception of heat had always greatly
impressed him, that heat was the most important thing in the universe,
the source of all life, and so on. This remarkable attitude of a quite
prosaic young man certainly needed some explanation, so I asked him
to continue his free associations. The next thought was of a factory
stack which he could see from his bedroom window. He often stood of an
evening watching the flame and smoke issuing out of it, and reflecting
on this deplorable waste of energy. Heat, flame, the source of life,
the waste of vital energy issuing from an upright, hollow tube--it
was not hard to divine from such associations that the ideas of heat
and fire were unconsciously linked in his mind with the idea of love,
as is so frequent in symbolic thinking, and that there was a strong
masturbation complex present, a conclusion that he presently confirmed.”
Those who wish to get a good impression of the way the material of
numbers becomes elaborated in the unconscious thinking, I refer to two
papers by Jung[73] and Jones.[74]
In personal analysis of this kind two things were especially striking.
First, the absolute somnambulistic certainty with which I attacked
the unknown objective point, merging into a mathematical train of
thought, which later suddenly extended to the looked-for number, and
the rapidity with which the entire subsequent work was performed.
Secondly, the fact that the numbers were always at the disposal of my
unconscious mind, when as a matter of fact I am a poor mathematician
and find it very difficult to consciously recall years, house numbers,
and the like. Moreover, in these unconscious mental operations with
figures I found a tendency to superstition, the origin of which had
long remained unknown to me.
It will not surprise us to find that not only numbers but also mental
occurrences of different kinds of words regularly prove on analytic
investigation to be well determined.
Brill relates: “While working on the English edition of this book I was
obsessed one morning with the strange word ‘Cardillac.’ Busily intent
on my work, I refused at first to pay attention to it, but, as is
usually the case, I simply could not do anything else. ‘Cardillac’ was
constantly in my mind. Realizing that my refusal to recognize it was
only a resistance, I decided to analyse it. The following associations
occurred to me: _Cardillac_, _cardiac_, _carrefour_, _Cadillac_.
“_Cardiac_ recalled cardalgia--heartache--a medical friend who had
recently told me confidentially that he feared that he had some cardiac
affection because he had suffered some attacks of pain in the region
of his heart. Knowing him so well, I at once rejected his theory, and
told him that his attacks were of a neurotic character, and that his
other apparent physical ailments were also only the expression of his
neurosis.
“I might add that just before telling me of his heart trouble he spoke
of a business matter of vital interest to him which had suddenly come
to naught. Being a man of unbounded ambitions, he was very depressed
because of late he had suffered many similar reverses. His neurotic
conflicts, however, had become manifest a few months before this
misfortune. Soon after his father’s death had left a big business on
his hands. As the business could be continued only under my friend’s
management, he was unable to decide whether to enter into commercial
life or continue his chosen career. His great ambition was to become a
successful medical practitioner, and although he had practised medicine
successfully for many years, he was not altogether satisfied with the
financial fluctuations of his professional income. On the other hand,
his father’s business promised him an assured, though limited, return.
In brief, he was ‘at a crossing and did not know which way to turn.’
“I then recalled the word _carrefour_, which is the French for
‘crossing,’ and it occurred to me that while working in a hospital
in Paris I lived near the ‘Carrefour St. Lazarre.’ And now I could
understand what relation all these associations had for me.
“When I resolved to leave the State Hospital I made the decision,
first, because I desired to get married, and, secondly, because I
wished to enter private practice. This brought up a new problem.
Although my State hospital service was an absolute success, judging
by promotions and so on, I felt like a great many others in the
same situation, namely, that my training was ill suited for private
practice. To specialize in mental work was a daring undertaking for one
without money and social connections. I also felt that the best I could
do for patients should they ever come my way would be to commit them to
one of the hospitals, as I had little confidence in the home treatment
in vogue. In spite of the enormous advances made in recent years in
mental work, the specialist is almost helpless when he is confronted
with the average case of insanity. This may be partially attributed
to the fact that such cases are brought to him after they have fully
developed the psychosis when hospital treatment is imperative. Of the
great army of milder mental disturbances, the so-called border-line
cases, which make up the bulk of clinic and private work and which
rightfully belong to the mental specialist, I knew very little, as
those patients rarely, or never, came to the State hospital, and what I
did know concerning the treatment of neurasthenia and psychasthenia was
not conducive to make me more hopeful of success in private practice.
“It was in this state of mind that I came to Paris, where I hoped to
learn enough about the psychoneuroses to enable me to continue my
specialty in private practice, and yet feel that I could do something
for my patients. What I saw in Paris did not, however, help to change
my state of mind. There, too, most of the work was directed to dead
tissues. The mental aspects, as such, received but scant attention.
I was, therefore, seriously thinking of giving up my mental work for
some other specialty. As can be seen, I was confronted with a situation
similar to the one of my medical friend. I, too, was at a crossing and
did not know which way to turn. My suspense was soon ended. One day
I received a letter from my friend Professor Peterson, who, by the
way, was responsible for my entering the State hospital service. In
this letter he advised me not to give up my work, and suggested the
psychiatric clinic of Zurich, where he thought I could find what I
desired.
“But what does _Cadillac_ mean? Cadillac is the name of a hotel and
of an automobile. A few days before in a country place my medical
friend and I had been trying to hire an automobile, but there was none
to be had. We both expressed the wish to own an automobile--again an
unrealized ambition. I also recalled that the ‘Carrefour St. Lazarre’
always impressed me as being one of the busiest thoroughfares in Paris.
It was always congested with automobiles. Cadillac also recalled that
only a few days ago on the way to my clinic I noticed a large sign over
a building which announced that on a certain day ‘this building was
to be occupied by the Cadillac,’ etc. This at first made me think of
the Cadillac Hotel, but on second sight I noticed that it referred to
the Cadillac motor-car. There was a sudden obstruction here for a few
moments. The word Cadillac reappeared and by sound association the word
_catalogue_ occurred to me. This word brought back a very mortifying
occurrence of recent origin, the motive of which is again blighted
ambition.
“When one wishes to report any auto-analysis he must be prepared to lay
bare many intimate affairs of his own life. Any one reading carefully
Professor Freud’s works cannot fail to become intimately acquainted
with him and his family. I have often been asked by persons who claim
to have read and studied Freud’s works such questions as: ‘How old is
Freud?’ ‘Is Freud married?’ ‘How many children has he?’ etc. Whenever I
hear these or similar questions I know that the questioner has either
lied when he made these assertions, or, to be more charitable, that he
is a very careless and superficial reader. All these questions and many
more are answered in Freud’s works. Auto-analyses are autobiographies
_par excellence_; but whereas the autobiographer may for definite
reasons consciously and unconsciously hide many facts of his life, the
auto-analyst not only tells the truth consciously, but perforce brings
to light his whole intimate personality. It is for these reasons that
one finds it very unpleasant to report his own auto-analyses. However,
as we often report our patients’ unconscious productions, it is but
fair that we should sacrifice ourselves on the altar of publicity when
occasion demands. This is my apology for having thrust some of my
personal affairs on the reader, and for being obliged to continue a
little longer in the same strain.
“Before digressing with the last remarks I mentioned that the word
_Cadillac_ brought the sound association _catalogue_. This association
brought back another important epoch in my life with which Professor
Peterson is connected. Last May I was informed by the secretary of
the faculty that I was appointed chief of clinic of the department of
psychiatry. I need hardly say that I was exceedingly pleased to be
so honoured--in the first place because it was the realization of an
ambition which I dared entertain only under special euphoric states;
and, secondly, it was a compensation for the many unmerited criticisms
from those who are blindly and unreasonably opposing some of my work.
Soon thereafter I called on the stenographer of the faculty and spoke
to her about a correction to be made in my name as it was printed in
the catalogue. For some unknown reason (perhaps racial prejudice) this
stenographer, a maiden lady, must have taken a dislike to me. For
about three years I repeatedly requested her to have this correction
made, but she had paid no attention to me. To be sure she always
promised to attend to it, but the mistake remained uncorrected.
“When I saw her last May I again reminded her of this correction, and
also called her attention to the fact that as I had been appointed
chief of clinic I was especially anxious to have my name correctly
printed in the catalogue. She apologized for her remissness and assured
me that everything should be as I requested. Imagine my surprise and
chagrin when on receiving the new catalogue I found that while the
correction had been made in my name I was not listed as chief of
clinic. When I asked her about this she was quite puzzled; she said
she had no idea that I had been appointed chief of clinic. She had to
consult the minutes of the faculty, written by herself, before she was
convinced of it. It should be noted that as recorder to the faculty it
was her duty to know all these things as soon as they transpired.[75]
When she finally ascertained that I was right she was very apologetic
and informed me that she would at once write to the superintendent of
the clinic to inform him of my appointment, something which she should
have done months before. Of course I gained nothing by her regrets and
apologies. The catalogue was published and those who read it did not
find my name in the desired place. I am chief of clinic in fact but not
in name. Moreover, as the appointments are made only for one year, it
is quite likely that my great ambition will never be actually realized.
“Thus the obsessive neologism _cardillac_, which is a condensation
of _cardiac_, _Cadillac_, and _catalogue_, contains some of the most
important efforts of my medical experience. When I was almost at the
end of this analysis I suddenly recalled a dream containing this
neologism cardillac in which my wish was realized. My name appeared
in its rightful place in the catalogue. The person who showed it to
me in the dream was Professor Peterson. It was when I was at the
first ‘crossing’ after I had graduated from the medical college that
Professor Peterson urged me to enter the hospital service. About
five years later while I was in the state of indecision which I have
described, it was Professor Peterson who advised me to go to the clinic
of psychiatry at Zurich where through Bleuler and Jung I first became
acquainted with Professor Freud and his works, and it was also through
the kind recommendation of Dr. Peterson that I was elevated to my
present position.”
I am indebted to Dr. Hitschman for the solution of another case in
which a line of poetry repeatedly obtruded itself on the mind in a
certain place without showing any trace of its origin and relation.
Related by Dr. E.: “Six years ago I travelled from Biarritz to San
Sebastian. The railroad crosses over the Bidassao--a river which here
forms the boundary between France and Spain. On the bridge one has a
splendid view, on the one side of the broad valley and the Pyrenees
and on the other of the sea. It was a beautiful, bright summer day;
everything was filled with sun and light. I was on a vacation and
pleased with my trip to Spain. Suddenly the following words came to me:
‘_But the soul is already free, floating on a sea of light._’
“At that time I was trying to remember where these lines came from,
but I could not remember; judging by the rhythm, the words must be a
part of some poem, which, however, entirely escaped my memory. Later
when the verse repeatedly came to my mind, I asked many people about it
without receiving any information.
“Last year I crossed the same bridge on my return journey from Spain.
It was a very dark night and it rained. I looked through the window
to ascertain whether we had already reached the frontier station
and noticed that we were on the Bidassao bridge. Immediately the
above-cited verse returned to my memory and again I could not recall
its origin.
“At home many months later I found Uhland’s poems. I opened the volume
and my glance fell upon the verse: ‘_But the soul is already free,
floating on a sea of light_,’ which were the concluding lines of the
poem entitled ‘The Pilgrim.’ I read the poem and dimly recalled that
I had known it many years ago. The scene of action is in Spain, and
this seemed to me to be the only relation between the quoted verse and
the place on the railroad journey described by me. I was only half
satisfied with my discovery and mechanically continued to turn the
pages of the book. On turning the next page I found a poem the title of
which was ‘_Bidassao Bridge_.’
“I may add that the contents of this poem seemed even stranger to me
than that of the first, and that its first verse read:
“‘On the Bidassao bridge stands a saint grey with age, he blesses to
the right the Spanish mountain, to the left he blesses the French
land.’”
II. This understanding of the determination of apparently arbitrarily
selected names, numbers, and words may perhaps contribute to the
solution of another problem. As is known, many persons argue against
the assumption of an absolute psychic determinism by referring to
an intense feeling of conviction that there is a free will. This
feeling of conviction exists, but is not incompatible with the belief
in determinism. Like all normal feelings, it must be justified by
something. But, so far as I can observe, it does not manifest itself
in weighty and important decisions; on these occasions one has much
more the feeling of a psychic compulsion and gladly falls back upon it.
(Compare Luther’s “Here I stand, I cannot do anything else.”)
On the other hand, it is in trivial and indifferent decisions that
one feels sure that he could just as easily have acted differently,
that he acted of his own free will, and without any motives. From
our analyses we therefore need not contest the right of the feeling
of conviction that there is a free will. If we distinguish conscious
from unconscious motivation, we are then informed by the feeling of
conviction that the conscious motivation does not extend over all our
motor resolutions. _Minima non curat prætor._ What is thus left free
from the one side receives its motive from the other side, from the
unconscious, and the determinism in the psychic realm is thus carried
out uninterruptedly.[76]
III. Although conscious thought must be altogether ignorant of the
motivation of the faulty actions described above, yet it would be
desirable to discover a psychologic proof of its existence; indeed,
reasons obtained through a deeper knowledge of the unconscious make it
probable that such proofs are to be discovered somewhere. As a matter
of fact phenomena can be demonstrated in two spheres which seem to
correspond to an unconscious and hence to a displaced knowledge of
these motives.
(_a_)It is a striking and generally to be recognized feature in the
behaviour of paranoiacs, that they attach the greatest significance
to the trivial details in the behaviour of others. Details which are
usually overlooked by others they interpret and utilize as the basis
of far-reaching conclusions. For example, the last paranoiac seen by
me concluded that there was a general understanding among people of
his environment, because at his departure from the railway-station
they made a certain motion with one hand. Another noticed how people
walked on the street, how they brandished their walking-sticks, and the
like.[77]
The category of the accidental, requiring no motivation, which the
normal person lets pass as a part of his own psychic activities and
faulty actions, is thus rejected by the paranoiac in the application to
the psychic manifestations to others. All that he observes in others is
full of meaning, all is explainable. But how does he come to look at it
in this manner? Probably here as in so many other cases, he projects
into the mental life of others what exists in his own unconscious
activity. Many things obtrude themselves on consciousness in paranoia
which in normal and neurotic persons can only be demonstrated through
psychoanalysis as existing in their unconscious.[78] In a certain sense
the paranoiac is here justified, he perceives something that escapes
the normal person, he sees clearer than one of normal intellectual
capacity, but his knowledge becomes worthless when he imputes to
others the state of affairs he thus recognizes. I hope that I shall
not be expected to justify every paranoic interpretation. But the
point which we grant to paranoia in this conception of chance actions
will facilitate for us the psychologic understanding of the conviction
which the paranoiac attaches to all these interpretations. _There is
certainly some truth to it_; even our errors of judgment, which are
not designated as morbid, acquire their feeling of conviction in the
same way. This feeling is justified for a certain part of the erroneous
train of thought or for the source of its origin, and we shall later
extend to it the remaining relationships.
(_b_) The phenomena of superstition furnish another indication of the
unconscious motivation in chance and faulty actions. I will make myself
clear through the discussion of a simple experience which gave me the
starting-point to these reflections.
Having returned from vacation, my thoughts immediately turned to the
patients with whom I was to occupy myself in the beginning of my year’s
work. My first visit was to a very old woman (see above) for whom I had
twice daily performed the same professional services for many years.
Owing to this monotony unconscious thoughts have often found expression
on the way to the patient and during my occupation with her. She was
over ninety years old; it was therefore pertinent to ask oneself at the
beginning of each year how much longer she was likely to live.
On the day of which I speak I was in a hurry and took a carriage to
her house. Every coachman at the cabstand near my house knew the old
woman’s address, as each of them had often driven me there. This day
it happened that the driver did not stop in front of her house, but
before one of the same number in a near-by and really similar-looking
parallel street. I noticed the mistake and reproached the coachman, who
apologized for it.
Is it of any significance when I am taken to a house where the
old woman is not to be found? Certainly not to me; but were I
_superstitious_, I should see an omen in this incident, a hint of fate
that this would be the last year for the old woman. A great many omens
which have been preserved by history have been founded on no better
symbolism. Of course, I explain the incident as an accident without
further meaning.
The case would have been entirely different had I come on foot and,
“absorbed in thought” or “through distraction,” I had gone to the house
in the parallel street instead of the correct one. I would not explain
that as an accident, but as an action with unconscious intent requiring
interpretation. My explanation of this “lapse in walking” would
probably be that I expected that the time would soon come when I should
not meet the old woman any longer.
I therefore differ from a superstitious person in the following
manner:--
I do not believe that an occurrence in which my mental life takes no
part can teach me anything hidden concerning the future shaping of
reality; but I do believe that an unintentional manifestation of my own
mental activity surely contains something concealed which belongs only
to my mental life--that is, I believe in outer (real) chance, but not
in inner (psychic) accidents. With the superstitious person the case
is reversed: he knows nothing of the motive of his chance and faulty
actions, he believes in the existence of psychic contingencies; he
is therefore inclined to attribute meaning to external chance, which
manifests itself in actual occurrence, and to see in the accident a
means of expression for something hidden outside of him. There are two
differences between me and the superstitious person: first, he projects
the motive to the outside, while I look for it in myself; second, he
explains the accident by an event which I trace to a thought. What
he considers hidden corresponds to the unconscious with me, and the
compulsion not to let chance pass as chance, but to explain it as
common to both of us.
Thus I admit that this conscious ignorance and unconscious knowledge of
the motivation of psychic accidentalness is one of the psychic roots
of superstition. _Because_ the superstitious person knows nothing of
the motivation of his own accidental actions, and because the fact of
this motivation strives for a place in his recognition, he is compelled
to dispose of them by displacing them into the outer world. If such
a connection exists it can hardly be limited to this single case. As
a matter of fact, I believe that a large portion of the mythological
conception of the world which reaches far into the most modern
religions _is nothing but psychology projected into the outer world_.
The dim perception (the endo-psychic perception, as it were) of psychic
factors and relations[79] of the unconscious was taken as a model in
the construction of a _transcendental reality_, which is destined to be
changed again by science into _psychology of the unconscious_.
It is difficult to express it in other terms; the analogy to paranoia
must here come to our aid. We venture to explain in this way the
myths of paradise and the fall of man, of God, of good and evil, of
immortality, and the like--that is, to transform _metaphysics_ into
_meta-psychology_. The gap between the paranoiac’s displacement
and that of superstition is narrower than appears at first sight.
When human beings began to think, they were obviously compelled to
explain the outer world in an anthropomorphic sense by a multitude of
personalities in their own image; the accidents which they explained
superstitiously were thus actions and expressions of persons. In
that regard they behaved just like paranoiacs, who draw conclusions
from insignificant signs which others give them, and like all
normal persons who justly take the unintentional actions of their
fellow-beings as a basis for the estimation of their characters. Only
in our modern philosophical, but by no means finished, views of life
does superstition seem so much out of place: in the view of life of
pre-scientific times and nations it was justified and consistent.
The Roman who gave up an important undertaking because he sighted
an ill-omened flock of birds was relatively right; his action was
consistent with his principles. But if he withdrew from an undertaking
because he had stumbled on his threshold (_un Romain retournerait_),
he was absolutely superior even to us unbelievers. He was a better
psychologist than we are striving to become. For his stumbling
could demonstrate to him the existence of a doubt, an internal
counter-current the force of which could weaken the power of his
intention at the moment of its execution. For only by concentrating
all psychic forces on the desired aim can one be assured of perfect
success. How does Schiller’s Tell, who hesitated so long to shoot the
apple from his son’s head, answer the bailiff’s question why he had
provided himself with a second arrow?
“_With the second arrow I would have pierced you had I struck my dear
child--and truly, I should not have failed to reach you._”
IV. Whoever has had the opportunity of studying the concealed psychic
feelings of persons by means of psychoanalysis can also tell something
new concerning the quality of unconscious motives, which express
themselves in superstition. Nervous persons afflicted with compulsive
thinking and compulsive states, who are often very intelligent, show
very plainly that superstition originates from repressed hostile
and cruel impulses. The greater part of superstition signifies fear
of impending evil, and he who has frequently wished evil to others,
but because of a good bringing-up has repressed the same into the
unconscious, will be particularly apt to expect punishment for such
unconscious evil in the form of a misfortune threatening him from
without.
If we concede that we have by no means exhausted the psychology of
superstition in these remarks, we must, on the other hand, at least
touch upon the question whether real roots of superstition should
be altogether denied, whether there are really no omens, prophetic
dreams, telepathic experiences, manifestations of supernatural forces,
and the like. I am now far from willing to repudiate without anything
further all these phenomena, concerning which we possess so many minute
observations even from men of intellectual prominence, and which
should certainly form a basis for further investigation. We may even
hope that some of these observations will be explained by our present
knowledge of the unconscious psychic processes without necessitating
radical changes in our present aspect. If still other phenomena, as,
for example, those maintained by the spiritualists, should be proven,
we should then consider the modification of our “laws” as demanded by
the new experience, without becoming confused in regard to the relation
of things of this world.
In the sphere of these analyses I can only answer the questions
here proposed subjectively--that is, in accordance with my personal
experience. I am sorry to confess that I belong to that class of
unworthy individuals before whom the spirits cease their activities
and the supernatural disappears, so that I have never been in
position to experience anything personally that would stimulate
belief in the miraculous. Like everybody else, I have had forebodings
and experienced misfortunes; but the two evaded each other, so
that nothing followed the foreboding, and the misfortune struck me
unannounced. When as a young man I lived alone in a strange city I
frequently heard my name suddenly pronounced by an unmistakable, dear
voice, and I then made a note of the exact moment of the hallucination
in order to inquire carefully of those at home what had occurred at
that time. There was nothing to it. On the other hand, I later worked
among my patients calmly and without foreboding while my child almost
bled to death. Nor have I ever been able to recognize as unreal
phenomena any of the forebodings reported to me by my patients.
The belief in prophetic dreams numbers many adherents, because it can
be supported by the fact that some things really so happen in the
future as they were previously foretold by the wish of the dream.
But in this there is little to be wondered at, as many far-reaching
deviations may be regularly demonstrated between a dream and the
fulfilment which the credulity of the dreamer prefers to neglect.
A nice example, one which may be justly called prophetic, was
once brought to me for exhaustive analysis by an intelligent and
truth-loving patient. She related that she once dreamed that she had
met a former friend and family physician in front of a certain store
in a certain street, and next morning when she went down town she
actually met him at the place named in the dream. I may observe that
the significance of this wonderful coincidence was not proven to be due
to any subsequent event--that is, it could not be justified through
future occurrences.
Careful examination definitely established the fact that there was no
proof that the woman recalled the dream in the morning following the
night of the dream--that is, before the walk and before the meeting.
She could offer no objection when this state of affairs was presented
in a manner that robbed this episode of everything miraculous, leaving
only an interesting psychologic problem. One morning she had walked
through this very street, had met her old family physician before that
certain store, and on seeing him received the conviction that during
the preceding night she had dreamed of this meeting at this place.
The analysis then showed with great probability how she came to
this conviction, to which, in accordance with the general rule, we
cannot deny a certain right to credence. A meeting at a definite
place following a previous expectation really describes the fact of a
rendezvous. The old family physician awakened her memory of old times,
when meetings with a third person, also a friend of the physician, were
of marked significance to her. Since that time she had continued her
relations with this gentleman, and the day before the mentioned dream
she had waited for him in vain. If I could report in greater detail the
circumstances here before us, I could easily show that the illusion
of the prophetic dream at the sight of the friend of former times is
perchance equivalent to the following speech: “Ah, doctor, you now
remind me of bygone times, when I never had to wait in vain for N. when
we had arranged a meeting.”
I have observed in myself a simple and easily explained example, which
is probably a good model for similar occurrences of those familiar
“remarkable coincidences” wherein we meet a person of whom we were
just thinking. During a walk through the inner city a few days after
the title of “Professor” was bestowed on me, which carries with it a
great deal of prestige even in monarchical cities, my thoughts suddenly
merged into a childish revenge-fantasy against a certain married
couple. Some months previous they had called me to see their little
daughter who suffered from an interesting compulsive manifestation
following the appearance of a dream. I took a great interest in the
case, the genesis of which I believed I could surmise, but the parents
were unfavourable to my treatment, and gave me to understand that
they thought of applying to a foreign authority who cured by means
of hypnotism. I now fancied that after the failure of this attempt,
the parents begged me to resume my treatment, that they now had full
confidence in me, etc. But I answered: “Now that I have become a
professor, you have confidence in me. The title has made no change in
my ability; if you could not use me when I was instructor you can get
along without me now that I am a professor.” At this point my fantasy
was interrupted by a loud “Good evening, Professor!” and as I looked up
there passed me the same couple on whom I had just taken this imaginary
vengeance.
The next reflection destroyed the semblance of the miraculous. I was
walking towards this couple on a straight, almost deserted street;
glancing up hastily at a distance of perhaps twenty steps from me,
I had spied and realized their stately personalities; but this
perception, following the model of a negative hallucination, was set
aside by certain emotionally accentuated motives and then asserted
itself in the apparently spontaneous emerging fantasy.
A similar experience is related by Brill, which also throws some light
on the nature of telepathy.
“While engrossed in conversation during our customary Sunday evening
dinner at one of the large New York restaurants, I suddenly stopped
and irrelevantly remarked to my wife, ‘I wonder how Dr. R. is doing
in Pittsburg.’ She looked at me much astonished and said: ‘Why, that
is exactly what I have been thinking for the last few seconds! Either
you have transferred this thought to me or I have transferred it to
you. How can you otherwise explain this strange phenomenon?’ I had
to admit that I could offer no solution. Our conversation throughout
the dinner showed not the remotest association to Dr. R., nor, so far
as our memories went, had we heard or spoken of him for some time.
Being a sceptic, I refused to admit that there was anything mysterious
about it, although inwardly I felt quite uncertain. To be frank, I was
somewhat mystified.
“But we did not remain very long in this state of mind, for on looking
toward the cloak-room we were surprised to see Dr. R. Though closer
inspection showed our mistake, we were both struck by the remarkable
resemblance of this stranger to Dr. R. From the position of the
cloak-room we were forced to conclude that this stranger had passed
our table. Absorbed in our conversation, we had not noticed him
consciously, but the visual image had stirred up the association of his
double, Dr. R. That we should both have experienced the same thought
is also quite natural. The last word from our friend was to the effect
that he had taken up private practice in Pittsburg, and, being aware
of the vicissitudes that beset the beginner, it was quite natural to
wonder how fortune smiled upon him.
“What promised to be a supernatural manifestation was thus easily
explained on a normal basis; but had we not noticed the stranger before
he left the restaurant, it would have been impossible to exclude the
mysterious. I venture to say that such simple mechanisms are at the
bottom of the most complicated telepathic manifestations; at least,
such has been my experience in all cases accessible to investigation.”
Another “solution of an apparent foreboding” was reported by Otto
Rank[80]:--
“Some time ago I had experienced a remarkable variation of that
‘peculiar coincidence’ wherein one meets a person who has just been
occupying one’s thoughts. Shortly before Christmas I went to the
Austro-Hungarian Bank in order to obtain ten new silver crown-pieces
destined for Christmas gifts. Absorbed in ambitious fantasies which
dealt with the contrast of my meagre means to the enormous sums in the
banking-house, I turned into the narrow street to the bank. In front
of the door I saw an automobile and many people going in and out. I
thought to myself: ‘The officials will have plenty of time for my new
crowns; naturally I shall be quick about it; I shall put down the paper
notes to be exchanged, and say, “Please give me gold.”’ I realized my
mistake at once--I was to have asked for _silver_--and awoke from my
fantasies.
“I was now only a few steps from the entrance, and noticed a young man
coming toward me who looked familiar, but whom I could not definitely
identify on account of my short-sightedness. As he came nearer I
recognized him as a classmate of my brother whose name was _Gold_ and
from whose brother, a well-known journalist, I had great expectations
in the beginning of my literary career. But these expectations had not
materialized, and with them had vanished the hoped-for material success
with which my fantasies were occupying themselves on my way to the
bank. Thus engrossed I must have unconsciously perceived the approach
of Mr. Gold, who impressed himself on my conscience while I was
dreaming of material success, and thereby caused me to ask the cashier
for gold instead of the inferior silver. But, on the other hand, the
paradoxical fact that my unconscious was able to perceive an object
long before it was recognized by the eye might in part be explained by
the complex readiness (_Komplexbereitschaft_) of Bleuler. For my mind
was attuned to the material, and, contrary to my better knowledge, it
guided my steps from the very beginning to buildings where gold and
paper money were exchanged.”
To the category of the wonderful and uncanny we may also add that
strange feeling we perceive in certain moments and situations when it
seems as if we had already had exactly the same experience, or had
previously found ourselves in the same situation. Yet we are never
successful in our efforts to recall clearly those former experiences
and situations. I know that I follow only the loose colloquial
expression when I designate that which stimulates us in such moments as
a “feeling.” We undoubtedly deal with a judgment, and, indeed, with a
judgment of cognition; but these cases, nevertheless, have a character
peculiar to themselves, and besides, we must not ignore the fact that
we never recall what we are seeking.
I do not know whether this phenomenon of _Déjà vu_ was ever seriously
offered as a proof of a former psychic existence of the individual; but
it is certain that psychologists have taken an interest in it, and have
attempted to solve the riddle in a multitude of speculative ways. None
of the proposed tentative explanations seems right to me, because none
takes account of anything but the accompanying manifestations and the
favouring conditions of the phenomenon. Those psychic processes which,
according to my observation, are alone responsible for the explanation
of the _Déjà vu_--namely, the unconscious fantasies--are generally
neglected by the psychologists even to-day.
I believe that it is wrong to designate the feeling of having
experienced something before as an illusion. On the contrary, in such
moments something is really touched that we have already experienced,
only we cannot consciously recall the latter because it never was
conscious. In short, the feeling of _Déjà vu_ corresponds to the memory
of an unconscious fantasy. There are unconscious fantasies (or day
dreams) just as there are similar conscious creations, which every one
knows from personal experience.
I realize that the object is worthy of most minute study, but I will
here give the analysis of only one case of _Déjà vu_ in which the
feeling was characterized by particular intensity and persistence.
A woman of thirty-seven years asserted that she most distinctly
remembered that at the age of twelve and a half she paid her first
visit to some school friends in the country, and as she entered the
garden she immediately had the feeling of having been there before.
This feeling was repeated as she went through the living-rooms, so that
she believed she knew beforehand how big the next room was, what views
one could have on looking out of it, etc. But the belief that this
feeling of recognition might have its source in a previous visit to
the house and garden, perhaps a visit paid in earliest childhood, was
absolutely excluded and disproved by statements from her parents. The
woman who related this sought no psychologic explanation, but saw in
the appearance of this feeling a prophetic reference to the importance
which these friends later assumed in her emotional life. On taking into
consideration, however, the circumstance under which this phenomenon
presented itself to her, we found the way to another conception.
When she decided upon this visit she knew that these girls had an only
brother, who was seriously ill. In the course of the visit she actually
saw him. She found him looking very badly, and thought to herself that
he would soon die. But it happened that her own only brother had had a
serious attack of diphtheria some months before, and during his illness
she had lived for weeks with relatives far from her parental home. She
believed that her brother was taking part in this visit to the country,
imagined even that this was his first long journey since his illness;
still, her memory was remarkably indistinct in regard to these points,
whereas all other details, and particularly the dress which she wore
that day, remained most clearly before her eyes.
To the initiated it will not be difficult to conclude from these
suggestions that the expectation of her brother’s death had played a
great part in the girl’s mind at that time, and that either it never
became conscious or it was more energetically repressed after the
favourable issue of the illness. Under other circumstances she would
have been compelled to wear another dress--namely, mourning clothes.
She found the analogous situation in her friends’ home; their only
brother was in danger of an early death, an event that really came
to pass a short time after. She might have consciously remembered
that she had lived through a similar situation a few months previous,
but instead of recalling what was inhibited through repression she
transferred the memory feeling to the locality, to the garden, and the
house, and merged it into the _fausse reconnaissance_ that she had
already seen everything exactly as it was.
From the fact of the repression we may conclude that the former
expectation of the death of her brother was not far from evincing the
character of a wish-fantasy. She would then have become the only child.
In her later neurosis she suffered in the most intense manner from the
fear of losing her parents, behind which the analysis disclosed, as
usual, the unconscious wish of the same content.
My own experience of _Déjà vu_ I can trace in a similar manner to the
emotional constellation of the moment. It may be expressed as follows:
“That would be another occasion for awakening certain fantasies
(unconscious and unknown) which were formed in me at one time or
another as a wish to improve my situation.”[81]
V. Recently when I had occasion to recite to a colleague of a
philosophical turn of mind some examples of name-forgetting, with their
analyses, he hastened to reply: “That is all very well, but with me the
forgetting of a name proceeds in a different manner.” Evidently one
cannot dismiss this question as simply as that; I do not believe that
my colleague had ever thought of an analysis for the forgetting of a
name, nor could he say how the process differed in him. But his remark,
nevertheless, touches upon a problem which many would be inclined to
place in the foreground. Does the solution given for faulty and chance
actions apply in general or only in particular cases, and if only in
the latter, what are the conditions under which it may also be employed
in the explanation of the other phenomena?
In answer to this question my experiences leave me in the lurch. I can
only urge against considering the demonstrated connections as rare, for
as often as I have made the test in myself and with my patients it was
always definitely demonstrated exactly as in the examples reported,
or there were at least good reasons to assume this. One should not be
surprised, however, when one does not succeed every time in finding the
concealed meaning of the symptomatic action, as the amount of inner
resistances ranging themselves against the solution must be considered
a deciding factor. Also it is not always possible to explain every
individual dream of one’s self or of patients. To substantiate the
general validity of the theory, it is enough if one can penetrate only
a certain distance into the hidden associations. The dream which proves
refractory when the solution is attempted on the following day can
often be robbed of its secret a week or a month later, when the psychic
factors combating one another have been reduced as a consequence of a
real change that has meanwhile taken place. The same applies to the
solution of faulty and symptomatic actions. It would therefore be wrong
to affirm of all cases which resist analysis that they are caused by
another psychic mechanism than that here revealed; such assumption
requires more than negative proofs; moreover, the readiness to believe
in a different explanation of faulty and symptomatic actions, which
probably exists universally in all normal persons, does not prove
anything; it is obviously an expression of the same psychic forces
which produced the secret, which therefore strives to protect and
struggle against its elucidation.
On the other hand, we must not overlook the fact that the repressed
thoughts and feelings are not independent in attaining expression in
symptomatic and faulty actions. The technical possibility for such
an adjustment of the innervations must be furnished independently
of them, and this is then gladly utilized by the intention of the
repressed material to come to conscious expression. In the case of
linguistic faulty actions an attempt has been made by philosophers and
philologists to verify through minute observations what structural and
functional relations enter into the service of such intention. If in
the determinations of faulty and symptomatic actions we separate the
unconscious motive from its co-active physiological and psychophysical
relations, the question remains open whether there are still other
factors within normal limits which, like the unconscious motive, and in
its place can produce faulty and symptomatic actions on the road of the
relations. It is not my task to answer this question.
VI. Since the discussion of speech blunders we have been content to
demonstrate that faulty actions have a concealed motive, and through
the aid of psychoanalysis we have traced our way to the knowledge of
their motivation. The general nature and the peculiarities of the
psychic factors brought to expression in these faulty actions we have
hitherto left almost without consideration; at any rate, we have not
attempted to define them more accurately or to examine into their
lawfulness. Nor will we now attempt a thorough elucidation of the
subject, as the first steps have already taught us that it is more
feasible to enter this structure from another side. Here we can put
before ourselves certain questions which I will cite in their order.
(1) What is the content and the origin of the thoughts and feelings
which show themselves through faulty and chance actions? (2) What are
the conditions which force a thought or a feeling to make use of these
occurrences as a means of expression and place it in a position to do
so? (3) Can constant and definite associations be demonstrated between
the manner of the faulty action and the qualities brought to expression
through it?
I shall begin by bringing together some material for answering the last
question. In the discussion of the examples of speech blunders we found
it necessary to go beyond the contents of the intended speech, and we
had to seek the cause of the speech disturbance outside the intention.
The latter was quite clear in a series of cases, and was known to the
consciousness of the speaker. In the example that seemed most simple
and transparent it was a similar sounding but different conception of
the same thought, which disturbed its expression without any one being
able to say why the one succumbed and the other came to the surface
(Meringer and Mayers’ _Contaminations_).
In a second group of cases one conception succumbed to a motive which
did not, however, prove strong enough to cause complete submersion. The
conception which was withheld was clearly presented to consciousness.
Only of the third group can we affirm unreservedly that the disturbing
thought differed from the one intended, and it is obvious that it
may establish an essential distinction. The disturbing thought is
either connected with the disturbed one through a thought association
(disturbance through inner contradiction), or it is substantially
strange to it, and just the disturbed word is connected with the
disturbing thought through a surprising outer association, which is
frequently unconscious.
In the examples which I have given from my psychoanalyses it is found
that the entire speech is either under the influence of thoughts which
have become active simultaneously, or under absolutely unconscious
thoughts which betray themselves either through the disturbance itself,
or which evince an indirect influence by making it possible for the
individual parts of the unconsciously intended speech to disturb
one another. The retained or unconscious thoughts from which the
disturbances in speech emanate are of most varied origin. A general
survey does not reveal any definite direction.
Comparative examinations of examples of mistakes in reading and writing
lead to the same conclusions. Isolated cases, as in speech blunders,
seem to owe their origin to an unmotivated work of condensation
(_e.g._, the _Apel_). But we should be pleased to know whether special
conditions must not be fulfilled in order that such condensation,
which is considered regular in the dream-work and faulty in our waking
thoughts, should take place. No information concerning this can be
obtained from the examples themselves. But I merely refuse from this
to draw the conclusion that there are no such conditions, as, for
instance, the relaxation of conscious attention; for I have learned
elsewhere that automatic actions are especially characterized by
correctness and reliability. I would rather emphasize the fact that
here, as so frequently in biology, it is the normal relations, or
those approaching the normal, that are less favourable objects for
investigation than the pathological. What remains obscure in the
explanation of these most simple disturbances will, according to my
expectation, be made clear through the explanation of more serious
disturbances.
Also mistakes in reading and writing do not lack examples in which more
remote and more complicated motivation can be recognized.
There is no doubt that the disturbances of the speech functions occur
more easily and make less demand on the disturbing forces than other
psychic acts.
But one is on different ground when it comes to the examination of
forgetting in the literal sense--_i.e._, the forgetting of past
experiences. (To distinguish this forgetting from the others we
designate _sensu strictiori_ the forgetting of proper names and
foreign words, as in Chapters I and II, as “slips”; and the forgetting
of resolutions as “omissions.”) The principal conditions of the
normal process in forgetting are unknown.[82] We are also reminded
of the fact that not all is forgotten which we believe to be. Our
explanation here deals only with those cases in which the forgetting
arouses our astonishment, in so far as it infringes the rule that
the unimportant is forgotten, while the important matter is guarded
by memory. Analysis of these examples of forgetting which seem to
demand a special explanation shows that the motive of forgetting is
always an unwillingness to recall something which may evoke painful
feelings. We come to the conjecture that this motive universally
strives for expression in psychic life, but is inhibited through other
and contrary forces from regularly manifesting itself. The extent and
significance of this dislike to recall painful impressions seems worthy
of the most painstaking psychologic investigation. The question as
to what special conditions render possible the universally resistant
forgetting in individual cases cannot be solved through this added
association.
A different factor steps into the foreground in the forgetting of
resolutions; the supposed conflict resulting in the repression of the
painful memory becomes tangible, and in the analysis of the examples
one regularly recognizes a counter-will which opposes but does not put
an end to the resolution. As in previously discussed faulty acts, we
here also recognize two types of the psychic process: the counter-will
either turns directly against the resolution (in intentions of some
consequence) or it is substantially foreign to the resolution itself
and establishes its connection with it through an outer association (in
almost indifferent resolutions).
The same conflict governs the phenomena of erroneously carried-out
actions. The impulse which manifests itself in the disturbances of the
action is frequently a counter-impulse. Still oftener it is altogether
a strange impulse which only utilizes the opportunity to express itself
through a disturbance in the execution of the action. The cases in
which the disturbance is the result of an inner contradiction are the
most significant ones, and also deal with the more important activities.
The inner conflict in the chance or symptomatic actions then merges
into the background. Those motor expressions which are least thought
of, or are entirely overlooked by consciousness, serve as the
expression of numerous unconscious or restrained feelings. For the most
part they represent symbolically wishes and phantoms.
The first question (as to the origin of the thoughts and emotions
which find expression in faulty actions) we can answer by saying
that in a series of cases the origin of the disturbing thoughts can
be readily traced to repressed emotions of the psychic life. Even in
healthy persons egotistic, jealous and hostile feelings and impulses,
burdened by the pressure of moral education, often utilize the path of
faulty actions to express in some way their undeniably existing force
which is not recognized by the higher psychic instances. Allowing
these faulty and chance actions to continue corresponds in great
part to a comfortable toleration of the unmoral. The manifold sexual
currents play no insignificant part in these repressed feelings. That
they appear so seldom in the thoughts revealed by the analyses of
my examples is simply a matter of coincidence. As I have undertaken
the analyses of numerous examples from my own psychic life, the
selection was partial from the first, and aimed at the exclusion of
sexual matters. At other times it seemed that the disturbing thoughts
originated from the most harmless objection and consideration.
We have now reached the answer to the second question--that is, what
psychologic conditions are responsible for the fact that a thought
must seek expression, not in its complete form but, as it were, in
parasitic form, as a modification and disturbance of another. From
the most striking examples of faulty actions it is quite obvious that
this determinant should be sought in a relation to conscious capacity,
or in the more or less firmly pronounced character of the “repressed”
material. But an examination of this series of examples shows that
this character consists of many indistinct elements. The tendency to
overlook something because it is wearisome, or because the concerned
thought does not really belong to the intended matter--these feelings
seem to play the same rôle as motives for the suppression of a thought
(which later depends for expression on the disturbance of another), as
the moral condemnation of a rebellious emotional feeling, or as the
origin of absolutely unconscious trains of thought. An insight into the
general nature of the condition of faulty and chance actions cannot be
gained in this way.
However, this investigation gives us one single significant fact; the
more harmless the motivation of the faulty act the less obnoxious,
and hence the less incapable of consciousness, the thought to which
it gives expression is; the easier also becomes the solution of the
phenomenon after we have turned our attention toward it. The simplest
cases of speech blunders are immediately noticed and spontaneously
corrected. Where one deals with motivation through actually repressed
feelings the solution requires a painstaking analysis, which may
sometimes strike against difficulties or turn out unsuccessful.
One is therefore justified in taking the result of this last
investigation as an indication of the fact that the satisfactory
explanation of the psychologic determinations of faulty and chance
actions is to be acquired in another way and from another source.
The indulgent reader can therefore see in these discussions the
demonstration of the surfaces of fracture in which this theme was quite
artificially evolved from a broader connection.
VII. Just a few words to indicate the direction of this broader
connection. The mechanism of the faulty and chance actions, as we
have learned to know it through the application of analysis, shows in
the most essential points an agreement with the mechanism of dream
formation, which I have discussed in the chapter “The Dream Work” of
my book on the interpretation of dreams. Here, as there, one finds
the condensation and compromise formation (“contaminations”); in
addition the situation is much the same, since unconscious thoughts
find expression as modifications of other thoughts in unusual ways
and through outer associations. The incongruities, absurdities, and
errors in the dream content by virtue of which the dream is scarcely
recognized as a psychic achievement originate in the same way--to be
sure, through freer usage of the existing material--as the common error
of our everyday life; _here, as there, the appearance of the incorrect
function is explained through the peculiar interference of two or more
correct actions_.
An important conclusion can be drawn from, this combination: the
peculiar mode of operation, whose most striking function we recognize
in the dream content, should not be adjudged only to the sleeping state
of the psychic life when we possess abundant proof of its activity
during the waking state in the form of faulty actions. The same
connection also forbids us assuming that these psychic processes which
impress us as abnormal and strange are determined by deep-seated decay
of psychic activity or by morbid state of function.[83]
The correct understanding of this strange psychic work which allows
the faulty actions to originate like the dream pictures will only be
possible after we have discovered that the psychoneurotic symptoms,
particularly the psychic formations of hysteria and compulsion
neurosis, repeat in their mechanisms all the essential features of
this mode of operation. The continuation of our investigation would
therefore have to begin at this point.
There is still another special interest for us in considering the
faulty, chance, and symptomatic actions in the light of this last
analogy. If we compare them to the function of the psychoneuroses and
the neurotic symptoms, two frequently recurring statements gain in
sense and support--namely, that the border-line between the nervous,
normal, and abnormal states is indistinct, and that we are all slightly
nervous. Regardless of all medical experience, one may construe various
types of such barely suggested nervousness, the _formes frustes_ of the
neuroses. There may be cases in which only a few symptoms appear, or
they may manifest themselves rarely or in mild forms; the extenuation
may be transferred to the number, intensity, or to the temporal
outbreak of the morbid manifestation. It may also happen that just
this type, which forms the most frequent transition between health and
disease, may never be discovered. The transition type, whose morbid
manifestations come in the form of faulty and symptomatic actions, is
characterized by the fact that the symptoms are transformed to the
least important psychic activities, while everything that can lay claim
to a higher psychic value remains free from disturbance. When the
symptoms are disposed of in a reverse manner--that is, when they appear
in the most important individual and social activities in a manner to
disturb the functions of nourishment and sexual relations, professional
and social life--such disposition is found in the severe cases of
neuroses, and is perhaps more characteristic of the latter than the
multiformity or vividness of the morbid manifestations.
But the common character of the mildest as well as the severest cases,
to which the faulty and chance actions contribute, lies _in the ability
to refer the phenomena to unwelcome, repressed, psychic material,
which, though pushed away from consciousness, is nevertheless not
robbed of all capacity to express itself_.
INDEX
Actions--
Accidental, 192
Chance, 215
Symbolic, 210
Symptomatic, 178, 215, 235
Collection of, 238
Examples, 216, 217
Grouping of, 219
Adler, 283, 287
Amnesia, 139
Infantile, 62
Temporary, 35
Analysis of--
Aliquis, 18
Castelvetrano, 50
Ode to Apollo, 29
Signorelli, 4
Young, 44
Anticipations, 72
Association, 11
Auditifs, 63
Awkwardness, accidental, 209
Bed-wetting, 150
Behaviour of paranoiacs, 304
Bernheim, 161
Bleuler, 38, 120, 303, 319
Blood miracle, 20
Blunders, speech, 74
Boileau, quoted from, 114
Brantôme, 93
Breaking of objects, 184, 186, 187, 189
Brill, 19, 29, 32, 101, 102, 103, 130, 147, 169, 170, 197, 241, 249,
258, 293, 316
Chance, 277
Chance numbers, 282, 283
Charcot, 63, 157
Child, intellectual accomplishments of, 62
Childhood activities, trace of, 62
Combined faulty acts, 265
Examples of, 266, 267
Complex--
Ambition, 100
Family, 40
Œdipus, 198
Personal, 38, 49
Professional, 40
Self-reference, 52
Compromise formation, examples of, 81
Consciousness, 10
Bringing hidden ideas to, 19
Contaminations, 72
Contradiction from repression, 26
Counter-will, 170
In resolutions, 170
Damaging things, 190, 191
Darwin, 154
Dattner, B., 129, 232, 233, 239
Daudet, 156
Death and sexuality, 7
_Déjà vu_--
Explanation of, 321
Phenomenon of, 320
Delusions, formation of, 155
Denials, 149
Determinant, inner, 13
Determinism, 277
In mental life, 278
Psychic, 302
Displacement, 4, 10, 57
Retro-active, 58
Disturbance of newly emerging theme, 6
Don Quixote, 202
Dream, prophetic, 312
Element, suppressed, 11
Erroneously carried-out actions, 177, 278, 332
As an expression of self-reproach, 184
Examples of, 178, 179, 180
Errors, 249
Examples of, 250, 251, 253
Of memory, 249
Mechanism of, 256
Examples arbitrarily chosen, 279, 281
Fall, 191
False recollection, 4
Faulty acts, 192
Actions, 326
Faulty actions--
Explanation of, 322
In relation to nervousness, 337
The psychoneurotic symptom, 337
Memory, mechanism of, 10
Relation to the dream, 335
Ferenczi, 33, 43, 46, 98, 204, 324
Folk-lore, 154
Forebodings, 312
Fore-sounds, influence of, 78
Forget, disposition to, 11
Tendency to, 17
Forgetfulness, 168
Due to disturbances of pain, 27
Excusing power of, 165
Psychic mechanism of, 3
Temporary, of proper names, 3, 29, 45
Forgetting--
As a spontaneous process, 135
Defensive tendency of, 153
Examples of, 139, 140, 141, 148, 149
Intentional, 8
Mechanism of, 52, 330
Of experiences, 138
Of foreign words, 17
Of impressions, 135, 138
Of intentions, 159
Of knowledge, 139
Of names, 29, 39, 40, 155, 324
Of resolutions, 135, 173, 332
Pain motive of, 155
Preference for proper names, 3, 4, 11
Psychologic analysis of, 136
Purposive, 24
The order of words, 29, 33, 34
Through neglect, 163
Free will, 303
Freud, 43, 300
Gross, Hans, 154, 304
Hallucination, 313
Henri V. and C., 61
Hitschman, 301
Identification, 100
Impotence, psychic, 34
Injury, self-inflicted, 199, 201
Intention, 159
Intentions--
Forgetting of, 160
Secondary, 163
Interchangings, 72
Jones, E., 31, 51, 97, 109, 127, 129, 148, 151, 155, 163, 179, 221,
239, 267, 290, 292
Jung, C. G., 32, 43, 292
Keys, 179, 180
Lapses in reading, 117, 278
In speech, 117, 256, 278
In writing, 120, 278
Lapsus calami, 122
Maeder, 179, 236, 258
Mayer and Meringer, 71, 177
Memories--
Childhood, 57, 61, 211
Concealing, 57, 58, 64
Cause of, 58
Formation of, 59, 60
Painful, 154
Memory--
Control of, 137
Disturbance, examples of, 155, 157
Psychologic theory of, 135
Reproduction, 10
Tenaciousness of, 136
Meyer, 278
Military service, 161
Mishandling, 192
As a sacrifice, 192
Mislaying--
Analysis of, 145, 146
Examples of, 146, 147
Significance of, 143
Misstep, 191
Mistakes in reading, 71, 117
Examples of, 117, 118
In speech, 71
In writing, 117
Of importance, 195, 197
Of normal persons, 194
Moteurs, 63
Motives, unknown, 277
Motor insufficiency, 209
Name--
Incorrect substitutive, 12
Reproduction of lost, 4
Names--
Causes of forgetting of, 52
Distortion of, 97
Escaped, 4
Falsification of, 99
Forgetting of, 4
Substitutive, 4, 13, 98
Negative hallucination, 316
Neologism, analysis of, 293
Nietzsche, 153
Œdipus Complex, 198
Legend, 196
Omissions in writing, 129
Paranoiac interpretation, 306
Personality, over-estimation of, 30
Peterson, 32, 240, 298
Phonetic laws, 95
Phonetics, psychic value of, 72
Pick, A., 152
Playful actions, 227
Occupations, 220
Post-hypnotic suggestion, 161
Potwin, 61
Printers’ errors, 124, 125
Prophetic dream, analysis of, 313
Psychic--
Action, faulty, 277
Apparatus, 153
Determinism, 302
Function, failure of, 3
Psycho-analysis, 65
Psychology of the unconscious, 309
Rank, O., 105, 108, 242, 269, 272, 318
Recollection--
Faulty, 12, 155
Substitutive, 23
Remember, inability to, 8
Reminiscences, childhood, 61
Repressed material, character of, 334
Repression, motivated by, 12, 13
Reproduction--
Disturbance of, 25
Faulty, 29
Resistances, 152
Riklin, 38
Robitsek, Alf., 93
Sachs, 180, 231, 234
Self-betrayal, 101
Examples of, 102
Self-criticism, 184
Self-mutilations, 198
Self-reference, 41
Shakespeare, quoted from, 109, 122
Speech blunders, 74
Psychology of, 329
Disturbance, 75
Lapses in, 177, 256
Mistakes in, 71
Examples of, 81, 82
Showing identification, 94
Substitutions in, 77
Stekel, W., 88, 126, 194
Substitutive formation, 60
Suicide, unconscious, 202
Supernatural forces, 312
Superstition, 306
Motivation of, 309
Origin of, 311
Unconscious motives of, 311
Superstitious beliefs, 277
Person, 308
Suppression, process of, 11
Symptomatic actions, 215, 326
Telepathic experiences, 312
Telepathy, nature of, 316
Traditions, 154
Traumatic hysteria, 192
Unconscious activity, 188
Material, 76
Skill, 147
Van Emden, 206
Visuels, 63
Weiss, 267
Wertheimer and Klein, 304
Wisdom, 169
Word-forgetting without substitutive recollection, 23
Words, disfigurement of, 96
Wundt, 79, 130
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: _Monatsschrift f. Psychiatrie._]
[Footnote 2: This is the usual way of bringing to consciousness hidden
ideas. Cf. _The Interpretation of Dreams_, pp. 83-4, translated by A.
A. Brill, The Macmillan Company, New York, and Allen, London.]
[Footnote 3: Finer observation reduces somewhat the contrast between
the analyses of _Signorelli_ and _aliquis_ as far as the substitutive
recollections are concerned. Here, too, the forgetting seems to be
accompanied by substitutive formations. When I later asked my companion
whether in his effort to recall the forgotten word he did not think of
some substitution, he informed me that he was at first tempted to put
an ab into the verse: _nostris ab ossibus_ (perhaps the disjointed part
of _a-liquis_) and that later the word _exoriare_ obtruded itself with
particular distinctness and persistency. Being sceptical, he added that
it was apparently due to the fact that it was the first word of the
verse. But when I asked him to focus his attention on the associations
to _exoriare_ he gave me the word _exorcism_. This makes me think that
the reinforcement of _exoriare_ in the reproduction has really the
value of such substitution. It probably came through the association
_exorcism_ from the names of the saints. However, those are refinements
upon which no value need be laid. It seems now quite possible that
the appearance of any kind of substitutive recollection is a constant
sign--perhaps only characteristic and misleading--of the purposive
forgetting motivated by repression. This substitution might also exist
in the reinforcement of an element akin to the thing forgotten, even
where incorrect substitutive names fail to appear. Thus, in the example
Signorelli, as long as the name of the painter remained inaccessible
to me, I had more than a clear visual memory of the cycle of his
frescoes, and of the picture of himself in the corner; at least it was
more intensive than any of my other visual memory traces. In another
case, also reported in my essay of 1898, I had hopelessly forgotten
the street name and address connected with a disagreeable visit in
a strange city, but--as if to mock me--the house number appeared
especially vivid, whereas the memory of numbers usually causes me the
greatest difficulty.]
[Footnote 4: I am not fully convinced of the lack of an inner
connection between the two streams of thought in the case of
_Signorelli_. In carefully following the repressed thought concerning
the theme of death and sexual life, one does strike an idea which shows
a near relation to the theme of the frescoes of _Orvieto_.]
[Footnote 5: _The Psychology of Dementia Præcox_, translated by F.
Peterson and A. A. Brill.]
[Footnote 6: _The Psychology of Dementia Præcox_, p. 45.]
[Footnote 7: _Zentralb. f. Psychoanalyse_, I. 9, 1911.]
[Footnote 8: “Analyse eines Falles von Namenvergessen,” _Zentralb. f.
Psychoanalyse_, Jahrg. 11, Heft 2, 1911.]
[Footnote 9: Published in the _Monatsschrift f. Psychiatrie u.
Neurologie_, 1899.]
[Footnote 10: “Enquête sur les premiers souvenirs de l’enfance,”
_L’Année psychologique_, iii., 1897.]
[Footnote 11: “Study of Early Memories,” _Psychological Review_, 1901.]
[Footnote 12: I assert this as a result of certain investigations made
by myself.]
[Footnote 13: The examples are given by the editor.]
[Footnote 14: Those who are interested are referred to pp. 62, 73, and
97 of the author’s work.]
[Footnote 15: _Neue Freie Presse_, August 23, 1900: “Wie man sich
versprechen kann.”]
[Footnote 16: _Völker psychologie_, vol. i., pt. i., p. 371, etc.,
1900.]
[Footnote 17: Italics are mine.]
[Footnote 18: It turned out that she was under the influence of
unconscious thoughts concerning pregnancy and prevention of conception.
With the words “shut up like a pocket knife,” which she uttered
consciously as a complaint, she meant to describe the position of
the child in the womb. The word “earnest” in my remark recalled to
her the name (S. Ernst) of the well-known Vienna business firm in
Kärthner Strasse, which used to advertise the sale of articles for the
prevention of conception.]
[Footnote 19: Similar mistakes dealing with _Officer 666_ were recently
reported to me by other psycho-analysts.]
[Footnote 20: It may be observed that aristocrats in particular very
frequently distort the names of the physicians they consult, from
which we may conclude that inwardly they slight them, in spite of the
politeness with which they are wont to greet them. I shall cite here
some excellent observations concerning the forgetting of names from the
works of Professor E. Jones, of Toronto: _Papers on Psycho-analysis_,
chap. iii. p. 49:--
“Few people can avoid feeling a twinge of resentment when they find
that their name has been forgotten, particularly if it is by some one
with whom they had hoped or expected it would be remembered. They
instinctively realize that if they had made a greater impression on the
person’s mind he would certainly have remembered them again, for the
name is an integral part of the personality. Similarly, few things are
more flattering to most people than to find themselves addressed by
name by a great personage where they could hardly have anticipated it.
Napoleon, like most leaders of men, was a master of this art. In the
midst of the disastrous campaign of France in 1814, he gave an amazing
proof of his memory in this direction. When in a town near Craonne, he
recollected that he had met the mayor, De Bussy, over twenty years ago
in the La Fère Regiment. The delighted De Bussy at once threw himself
into his service with extraordinary zeal. Conversely, there is no surer
way of affronting some one than by pretending to forget his name; the
insinuation is thus conveyed that the person is so unimportant in our
eyes that we cannot be bothered to remember his name. This device is
often exploited in literature. In Turgentev’s _Smoke_ (p. 255) the
following passage occurs: “‘So you still find Baden entertaining,
M’sieur--Litvinov.’ Ratmirov always uttered Litvinov’s surname with
hesitation, every time, as though he had forgotten it, and could not at
once recall it. In this way, as well as by the lofty flourish of his
hat in saluting him, he meant to insult his pride.” The same author,
in his _Fathers and Children_ (p. 107), writes: “The Governor invited
Kirsanov and Bazarov to his ball, and within a few minutes invited them
a second time, regarding them as brothers, and calling them Kisarov.”
Here the forgetting that he had spoken to them, the mistake in the
names, and the inability to distinguish between the two young men,
constitute a culmination of disparagement. Falsification of a name has
the same signification as forgetting it; it is only a step towards
complete amnesia.”]
[Footnote 21: _Zentralb. f. Psychoanalyse_, ii., Jahrg. I. Cf. also
Brill’s _Psychanalysis: Its Theories and Practical Application_, p.
202. Saunders, Philadelphia and London.]
[Footnote 22: Jones, _Papers on Psycho-analysis_, p. 60.]
[Footnote 23:
“Ce qu’on conçoit bien
S’énonce clairement,
Et les mots pour le dire
Arrivent aisément.”
Boileau, _Art Poétique_.
]
[Footnote 24: _The Interpretation of Dreams_, p. 208.]
[Footnote 25: Bleuler, _Affektivität Suggestibilität, Paranoia_, p.
121, Halle. Marhold, 1906.]
[Footnote 26: A similar situation occurs in _Julius Cæsar_, iii. 3:
“CINNA. Truly, my name is Cinna.
“BURGHER. Tear him to pieces! he is a conspirator.
“CINNA. I am Cinna the poet! not Cinna the conspirator.
“BURGHER. No matter; his name is Cinna; tear the name out of his heart
and let him go.”]
[Footnote 27: Ethyl alcohol is, of course, the chemical name for
ordinary alcohol.]
[Footnote 28: Jones, _Psycho-analysis_, p. 66.]
[Footnote 29: _Zentralbl. f. Psychoanalyse_, i. 12.]
[Footnote 30: In the course of the conference the details of the
previous first visit return to consciousness.]
[Footnote 31: Brill, _loc. cit._, p. 197.]
[Footnote 32: If we inquire of a person whether he suffered from luetic
infection ten or fifteen years ago, we are only too apt to forget that
psychically the patient has looked upon this disease in an entirely
different manner than on, let us say, an acute attack of rheumatism. In
the anamneses which parents give about their neurotic daughters, it is
hardly possible to distinguish with any degree of certainty the portion
forgotten from that hidden, for anything that stands in the way of the
girl’s future marriage is systematically set aside by the parents,
that is, it becomes repressed. A man who had recently lost his beloved
wife from an affection of the lungs reported to me the following case
of misleading the doctor, which can only be explained by the theory
of such forgetting. “As my poor wife’s pleuritis had not disappeared
after many weeks, Dr. P. was called in consultation. While taking the
history he asked among others the customary questions whether there
were any cases of lung trouble in my wife’s family. My wife denied any
such cases, and even I myself could not remember any. While Dr. P.
was taking leave the conversation accidentally turned to excursions,
and my wife said: ‘Yes, even to Landgersdorf, where my poor brother
lies buried, is a long journey.’ This brother died about fifteen years
ago, after having suffered for years from tuberculosis. My wife was
very fond of him, and often spoke about him. Indeed, I recall that
when her malady was diagnosed as pleurisy she was very worried and
sadly remarked: ‘My brother also died of lung trouble.’ But the memory
was so very repressed that even after the above-cited conversation
about the trip to L. she found no occasion to correct her information
concerning the diseases in her family. I myself was struck by this
forgetting at the very moment she began to talk about Landgersdorf.” A
perfectly analogous experience is related by Ernest Jones in his work.
A physician whose wife suffered from some obscure abdominal malady
remarked to her: “It is comforting to think that there has been no
tuberculosis in your family.” She turned to him very astonished and
said, “Have you forgotten that my mother died of tuberculosis, and that
my sister recovered from it only after having been given up by the
doctors?”]
[Footnote 33: During the days when I was first writing these pages
the following almost incredible case of forgetting happened to me. On
the 1st of January I examined my notes so that I could send out my
bills. In the month of June I came across the name M----l, and could
not recall the person to whom it belonged. My surprise increased when
I observed from my books that I treated the case in a sanatorium, and
that for weeks I had called on the patient daily. A patient treated
under such conditions is rarely forgotten by a physician in six
months. I asked myself if it could have been a man--a paretic--a case
without interest? Finally, the note about the fee received brought to
my memory all the knowledge which strove to elude it. M----l was a
fourteen-year-old girl, the most remarkable case of my latter years, a
case which taught me a lesson I am not likely ever to forget, a case
whose upshot gave me many painful hours. The child became afflicted
with an unmistakable hysteria, which quickly and thoroughly improved
under my care. After this improvement the child was taken away from
me by the parents. She still complained of abdominal pains which had
played the part in the hysterical symptoms. Two months later she
died of sarcoma of the abdominal glands. The hysteria, to which she
was greatly predisposed, took the tumour-formation as a provocative
agent, and I, fascinated by the tumultuous but harmless manifestations
of hysteria, perhaps overlooked the first sign of the insidious and
incurable disease.]
[Footnote 34: A. Pick (“Zur Psychologie des Vergessens bei Geistes- und
Nervenkranken,” _Archiv. f. Kriminal-Anthropologie u. Kriminalistik_,
von H. Gross) has recently collected a number of authors who realize
the value of the influence of the affective factors on memory, and who
more or less clearly recognize that a defensive striving against pain
can lead to forgetting. But none of us has been able to represent this
phenomenon and its psychologic determination as exhaustively, and at
the same time as effectively, as Nietzsche in one of his aphorisms
(_Jenseits von Gut und Böse_, ii., _Hauptstück_ 68): “‘I have done
that,’ says my Memory. ‘I could not have done that,’ says my Pride, and
remains inexorable. Finally, my Memory yields.”]
[Footnote 35: Cf. Hans Gross, _Kriminal Psychologie_, 1898.]
[Footnote 36: Darwin on forgetting. In Darwin’s autobiography one finds
the following passage that does equal credit to his scientific honesty
and his psychologic acumen: “I had during many years followed a golden
rule, namely, that whenever a published fact, a new observation or
thought, came across me which was opposed to my general results, to
make a memorandum of it without fail and at once; for I had found by
experience that such facts and thoughts were far more apt to escape
from the memory than favourable ones” (quoted by Jones, _loc. cit._, p.
38).]
[Footnote 37: Cf. Bernheim, _Neue Studien über Hypnotismus, Suggestion
und Psychotherapie_, 1892.]
[Footnote 38: Young men of education who can pass the examination and
pay for their maintenance serve one instead of two years’ compulsory
service.]
[Footnote 39: In Bernard Shaw’s _Cæsar and Cleopatra_, Cæsar’s
indifference to Cleopatra is depicted by his being vexed on leaving
Egypt at having forgotten to do something. He finally recollected what
he had forgotten--to take leave of Cleopatra--this, to be sure, is in
full accord with historical truth. How little Cæsar thought of the
little Egyptian princess! Cited from Jones, _loc. cit._, p. 50.]
[Footnote 40: Women, with their fine understanding of unconscious
mental processes, are, as a rule, more apt to take offence when we do
not recognize them in the street, and hence do not greet them, than
to accept the most obvious explanation, namely, that the dilatory one
is short-sighted or so engrossed in thought that he did not see them.
They conclude that they surely would have been noticed if they had been
considered of any consequence.]
[Footnote 41: Dr. Ferenczi reports that he was a distracted person
himself, and was considered peculiar by his friends on account of
the frequency and strangeness of his failing. But the signs of this
inattention have almost all disappeared since he began to practise
psychoanalysis with patients, and was forced to turn his attention
to the analysis of his own ego. He believes that one renounces
these failings when one learns to extend by so much one’s own
responsibilities. He therefore justly maintains that distractedness
is a state which depends on unconscious complexes, and is curable by
psychoanalysis. One day he was reproaching himself for having committed
a technical error in the psychoanalysis of a patient, and on this day
all his former distractions reappeared. He stumbled while walking in
the street (a representation of that _faux pas_ in the treatment), he
forgot his pocket-book at home, he was a penny short in his car fare,
he did not properly button his clothes, etc.]
[Footnote 42: E. Jones remarks regarding this: “Often the resistance is
of a general order. Thus a busy man forgets to mail a letter entrusted
to him--to his slight annoyance--by his wife, just as he may ‘forget’
to carry out her shopping orders.”]
[Footnote 43: For the sake of the unity of the theme I may here digress
from the accepted classification, and add that the human memory evinces
a particular partiality in regard to money matters. False reminiscences
of having already paid something are often very obstinate, as I know
from personal experience. When free sway is given to avaricious intent
outside of the serious interests of life, when it is indulged in in
the spirit of fun, as in card playing, we then find that the most
honourable men show an inclination to errors, mistakes in memory and
accounts, and without realizing how, they even find themselves involved
in small frauds. Such liberties depend in no small part also on the
psychically refreshing character of the play. The saying that in play
we can learn a person’s character may be admitted if we can add “the
repressed character.” If waiters ever make unintentional mistakes
they are apparently due to the same mechanism. Among merchants we
can frequently observe a certain delay in the paying out of sums of
money, in payments of bills and the like, which brings the owner no
profit and can be only understood psychologically as the expression
of a counter-will against giving out money. Brill sums it up with
epigrammatic keenness: “We are more apt to mislay letters containing
bills than cheques” (Brill, _Psychanalysis, its Theories and Practical
Application_, p. 197).]
[Footnote 44: Translated by A. A. Brill.]
[Footnote 45: A second publication of Meringer has later shown me how
very unjust I was to this author when I attributed to him so much
understanding.]
[Footnote 46: Jones, _loc. cit._, p. 79.]
[Footnote 47: Alas! the Venus of Medici is lost!]
[Footnote 48: The Œdipus dream as I was wont to call it, because it
contains the key to the understanding of the legend of King Œdipus. In
the text of Sophocles the relation of such a dream is put in the mouth
of Jocasta (cf. _The Interpretation of Dreams_, pp. 222-4, etc.).]
[Footnote 49: _New York Medical Journal_, September, 1912. Reprinted
in large form as Chapter X of _Psychanalysis_, etc., Saunders,
Philadelphia.]
[Footnote 50: The self-inflicted injury which does not entirely tend
toward self-annihilation has, moreover, no other choice in our present
state of civilization than to hide itself behind the accidental, or to
break through in a simulation of spontaneous illness. Formerly, it was
a customary sign of mourning, at other times it expressed itself in
ideas of piety and renunciation of the world.]
[Footnote 51: The case is then identical with a sexual attack on a
woman, in whom the attack of the man cannot be warded off through
the full muscular strength of the woman because a portion of the
unconscious feelings of the one attacked meets it with ready
acceptance. To be sure, it is said that such a situation paralyses the
strength of a woman; we need only add the reasons for this paralysis.
Insofar the clever sentence of Sancho Panza, which he pronounced as
governor of his island, is psychologically unjust (_Don Quixote_,
vol. ii. chap. xlv). A woman hauled before the judge a man who was
supposed to have robbed her of her honour by force of violence. Sancho
indemnified her with a full purse which he took from the accused, but
after the departure of the woman he gave the accused permission to
follow her and snatch the purse from her. Both returned wrestling, the
woman priding herself that the villain was unable to possess himself of
the purse. Thereupon Sancho spoke: “Had you shown yourself so stout and
valiant to defend your body (nay, but half so much) as you have done to
defend your purse, the strength of Hercules could not have forced you.”]
[Footnote 52: It is evident that the situation of a battlefield is
such as to meet the requirement of conscious suicidal intent which,
nevertheless, shuns the direct way. Cf. in _Wallenstein_ the words of
the Swedish captain concerning the death of Max Piccolomini: “They say
he wished to die.”]
[Footnote 53: “Selbstbestrafung wegen Abortus von Dr. J. E. G. van
Emden,” Haag (Holland), _Zentralb. f. Psychoanalyse_, ii. 12.]
[Footnote 54: “Beitrag zur Symbolik im Alltag von Ernest Jones,”
_Zentralb. f. Psychoanalyse_, i. 3, 1911.]
[Footnote 55: Psychoanalytic research, with the penetration of
infantile amnesia, has shown that this apparent precocity is a less
abnormal occurrence than was previously supposed.]
[Footnote 56: The term “medical questions” is a common periphrasis for
“sexual questions.”]
[Footnote 57: Cf. Oldham’s “I wear my pen as others do their sword.”]
[Footnote 58: Maeder, “Contribution à la psychologie de la vie
quotidienne,” _Arch. des psychologie_, T. vi. 1906.]
[Footnote 59: Here is another small collection of various symptomatic
actions in normal and neurotic persons. An elderly colleague who
does not like to lose at cards had to pay one evening a large sum of
money in consequence of his losses; he did this without complaint,
but with a peculiar constrained temper. After his departure it was
discovered that he had left at this place practically everything he
had with him, spectacles, cigar-case, and handkerchief. That would
be readily translated into the words: “You robbers, you have nicely
plundered me.” A man who suffers from occasional sexual impotence,
which has its origin in the intimacy of his infantile relations to
his mother, relates that he is in the habit of embellishing pamphlets
and notes with an S, the initial of his mother’s name. He cannot
bear the idea of having letters from home come in contact with other
unsanctified correspondence, and therefore finds it necessary to keep
the former separate. A young woman suddenly flings open the door of the
consulting-room while her predecessor is still present. She excused
herself on the ground of “thoughtlessness”; it soon came to light that
she demonstrated her curiosity which caused her at an earlier time to
intrude into the bedroom of her parents. Girls who are proud of their
beautiful hair know so well how to manipulate combs and hairpins, that
in the midst of conversation their hair becomes loosened. During the
treatment (in a reclining position) some men scatter change from their
pockets and thus pay for the hour of treatment; the amount scattered is
in proportion to their estimation of the work. Whoever forgets articles
in the doctor’s office, such as eyeglasses, gloves, handbags, generally
indicates that he cannot tear himself away and is anxious to return
soon. Ernest Jones says: “One can almost measure the success with
which a physician is practising psychotherapy, for instance, by the
size of the collection of umbrellas, handkerchiefs, purses, and so on,
that he could make in a month. The slightest habits and acts performed
with a minimum of attention, such as the winding of a clock before
retiring to sleep, the putting out of lights before leaving the room,
and similar actions, are occasionally subject to disturbances which
clearly demonstrate the influence of the unconscious complex, and what
is thought to be the strongest ‘habits.’”
In the journal _Cœnobium_, Maeder relates about a hospital physician
who, on account of an important matter, desired to get to the city
that evening, although he was on duty and had no right to leave the
hospital. On his return he noticed to his surprise that there was a
light in his room. On leaving the room he had forgotten to put it out,
something that had never happened before. But he soon grasped the
motive of this forgetting. The hospital superintendent who lived in
the same house must have concluded from the light in the room that he
was at home. A man overburdened with worries and subject to occasional
depressions assured me that he regularly forgot to wind his watch
on those evenings when life seemed too hard and unfriendly. In this
omission to wind his watch he symbolically expressed that it was a
matter of indifference to him whether he lived to see the next day.
Another man who was personally unknown to me wrote: “Having been struck
by a terrible misfortune, life appeared so harsh and unsympathetic,
that I imagined that I had not sufficient strength to live to see
the next day. I then noticed that almost every day I forgot to wind
my watch, something that I never omitted before. I had been in the
habit of doing it regularly before retiring in an almost mechanical
and unconscious manner. It was only very seldom that I thought of
it, and that happened when I had something important for the next
day which held my interest. ‘Should this be considered a symptomatic
action? I really cannot explain it.’” Whoever will take the trouble,
like Jung (_The Psychology of Dementia Præcox_, translated by Peterson
and Brill), or Maeder (“Une voie nouvelle en Psychologie--Freud et
son ecole,” _Cœnobium_, Lugano, 1906), to pay attention to melodies
which one hums to himself aimlessly and unconsciously, will regularly
discover the relation of the melody’s text to a theme which occupies
the person at that time.]
[Footnote 60: “Das Verlieren als Symptom-handlung,” _Zentralb. f.
Psychoanalyse_, i. 10-11.]
[Footnote 61: Translated by A. A. Brill. The Macmillan Company, New
York; George Allen Company, London.]
[Footnote 62: This is not a perfect error. According to the orphic
version of the myth the emasculation was performed by Zeus on his
father Kronos.]
[Footnote 63: _Loc. cit._, p. 191.]
[Footnote 64: Nouvelles contributions, etc., _Arch. de Psych._, vi.
1908.]
[Footnote 65: _Loc. cit._, p. 42.]
[Footnote 66: _Zentralb. f. Psychoanalyse_, ii. 9.]
[Footnote 67: _Zentralb. f. Psychoanalyse_, ii. 5.]
[Footnote 68: This continued action in the unconscious manifested
itself once in the form of a dream which followed the faulty action,
another time in the repetition of the same or in the omission of a
correction.]
[Footnote 69: Alfred Adler, “Drei Psychoanalysen von Zahlen einfällen
und obsedierenden Zahlen,” _Psych. Neur. Wochenschr._, No. 28, 1905.]
[Footnote 70: As an explanation of _Macbeth_, No. 17 of the U. L., I
was informed by Dr. Adler that in his seventeenth year this man had
joined an anarchistic society whose aim was regicide. Probably this
is why he forgot the content of the play _Macbeth_. The same person
invented at that time a secret code in which numbers substituted
letters.]
[Footnote 71: For the sake of simplicity I have omitted some of the not
less suitable thoughts of the patients.]
[Footnote 72: _Loc. cit._, p. 36.]
[Footnote 73: “Ein Beitrag zur Kenntnis des Zahlentraumes,” _Zentralb.
f. Psychoanalyse_, i. 12.]
[Footnote 74: “Unconscious Manipulation of Numbers” (_ibid._, ii. 5,
1912).]
[Footnote 75: This is another excellent example showing how a conscious
intention was powerless to counteract an unconscious resistance.]
[Footnote 76: These conceptions of strict determinism in seemingly
arbitrary actions have already borne rich fruit for psychology--perhaps
also for the administration of justice. Bleuler and Jung have in
this way made intelligible the reaction in the so-called association
experiments, wherein the test person answers to a given word with one
occurring to him (stimulus-word reaction), while the time elapsing
between the stimulus word and answer is measured (reaction-time).
Jung has shown in his _Diagnostische Assoziationsstudien_, 1906,
what fine reagents for psychic occurrences we possess in this
association-experiment. Three students of criminology, H. Gross, of
Prague, and Wertheimer and Klein, have developed from these experiments
a technique for the diagnosis of facts (_Tatbestands-Diagnostik_) in
criminal cases, the examination of which is now tested by psychologists
and jurists.]
[Footnote 77: Proceeding from other points of view, this interpretation
of the trivial and accidental by the patient has been designated as
“delusions of reference.”]
[Footnote 78: For example, the fantasies of the hysterical regarding
sexual and cruel abuse which are made conscious by analysis often
correspond in every detail with the complaints of persecuted
paranoiacs. It is remarkable but not altogether unexpected that we also
meet the identical content as reality in the contrivances of perverts
for the gratification of their desires.]
[Footnote 79: Which naturally has nothing of the character of
perception.]
[Footnote 80: _Zentralb. f. Psychoanalyse_, ii. 5.]
[Footnote 81: Thus far this explanation of _Déjà vu_ has been
appreciated by only one observer. Dr. Ferenczi, to whom the third
edition of this book is indebted for so many contributions, writes to
me concerning this: “I have been convinced, through myself as well as
others, that the inexplicable feeling of familiarity can be referred
to unconscious fantasies of which we are unconsciously reminded in an
actual situation. With one of my patients the process was apparently
different, but in reality it was quite analogous. This feeling returned
to him very often, but showed itself regularly as originating in a
forgotten (repressed) portion of a dream of the preceding night. Thus
it appears that the _Déjà vu_ can originate not only from day dreams
but also from night dreams.”]
[Footnote 82: I can perhaps give the following outline concerning the
mechanism of actual forgetting. The memory material succumbs in general
to two influences, condensation and disfigurement. Disfigurement is
the work of the tendencies dominating the psychic life, and directs
itself above all against the affective remnants of memory traces which
maintain a more resistive attitude towards condensation. The traces
which have grown indifferent merge into a process of condensation
without opposition; in addition it may be observed that tendencies of
disfigurement also feed on the indifferent material, because they have
not been gratified where they wished to manifest themselves. As these
processes of condensation and disfigurement continue for long periods
during which all fresh experiences act upon the transformation of the
memory content, it is our belief that it is time that makes memory
uncertain and indistinct. It is quite probable that in forgetting
there can really be no question of a direct function of time. From the
repressed memory traces it can be verified that they suffer no changes
even in the longest periods. The unconscious, at all events, knows no
time limit. The most important as well as the most peculiar character
of psychic fixation consists in the fact that all impressions are on
the one hand retained in the same form as they were received, and also
in the forms that they have assumed in their further development. This
state of affairs cannot be elucidated by any comparison from any other
sphere. By virtue of this theory every former state of the memory
content may thus be restored, even though all original relations have
long been replaced by newer ones.]
[Footnote 83: Cf. here _The Interpretation of Dreams_, p. 483.
Macmillan: New York; and Allen: London.]
UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON
Transcriber’s Note
Original copyright information has been retained, but this book is in
the public domain in the country of publication.
In the printed version of this text, footnotes were positioned at the
bottom of each page.
In the printed version, each chapter began with a page containing
only its title, followed by a blank page. The chapter title was then
repeated at the start of the chapter text. The first occurrences of the
chapter titles have been removed, and the table of contents has been
changed to reflect this.
In this text file, _italics_ are indicated by underscores.
The following changes were made by the transcriber:
Title page, “A. A Brill” changed to “A. A. Brill”.
Page 35, “‘Man created God in His own image.” changed to “‘Man created God
in His own image.’”
Page 48, “tyranically” changed to “tyrannically”.
Page 93, end-quote added after “adultérer”.
Page 117, ““Music Phantoms,”” changed to ““Music Phantoms”,”.
Page 147, “f” was skipped in the list of case studies in the printed
text; this has been corrected.
Page 170, “had suddenly became” changed to “had suddenly become”.
Page 179, “Il est arrivé a” changed to “Il est arrivé à”.
Page 233 appears to introduce a list of examples with the numeral “I.”,
but there are no following terms before the chapter ends. This was
probably an error, but has been left uncorrected here.
Page 236, “hereuse” changed to “heureuse”.
Page 266, end-quote added after “Saturday!”.
Missing comma inserted after “187” in index entry for “Breaking of
objects”.
Missing comma inserted after “3” in index entry for “Forgetfulness,
Temporary, of proper names”.
Standardised indentation of “Psychology of” under index entry for
“Speech Blunders”.
Footnotes 1 and 9, “Monatschrift” changed to “Monatsschrift”.
Footnote 34, “Geistesund Nervenkranken” changed to “Geistes- und
Nervenkranken”; “Jenseits von Gut und Bosen” changed to “Jenseits von
Gut und Böse”, and “Haupstuck” changed to “Hauptstück”.
Footnote 42, the concluding end-quote has been added.
Footnote 58, “Contribution a la psychologie” changed to “Contribution à
la psychologie”.
Footnote 59, end-quotes added after “habits” and “explain it”.
Footnote 81, “Ferençzi” changed to “Ferenczi”.
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