The Project Gutenberg eBook of The problem of lay-analyses
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The problem of lay-analyses
Author: Sigmund Freud
Author of introduction, etc.: Sándor Ferenczi
Translator: A. Paul Maerker-Branden
James Strachey
Release date: May 3, 2025 [eBook #76004]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Brentano's, 1927
Credits: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PROBLEM OF LAY-ANALYSES ***
THE PROBLEM
OF
LAY-ANALYSES
[Illustration: [Logo]]
BY
SIGMUND FREUD
INTRODUCTION BY DR. S. FERENCZI
[Illustration: [Logo]]
NEW YORK MCMXXVII
BRENTANO’S ▾ PUBLISHER
COPYRIGHT, 1927, BY BRENTANO’S INC.
Manufactured in the United States of America
_The Problem of Lay-Analyses_ has been translated by A. Paul
Maerker-Branden
and
_An Autobiographical Study_ has been translated by James Strachey.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION 11
THE PROBLEM OF LAY-ANALYSES 25
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL STUDY 189
INTRODUCTION
An all-pervading feeling of profound responsibility to society in
general, can be the only reason for a man, by far the most celebrated
expert in his special field of endeavor, not to try to maintain a
monopoly of his scientific findings, but make them accessible to the
public. Such altruism is so much more remarkable if this man happens to
be a member of the Æsculapian priesthood, a clan which, not unlike the
Holy Roman Church, always assumed, and still assumes to a certain
extent, an air of mysticism, for the purpose of barring the layman. For
the very same reason—that of maintaining a monopoly—dead and obsolete
languages are resorted to, for recording experiences in the form of
technical terms, and even for the writing of prescriptions.
Of course, it must be admitted that the activities of insufficiently
informed people, known as “quacks,” have done great damage to society.
On the other hand, nobody will deny any more that the popularizing of
modern hygiene, bacteriology, anatomy and pathology has proven a boon to
humanity in general.
It is typical of the Father of Psychoanalysis, imbued with a deep sense
of fairness towards mankind, that he has never indulged in a
narrow-minded, professional point of view.
The mere accident that it remained for the science of medicine to
discover the Psychology of the Unconscious and Psychoanalysis as such,
was not enough reason for Sigmund Freud to treat his discovery as a
strictly medical preserve.
Very helpful to Freud in this respect was the fact that he has a
striking gift to make himself easily understood to the laity, in a
manner usually not to be found in people specializing in the intricacies
of science. Doubtless, Sigmund Freud’s astonishing gift to be his own
best popularizer, unquestionably takes root in his ability to fathom the
soul of others, to speak to each and everyone in their own language, as
it were.
To my mind, Sigmund Freud’s treatise on _The Problem of Lay-Analyses_
gives much more than the title promises. This treatise is a complete
outline, succinct and lucid at the same time, of psychoanalysis in its
present state. If anybody would ask me today what book I could recommend
to him for the easy understanding and grasping of the very essence of
Psychoanalysis, I should not hesitate to recommend _The Problem of
Lay-Analyses_. This book, to my best knowledge and belief, appears to me
exemplary in its lucidity.
Freud unhesitatingly and strongly criticises “quacks,” who attempt to
employ psychoanalysis without first being fully prepared for such work.
To him it does not make the slightest difference whether these “quacks”
are medically trained men—most of whom have up to now given only scant
sympathy to his teachings—or, medically unprepared laymen. Freud is of
the opinion that it is not the _medical_ training and the “M.D.” degree
which makes a man a competent psychoanalyst, but rather inherent insight
into the human soul—first of all, into the unconscious layers of his own
soul—and _practical_ training. According to Freud, there are just as
many medical as non-medical “quacks” exploiting psychoanalysis to the
detriment of the general public and the new science as such. Moreover,
at the present time, the relations of psychoanalysis to sciences in
general are at least as close as they are to biology and medicine. It
would, therefore, seem unfair to exclude non-medically trained men and
women from the circle of psychoanalysts.
Of course, Freud does not close his eyes to the danger lurking behind
the possibility of confounding strictly organic diseases with so-called
functional or nervous ailments. Only after it is ascertained beyond
doubt, by thorough medical examination, that a patient is a subject for
psychoanalytical treatment, does Freud permit him to participate in the
benefits of this therapy.
The number of physicians is too limited and their duties in general too
manifold to allow all of them to devote themselves to the study and the
application of psychoanalysis, to an extent which would actually exhaust
the healing qualities of this new science. A whole army of
psychoanalysts alone would be necessary to treat all those so-called
incorrigible children whose ailings and failings constitute a grave
danger for the coming generation. Great numbers of trained
psychoanalysts would also be necessary to attend to such “cases” as
penal and insane institutions offer, for the purpose of gradually
substituting sanitariums for penitentiaries.
“Criminal Therapy,” on a psychoanalytical basis, looms up to me as one
of the biggest issues facing us, at the present time. Another issue,
less urgent perhaps, is the psychological readjustment that thousands
upon thousands need in their relations to family, profession and society
in general. This opens a tremendous field for the analytically trained
social workers.
Another field where applied psychoanalysis might become one of the
indispensable necessities is the realm of education. All school teachers
ought to have a thorough psychoanalytical training, so that we may
entrust our children to them with more confidence. Finally—last but not
least—all professional men whose work, in one way or another, has any
bearing on the human soul, should be psychoanalytically trained.
Anthropology, sociology, history, the psychology of art can no longer
dispense with psychoanalysis.
It is in view of the extreme importance of psychoanalysis in all these
fields of human endeavor that Freud asks whether the immeasurable
advantages which the new science presents should be restricted, from
sheer fear of a more or less studiously over-emphasized danger resulting
from quackery. Dissemination of information seems to be the best agent
for discouraging quackery and spreading dependable facts on the subject.
For the necessity of preparing an American edition of _The Problem of
Lay-Analyses_ so soon after the publication of the German original, I
myself may serve as a witness. It was my good fortune to accompany Dr.
Freud on his now almost historical Argonauts’ trip to America in 1909,
and admire the courageous readiness with which America’s outstanding
leaders in the fields of psychology and neurology interested themselves
in Freud’s theories. At that time, Freud and his teachings were still
the bone of contention in the camps of European scientists.
The Nestor of America’s psychology, Dr. G. Stanley Hall,
enthusiastically embraced Freud’s teachings. Dr. William James, the
great philosopher and psychologist, listened to our gospel with great
interest, though not as enthusiastic as Dr. Hall. Touching to the
extreme was that youthful thirst of knowledge, with which Dr. James J.
Putnam, that grand old man of Harvard University, hung on the lips of
Dr. Freud. It is due to the untiring efforts of these men and the
translation of Freud’s books by Dr. A. A. Brill, that psychoanalysis, in
a comparatively short time and to a surprisingly great extent, gained
ground in all strata of society in the United States. It is a matter of
record that America became interested in Psychoanalysis much quicker
than Europe.
Now, visiting America again after almost twenty years, I had occasion to
observe how lasting and far-reaching an influence Dr. Freud’s teachings
exert on all strata of American society. Of course, not only Freud and
what he stands for, but also psychology in general, especially as it is
applied to education. Time and again, I have noticed that it seems
fairly impossible to listen to a conversation for any length of time,
without hearing problems of psychoanalysis and the name Freud mentioned.
Not less stimulating and informative than the first, is the second part
of the present volume, containing Freud’s own story of his life and his
science. It is common knowledge today that Freud, in his inimitable
objectivity, has always published facts and fancies which other
scientists would have been only too careful to hide from the eyes of
their contemporaries.
On the occasion of Freud’s seventieth birthday, I wrote in THE
INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF PSYCHOANALYSIS (July/October 1926):
So far as his personality is concerned, he has completely taken the
wind from the sails of modern methods of inquiry which attempts to
gain fresh insight into the development of a scientist’s views, by
studying the intimate details of his private life. In his
“_Traumdeutung_” and “_Psychopathologie des Alltagslebens_”, Freud has
undertaken this task himself in a way previously unknown, and has not
only indicated new lines of research for this kind of inquiry, but
given for all time an example of a candor quite ruthless towards
himself. He has also revealed unhesitatingly the ‘secrets of the
laboratory’, the inevitable vacillations and uncertainties that are
usually so carefully kept hidden.
I hope that the reader will agree with me that the part of this book
which contains Freud’s “An Autobiographical Study” again displays candor
and frankness to an astonishing degree. This part of the present volume,
aside from other information, will also demonstrate to the student of
psychology the tolerance Freud manifests in regard to former disciples
of his who, apparently driven by an overpowering impatience, or because
“they did not fancy to dwell in the Depths of the Unconscious” only too
early, and with deplorable rashness, hastened to generalize their ideas,
notwithstanding the insufficiency of their theories to explain
complicated facts. As far as I am personally concerned, I cannot help
considering Freud as one of the most progressive disciples of his own
teachings, while the apostates of his doctrine appear to me as
prematurely aged reactionaries.
Equipped with devious excuses and devices, these apostates deserted the
paths of Freud’s teachings—paths that require the courage of the born
pioneer—to return to the broad and beaten paths of orthodox psychology
and biology.
May I not once more quote myself in this connection?
On December 28, 1926, speaking before the Mid-winter meeting of the
American Psychoanalytical Association, I said:
It is a great mistake to gauge the age of a person by the number of
years he has lived. To remain productive and to be capable of changing
one’s opinions is to stay young. Both of these attributes are highly
characteristic of Professor Freud, as his latest works attest. One
finds nothing in them of stagnation in dogmatic assertions or of
exhaustion of the fantasy. Against his own earlier theses he is
perhaps often too unsparing, and the breadth of his perspective often
exceeds everything which he has created in the past.
In conclusion, I wish to express the hope that this book will assist in
dissipating an erroneous belief prevalent in certain circles. It appears
that the general public have a decided tendency to confound Freud’s
teachings and psychoanalysis, as such, with the subject of sex.
“According to Freud there is only one _causa movens_, and that is sex!”
is one of their mis-statements.
Of course, faithful students of Freud’s teachings will never arrive at
such fallacious deductions. True, the attentive reader of this book will
find that Freud, as far as sex is concerned, allots to this instinct
more importance than the prudery and hypocrisy of present-day society is
ready to grant it. But, ever and again, Freud emphasizes the mastering
of urges—not by repression, to be sure, but by elimination of all that
which appears logically, ethically, and æsthetically undesirable.
DR. S. FERENCZI.
Budapest,
Hungary.
New York, September 1927.
THE PROBLEM OF LAY-ANALYSES
I
It appears to me that the title of this treatise may require an
explanation. Let me, therefore, state that the problem of Lay-Analyses
expresses itself most succinctly in the question of whether medically
untrained laymen should be permitted to practise psychoanalysis.
This problem, timely in general, is subject to national laws.
It is a timely question, in so far as, up to now, apparently nobody ever
cared who was practising psychoanalysis. As a matter of fact, too little
attention was paid to the question into whose hands the employment of
this new science was entrusted, with unanimity prevailing only in
reference to a more or less strong tendency to wish that nobody at all
should practise psychoanalysis. There were different reasons for this
well-nigh general aversion.
The demand, then, now put before the legislatures of certain countries,
that only physicians be permitted to apply psychoanalysis proves that,
after all, a new, and apparently more tolerant opinion is becoming
prevalent, as regards the recognition of our science. This new trend of
putting the stamp of official and scientific approval on psychoanalysis,
by reserving the monopoly of its application to medically trained men,
must, however, first successfully clear itself of any and all suspicion
of being nothing other than just a modification of the resistance
hitherto shown towards psychoanalysis. Today, at last, it is admitted
that, under certain circumstances, psychoanalytical treatment is in
order. However, if it is to be applied, certain countries stand ready to
impose the restriction that licensed physicians only shall be permitted
to administer this treatment.
The problem before us right now, then, is why only physicians should be
permitted to practise psychoanalysis. This is a problem subject to
national laws. In the United States and Germany, for example, this
problem does not amount to more than just an academic discussion,
because in these countries a patient may receive treatment from anybody
he chooses. In these countries, anybody who feels the inclination may
treat, as a “quack” to be sure, “cases,” provided he stands ready to
assume full responsibility for the effect of his treatment. Not before
the authorities are actually appealed to to retaliate for such tangible
harm as a patient may have suffered from the hands of an unlicensed
practitioner of psychoanalysis, does the law interfere in the United
States, Germany and many other countries.
In Austria, however, where I am writing this treatise, bearing in mind
the special conditions which prevail there, in regard to the
administration of psychoanalytical treatment, the authorities employ the
law of the country as a preventive. In my country, without considering
ultimate results, the law, in sweeping restrictions, enjoins all and
sundry laymen from treating ailing people.
In the Republic of Austria, therefore, there is a very practical aspect
to the question of whether laymen should be permitted to treat ailing
people with psychoanalysis. As a matter of fact, under present
conditions, this question seems to be settled since it is already
answered by the wording of the law, now appearing on the statutes of my
country: Nervous people are unquestionably sick people; laymen are
doubtlessly no licensed physicians; psychoanalysis is a remedy for the
healing, or improvement, of nervous disorders. As in the eyes of the
law, the latter are considered diseases and the treatment of all such
ailments reserved for licensed physicians exclusively, laymen are liable
to severe punishment when employing psychoanalysis for the treatment of
nervous people.
In view of this plain state of affairs, one scarcely dares to approach
the question of permitting the laity to practise psychoanalysis in
Austria. However, in spite of the obviousness of the situation as a
whole, there are some additional aspects to the question which, albeit
the law does not take cognisance of them, should nevertheless be
considered.
It may develop that in connection with psychoanalysis, people in need of
treatment are not sick people, in the broad meaning of this term; laymen
not always to be considered laymen, nor physicians what physicians are
generally supposed to be—the very premise upon which these physicians
base their claims. If such a state of affairs becomes apparent, it would
be justifiable to insist upon a modification of the law, prohibiting the
unlicensed practise of medicine, as far as the application of
psychoanalytic treatment is concerned.
II
Whether this modification shall be enacted as a law will depend mostly
on people who may not be expected to know the peculiarities of
analytical treatment. It will be our task, therefore, to instruct these
impartial referees, these typical laymen whom we will assume, for the
time being, are completely uninformed. It is regrettable that we cannot
arrange for them to attend an analytical treatment in the rôle of an
observer. It is one of the peculiarities of the “analytical situation”
that it will not suffer the presence of a third party.
Moreover, individual sessions are liable to be very unequal, as regards
the information they may yield. Mr. Referee happening in at an
analytical session, would probably not profit to any great extent. As a
matter of fact, he might altogether misinterpret that which is discussed
between the analyst and the patient. He may even become downright bored
with the proceedings. Therefore Mr. Referee must needs be satisfied with
the information we shall presently impart to him, endeavoring to set it
forth as lucidly as possible.
Let us assume that the patient is suffering from attacks of moodiness,
which he is unable to control, or else is the victim of a despondency so
depressing as to paralyse his energy, causing him to lose all confidence
in himself, manifesting extreme self-consciousness when among strangers.
Without grasping the underlying elements of his case, the patient may
observe that not only the discharge of his daily duties becomes more and
more arduous for him, but also that he experiences difficulties when
called upon to make a decision or embark upon some enterprise.
One day—utterly ignorant of the exact cause—he succumbs to an attack of
fear. From then on, he is unable to cross a street alone, or board a
train, without fighting off a certain inarticulate fear. This condition,
as a matter of fact, may even become so pronounced as to render it
absolutely impossible for him to cross a street, or board a train,
unaccompanied.
Or—what appears very peculiar to him—his thoughts “wander”; they are no
longer subject to his will. They attach themselves to problems which, in
reality, do not interest him at all but which he is, nevertheless,
unable to dismiss from his mind. He imposes perfectly ludicrous tasks
upon himself, such as counting the windows along the street. When
attending to simple functions, such as mailing a letter or turning off
the gas, doubts harass him a few moments later, as to whether he has
really dropped the letter into the mail box and whether he actually
turned off the gas.
Perhaps such a condition is merely annoying at first, but it becomes
intolerable when, in advanced stages, it proves impossible to shake off
such preposterous ideas as having flung a child under the wheels of a
car, or thrown somebody from a bridge into the river, or being haunted
by the terrifying doubt of whether he is not in reality the murderer the
police are trying to apprehend for the latest spectacular crime.
All these delusions are utter nonsense, as he himself very well knows.
He has never done any harm to anybody, but if he really were a fugitive
from justice, this obsession, this feeling of contrition could not be
stronger.
To take another case:—this time of a female patient, who is suffering in
an entirely different way, presenting entirely different symptoms. We
will assume that she is a pianiste, who suddenly experiences cramps in
her fingers and discovers herself unable to play. As soon as she thinks
of attending a social affair, she immediately feels the necessity of
obeying a recurrent natural need, making it impossible for her to leave
her own house. Thus, she has been forced to give up mingling with her
friends, or attend dances, the theatre, or concerts.
At the most inopportune moments, she becomes the victim of headaches or
other painful sensations. Eventually, after meals, she feels impelled to
yield to nausea, a condition which, if prolonged, may become dangerous.
Finally, she becomes absolutely unable to stand any of those little
excitements which cannot be eliminated from daily life. Upon such
occasions, she readily faints. As these spells are frequently
complicated with muscular spasms, such attacks assume the aspect of
dreadful afflictions.
Still other patients become subject to disturbances in a sphere where
bodily functions coördinate with manifestations of sentiment. If men,
they find themselves unable to give physiological expression to those
tender urges that induce them to gravitate towards the other sex. On the
other hand, all these physiological reactions may be at their command
when not aimed at the person they cherish most. Then, there are still
other cases, when bonds of sensuality will tie them to persons whom they
actually despise and of whom they have the most earnest desire to free
themselves. Or their sensuality imposes urges upon them whose
fulfillment causes them to shudder.
If they be women, such patients, on account of fear or disgust, or from
some other restraint of unknown origin, become unable to perform those
functions which their sex imposes upon them. In cases where they have
yielded to the prompting of passion, they discover that that
gratification is withheld from them which nature normally offers as a
reward for such complacency.
Sooner or later, all such persons come to consider themselves as sick
and appeal to physicians, expecting to be cured of their nervous
ailments. Physicians have classified these manifestations, diagnosing
them differently, according to their own personal point of view. These
ailments are listed under such terms as neurasthenia, psychasthenia,
phobias and neuroses of different kinds, and with that sweeping term
hysterics. The parts of the body inducing such disturbances are
examined: the heart, the stomach, the intestines, the sex organs, and
all are found to be in the best of condition. The physician then advises
the patient to change his mode of living, to take a vacation, to
exercise. Thus, with perhaps the aid of mild stimulants, the patient’s
condition may, or may not, be temporarily relieved.
Eventually, the patient is informed that there are certain practitioners
who specialize in the treatment of just such ailments, and thus they
come to be psychoanalysed.
Mr. Referee, whom we will assume is present, has impatiently listened,
while we have given an account of the nervous disturbances with which
one may be afflicted. Mr. Referee suddenly becomes attentive, expressing
his growing interest in these words: “Well, now at last we shall see
what the psychoanalyst will do with the patient, whom physicians could
not help.”
To all appearances, nothing takes place between patient and
psychoanalyst except that they talk with each other. The psychoanalyst
does not take recourse to any instruments, while examining the patient,
nor does he write out prescriptions. If it can be arranged, he will not
even take the patient out of his usual surroundings, or upset his daily
routine in any way, while treating him. Such a procedure is, of course,
not of indispensable necessity, quite frequently proving impossible to
arrange. Usually the analyst simply makes an appointment with his
patient, then lets him talk, listens to him, lets him talk again and
listens once more.
Mr. Referee now clearly manifests relief but, at the same time, his face
also assumes a disdainful expression. Apparently, he thinks: “Is that
all? ‘Words, words, words,’ as Prince Hamlet says. Is psychoanalysis
perhaps some sort of magic rite, employing mere words with which to
chase away a patient’s ailment?”
Quite right! It surely would be magic if it would only work faster. One
of the indispensable essentialities of magic is quickness, sudden
results. But psychoanalytical treatment demands months, sometimes even
years. Proceeding at such a snail’s pace, it loses the character of
anything resembling magic.
As far as “words, words, words” are concerned, they are surely not to be
looked down upon. Words, after all, are a powerful instrument, the means
by which we express our feelings to each other, the agent through which
we influence one another. Words are able to benefit us in the extreme,
or liable to hurt us to the quick. Doubtless, “in the beginning was the
Deed” and the Word came only later. Under certain circumstances, the
reduction of the Deed to the mere Word may even prove a cultural
achievement. At any rate, the Word was originally an implement of
sorcery, a magic manifestation which even today still retains much of
its old potency.
Mr. Referee now remarks: “Assuming that the patient is not any better
prepared for the understanding of psychoanalytical treatment, than I
myself, how are you going to induce him to believe in the Magic of the
Word, that is to deliver him from his sufferings?”
Of course, some preparatory work is necessary, but that is easily
accomplished in a simple manner. The patient is asked to be absolutely
frank with the psychoanalyst, not to withhold intentionally anything
that crowds itself into his mind, and to overcome gradually all such
influences as may exert themselves to prevent certain of his thoughts or
memories from being communicated to the psychoanalyst.
There is not one of us but does not know that there are certain things
which we hate to tell anybody else, or which we are utterly unable to
express at all. These are the so-called “most intimate” things. We also
surmise—and this proves the great progress that has been made in the
psychological understanding of our Selves—that there are some other
things which we hate to admit to ourselves, which we try to hide from
ourselves and which, once they are accidentally touched upon, we
immediately endeavor to crowd out of our thoughts.
Doubtless, the root of a very remarkable psychological problem manifests
itself in the fact that there are certain of our thoughts which we try
to hide from our very own Self! That would seem to indicate that our
very own Self is not an indivisible unit, as we have always considered
it! Rather, that there is a certain something which may rise in
opposition to our very own Self! Vaguely, then, we surmise that our own
Self and our soul life may be two different things! If, now, the patient
submits to the demand of psychoanalysis to express everything in words
that comes to his mind, he comes to believe that an interchange of
thoughts, under such extraordinary conditions, is liable to lead to
extraordinary results.
“I understand you very well,” Mr. Referee says. “You simply assume that
everybody suffering from a nervous disturbance is harboring something
that depresses him, some dark secret, perhaps, and by inducing him to
impart this secret to you, you relieve him of that depression, thus
alleviating his suffering. That, after all, is the very principle of the
Confessional which the Catholic church has employed for centuries to
wield her influence over her communicants.”
Yes and no, is our answer to this. The Confessional, to a certain
extent, may be considered as belonging into the realm of psychoanalysis;
leading up to it, as it were. However, the Confessional as such is far
removed from coinciding with the very being of psychoanalysis, and it is
unable to explain the results of psychoanalytical treatment. In the
Confessional, the sinner tells what he knows, but in the Analysis, the
neurotic is expected to reveal much more. Besides, there are no known
cases where the Confessional proved effective enough to remedy direct
symptoms of ailments.
“Then I don’t understand you after all,” Mr. Referee interjects. “What
do you mean by stating that the neurotic is ‘expected to reveal more’ in
the course of psychoanalytical treatment? Of course, I can very well
imagine that you, as a psychoanalyst, may wield a greater influence over
your patient than the Father Confessor over a penitent, for the simple
reason that you become better acquainted with him, employing your
growing influence to talk unhealthy thoughts out of your patient, as it
were, disseminating his apprehensions, and so forth. Frankly, it appears
most remarkable to me that by such a procedure, it should be possible to
alleviate purely physical manifestations, such as nausea, diarrhœa, and
cramps. I know that such results are possible by taking recourse to
hypnosis. Most probably, through prolonged association with your
patient, you gradually succeed in establishing hypnotic relations
between you and him. By this I mean that you inadvertently come to exert
upon him a suggestive influence. Thus, the miracle wrought by your
therapy is nothing other than the result of hypnotic suggestion.
However, as far as I know, results by hypnotic therapy are procured much
quicker than by psychoanalysis which you yourself admit takes months,
and sometimes even years.”
After all, Mr. Referee does not seem to be so utterly uninformed and
helplessly at sea as we had considered him in the beginning. Doubtless,
he is eagerly bent upon grasping the essence of psychoanalysis, on the
basis of certain knowledge which he has acquired. He endeavors to
connect psychoanalysis with something he already knows.
Thus, he forces upon us the difficult task of explaining to him that he
will never succeed in comprehending psychoanalysis in this way, because
psychoanalysis is a process _sui generis_, something new and peculiar,
understandable only with the assistance of new conceptions, or
presumptions.
However, we still owe our inquisitive friend a reply to a point raised
by him.
What you, Mr. Referee, mentioned before about the personal influence
exerted by the psychoanalyst on his patient, should not go without
comment. Such an influence actually prevails in the analysis, playing an
important rôle. However, this influence is utterly unlike the influence
induced by hypnosis.
I shall have to prove to you that the situations in these two cases
decidedly differ from each other. However, for the time being, the
statement may suffice that this personal influence—this “suggestive
element” if you wish—is not drawn upon for the purpose of suppressing
symptoms of nervous afflictions analogous to treatment by hypnotic
suggestions. Besides, it is absolutely wrong to assume that this
“suggestive element” is the agent and promoter of analytical treatment.
It may be that such is the case right at the beginning of the treatment.
Later, however, this very same “suggestive element” proves itself an
opposing factor, forcing us to resort to extensive counter-measures.
Just let me explain to you how thoroughly opposed the technique of
analysis is to anything and everything resembling the hypnotic technique
of diverting or dissipating a patient’s apprehensions.
Assumed that our patient is obsessed with an intense feeling of being
guilty of, say, some horrible crime, we do not advise him to stifle the
qualms of his conscience simply on the strength of the fact that there
is no doubt as to his innocence. He himself has already proceeded along
this trend of reasoning, but to no avail. On the contrary, we try to
impress him with the possibility that there may be something tangible at
the bottom of so profound a feeling of guilt, and that it may be
possible to detect this disturbing something.
“I should be greatly astonished,” Mr. Referee interrupts, “if you could
really assuage your patient’s feeling of guilt by agreeing that there
may be some tangible reason for his apprehension. But what is the mode
of procedure which is applied in your analysis, and to what treatment do
you subject your patient?”
III
To make myself perfectly plain to you, it will be necessary for me to
acquaint you with certain psychological teachings which are not known
beyond the circle of analysts and accordingly, not appreciated beyond
this group. On the basis of this theory, it will be easy for you to
deduce what we expect of the patient and how we go about obtaining it.
In explaining matters to you, I will allude to our theory dogmatically,
as if it already were an accepted doctrine. Nevertheless, I do not want
you to assume that our theory, as I shall presently put it before you,
came into being as a fully developed, well-rounded out philosophical
system. The development of our theory came about only very gradually,
little by little, and was built up through continuous contact with
observations. Moreover, our theory, in accordance with these
observations, was continually modified until it finally evolved in a
manner apparently satisfactory for our purposes.
Only so short a time as a few years back, it would have been necessary
for me to express this theory in somewhat different terms. And even
today, I cannot guarantee that the terms I am using are definitely fixed
and will not be modified again. You know very well that scientific
truths do not burst upon us with the unexpectedness of a sudden
phenomenon. As a rule, any science, long after its early stages, lacks
the character of definiteness, unchangeability, and infallibility for
which our human way of thinking longs so intensely. However, any
science, as it presents itself to contemporaries, is science as its
best, so far as contemporaries are able to judge.
My introductory remarks, I hope, will assist you in gaining a correct
perspective in reference to psychoanalysis, especially when I ask you to
bear in mind that our specific science is still very young—hardly as old
as our century, as a matter of fact—and deals with about the most
difficult matter presenting itself to human research. Let me therefore
encourage you to interrupt me unabashedly in my explanations, when you
do not grasp the full meaning of my words and require further
elucidation.
“I am already interrupting you, even before you really start. You say
that you are going to acquaint me with a new psychology. But I was
always under the impression that psychology as such is no new science.
As a matter of fact, it seems to me there always has been enough
psychology and enough psychologists. In college, I learned of the great
things achieved in this realm of human endeavor.”
Far be it from me to deny these achievements. However, scrutinizing them
closely, you will find that they rather belong in the category of
sensory psychology. A doctrine of soul life never had a chance for
development, because its conception was obstructed by one very essential
misunderstanding. After all, what does psychology embrace today, as it
is taught in colleges? Aside from a few important sensorimotoric
perceptions, there are just a number of classifications and definitions
referring to certain processes of the soul which, thanks to the fact
that these terms have become a part of our living language, are now the
common property of all educated people. To all appearances, such limited
information does not enable us to clearly grasp our soul life.
Did you ever notice that every philosopher, poet, historian and
biographer evolves his own psychology, based on individual presumptions,
in regard to the connection and the ultimate purpose of psychological
phenomena, all of which are more or less acceptable but altogether and
equally unreliable? Seemingly, a common foundation is missing. Thus it
happens that in the realm of psychology, there is an utter lack of
respect and authority. There, obviously, anybody is permitted to “poach”
or “freelance” to his heart’s content.
If you touch upon a question of physiology or chemistry, nobody will
dare speak up, unless he is in possession of authentic information.
However, when discussing psychological questions, you may expect
everybody to venture an opinion, or raise his voice in protest.
Evidently, there is no “professional knowledge” in his realm! Inasmuch
as everybody has a soul life, everybody considers himself a born
psychologist.
There is a story of an old woman who offered her services to take care
of babies. When asked whether she knew anything about babies, her answer
was: Why, sure, haven’t I been a baby myself once?
“And this common foundation of soul life, overlooked by all
psychologists, you claim to have discovered through the observation of
ailing people?”
I do not believe that the origin of our findings minimizes their value.
Embryology, for example, would not enjoy any confidence as a science if
it were unable to explain clearly the origin of pre-natal deformities.
You will remember that I have mentioned before persons whose thoughts
insist upon travelling their own way. To such an extent as a matter of
fact, that such persons are forced to ponder about problems which do not
interest them at all.
Do you believe that psychology, as generally taught, will be in a
position to render even so much as the slightest assistance for the
explanation of such anomalies? And after all, there is not one of us
whose thoughts, during the night, do not travel their very own way,
creating visions which we are unable to interpret, which we are at a
loss to understand, and which frequently appear to be, to an almost
disquieting extent, products of morbidity.
I am now referring to our dream life! Among the majority of people, the
opinion always prevailed, and still prevails, that there is an inherent
meaning to dreams, that some attention ought to be paid to our nocturnal
visions, that a certain interpretative value is attached to them.
Orthodox psychologists have never been able to interpret the meaning of
dreams. To them, dreams were something with which they did not know what
to do. And as soon as orthodox psychology tried to interpret our dream
life, their explanations ventured far afield from psychology proper.
Dreams, according to them, were nothing other than the result of
physiological sensations, originating from an unequal soundness of sleep
in different parts of the brain. I venture to state right here, that any
psychology unable to explain the essence of our dreams is also
inapplicable to the understanding of normal soul life and cannot be
expected to be recognized as science.
“You are becoming so aggressive that I surmise one of your sensitive
spots has been touched upon. I have heard before that in psychoanalysis
great value is attached to dreams, that dreams are interpreted and
behind them old memories of actual events are sought. On the other hand,
I also know that the interpretation of dreams is left to the arbitrary
conception of the analyst and that the analysts between themselves have
frequent squabbles, in regard to the question of how to interpret a
certain dream and the justification of arriving at certain conclusions.
If this is really the case, I do not think you should stress the
advantage of psychoanalysis, in regard to orthodox psychology.”
There you have said something very appropriate. It is only too true that
the interpretation of dreams in theory, as well as practice of
psychoanalysis, has achieved incomparable importance.
If at this point, I appear to be aggressive to you, this must be looked
upon as a defense mechanism. When I reflect upon all the nuisance
brought about by some of our analysts in connection with the
interpretation of dreams, I could despair. I feel like quoting the
pessimistic truism of our great satirist Nestroy, who once said: “Any
progress is only half as great as it seems to be in the beginning!” But
haven’t you noticed that we mortals are always bent upon confounding
everything and distorting it? Nevertheless, with a little caution and
self-training, most of the dangers lurking behind the interpretation of
dreams can be avoided.
But it will never be possible for me to get down to the explanation of
our new science which I promised you, if we continually digress.
“If I understood you correctly, you were going to speak about the
fundamental presumptions underlying the new psychology.”
It was not my intention to start with that. Rather, I intend to tell you
what we have learned of the soul apparatus, in the course of our
analytical studies.
“What do you mean by ‘soul apparatus’ and what is it made of, may I
ask?”
You will soon enough see what the soul apparatus is. It is irrelevant to
ask of what material it is made, as this question has no psychological
interest. As far as psychology is concerned, the question of material is
just as unimportant as the question would be in the realm of optic, of
whether a telescope is made of metal or cardboard. The question of
matter does not enter here at all, but there is great importance
attached to the aspect of space.
This obscure soul apparatus, which serves as the agent for all processes
of our soul, is conceived by us as an instrument consisting of several
parts. Each of these parts we shall call a stage. There is an individual
function attached to each of these stages, and all of them are
correlated to each other in reference to space. Aspects of space like
“near” and “far,” and “above” and “below,” for the time being, only
serve to illustrate the regular sequence of the functions allotted to
the different stages of the soul apparatus.—Do you still follow me?
“Hardly! However, I hope I will understand you eventually. At any rate,
your explanation appeals to me as a somewhat peculiar description of the
anatomy of the soul, which, according to biologists, is nonexistent.”
I will grant that what you call my “somewhat peculiar description of
the anatomy of the soul,” is merely a parallel drawn upon for the
purpose of elucidation, as is so often done in sciences. In the early
stages of a new science such parallels have always been quite
primitive,—open to revision, as it were. I consider it superfluous to
strengthen my argument by referring to the frequently applied “if,” as
is quite popular in such cases. The actual value of such “if”
argumentations—“fiction” the philosopher Vaihinger would call
it—greatly depends on how advantageously this argumentation may be
applied to the case in question.
However, for argument’s sake, let us accept the popular conception and
assume that within us there is a psychical organization, recording
sensations and perceptions of physical wants on one hand, and releasing
motoric actions on the other. This medium for establishing this definite
coöperation we call the “I.”
Of course, this is nothing new. Each one of us takes this for granted,
if he is not a philosopher, and some despite being philosophers.
However, our description of the psychical apparatus is not by far
complete.
Aside from the “I,” we perceive another region of the soul, much more
extensive, much more impressive, and much more obscure than the “I,”
which we designate the “It.”
It is the relation between the “I” and the “It” upon which we shall
dwell first.
Doubtless, you will raise an objection against our intention to refer to
these two regions or stages of the soul with simple pronouns, instead of
giving them beautiful euphonious Greek names. However, in
psychoanalysis, we prefer to remain in contact with the popular way of
thinking, and attach commonplace terms to our scientific conceptions,
rather than look upon such nomenclature in contempt. We do not expect to
receive credit for this popularization of psychoanalytical terms,
inasmuch as we are forced to do this in order to make ourselves plain to
our patients who are frequently very intelligent, but not always exactly
learned people.
The impersonal pronoun “It” is most appropriate for our purposes, as is
plainly proved by the fact that we frequently speak of something,
averring that “‘It’ came to me quite suddenly”; “‘It’ gave me a shock”;
“‘It’ was stronger than I.” “_C’était plus fort que moi._”
In the realm of psychology, we can only make ourselves understood by
taking recourse to comparisons. This, after all, is no special
peculiarity of psychology, inasmuch as other sciences also find it
necessary to avail themselves of analogous expedients. These
comparisons, however, must be modified time and again, as their
application generally proves too limited. If you are seeking an
explanation of the relation of the “I” to the “It,” it would be well to
remember that the “I” serves as a foreground to the “It.” The “I” is, as
it were, the outer, front layer of the “It.” We may so much more readily
accept this comparison, inasmuch as layers—say, of a tree—owe their
peculiar characteristics to the modifying influence of that exterior
medium with which they are in contact. Thus, we visualize that the “I,”
being the outer layer of the psychical apparatus, is the “It,” modified
in accordance with the influence which the outer world exerts upon it.
Here you will perceive how conceptions of space apply to psychoanalysis.
To all intents and purposes, the “I” is actually the front layer, the
obvious, whereas the “It” is the inner layer, the hidden. To make it
even more plain: The “I” is inserted between the reality of the outer
world and the “It,” the latter constituting the soul proper, the essence
of the soul, as it were.
“I am not going to inquire how you came to know all this. I should first
like to know how this differentiation between the ‘I’ and the ‘It’
assists you in your psychoanalytical work, and why you need it.”
Your question clearly shows me how to proceed.
It is most important and extremely valuable to know that the “I” and the
“It,” in many instances, greatly differ from each other. As far as the
“I” is concerned, psychical activations are subject to a different rule
than the one applying to the “It.” The “I” has different intentions from
the “It,” availing itself of means other than those resorted to by the
“It.”
Of course, much could be said in this respect, but perhaps it will be
best if I give you a new comparison and a new example. Just remember the
differences which developed, during the late war, between the actual
front and the hinterland. We were apparently never surprised to observe
that there were certain things going on at the front, utterly different
from analogous developments in the hinterland, and that in the
hinterland many a thing was permissible which had to be strictly
prohibited at the front. In the war, the deciding factor, of course, was
the proximity of the enemy. In our psychical life, the deciding factor
is the proximity of the outer world. Remember that in ancient times
“outside,” “strange,” “hostile,” used to be identical conceptions.
And now, the example I promised you: The “It” is never assailed by any
conflicts. Within the “It,” contradiction and opposition dwell
undisturbed in close proximity to each other, frequently equalizing one
another by means of compromise. However, while the “It” thus remains
undisturbed, the “I” cannot avoid facing conflicts, and the only way for
the “I” to escape the dilemma is by renouncing some particular
intention, or urge, for the benefit of the other.
The “I” is controlled by a very remarkable trend for unification, for
synthesis—a characteristic utterly lacking in the “It.” The latter never
manifests such unity of intention, but rather displays a tendency
towards dissipation and a diversity of aims, utterly independent of one
another, and without regard to each other.
“If there really is such an important hinterland of the soul, how do you
explain the fact that it was never discovered before the advent of
psychoanalysis?”
By this question, you are leading us back to one of your former
inquiries. Let me advise you, then, that orthodox psychology blocked its
own way to the “It,” by holding on tenaciously to a presumption which,
in itself, seemed obviously enough but which, nevertheless, cannot be
successfully sustained any more. It was presumed that all psychical
activations are conscious, that consciousness is the characteristic of
any psychological process, and that if there really were unconscious
processes of our brain, these processes did not deserve to be termed
psychological processes, having nothing at all to do with psychology
proper.
“I should say that this is self-evident!”
Of course. That is exactly what all the orthodox psychologists claim.
However, it is easy enough to prove that such a view is incorrect, or
rather amounts to an impractical separation. Observing ourselves, we
easily perceive that many of our thoughts could not have arisen unless
they were induced by certain premises. However, of the preparatory
stages of these thoughts, which must have been psychical, too, we are
unaware, inasmuch as only the complete result enters into our
consciousness. Once in a while, it may be possible for us to reconstruct
the development of a thought by retrospective contemplation.
“Most probably, our attention had been diverted so that we missed
observing the development of the thought in the making, so to speak.”
That’s just an obvious excuse!—insufficient to obscure the fact that
quite frequently psychical activations—and often highly complicated
ones, too—may occur in our soul life without our becoming actually aware
of them. Alas, you may be ready to accept the hypothesis that just a
little more or less of your “attention” may prove sufficient to
transmute a non-psychical action into a psychical one. But why squabble?
The existence of unconscious thoughts has been proven in hypnotic
experiments, time and again, to the satisfaction of everybody.
“I don’t wish to deny that, and I actually believe I am now beginning to
understand you at last. What you are terming the ‘I’ is the Conscious
while the ‘It’ describes the so-called Subconscious, which is so much
discussed just now. But why, pray, this masquerade of new terms, if I
may ask?”
This is no masquerade, inasmuch as other terms cannot be employed here
properly. Besides, let me ask you not to substitute literature for
science. If somebody refers to the Subconscious, I don’t know whether he
is alluding to it as a stratum, that is, something dwelling in the soul
beneath the Conscious, or whether he refers to it as to quality, that
is, another consciousness, a subterranean one, so to say. To be sure,
the greatest probability seems to be that anybody juggling such terms is
himself not at all sure of what he really means. The only permissible
differentiation is one between Conscious and Unconscious.
Nevertheless, it would be a severe error to believe that a
differentiation between Conscious and Unconscious would be analogous to
a differentiation between the “I” and the “It.” It would be too
wonderful, if it were as simple as all that, and it would be easy going
for our theory then. But, it is not so simple! Correct only is that
everything that occurs within the “It” is and remains unconscious, and
that only activities of the “I” may become conscious. However, not _all_
these activities are conscious, nor are they _always_ conscious, nor do
they necessarily _have_ to become conscious. Parts of the “I” may remain
permanently unconscious.
The penetration into Consciousness of a psychical process is quite
complicated. I cannot avoid demonstrating to you—dogmatically once
more—what our hypothesis is in this respect. You will remember that the
“I” is the outer, peripheral layer of the “It.” We now assume that on
this outermost surface of the “I,” there is a peculiar device, a system,
an organ if you wish, by whose exclusive actuation that phenomenon is
created which we call Consciousness. This organ may be actuated from the
outside—that is, our sensory nerves may convey to it sensations of an
outer world—as well as from the inside, where first it may perceive the
sensations from the “It” and, later on, the processes of the “I.”
“This is getting worse and worse, and more and more beyond my
understanding. Did you not invite me to discuss with you the question of
whether or no, medically trained laymen should be permitted to apply
psychoanalysis? Why, then, all these ramblings of vague and dark
theories, whose correctness you will be unable to prove to me?”
Only too well do I realize that I cannot convince you. As that would be
beyond all possibilities, I have, therefore, surrendered such
intentions. Even when instructing our own disciples in the theory of
psychoanalysis, we always observe how little impression we make on them
in the beginning. They accept the analytical teachings with just as much
equanimity as any other abstractions which have been fed to them. Some
of them may have the earnest desire to be convinced, but there is no
trace that they ever really are convinced.
We demand that anyone who intends to analyse somebody else, should first
submit to an analysis. Only if in the course of this “self-analysis”—as
it is usually incorrectly called—a disciple experiences the truth of
psychoanalytical teachings on his own body—or rather on his own
soul—then, and only then, he gains those convictions which later on will
guide him in his work as an analyst.
How, then, may I expect to convince you, Mr. Referee, of the correctness
of our theories, especially as I can only give you an incomplete,
abbreviated, and, therefore, none too lucid outline of psychoanalytical
teachings, without your being able to corroborate it through your own
experiences?
But such is not my intention at all! We are not discussing here the
question of whether psychoanalysis is sense or nonsense, nor whether the
premises of psychoanalysis are correct or full of grave fallacies. I am
simply presenting our theories to you, because in this way it seems
easiest to me to explain to you what is the real essence of
psychoanalysis, what are its premises in reference to individual
patients, and just what the treatment is that is administered to them.
In this way, the problem of lay-analyses is projected in a striking
light. If you have followed me up to now, you may rest assured that the
worst is over and that from now on, everything will be much more
comprehensible to you.
And now let me pause for a moment.
IV
“I expect that, on the basis of psychoanalytical theories, you will
explain to me how the development of a nervous ailment may be
conceived!”
I shall try. For this purpose, however, it is necessary that we study
our “I” and “It” from a new point of view. We shall have to look upon
these two factors as to their dynamic values, that is, in regard to the
forces active in and between them. You will remember that previously we
restricted ourselves to the description of the psychical apparatus.
“I am only hoping that things won’t be so impossible to grasp.”
I do not think so. As a matter of fact, I believe that you will soon
comprehend the whole system. To start with, let us assume that those
forces which actuate the soul apparatus are generated by the different
organs of our system, as the result of important needs of our body.
Don’t forget what the poet-philosopher Schiller once said:
Until philosophy sublime,
Supremely rules the course of time,
The world, in oldest fashion,
By hunger moves, and passion.
Hunger and Passion are two very powerful agents!
The needs of our body which stimulate the soul into action—actuate the
soul, as I referred to it before—we call urges.
It is these urges which fill the “It.” All energies generated by the
“It” were incepted by these urges. The powers of the “I” have no other
origin either, inasmuch as they are derived from the “It.”
What, now, do these urges want?
They want to be satisfied, that is, they endeavor to create such
situations whereby the needs of our body are gratified.
As soon as any tension, created by our urges, slackens simultaneously
with the satisfied cravings of our body, our Consciousness experiences a
pleasurable sensation, whereas an intensification of our urges will soon
enough result in decided displeasure. In accordance with these
fluctuations of pleasurable and distressing sensations, our soul
apparatus regulates its activity. Thus, the rule of the Pleasure
Principle manifests itself.
Intolerable conditions develop in case the urges of the “It” are not
satisfied. Experience proves that situations of complete gratification
can only be achieved in contact with the outer world. Thus, that part of
the “It” which faces the outer world, i. e., the “I,” assumes its
functions. While the driving power is produced by the “It,” it is the
“I” which then assumes the management, takes the steering wheel in hand,
so to speak, without which the coveted goal could never be reached.
It is characteristic of the urges of the “It” that they are always bent
upon immediate, rash gratification without ever attaining their ends,
but frequently exposing themselves to severe harm. Therefore, it
devolves upon the “I” to forestall such failure, by mediating between
the reckless demands of the “It” and the practical outer world. Thus,
the censorial activity of the “I” makes itself felt in two different
directions.
On one hand, the “I,” assisted by that organ which conveys to it the
reactions of an outer world, scans the horizon, as it were, in an
attempt to seize upon the most opportune moment for a harmless
gratification of the urges prompting it. On the other hand, the “I”
exerts a restraining influence on the “It,” controlling its “passions”
and inducing its urges to postpone their gratification, or modify them,
or renounce them for some compensation, as the case may be.
Restraining the reckless “It” in such a way, the “I” replaces the
formerly predominant Pleasure Principle with the so-called Reality
Principle which, although striving for the same ends as the Pleasure
Principle, nevertheless considers such practical necessities as the
outer world imposes.
Later on, the “I” discovers that there is another way of insuring
gratification of urges than adaptation to the outer world. This newly
discovered method consists of changing conditions in the outer world in
such a way as to bring about circumstances favorable for gratification.
This activity of the “I” constitutes its most supreme achievement.
Sufficient discernment to perceive when it is opportune to stifle
passions and when it is opportune to either face or fight the realities
of the outer world is, after all, the Alpha and Omega of practical
wisdom.
“As I understand you, the ‘It’ is by far the stronger of the two. How,
then, is it possible that the ‘It’ will permit the weaker ‘I’ to hold
sway over it?”
The “I” is well in a position to exert such influence over the “It,”
provided its organization and efficiency is in no way hampered. Besides,
access to all parts of the “It” must be such as to enable the “I” to
bear sufficient influence on the “It.” There is no inherent opposition
between the “I” and the “It,” both belonging together. In cases of
normal health, it is practically impossible to distinguish between the
two.
“All this appears quite clear to me. However, what I cannot understand
is that under such ideal conditions, there could be any chance at all
for disturbances to arise?”
You are perfectly right! As long as the “I” discharges its duties fully,
and its relations to the “It” are maintained in a satisfactory manner,
no nervous disturbances will develop. However, disturbances are liable
to arise at some unsuspected spot. This will not surprise the
well-informed pathologist, but merely confirms the fact that the most
essential developments and evolvements contain the very germ for
diseased conditions and the break down of functions.
“This is too learned for me! I cannot follow you any more!”
I shall have to digress for a little. You will admit that a human being
is a puny, helpless thing in comparison to that tremendous outer world,
full of destructive agencies. Any primitive being who did not develop a
sufficiently strong “I” organisation, is subject to all these
“traumata.” Such a primitive being will achieve no more than just a
“blind” gratification of its urges, frequently to be destroyed in this
way.
The evolvement of an “I” is, most of all, a step towards insuring
maintenance of life. Destruction as such does not teach anything. But
after overcoming a trauma successfully, attention will be attracted by
similar situations and danger will be signalized by a fear affect—a
shortened reproduction of what was lived through during the trauma. This
reaction to approaching danger results in an attempt at flight, which is
maintained until sufficient strength is generated to oppose the danger
arising from the outer world in an active manner, perhaps even by taking
recourse to aggression.
“All this seems to be far, far different from what you promised me.”
You don’t realize how close I have already come to the fulfillment of my
promise to you. Even in such living beings who later on develop an
efficient “I” organisation, this “I” is quite weak in the years of
childhood and only slightly different from the “It.”
And now, I ask you to visualize what would happen in case this powerless
“I” is actuated by an urge arising from the “It”—an urge which the weak
“I” would like to resist, because it feels that a gratification of this
urge may involve danger, may result in a traumatic situation, a
collision with the outer world.
Alas, the weak “I” cannot sum up enough strength to resist.
Then what?
Then, the “I” deals with the danger, arising from an “It”-inspired urge,
in exactly the same way that an exterior danger would have to be faced.
The “I” makes an attempt at flight, deserting this specific part of the
“It” and leaving it to its fate. It refuses all such assistance as it
usually renders to urges arising from the “It.” We refer to such a case
as a repression of urges by the “I.”
For the time being, danger is thus parried, but to confound inner and
outer world is certain to invite punishment. Running away from oneself
is a thing that cannot be done! In a case of repression, the “I”
succumbs to the Pleasure Principle which it otherwise strives to
correct. Thus, it is the “I” upon which damage is inflicted in such
cases of repression. This damage consists of the “I” experiencing a
lasting restriction in its own sphere of rule. The repressed urge is now
isolated, left to itself, unapproachable, and cannot be influenced. The
repressed urge now goes its own way. Frequently, even after the “I” has
attained power, it proves impossible to release this repression. With
its synthesis disturbed, a part of the “It” remains forbidden ground to
the “I.”
The isolated urge does not remain idle, however. Because normal
gratification was denied it, it contrives to compensate itself by
engendering psychical derivates which take its place and, connecting
with other psychical activations, estrange them to the “I.” Finally, in
the form of an unrecognizable substitute, the isolated urge penetrates
to the “I” and to consciousness, presenting itself as what is known as a
“symptom.”
We now become aware of what a nervous disturbance is. We perceive an “I”
hampered in its synthesis, unable to exert any influence on certain
parts of the “It.” In addition, the “I” must renounce some of its
inherent activities, to avoid new collisions with the repressed urge. We
perceive an “I” exhausting itself in mostly unavailing defensive
measures against symptoms that are nothing other than results of the
repression. Moreover, it becomes evident now that in the “It,” some
urges have assumed independence. They aim at their own gratification
without any concern for the whole, subject only to such primitive
psychology as reigns in the lowermost depths of the “It.”
Observing such a state of affairs, we face the quite simple situation in
which the “I,” attempting to repress certain parts of the “It,”
proceeded in an utterly unsuitable manner. Consequently, the “I” has
failed in its intention and now the “It” is taking revenge on the “I.”
This revenge of the “It” on the “I” resulted in nothing less than a
neurosis.
Accordingly, a neurosis is the result of a conflict between the “I” and
the “It,” a conflict—as investigations will show—forced upon the “I,”
because the latter insisted on maintaining its state of pliability, in
reference to an outer world. The conflict, in fact, is one between the
“It” and the outer world. However, because the “I,” faithful and true,
takes sides with the outer world, it becomes entangled in this conflict
of the “It” with the outer world.
Note that the condition of nervous disturbances is not induced by the
conflict between the “I” and the “It” but rather by the fact that the
“I,” for the purpose of settling this conflict, availed itself of the
unsuitable agent of repression. As a rule, conflicts between reality and
the “It” are unavoidable, and it is a routine task for the “I” to act as
a mediator in such cases. That in the case of this specific conflict
which we have under observation just now, the “I” took recourse to
repression as agent, is due to the fact that at this time the “I” was
powerless and immature. After all, repressions of lasting importance
occur exclusively during early childhood!
“What a roundabout route you are taking! However, I shall heed your
advice and will try not to criticize you. You were going to explain to
me what psychoanalysis assumes to be the reason for neurosis and how
such conditions may be combated. There are quite a number of questions
which I shall ask you later on. At present, I am tempted to venture a
theory based on your own trend of thought.
“You have pointed out to me this interrelation between outer world, and
the ‘I’ and the ‘It.’ As an indispensable condition for the development
of a neurosis, you have mentioned the fact that the ‘I,’ on account of
its dependency on the outer world, opposes the ‘It.’ However, is not
some other course for the ‘I’ possible? For example, could not the ‘I,’
in such a conflict be simply swept off its feet by the ‘It,’ so to
speak, renouncing all dependency on the outer world?
“What, then, happens in such a case?
“Of course, I have merely the conception of the typical lay mind when it
comes to visualizing the development of mental diseases, but it seems to
me that such diseases may be easily induced if the ‘I’ would really
decide to side with the ‘It.’ To all appearances, such disregard for
realities is the very reason for mental diseases!”
Of course, I have thought of this myself. I even believe this assumption
to be correct. But in order to prove this hypothesis, quite a
complicated discussion would be necessary. Neurosis and Psychosis, to
all appearances, are closely related to one another. However, at some
important point, they widely diverge from each other. The partisanship
of the “I” with the “It,” in a case of conflict, may prove to be the
crossroad where the two seek different directions. In both cases, the
“It” would persist in its character of blind obstinacy.
“But, pray, tell me what advice your theory offers for the treatment of
neurotic conditions?”
It is quite simple to describe our therapeutic goal: We aim at
restituting the “I” and liberating it from its restrictions, restoring
to the “I” once more the sovereignty over the “It” which it lost, on
account of early repressions. Psychoanalysis, in general, aims at this
goal; our whole technique strives for this end. It is up to us to
discover those repressions, to induce the “I” to correct them with our
assistance, and to settle conflicts more satisfactory than by a mere
flight. Inasmuch as these repressions are part of our early childhood,
psychoanalysis must needs go back to those years of our life.
The way to those mostly forgotten conflict situations, which we must
revive in the memory of our “cases,” is pointed out to us by symptoms,
dreams, and “free associations” of the patient. Of course, all these
hints must first be interpreted, translated, as it were, because these
symptoms and dreams, under the influence of the psychology of the “It,”
have assumed various disguises which it is our purpose to penetrate.
If a patient communicates to us certain ideas, thoughts and memories
after long hesitation only, we feel safe in assuming that they have some
connection with his early repressions, or are, at least, derivates of
such. By encouraging the patient to conquer his hesitancy when talking
to us, we are training his “I” to overcome its tendency to “run away”
and rather face that early repression. At the end, after we have been
successful in reproducing the situation which originally induced his
repression, the complacency of the patient is splendidly rewarded. The
number of years that have meanwhile elapsed prove to be all in favor of
the patient. What once scared his immature “I” and threw it into panic
and flight, appears to the adult-strengthened “I” nothing more than just
a childish bugaboo.
V
“Everything you spoke of so far pertained to psychology. Frequently it
sounded somewhat strange and far-fetched to me and altogether none too
clear. But at any rate, everything you said was, if I may say so, clean!
I admit, without hesitation, that I have never had more than just
superficial information in regard to psychoanalysis. However, I have
been told, time and again, that your psychoanalysis deals for the most
part, with things to which generally the word ‘clean’ may not be applied
readily.
“To be quite frank with you: I have a slight suspicion that, up to now,
you have intentionally avoided to touch upon this phase of
psychoanalysis.
“There is still another doubt in my mind which I cannot
suppress:—Neuroses, as you said yourself, are the result of disturbances
of our soul life. How is it possible, then, that such important factors
as our ethics, our conscience, our ideals, apparently do not enter at
all into the development of these far-reaching disturbances?”
I understand you quite well. It appears to you that in the information I
have given you so far, I have attached insufficient importance to the
most vulgar, as well as the most sublime aspects of the matter. The
reason for this is simply that, up to now, we have not spoken about the
substance of psychical life at all.
For once, permit me to delay the progress of our conversation.
I have told you so much about psychology, in order that you may see that
our analysis is just a part of applied psychology; to be sure, that part
of psychology which is unknown beyond the field of analysis. From this,
it follows that it must be the first task of the Analyst to become
acquainted with the Psychology of the Depths, or Psychology of the
Unconscious, to the very extent it is known today. It will be well to
bear this fact in mind, as we shall later on refer to it.
And now, I wish you would explain what you meant when referring to the
lack of “cleanliness” in psychoanalysis?
“Well, the general impression which prevails is that, in the course of
the analysis; the most intimate and the most revolting phases of sex
life are aired with all their sordid details. Of course, I do not draw
this conclusion from the lecture on psychology you have given me so far!
But if this is really true, it would constitute a strong argument in
favor of the demand that the practice of psychoanalysis should be
restricted to physicians. How else would it be possible to confide such
details to persons whose discretion may be open to doubt, and whose
character may not warrant such frankness on the part of a patient?”
It is true enough that physicians are privileged characters, as regards
sexual matters. In our times, physicians may even examine sex organs, a
prerogative denied to them in the dark ages.
However, you wished to know whether sexual matters play an important
part in psychoanalysis.
They do!
There is a necessity for this because, in the first place, frankness is
an indispensable condition for the efficacy of the analysis. But don’t
forget that, in the course of an analysis, the patient will be just as
frank in financial matters. He will give details which he otherwise
would withhold, not only from the tax collector and his competitors, but
practically from everybody. That such frankness on the part of the
patient puts the analyst under a heavy obligation, imposing upon him a
severe moral responsibility, I surely do not deny, but rather stress
energetically.
The second necessity for airing the sex life in psychoanalysis is proved
by the established fact that, among the reasons and causes for nervous
disturbances, phases of the sex life play a tremendously important, a
most essential part; they may even prove to be the specific reason of
such disturbances.
Could psychoanalysis, under such circumstances, do anything else than
adapt itself to this state of affairs? The analyst never persuades his
patient to venture into the realm of sex. He will never tell a patient
in advance: intimacies of your sex life are involved here! The analyst
permits the patient to start where he feels inclined to start,
encouraging him to roam in any fashion that suits his fancy, waiting
calmly for the patient himself to touch upon sex matters.
It is one of my strictest rules to remind my disciples time and again:
Our opponents are reiterating continuously that we shall run across
cases in which the sexual moment does not play any part whatever.
Therefore, beware of introducing it into the analysis! Do not let us
spoil the possibility of really discovering cases, in which there is no
sexual moment. To be sure, up to now, we have never been fortunate
enough to detect such a case.
Of course, I know very well that the recognition we give sex life
is—admitted or not—the strongest argument of those who oppose the
analysis. But is this fact liable to make us waver in our scientific
convictions? An argument of this kind only proves how widespread
neurosis is in civilized life, when allegedly normal people behave so
very much like nervous people.
At a time when learned societies, with much pomp and circumstance, used
to sit in judgment on psychoanalysis—they are not doing it so frequently
today!—one of the speakers once commanded special attention as an
authority because, according to his statement, he permitted his patients
to talk about their ailments. Apparently, he indulged in such tolerance
for reasons of diagnosis, and for the purpose of checking up analytical
claims. But, this great authority added, as soon as patients start to
discuss sex matters, I shut them up!
How does such a procedure strike you?
I regret to report that the learned audience applauded the great
authority fervently, instead of denouncing him, which would have been
more fitting. That loose logic in which the aforementioned authority
permitted himself to revel, I can only explain by assuming that he was
all puffed up with that strength which the knowledge of mutual prejudice
lent him.
In the course of years, some of my disciples, following a popular trend,
undertook to liberate the world from the bonds of sex which
psychoanalysis is supposed to force upon it. One of them came out with
the pronunciamento that sex, in the broad meaning of the term, does not
mean sexuality as such, but rather something abstract, something quite
mysterious. Another even emphatically declared that sex life was just
one of the different phases in which man manifests his inherent driving
force for power and rule. These new doctrines received public acclaim—at
least for a time.
“I strongly feel like taking sides in this issue. It seems somewhat
far-fetched to me to insist that sexuality is not a natural, innate
necessity for all living beings, but rather the expression for something
else. Just look upon the animal world!”
That does not matter! There is nothing absurd enough that society would
not gleefully swallow, if it only pretends to be an antidote against the
overpowering might of sex.
By the way, may I not tell you that, to my mind, your present status as
an impartial listener, a lay arbitrator, as it were, should not permit
you to betray the strong prejudice you yourself are manifesting, in
regard to the great part the sexual moment plays in the development of
neurotic conditions! Do you not think that such a strongly emphasized
prejudice may make it impossible for you to render a just verdict?
“I am very sorry to hear you say that! Apparently, you have lost
confidence in me. But, pray, tell me, why did you not appeal to some
other impartial referee?”
For the simple reason that this other impartial referee would not have
thought any differently from you. And in case he would have been ready
to admit at once the importance of sex life, everybody would have
howled: He is no impartial referee at all! He is one of your own camp
followers!
No, I am not the least discouraged and I am not abandoning hope that I
shall ultimately succeed in influencing your views. I will admit,
however, that the present case is different from the one I have
previously alluded to. As far as orthodox psychological argumentation
was concerned, it did not matter much for me whether you believed what I
said or not. It was merely important to impress you with the fact that
purely psychological problems were being dealt with. However, when the
question of sex is raised, it seems important to prove to you that the
strongest reason for your opposition is nothing but a general animosity
toward sex, which you have in common with many others.
“Do not forget that I lack the experiences upon which your firm
convictions are based.”
Very well, then. I shall proceed.
Sex life is not only something piquant, but also a very serious
scientific problem. Many new facts had to be ascertained in this phase
of life, many peculiarities. I have already explained to you that it is
necessary for the analysis to go back to the years of early childhood
because at this time, with an immature “I,” still weak, the essential
repressions of a patient are incepted. But childhood has no sex
life;—sex life enters with puberty only, is the general claim.
Wrong!
We have discovered that sexual tendencies permeate life from very birth.
We also ascertained that it is to combat these urges that the infantile
“I” resorts to repressions. It is indeed remarkable, is it not, that
even the wee babe fights against the very same sexuality against which
that learned great authority talked before an equally learned
audience;—and later on, those of my own disciples, even, who compiled
some new theories!
How is that possible?
The most platitudinous explanation would be that our whole civilization
unfolded at the expense of sexuality. However, there is much more to be
said about this.
That only now the sexuality of the child has been discovered, ought to
drive the blush of shame into our faces. Of course, there were always
some specialists of children’s diseases, some baby-wise nurses who knew
about it. On the other hand, men, calling themselves “child
psychologists,” in the face of these findings, raised a hue and cry and,
wringing their hands in desperation, spoke reproachfully of the
“Defloration of Childhood!”
Again and again, sentiment instead of argument! Such tactics are
generally resorted to in the course of political discussions.
Of course, the sex life of the child is different from that of the
adult. Sexual functions, from the very beginning until they assume those
ultimate forms which are well known to us, undergo a process of
complicated development. Many component urges, each driving in a
different direction, eventually consolidate, ultimately to serve the
purpose of propagation.
Not all of the individual component urges prove of equal value, in view
of the ultimate task they are called upon to serve. Many of them have to
be “re-routed,” refashioned, partially subdued. Such a protracted
process of development cannot always be pursued smoothly, without
obstacles arising here and there and without engendering partial
fixations in the course of the earlier stages. Wherever, in later life,
sexual functions are blocked by obstacles of some kind, sexuality—the
libido, as we call it—will show a decided tendency to gravitate towards
such early fixations.
The study of the sex life of the child and its transformations, until
full maturity, has also yielded to us the key for the understanding of
so-called sexual perversions. These, while generally spoken of with
profound disgust, up to then had remained obscure as to their origin.
Although this phase of sex life is extraordinarily interesting, it does
not serve our present purpose to dwell upon it in detail. To understand
all these ramifications of sex life, it is not only necessary to possess
sufficient anatomical and physiological information, but also that
knowledge which cannot be acquired in medical schools, i. e., a thorough
acquaintance with the history of civilization and mythology.
“Up to now, I am still unable to gain a clear conception of the sex life
of the child.”
I shall, then, dwell on this phase further. To be perfectly frank with
you, I should really hate not to go into it further.
The most remarkable thing in the sex life of the child, to my mind, is
the fact that its whole, extensive development is completed in the
course of the first five years of life. From then, until the beginning
of puberty, there is a time when sex remains latent, a time during
which—normally—sexuality is not progressing but rather losing in
intensity. During these years, the child is liable to abandon and forget
much that he has practised and known before.
It is during this period after the first bloom of sex life has withered,
that such conceptions of the “I” develop as shame, disgust, morality,
destined to serve as support later on, in the storm and stress of
puberty, and to direct newly awakened sexual tendencies. This new,
second phase of sex life plays a very important part in the inception of
nervous disturbances. Apparently, it is only in man that this twofold
onset of sex life prevails. It is, perhaps, this which is one of the
contributing factors to the truly human prerogative to indulge in
neuroses.
Before the advent of psychoanalysis, the early period of sex life had
been overlooked, just as had the unconscious background of conscious
soul life. If you should now suspect that both belong together, you have
guessed correctly.
There is abundant material, of the greatest interest as to contents,
manifestations, and performances of this early period of sex
life,—material, as a matter of fact, that would prove most astonishing.
For example: It will amaze you, no doubt, when I tell you that the baby
boy is frequently afraid of being devoured by his father. (Does it not
surprise you that I list this fear among the manifestations of sex?)
Let me remind you here of the mythological character of the god Cronus,
who eats his own children. How this myth must have astounded you, when
it was related to you for the first time! Most probably, you, like the
rest of us, did not pause to ponder over it.
Today, we frequently recognize, in such fairytale characters as the
carnivorous wolf in Little Red Riding Hood, the child-devouring father
in disguise. Let me assure you that mythology, as well as the world of
fairytales, can be understood only on the basis of the sex life of the
child.
It may also surprise you to learn that the male child is beset with
fears of having his father rob him of his sex organ, and that this fear
of being castrated is of the greatest influence, in connection with the
general development of a male child’s character and his sexual
tendencies, in later life.
Here is another case where psychoanalysis may draw upon mythology for
support. Remember that the same Cronus who devoured his own children,
also emasculated his own father Uranos, to be castrated, in revenge, by
his son Zeus, who had been saved through the perspicacity of his mother.
In case you are inclined to believe that all that which has been said
about the early sexuality of children is just a phantasmagoria of the
wild fancies of a psychoanalyst, you must nevertheless admit that these
wild fancies are very similar to those ideas which permeated the
phantasy of primitive man, of which myths and fairytales are the
tangible record.
Does it not seem more acceptable and more probable that in the soul life
of present-day children, the same archaic moments still prevail, which
generally prevailed at the time of primitive civilization? To all
appearances, the child, in the development of his soul, simply
recapitulates the evolution of his species, analogous to the
recapitulation of his physical development, which has long since been
accepted by embryology.
Another characteristic of the early sexual life of the male child is
that the female sex organ as such does not play any part in it; it has
not been discovered for him yet. All interest is directed to the male
organ, all attention concentrated on the question of whether this organ
is really existent.
We know less about the early sex life of the female child than about
that of the male offspring,—a fact not so surprising since the sex life
of even the mature woman still presents a “dark continent” to
psychology. Nevertheless, we know that the female child is extremely
sensitive about the lack of a sex organ equal to that of the male child.
Accordingly, the girl comes to consider herself inferior to the boy,
developing a condition of “Penis Envy,” from which may be traced a whole
chain of reactions characteristic of the female.
Another characteristic of the child is that excremental discharges of
the body are drawn into the sphere of sexual interest. To be sure,
education eventually draws a strict line of demarkation here. Later in
life, however, this demarkation line is wiped out, when the stage of
“off-color jokes” sets in. Although this may be distasteful to us it is,
nevertheless, well known that the child requires some time, before he
develops a sense of disgust. Even those who insist upon the seraphic
purity of a child’s soul have never dared to deny this fact.
No other manifestation in the sex life of the child is more important
than the fact that sexual desires of a child always aim at persons most
closely related to him. Such inclinations lean primarily toward the
father and the mother; secondarily, toward sisters and brothers. While
for the boy, the mother is the first object of love, for the girl it is
the father, unless bisexual tendencies favor different inclinations.
That parent toward whom the sexual tendencies of the child do not
gravitate, comes to be considered a disturbing rival and thus, not too
rarely, becomes the object of intense enmity.
Be sure to understand me correctly. I do not mean to say that the child
is bent upon receiving from the favored parent, only such demonstrations
of affection which we adults are wont to consider the very essence of a
beautiful relationship between parent and child. In the light of
psychoanalysis, there is no doubt that the child desires much more than
merely these demonstrations of parental affection. As a matter of fact,
the child desires that which we conceive as sensual gratification,
though naturally, only to the limited extent of the child’s
understanding.
It is obvious enough that the child never surmises the real facts as to
the actual physical relations of the sexes, but this ignorance is
compensated by impressions and experiences deducted from his own
observations. Usually, a child’s desires culminate in the wish to give
birth to a baby, or beget one, in some vague manner.
Even the little boy, in his ignorance, has this desire to give birth to
a child.
Such manifestations, in their entirety, are termed, in accordance with
Greek mythology, Œdipus Complex.
Normally, an Œdipus Complex should be abandoned or thoroughly changed,
simultaneously with the termination of early sex life. The results of
this transformation of the Œdipus Complex are destined to bring about
great achievements, to play a big part in later soul life.
As a rule, this transformation is not thorough enough. Therefore, during
the period of puberty, the Œdipus Complex may be revived, in which case
it is liable to induce dire results.
I am very much surprised that you are still silent. Could this mean
agreement?
No doubt, if psychoanalysis maintains that the first sexual desires of a
child are of incestuous nature, to apply a technical term, there is no
question that psychoanalysis has again trodden upon humanity’s holiest
feelings, thus once more incurring accusations, disbelief, and
opposition.
Psychoanalysis always had to face grave incriminations, but nothing has
robbed psychoanalysis of a favorable opinion on the part of its
contemporaries more than the conception of the Œdipus Complex, as a
general human characteristic, decreed by fate.
To be sure, Greek mythology must have similarly interpreted the Œdipus
situation, but the majority of our contemporaries—be they learned or
not—prefer to believe that nature herself has endowed us with an inborn
disgust, as a protection against the possibility of an incestuous trend.
But here we may refer to history for corroboration. When Cæsar met
Egypt’s youthful queen, soon to play such an important part in his life,
Cleopatra was married to her younger brother Ptolemy. This was nothing
extraordinary in Egyptian dynastic tradition. The Ptolemæëns, originally
of Greek extraction, had simply continued a custom practised for
thousands of years by their predecessors, the old Pharaohs. Incestuous
relationships, a common practice at that time, were after all, only
between brother and sister, which even today evokes a comparatively mild
judgment. But let us turn to our most important witness—mythology—for
conditions, as they prevailed in primitive times.
Mythology records that the myths, not only of the Greeks, but of all
nations, supply an over-abundance of amorous relations between father
and daughter, and even between mother and son; cosmology, as well as
genealogy, of royal families was founded on incest.
According to your mind, what was the underlying reason for the creation
of this lore? Was it to brand gods and kings as criminals, to invite the
disgust of mankind upon their heads?
It was rather that the gratification of incestuous desires—an ancient,
human heritage, never completely overcome—was still permissible for gods
and their offspring, although renounced by the majority of common
mortals.
From this, it would appear, that incestuous desires, in the childhood of
the individual, are in complete harmony with the teachings of history
and mythology.
“I am glad that you did not stand by your original intention to withhold
from me all this information, in regard to the sex life of the child,
inasmuch as it throws a very interesting light on the more primitive
stage of humanity.”
I was afraid that in so doing, I might digress too far. But, after all,
it may prove of advantage that you have these informations now.
“But tell me, what proofs have you, from an analytical point of view, of
the sex life of the child? Is your conviction founded merely on the
corroboration that mythology and history offer?”
Not at all! Our conviction rests upon direct observations. Here is how
we arrived at our conclusions:—In the first place, sex life of childhood
was revealed to us in the analysis of adults, who volunteered this
information. Then, we proceeded to analyse children, and it was no small
triumph when we succeeded in proving everything which we had deducted
from the information of adults, despite the fact that as regarded the
adults, twenty to forty years had passed, during which time these
memories had been submerged and undergone substantial changes.
“What! You really ventured to analyse little children, tots of less than
six years? How could such a thing be done at all? And wasn’t that
hazardous, as far as the children were concerned?”
It was easy enough to do.
You would hardly believe what takes place in the brain of a child of
four or five years. At this age, children are mentally very alert. For
them, the period of early sexuality is also a period of intellectual
bloom. I am under the impression that children, with the beginning of
the period of latency, experience a mental let-down; grow temporarily
dull, so to speak. During this period, many children also begin to lose
their physical charm.
As far as possible damage, arising from an early analysis is concerned,
let me assure you that the first child to undergo this experiment—about
twenty years ago—has meanwhile grown up to be a sound and efficient
young man who, despite severe psychological traumata, passed through his
pubescent period without complaint. This fact encourages me to expect
that all the other “victims” will not fare any worse.
Analyses of children yield various interesting results. Possibly, in
future, they will grow in importance. As far as theoretical findings are
concerned, there can be no doubt as to the value of these analyses. As
children give unequivocal information on questions which only yield hazy
results in the analyses of adults, the analyst is protected against
mistakes which might have proved to be serious. Analyses of children
have the added advantage, in that those moments are seized upon unaware,
when a neurosis is in the process of development. There can be no
mistake about such observations in children.
To be sure, in the interest of the child, it is necessary to combine
analytical influence with educational measures. This is a technique
still to be perfected. There is practical interest attached to this
problem, because observations prove that a great number of our children,
during their period of development, pass through a clearly discernable
neurotic phase. Ever since we perceived these things more keenly, we
have been tempted to venture that neurotic conditions of children are
not the exception, but rather the rule. It appears that in view of
infantile tendencies to neuroses, such trend of developments cannot be
avoided in the course of civilisatoric progress. In most cases, such
neurotic taints are spontaneously thrown off during childhood. The
question remains, however, whether traces of them are not frequently
left, even in such individuals as are considered of average health.
On the other hand, there is no neurotic adult in whom infantile
tendencies toward neuroses cannot be discerned, although originally they
may not necessarily have been so very obvious. Analogous to this,
specialists for internal diseases claim, I believe, that every
individual during the time of his childhood passes through a tubercular
condition.
Let me return to your question of proofs.
From direct analytical observation of children, we concluded that in
general the information which adults had given us, in reference to their
childhood, had been correctly interpreted by us. In some cases, it was
even possible to obtain confirmation of a different kind. For
example:—From material unearthed by the analysis, it was possible to
reconstruct certain occurrences and impressive events of childhood, of
which the conscious memory of the patient was no longer aware. Fortunate
accidents or information supplied by parents and educators yielded
unquestionable proof that the analyst had correctly reconstructed these
impressions and experiences of childhood.
Such proof, of course, could not be obtained very frequently, but
whenever it was obtained, it created an overpowering impression. You
must know that the correct reconstruction of such forgotten experiences
of childhood always results in a tremendous therapeutic effect, no
matter whether such reconstructions may be objectively confirmed or not.
The importance attached to these events is naturally derived from the
fact that these experiences occurred in early childhood, when they could
still affect the feeble “I” traumatically.
“What may those events be which analysis must unearth for therapeutic
purposes?”
Events of various nature.
In the first place, impressions strong enough to permanently influence
the awakening sex life of the child, such as observation of sexual
intercourse between adults or personal sexual experiences with an adult
or some other child—occurrences not at all rare. Then, overhearing the
conversation of adults, at a time when the child did not fully
comprehend the significance, but which, when the child came to grasp the
real meaning, conveyed to him knowledge to be coveted because of the air
of secrecy and mystery attached to it. Furthermore, utterances and
actions of the child himself, demonstrating a decidedly tender or else
hateful inclination toward other persons. It is of special importance,
in the course of the analysis, to revive cases of forgotten personal
sexual indulgence, and the interference of adults which served to
terminate these habits.
“It seems to be my turn, now, to ask a question which I have had on my
mind for a long time. What do you call ‘sexual indulgence’ of a child,
during his period of early sexuality which, as you say, is a time that
was completely overlooked before the advent of psychoanalysis?”
Of course that which is usual and essential in this indulgence had not
been overlooked. This is not so remarkable, because it simply couldn’t
be overlooked. Sexual tendencies of the child find their expression
mainly in masturbation. That this childish “naughtiness” is
extraordinarily common was always known to adults. It is considered a
grave sin, to be energetically suppressed.
But please do not ask me how such “immoral” tendencies in children—and
children admit that they indulge in them because they give them
pleasure!—can co-exist with that inborn purity and non-sensuality of
which we love to prate. You had better ask our opponents to solve this
puzzle for you.
A much more important problem is facing us now:—What is the position to
take towards sexual indulgence in early childhood?
There is not the slightest doubt as to the responsibility incurred by
suppressing such actions and, on the other hand, one dare not permit it
to go on, limitless.
It appears that sexuality of children is unrestricted among peoples of
low civilization and in the lower strata of civilized people. Such
tolerance may amount to a strong protection against the possibility of
neuroses cropping up in later years, but the question is whether there
does not then remain a concurrent, extraordinary loss in regard to an
individual’s aptness for cultural achievements. It seems we are facing a
case of Scylla and Charybdis there.
However, I shall leave it to you to decide whether such interest, as the
study of sex life may have for neurotics, would tend to create an
atmosphere, favorable for the awakening of libidinous desires.
VI
“I think I know now what your intentions are:—You wish to show me just
what knowledge is necessary for the practice of psychoanalysis, so that
I may be able to judge whether physicians alone shall be permitted to
apply this method. Up to now, you have mainly discussed psychology, and
a little biology or sex science, without a decided medical slant.
However, I may not have heard everything yet.”
Certainly not. There are still a number of gaps to be filled. But may I
ask you a favor? Will you be good enough to describe to me how you
imagine psychoanalytical treatment is applied? Just pretend as if it
were up to you to analyse a patient.
“Well, I may make quite a mess of this! It is surely not my intention to
settle the argument between us, on the basis of such an experiment.
However, I shall do as you ask. After all, the responsibility falls upon
your shoulders.
“Now then: I assume that the patient comes to see me and embarks upon a
recital of his complaints. I promise him to cure, or at least improve,
his condition, provided that he will follow my instructions. Then, I
would ask him to tell me, in all frankness, what he knows, what ideas
enter his mind. I should also request him to make a clean breast of
everything, even though there may be things which he would hate to
mention. Am I adhering to your methods?”
You are! But, in addition you should have the patient tell you all his
thoughts, even if they seem unimportant to him or lacking in sense.
“Very well.—The patient, then, starts to relate his story and I listen.
And what next? Oh, yes, his information will make it possible for me to
conclude what impressions, experiences and desires he may have
repressed, because he came face to face with them at a time when his ‘I’
was still weak and too intimidated to face the dilemma squarely.
“After I have told that to the patient, he will reconstruct the old
situations and correct his reactions to them with my assistance. Thus,
the repressions, his ‘I’ had been forced to resort to, will disappear
and he is cured.—Is that correct?”
Very good, indeed.—I already foresee that more people are going to
reproach me for having trained a non-medical man to practise
psychoanalysis. I surely must admit that you digested what I told you.
“I have only repeated what you told me, like reciting something that has
been committed to memory.
“But I do not feel able to clearly visualize how I really would go about
it. I cannot understand why such an analysis should require an hour or
more a day, for a period of months. As a rule, the average human being
has not met with so many experiences. And as far as repressions during
childhood are concerned, I assume that these are probably identical in
all cases.”
There are many new experiences to make in the course of an analysis.
For example: You would find that it is not so simple at all, from the
information a patient may volunteer, to draw conclusions as to those of
his experiences which he has forgotten, the urges which he once
repressed.
A patient may tell you something which, at the moment, has just as
little sense for you as for him. You will have to make up your mind that
the material which the patient lays before you, in accordance with the
instruction you gave him, must be interpreted in a special way.
Analogous, perhaps, to the treatment iron ore receives for the purpose
of extracting from it valuable steel by some special process. In
retaining this picture, for the purpose of comparison, you must know
that tons and tons of iron ore contain only very little of the valuable
steel for which you are looking. This is one reason which would account
for the fact that psychoanalytical treatment is such a long drawn-out
process.
“But how is this ‘iron ore’ to be converted, to apply your comparison
once more?”
By assuming that the information and ideas of a patient are nothing but
distorted pictures of those impressions and experiences you are trying
to unearth. Hints, as it were, from which you would have to conclude
what is really behind them. To press it into a formula: the information
a patient yields, be it memories, ideas or dreams, will have to be
interpreted first. This interpretation, of course, must be guided by the
expectations you formed of the case on the basis of professional
knowledge, while listening to the patient’s recital.
“‘Interpretation’! What a dreadful word! I do not like to hear this term
because, in applying it, you are depriving me of all confidence. If
everything depends on my interpretation, who is going to assure me that
my interpretation is correct? Such a state of affairs, according to my
mind, simply means that everything is left to fancies and whims.”
Just a moment, now! Things are not as bad as all that. Why exclude
processes of your own soul from the same rule which you are ready to
admit to that of others?
Provided you have acquired a certain self-discipline and are in the
possession of sufficient information, your interpretations will not be
influenced by personal peculiarities, and are bound to prove correct.
Do not draw the conclusion from this that it is my opinion that the
personality of the analyst does not make any difference, for this phase
of the analysis. A certain sensitiveness for that which was
unconsciously repressed, is necessary; also an aptness with which
everybody is not equally endowed. Most of all, it is here where the
absolute necessity for a thorough and searching self-analysis of the
analyst is proved, for the purpose of precluding any prejudice that may
drag a distorted element into the interpretation.
One thing, of course, still remains: Personal Equation, which, as an
element of individuality, is destined to play a much more important part
in psychoanalysis than anywhere else. Although an abnormal man may
develop into an expert physicist, an analyst will always be handicapped
by his own anomalies, when it comes to conceive pictures of soul life,
free from distortions.
Inasmuch as it is impossible to prove to anybody his anomalies, general
unanimity in the matter of Psychology of the Depths will prove
especially difficult to achieve. There are even a handful of
psychologists who claim it to be practically impossible ever to achieve
such unanimity, and who also insist that every fool is entitled to
proclaim his special brand of foolishness as wisdom.
I admit I am more optimistically inclined. After all, our experiences
prove that, even in psychology, harmony of opinion may be achieved to a
tolerably satisfactory degree. No doubt, each individual realm of
science presents its own individual difficulties which have to be
eliminated. Moreover, there are some aspects of the art of
interpretation, as applied in analysis which, like some other knowledge,
may be acquired by study. For example, those aspects pertaining to the
peculiarly indirect representation by symbols.
“To be frank with you: I have lost all ambition, even to dabble
theoretically with the application of psychoanalysis. Heaven knows what
further surprises are still in store for me!”
You are perfectly correct to abandon such an intention.
You have already convinced yourself how much training and practice is
necessary. And once you have found the correct interpretations, a new
problem presents itself. It is then up to you to lay in wait and
virtually pounce upon the correct, the psychological moment, if you wish
to acquaint your patient of your interpretations with the idea of
benefiting him.
“How to tell what is the psychological moment?”
That is a matter of extreme tact which, by the way, may be greatly
improved through experience. You would commit a very grave error if you
would fling your interpretation, as soon as it had been ascertained, at
the patient. This would only lead to resistance, refusal, indignation,
but never result in his “I” getting a firm hold of whatever it was that
caused his repressions. It is an iron clad rule to permit your patient
to approach this elusive cause of repression close enough, to make it
possible for him to obtain an immediate and strong grip on it, under the
correctly timed guidance of the interpretation you may suggest.
“I am very much afraid that I would never master this art. But suppose
that I observe this rule strictly, then what?”
Then it will be your lot to make a discovery which you did not expect to
make.
“What kind of a discovery?”
That you had an entirely wrong opinion about your patient. That there is
no reason in the world for you to depend on his coöperation or
complacency. That, as a matter of fact, your patient is resolved to
raise as many obstacles as possible against your combined exertions.
With one word: that he does not altogether want to get well!
“Well, that is about the most ludicrous statement you have made so far!
I simply don’t believe it! The patient, suffering so intensely,
complaining so heartrendingly, sacrificing so much to be cured, actually
does not want to get well! Is it possible you really mean what you say?”
I mean every word of it! What I have just stated is the truth. Not the
whole truth, but a good deal of it. The patient wants, yet does not
want, to get well. Because his “I” has lost its unity of purpose, it is
preventing him from summing up undivided will power. Were the state of
affairs a different one, our patient would not be a neurotic!
The results of his repression have simply invaded his “I,” firmly
holding their ground there, so to speak. The “I” is wielding just as
little influence over these effects as over the repression itself.
Usually, the “I” is not at all aware of the prevailing state of affairs.
These patients are of a peculiar type, putting difficulties in our way
which we do not expect to encounter. All our social institutions are
organized to fit individuals with a unified, normal “I,” which may be
classified as either good or bad. This “I” either functions properly, or
is impeded by some overwhelming influence. Thus, the forensic
alternative: mentally responsible or not responsible.
But all these standard terms do not fit the neurotic!
Doubtless, it is difficult to adapt the demands of social life to their
psychological condition. During the War, this was proved to a great
extent.
Were those neurotics who shirked from military duty, pretending illness,
simulants or not?
They were both!
As soon as such patients were treated as simulants, by making it
uncomfortable for them to indulge in sickness, they recuperated; and as
soon as allegedly cured patients had been returned to the rank and file,
they once more became ill. There was simply no way to deal effectively
with them.
Analogous to this is the case of the neurotic in everyday life.
They complain about their sickness, at the same time exploiting it to
the limit. As a matter of fact, if an attempt is made to cure them of
their ailment, they will protect this most cherished possession of
theirs with the selfsame fervor with which a lioness defends her
offspring. But there would be no sense in blaming neurotics for the
contradictory behavior they display.
“Would it not be best, then, not to treat such difficult people at all?
Simply leave them to themselves? It seems to me that it cannot possibly
be worthwhile to spend as much effort on them as appears necessary,
according to what you say.”
I do not agree with you on this point.
Doubtless, it seems wiser to simply submit to the complications which
life presents, rather than to fight them. Not each and every one of the
neurotics we treat may be worth the exertions of an analysis, but there
are surely enough worthwhile individuals among them. It must be our goal
to decrease the number of persons who are forced to face the
exasperations of civilized life with a soul insufficiently prepared. To
this end, we must collect experience upon experience, and come to fully
grasp many problems. Every analysis is bound to prove instructive,
yielding new knowledge, aside from the personal benefit it may confer
upon an individual patient.
“Supposing that the ‘I’ of a patient developed such tendencies which
would make him wish to retain the sickness of which he complains, would
not these tendencies be justified, on the basis of certain reasons and
motives? It is impossible for me to understand why somebody should want
to be sick. What satisfaction could he derive from that?”
Just remember the war neurotics who were exempt from duty, because they
were considered sick. In everyday life, sickness may be successfully
employed as a screen, behind which to hide professional insufficiencies,
or—in the circle of family life—as a means to induce relatives to make
sacrifices, demonstrations of affection, or to foist one’s will upon
them, generally. All this is quite obvious and comes under the term
“sickness profit” (analogous to war profit). It is remarkable, however,
that the neurotic, or rather his “I,” proves unable to grasp the
connection of such motives with their logical consequences.
The influence of such tendencies to gain “sickness profit” is combated,
by forcing the “I” to become aware of them. But there are still other,
more obscure motives, for holding on to sickness, which cannot be
disposed so easily. As a matter of fact, these reasons cannot be
understood, without venturing once more into the sphere of psychological
theories.
“Oh, go right ahead! A little theory, more or less—what does it matter?”
When I explained to you the relations between the “I” and the “It,” I
withheld from you an important part of the soul apparatus. You see,
within the “I” itself, there persists a particular faction which we call
the “Super-Ego.”
This “Super-Ego” enjoys a privileged position between the “I” and the
“It.” It belongs to the “I,” sharing with it its intricate psychological
make-up. On the other hand, it entertains very close relations with the
“It.” The “Super-Ego” is in reality the record of first impressions as
conceived by the “It”; it is the heir of the dissolved Œdipus Complex.
This “Super-Ego,” as a matter of fact, is able to oppose the “I,” act
towards it as if it were something inferior and, in general, treat it
almost with contempt. For the “I” it is just as important to remain in
agreement with the “Super-Ego” as with the “It.” Disagreement between
the “Super-Ego” and the “I” is of far-reaching consequences for the soul
life.
Doubtless, you have already surmised that the “Super-Ego” is the agent
of that phenomenon which we call our conscience.
For the maintenance of healthy soul life, it is very important that the
“Super-Ego” develop normally, that is, becomes sufficiently impersonal.
It is just this development which is insufficient in the neurotic,
because his Œdipus Complex was not properly transformed. His
“Super-Ego,” in regard to the “I,” still assumes the rôle of the strict
father to the child, with the morality of the “I” manifesting itself in
a primitive manner by meekly submitting to punishment, meted out by the
“Super-Ego.” Sickness is resorted to, as the means of this
“self-punishment.” The neurotic, behaving as if under a burden of guilt
accepts sickness as a punishment to assuage this feeling of delinquency.
“That sounds very mysterious. But the most remarkable thing seems to be
that the patient remains unconscious of the power of his conscience.”
Well, we are only now beginning to appreciate the importance of all
these vital conditions. That is the reason why my explanations were so
puzzling to you. But now, I believe I can continue.
All those agents which oppose the recuperation of a patient, we term the
“resistance” of the patient. While “sickness profit” is the source of
such resistance, the “unconscious feeling of guilt” represents the
resistance of the “Super-Ego” of which, as the strongest factor, we are
very much in fear.
But there are other manifestations of resistance which become evident in
the process of treatment.
If the “I,” at an early period, was induced through fear, to take
recourse to a repression, this fear still persists, manifesting itself
now as a resistance, as soon as the “I” approaches that which was
repressed. It is easy enough to realize that difficulties may be
encountered, if a certain tendency, which for decades has proceeded
along a specific course, is suddenly expected to swing into a new path
opened to it.
Such a condition may be termed the resistance of the “It.”
The battle against all these resistances is our main work during the
analytical treatment, in comparison with which the task of
interpretation almost fades into insignificance. But by this battle and
the ensuing defeat of resistances, the “I” of the patient is so
transformed and strengthened that his future behavior, after the
termination of the treatment, may be regarded with complete equanimity.
On the other hand, you will understand now why our treatment is so
protracted. Expanse and multifariousness of the material are not as
decisive factors as the question of whether the way is clear. Remember
that the same course, which in times of peace, may be traveled in a few
hours by railroad, may take an army, during wartime, weeks and weeks,
because the resistance of the enemy must first be overcome. Battles to
overcome resistance require time in soul life also. I am sorry to say
that, up to now, all exertions to shorten the duration of analytical
treatments to any appreciable degree, have proved unavailing. It seems
that the best way to shorten the length of the treatment, is simply to
apply it as correctly as possible.
“If I ever felt the temptation to dabble with your science and to
attempt to analyze a patient, your information in reference to those
resistances, that may be encountered, cured me thoroughly of any such
ambition.
“But, tell me about the element of personal influence which you have
admitted is present in the analysis. Is this not a valuable factor in
the battle against resistance?”
I am glad that you bring this question up. This personal influence is
our strongest dynamic weapon; it is the agent which we introduce as
something new, into the analytical situation, thus lending it impetus.
This could never be accomplished by the intellectual substance of our
interpretation alone because the patient, sharing all the prejudices of
his environment, need not have more faith in us than our scientific
critics. The neurotic coöperates with the analyst simply because he
believes in him, and he believes in him because he gradually develops a
certain sentimental trend toward the analyst. A child, also, believes
only persons to whom it is attached.
I have already told you how we employ this especially great “suggestive”
influence. Not to suppress the symptoms—it is here where the analytical
method is utterly unlike any other psycho-therapeutical method!—but as a
driving power to induce the “I” of the patient to defeat his
resistances.
“And suppose you succeed? Would that insure easy sailing from then on?”
Such ought to be the case. But an unexpected complication arises.
It was perhaps the greatest surprise for the analyst to observe that the
sentimental relations which the patient endeavors to establish, are of a
very particular nature. Already the first physician who attempted
analysis—it was not I—discovered this phenomenon, which served to
bewilder him intensely. These sentimental relations are, to express it
bluntly, of an amorous nature. Remarkable, isn’t it, if you take into
consideration the fact that the analyst does nothing to invite such
emotions, but rather endeavors to maintain distance, sentimentally
speaking, between the patient and himself.
All this is so much more remarkable, as these odd sentimental relations
utterly disregard all such obstacles, as difference in age, sex, and
social strata. This amorousness appears fated. Not that it constitutes a
characteristic otherwise alien to spontaneous love. You are well aware
that the contrary of this may be only too frequently observed. Although
it is the rule in the analytical situation, the latter, as such, cannot
serve as a rational explanation for this development. To all
appearances, nothing else should result from the relation between the
patient and the analyst, than just a certain measure of respect,
confidence, gratitude and humane sympathy. However, what really results
from it is this condition of attachment, which in itself gives the
impression of being some disorder.
“Well, I should say that such a development would tend to favor
analytical purposes. If one is enamoured, one is complacent and ready to
do almost anything for love’s sweet sake.”
Of course, in the beginning, this condition favors the analysis, but
later on, when these sentimental relations gradually become intensified,
displaying their inherent nature, difficulties crop up which do not
promote the aim of the analysis. You see, an enamoured patient is not
satisfied merely to obey the analyst. The patient becomes presumptuous,
demanding tenderness and sensual gratification. Eventually, jealousy
develops and the lovelorn patient gradually arrives at a stage where
more and more clearly, a preparedness for enmity and revenge is shown.
Simultaneously, analogous to any other form of love, all other impulses
of the soul are repressed, submerging the interest in treatment and
recuperation. There is no doubt that love has assumed the place of the
neurosis, and that our labors have simply resulted in substituting one
disturbance for another.
“That sounds hopeless. What can be done? Perhaps analysis in such a case
should be discarded. But since you say that every case yields this
result, then analysis in general would have to be discarded.”
First, let us take stock of the situation in order to learn from it.
Whatever is thus gained may assist us in mastering the situation. After
all, is it not quite remarkable that we should succeed in transforming a
neurotic condition into a state of unwholesome attachment?
Our conviction that neurotic conditions arise partly from abnormally
directed sentimental tendencies, gains unquestionable corroboration by
our findings. Ascertaining these facts, we feel more assured and dare to
make this enamoured condition the object of analysis.
We also make another observation. This condition of amorousness, as part
of the analysis, is not always so apparent in all cases, as I have tried
to picture it to you.
And why isn’t that the case? We shall soon see.
In the same measure as the sensual and hostile aspects of a patient’s
attachment endeavor to manifest themselves, the inherent opposition of
the patient against such tendencies asserts itself. He combats them and
attempts to repress them, before our very eyes. Thus we come to
comprehend the whole development:—The patient merely repeats, in the
form of being enamoured with the analyst, experiences of his soul life
of days gone by. Certain tendencies of his soul, ready to burst forth,
and closely connected with the inception of his neurosis, have simply
been transferred by him to the analyst. He also repeats before our eyes
all those gestures of opposition, gone through before, and would like
nothing so much as to repeat in his relations with the analyst, all the
phases of that forgotten period of his life.
What the patient is showing us now is accordingly the very nucleus of
the most intimate story of his life. He is reproducing this nucleus in a
tangible form, as if actual, instead of just remembering this incipient
stage of his condition. Thus, the riddle of transferred love has been
solved and the analysis, with the assistance of this new discovery
which, for a time, almost seemed to wreck it, may be continued.
“That is surely complicated. Does the patient believe so easily that he
is not in love, and merely feels forced to revive an old episode, as it
were?”
Everything now depends upon the greatest dexterity in handling this
“transference,” to achieve our objective. You will easily see that the
demands of the analytical technique at this point are very exacting. It
is here where the most serious mistakes may be committed, or the most
splendid results achieved. Any attempt to evade these difficulties, by
suppressing or neglecting the transference, would be senseless. Such
evasion would not be deserving of the term of analysis. To send a
patient home, as soon as the discomfort of a transference neurosis
manifests itself, would also be senseless and would amount to cowardice.
It would be approximately analogous to calling forth spirits and then
running away, as soon as they put in their appearance.
Of course, there is no other way out sometimes. There are cases in which
it is impossible to master an unshackled transference, and the analysis
must then be terminated. But at least one should wrestle with these evil
spirits to the best of one’s ability.
To give in to the demands of a transference—the desires of a patient for
tenderness or sensual gratification—is impossible, not only for moral
reasons but also as it would prove impractical, if resorted to as a
means to achieve a successful analysis. A neurotic cannot be healed, by
being permitted to indulge in uncorrected repetitions of situations
which he unconsciously prepared. When making a compromise with a
neurotic, by meeting him halfway, it is necessary to take care not to be
manœuvred into the ludicrous position of the clergyman, who tried to
convert the insurance agent with the result that the insurance agent did
not join the church, but the clergyman took out a policy.
The only way out of the dilemma of transference is to delve into the
past of the patient and reconstruct events as they were actually lived
through by the patient, or else only pictured, with the assistance of
his urge-stimulated imagination. For all this, the analyst requires much
dexterity, patience, calmness and self-effacement.
“And where, do you think, did the neurotic meet the original of this
transference love?”
In his childhood, and, as a rule, in one of his parents. You will
readily remember how much importance we had to attach to these earliest
of all sentimental relations. Here, the circle is completed.
“You have finished, then? To be frank with you, I am quite bewildered by
all you have told me. But, now pray tell me, where to study all that is
necessary to practise analysis?”
Two institutes serve this purpose by giving instruction in
psychoanalysis. The first is in Berlin, in charge of Dr. Max Eitigon of
the local organization. The second is maintained by the Vienna
Psychoanalytical Society, with great sacrifice. The authorities, up to
now, have thrown many obstacles in the path of the young institute. A
third institute will be opened in London, by the local organization
there and will be under the direction of Dr. E. Jones.
In all these institutes, the disciples themselves are analysed, and are
then given theoretical instruction in all subjects important for them.
When permitted to analyse their first, simple cases, they have the
advantage of being under the supervision of more experienced analysts.
The course usually requires about two years, but even after this period,
a disciple is still a beginner, and not by far to be considered a
master. What else the young analyst needs, he acquires thorough
practice, and by intercourse with older colleagues.
The preparatory work for the analytical training is not at all simple:
the work is hard, the responsibility tremendous.
Whoever attended such a course, has been analysed himself, has grasped
the Psychology of the Unconscious, as far as it can be taught today, is
sufficiently versed in the science of sex, and has acquired the
difficult technique of psychoanalysis, including the art of
interpretation, the method of combating resistances and the manner in
which to handle transferences, can no longer be considered a layman, in
the field of psychoanalysis. He is able to treat neurotic disturbances
and will, in time, be in a position to achieve all that may be expected
of this therapy.
VII
“You have explained to me, at great length, what psychoanalysis is, and
what knowledge is necessary to practise it with a chance for success. It
certainly could not have hurt me to listen to you.
“However, I do not see how your informations are expected to influence
my personal view. Neuroses, it would appear, are a certain form of
disturbance, and psychoanalysis a certain method to treat such cases—a
special medical treatment, as it were.
“I understand that it is the rule that any physician who intends to
specialize in the one phase or the other of his science is not satisfied
with the training he received before winning his diploma, but rather
goes on studying the intricacies of his special field. This is
especially a necessity, in case he intends to establish himself in a big
city, the only place which opens a satisfactory field for specialists.
Anybody who is going to specialize in surgical work, will practise, for
a few years, in the surgical ward. Corresponding specialized work will
be taken up by the eye or the nose and throat specialist, and the
psychiatrist may forever remain on the staff of a city or county
institution or a private sanitarium.
“The same method of development may be expected of the psychoanalyst.
Whoever decides to take up this new medical specialty, after finishing
his studies proper, will have to attend those institutes, for the
duration of two years, which you have mentioned before, provided it
really takes as long as that to gain the necessary knowledge. He will
then also learn that it would be to his advantage to join a
psychoanalytical society, in order to remain in contact with his
colleagues.
“I really cannot understand why there is any necessity for raising this
question of lay-analyses?”
Any physician, proceeding along the lines you suggested, shall be
welcome to us. As a matter of fact, four-fifths of those whom I consider
my disciples, are physicians. However, permit me to enlighten you as to
relations, as they actually developed between physicians and
psychoanalysis, and what development they appear to be taking in the
future.
Past developments do not give physicians any right to claim a monopoly
of psychoanalysis. As a matter of fact, physicians, in the past, have
done about everything to damage psychoanalysis, beginning with
superficial mockery and going even so far as to indulge in serious
defamation. Of course, you may correctly say that all this belongs to
the past, and should not have any influence on the future. I fully
agree, but I am afraid that the future will not live up to your
expectations.
At this point, permit me to interpret for you the term of “quack,” not
in the way it is legally employed, but rather in the sense in which it
should be logically applied. As far as the law is concerned, a “quack”
is an individual who treats sick people, without being in the possession
of a diploma. I, however, would rather qualify the term “quack” in this
way: A “quack” is anybody who undertakes the treatment of a disease,
without having the indispensable knowledge and ability.
On the basis of this definition, I venture to assert that—not only in
the European countries—physicians, as far as psychoanalysis is
concerned, constitute the majority of “quacks.” Frequently, physicians
will employ psychoanalysis, without having studied it, and without
sufficiently understanding it.
Do not tell me that this would display a lack of conscience, which you
would not suspect in any physician. You might be tempted to say that,
after all, a physician ought to know that a medical diploma does not
constitute a “Letter of Marque,” and that a sick person should not be
considered outlawed. As far as a physician is concerned, it should be
taken for granted that he is proceeding in good faith, even if he makes
a mistake.
However, facts are facts. Let us hope that it will be possible to
explain these facts in a manner, which you apparently wish. I, for my
part, shall try to explain to you how it is possible that a physician,
in matters of psychoanalysis, takes liberties he would carefully avoid
in any other specialized field.
In the first place, it must be taken in consideration that the training
the medical student received is almost the very opposite of that which
would be required of him, as a preparation for psychoanalysis. His
attention has simply been focused upon facts which may be objectively
ascertained, such as present themselves in anatomy, physics, and
chemistry, and which must be understood properly and applied correctly,
to achieve results.
As far as the psychological aspects of life are concerned, no interest
is created in the medical student. The study of higher mental
achievements is not considered to belong within the field of medicine,
but rather into the realm of another science. Psychiatry alone is
supposed to attend to disturbances of psychological functions, and it is
only too well known in which way, and with what objective in view this
is done: psychiatry simply tries to discover the physical reasons for
psychological disturbances, treating them in turn like any other
ailment.
Psychiatry is correct in that respect, and medical training apparently
excellent. Should it be maintained that psychiatry is one-sided, it will
be necessary to fix the point of view from which such a reproach may
arise.
Inherently, all science is one-sided, and must be one-sided, inasmuch as
any science is limited to certain subjects, points of view, and methods.
It is a nonsense which I do not wish to support that one science may be
played against any other. Physics after all, does not minimize the value
of chemistry; it cannot replace the latter nor be substituted for it.
And, surely, psychoanalysis is especially one-sided, as the science of
the psychological Unconscious.
Thus, the right to one-sidedness should not be denied to medicine.
However, a more practical point of view is gained if observations are
not made as to scientific medicine, but rather as to practical healing.
Sick people, presenting complicated problems, should impress upon us the
fact that psychological manifestations—be they ever so hard to
comprehend—cannot be simply eliminated from the picture. The neurotic,
more than any other patient, presents an undesirable complication. He
offers a dilemma, not less embarrassing to medicine than to law.
However, as long as such cases exist, they are a responsibility
especially of medicine. Nevertheless, medical training, sorry to say, is
not paying sufficient attention to such conditions,—doing nothing for
them. Absolutely nothing at all!
As there are very close inter-relations between those things we consider
physical and those which we look upon as psychological, it may be
expected that the day will come when organic biology and chemistry will
finally approach the understanding of neurotic manifestations. This day,
to be sure, seems to be in the distant future. At present, such ailments
are still unapproachable, from a medical angle.
If medical training would only deny information to the student in the
field of neurosis, this would be tolerable. But medical training is
doing more. It implants into the young student an incorrect and harmful
point of view. Physicians, whose interest for psychological facts has
not been awakened, have naturally a tendency of making little of such
facts, going even so far as to decry them as unscientific. Conditions of
neurotic character are hardly ever taken seriously by them, while their
lack of knowledge serves to breed disrespect for psychological research.
Thus, neurosis is not accorded sufficient attention.
Of course, these neurotics must be treated when they consult physicians,
and new discoveries must be tried out right along. But why go in for a
protracted period of preparation? It can be done without that! After
all, who knows whether there is really any value to that which is taught
in psychoanalytical institutes?
Thus, as usual, lack of information results in a most daring spirit of
enterprise. Only true initiates are modest, because they realize how
insufficient their knowledge is!
From all this, it follows that it is impossible to draw upon a
comparison of psychoanalysis with other branches of medicine, as you
attempted to do.
As far as surgery, and ophthalmology, are concerned, medical schools and
post graduate courses offer sufficient opportunities for training. The
psychoanalytical institutes are limited in number, young in years, and
lack the aureola of authority. Medical science has not recognized them,
nor does it give a hoot about them. On the other hand, the young
physician who has been forced to believe his teachers, to such a degree,
that he hardly ever had a chance to form his own judgment, will only be
too glad to try his hand at playing the critic, in a field where there
is no established authority as yet.
There are still other circumstances which favor the mushroom-like
increase of young physicians as psychoanalytical “quacks.”
If a physician would undertake cataract operations, without sufficient
training as an eye specialist, he would soon enough lose his patients.
Compared to this, the application of psychoanalysis hardly involves any
danger. The public, generally observing effective cataract operations,
expects results from a physician pretending to be an eye specialist.
However, if a nerve specialist does not achieve results, apparently
nobody is surprised. We surely have not been spoiled by the efficacy of
therapeutical treatment of nerve cases, and it seems to suffice that the
physician “tried everything.” Nature must simply assert herself and time
exert its healing propensities.
If the patient happens to be a young girl, it is first the menstruation
which is expected to work wonders, then marriage, and in later years,
change of life. In the end, death itself may finally prove the great
healer.
Moreover, whatever the medical analyst employed in the treatment of such
a case, is so inconspicuous, as to offer no cause for reproach. After
all, he did not resort to instruments, nor did he write prescriptions.
He just talked and talked, trying either to talk something into the
patient, or out of the patient.
How could such treatment do any damage, especially as extreme care had
been taken not to touch upon painful or exciting matters? The medical
analyst, once he has thrown the strict instructions overboard that were
given to him, will surely have tried to improve upon psychoanalysis by
extracting from it certain features—poisonous fangs, as it were—to make
analysis more acceptable to the patient. How splendid, if he really went
only as far as that and not so far as to awaken resistances which he
would be unable to cope with. He would be apt to make himself disliked
in such a case!
Justice demands that it be admitted that an untrained analyst cannot do
as much harm to a patient, as an untrained surgeon. The possible injury
may amount to unnecessary expenditure of money and time, and chances for
a cure may have either been destroyed, or else spoilt to a certain
degree. In addition to this, the reputation of psychoanalytical therapy
as a whole would suffer. All this is quite undesirable, but surely not
as serious as the damage that may arise from the knife of a surgical
“quack.” According to my observations, permanent aggravation of an
ailment is not to be expected from the incorrect application of
psychoanalysis. Reactions of an undesirable nature disappear quickly. In
comparison to the traumata inflicted by life itself, which resulted in
the disturbances, a little incorrect treatment does not amount to
anything. The unsuitable therapeutical attempt has simply not benefited
the patient.
“I have listened to your description of the ‘quack’ without interrupting
you, and have gained the impression that your position in regard to
physicians is barbed with hostility. The reason for this enmity is
obvious, from the many hints you have dropped. At any rate, I am of the
opinion that as long as psychoanalysis is to be employed, it should be
only by such persons as are thoroughly trained for it. But it seems that
you believe that even those physicians who may take up psychoanalysis,
in the course of time, will not go in for the necessary thorough
training?”
Exactly! As long as the relation between the medical schools and the
psychological institutes prevail as they do today, I do not think that
young physicians will resist the temptation of making things easy for
themselves.
“It appears to me that you constantly avoid making any direct statement
in regard to the problem of lay-analyses. Apparently, what you wish me
to surmise now is that it would be your suggestion to withhold, as a
means of revenge, as an act of punishment, so to speak, the monopoly of
practising psychoanalysis from physicians, because such physicians as
employ analysis, are beyond control. You would, however, permit the
application of such medical activity to laymen.”
I am not so sure that you surmised my motives correctly. Perhaps, I may
later on be in a position to prove to you that my point of view is not
as partial as all that. But be that as it may, _I strongly emphasize my
demand that nobody should be permitted to practise psychoanalysis,
unless he has obtained this privilege on the basis of thorough
training_. Whether such a person is a qualified physician or not does
not seem important to me.
“What, then, are your practical suggestions?”
I am not as far as that yet. I don’t even know whether I shall ever get
that far. There is some other question which I wish to take up with you,
and by way of introduction, touch upon a certain point.
It is reported that the authorities, on the strength of suggestions made
by medical bodies, may put a sweeping prohibition for the practise of
psychoanalysis by laymen on the statute books. Such prohibition would
naturally also hit the non-medical members of psychoanalytical
societies—men and women who have undergone a very thorough training and
improved themselves greatly by practice. Should such a sweeping
prohibition become an actual fact, the incongruous condition would then
present itself whereby people really capable of applying psychoanalysis
properly, would be excluded from this practice, while on the other hand,
this privilege would be extended to individuals insufficiently informed,
and not specially trained for such work.
Of course, no legislature aims at so absurd an effect.
But the dilemma that presents itself with this piece of legislature, is
neither important nor difficult. It would concern only a handful of
people who would not even suffer appreciably. Analogous to measures
enacted by monarchical Austria, republican Austria could also resort to
exception laws. Under the Hapsburg régime, it happened that certain
“quacks” whose ability in the treatment of certain diseases was
convincing, were privileged _ad personam_ to treat sick people. These
were mostly cases of rustic healers, who enjoyed the recommendation of
one of those exalted, once so plentiful, archduchesses. However, it
should be possible to assume that the benefit of such exception laws
should also pertain to city inhabitants, who are recommended by mere
experts.
Of course, if the law is put on the statutes in accordance with the
wording of the bill now pending, the Vienna Psychoanalytical Institute,
for example, would no longer be permitted to accept students, unless
they belonged to the medical profession. All these endeavors to restrict
the application of psychoanalysis hark back, more or less, to obsolete
legislature, dealing with quackery as such. This seems anachronistic,
inasmuch as at the time of the enactment of these anti-quackery laws,
the particular nature of neurotic disturbances had not yet been
discovered and psychoanalysis did not yet exist.
I am now approaching the question which appears most essential to me: Is
the practice of psychoanalysis of such a nature as to lend itself to the
interference of legislative authorities, or would it not be much better
to leave psychoanalysis to its natural development?
Of course, I shall not decide this question, but I am taking the liberty
of submitting it to you. It appears that in Austria, not unlike other
countries, by the way, there prevails a real _furor prohibendi_, a
veritable mania for prohibition and general interference, a trend which
usually, as is only too well known, makes for unsatisfactory results.
According to my own personal view, a superabundance of ordinances and
prohibitions will only serve to injure the dignity of the law. It may
usually be observed that wherever there are just a few laws, these laws
are strictly adhered to, whereas where laws exist in great numbers, the
temptation arises to break them.
Furthermore, a man cannot be considered an anarchist, simply because he
believes that legislative statutes—in the view of their very
origin—cannot very well be regarded as something holy that must never be
touched. Legislative measures sometimes are insufficient, or gradually
become that, at the same time outraging our innate sense for justice and
common sense. Then the time is on hand, where there is no other means of
correcting such unbearable conditions than to simply trespass against
such laws. It seems advisable, for the purpose of maintaining respect
for laws and ordinances, not to enact any which may be difficult to
enforce.
Much of what has been said here about the application of psychoanalysis
by physicians would have to be repeated with regard to lay-analyses
proper, which the legislatures of some countries are now prepared to
prohibit. In view of the fact that the application of the analysis is a
very simple procedure, consisting merely of conversation without
resorting to instruments or prescriptions, it would be rather difficult
to prove that a layman actually employed psychoanalysis, if he stoutly
maintained that he had merely benefited a person by administering a good
“talking to.” Such assistance, to a person in need of it, could not very
well be prohibited simply because a physician may once in a while resort
to the identical thing!
In English speaking countries, Christian Science has gained tremendous
popularity. To my mind, it constitutes a dialectic abnegation of such
evils as life presents, by resorting to the teaching of Christian
religion. I do not hesitate to state that such measures strike me as a
regrettable fallacy of the human mind. But who in the United States or
England would ever think of prohibiting Christian Science or seek to
punish its followers?
Generally speaking, is governmental authority always so certain to be on
the right side? Assumed even that many, left to their own devices, would
encounter danger and experience harm, would it not just the same be much
better if governmental authority would merely indicate dangerous ground,
but on the whole leave it to the individual to be taught by experience
and mutual influence?
Psychoanalysis is so new, the broad masses so insufficiently informed
about it, the official view of science still so vacillating, that it
appears to me as premature to impede its progress by legislative
measures.
Why not leave it to the patients themselves to learn that it is
dangerous for them to apply for psychological assistance to persons who
are not sufficiently informed?
If people are sufficiently enlightened and warned, prohibition will
surely prove superfluous.
On Italian highways, poles, carrying high tension electric power,
display this warning: “_Chi tocca, muore!_” Which has proven perfectly
sufficient. In contrast to this, in other countries, for example Austria
and Germany, this warning is of an insulting verbosity:— “Inasmuch as
touching these high tension wires is dangerous to life, it is herewith
strictly prohibited to meddle with them!” Why this prohibition? Whoever
cherishes his life will not touch them, and whoever wants to commit
suicide will surely not be detained by the warning.
“But there are cases which may be quoted as precedent for the
prohibition of lay-analyses. For example, the law against the practice
of hypnosis by laymen, and another enacted against occult séances and
the organization of spiritualistic societies.”[1]
I must admit that it is beyond me to admire these measures. As far as
the last mentioned prohibition is concerned, it surely constitutes a
case of grave over-officiousness, encroaching upon intellectual freedom.
As far as I am personally concerned, I do not think that anybody would
suspect me of having faith in occult phenomena, or of being interested
in its general acceptance. However, such prohibitive measures will never
serve to stifle the interest that some people manifest for the alleged
secrets of an occult world. Such officious interference may do a lot of
damage by preventing impartial seekers for truth to arrive at a finding
which would do away with occult misconceptions. Here also, we observe
the fact that other countries do not interfere with so-called
“parapsychic” research, but only Austria.
As far as hypnosis is concerned, it is somewhat different from analysis.
Hypnosis is nothing else but induction of an abnormal condition of the
soul, serving the layman merely as a means of entertainment. Had
hypnotic therapy fulfilled its early promise, conditions would have
evolved similar to those now prevailing in psychoanalysis.
Aside from this, the history of hypnosis contributes another precedent
for the fate of psychoanalysis. When I was still a young instructor of
neuropathology, physicians fervently fought against hypnosis, claiming
it to be nothing but a fake, an infernal delusion, a most dangerous
practice. Today, this same hypnosis has been monopolized by them. They
are resorting to it as a method of examination. For some nerve
specialists, hypnosis is their most important stock in trade.
However, I have already told you that I do not intend to discuss whether
restriction by law or a hands-off policy would be the most correct
procedure, concerning psychoanalysis. I know very well that this is a
question of principle which will be decided by the inclination of
influential people rather than by strict argumentation. What seems to me
to suggest a policy of _laissez faire_ I have already mentioned. But if
the decision should be one for active interference, then, to be sure, it
would appear to me as a one-sided and unjust measure to enact a sweeping
prohibition against the practice of psychoanalysis by laymen. Then, it
would be up to the legislature to fix the conditions under which the
application of psychoanalysis would be permissible for those who would
be privileged to employ it. It would also be necessary to appoint an
authority who could be appealed to for information, who would decide
what constitutes psychoanalysis, what the training would be, and how to
administer it.
Thus, things must either be left alone or else order must be created and
the situation, in general, clarified. But there is no use in simply
interfering with a complicated situation, by means of a prohibition,
which is based without much discretion, upon obsolete acts of an
antiquated legislature.
VIII
“But the physicians! It seems I am really unable to bring you to the
main point of our conversation. You are continually evading me. After
all, the question before us is whether physicians should be given the
exclusive right to employ psychoanalysis, that is, after they have
fulfilled certain conditions, if you should insist upon such. According
to your own statement, the majority of ‘quacks,’ dabbling with
psychoanalysis, does not consist of physicians. You also admit that the
greatest number of your disciples and followers are physicians. I have
heard that these do not share your point of view, in regard to
lay-analyses.
“Of course, it is to be expected that your disciples agree with you in
the question of sufficient training. Just the same, they hold the laymen
should be excluded from the practice of psychoanalysis. Is that really
the case? And if so, how do you account for it?”
You are correctly informed. Not all, but a great number of my medically
trained collaborators do not side with me in this matter, but insist
that psychoanalytical treatment of neurotics be exclusively reserved for
physicians. From this, you may gather that even within the limits of our
own camps, there prevails a difference of opinion. Although my point of
view is very well known, the divergence of opinion in matters of
lay-analyses, in no way interferes with an otherwise splendid harmony.
How to explain this position of some of my disciples?
I am not so sure, but I assume that professional pride is behind it. You
see, their process of development has been different from mine. That
they find themselves somewhat isolated from their colleagues, is still
annoying them. They would like to be considered, by the profession as a
whole, as members in good standing, so to say. Thus, in order to win the
tolerance of their Æsculapian brothers, they are willing to make a
sacrifice, whose value is apparently not clear to them.
Of course, I may be wrong here. To assume that fear of competition is
dictating their position, would not only amount to suspecting them of a
low motive, but also condemn them for a peculiar shortsightedness. After
all, as long as they are ready to initiate colleagues into
psychoanalysis, it can be of no importance to them whether they will
have to share prospective patients with them, or with laymen.
Probably, there is something else to be considered. They may be
impressed by certain features which, in the practice of psychoanalysis
assure the physician of an unquestionable advantage over the layman.
“There you are:—‘Assure the advantage’! At last, you admit this
advantage! I should think this admission settles our argument.”
I admit this advantage. Perhaps by doing so I shall prove to you that I
am not as passionately deluded as you think. I postponed mentioning
these conditions, because in airing them, additional theoretical
discussion is necessary.
“What are you driving at now?”
There is first the question of diagnosis. Before admitting a patient,
suffering from nervous disturbances, to psychoanalytical treatment, one
naturally desires to have as much assurance as possible that this
therapy is suitable in that particular case, that is, that the patient
has a good chance of being benefited by psychoanalysis. This can only be
the case, if he is actually suffering from neurosis.
“I should think that would be easily ascertained, by the symptoms he
complains about.”
You are putting your finger just on the point, where new complications
may arise. It is not always possible to be perfectly sure of such a
case. The patient, in spite of displaying all the visible symptoms of
neurosis, may actually be suffering from something else. The incipient
stage of a mental disease, for example, or the beginning of a process
destroying his brain. To distinguish between such symptoms is not always
easy or possible. Responsibility for such a decision must naturally be
assumed by the physician alone. And as mentioned before, it is not so
easy for him. For the longest time, an ailment may appear absolutely
harmless, until finally manifesting its malignant character. Nervous
people, as a rule, fear that they may be on the road to some mental
disease.
Assumed that a physician has not correctly diagnosed a case, or has been
unable to discover its true nature, nothing has been lost, no damage has
been done. Analytical treatment, although not doing any harm to the
patient, would have been superfluous in such a case. It might have given
any number of people a chance to lay the blame for the unfortunate
development of the case at the door of psychoanalysis. Unjustly so, to
be sure, but such a likelihood should be avoided nevertheless.
“That sounds hopeless. It apparently tears out, by the very roots,
everything you told me about the nature and development of a neurosis.”
Not at all. It only strengthens the fact that neurotics are a nuisance
and a dilemma for all parties concerned, including the psychoanalysts. I
may be able to alleviate your new apprehensions if I make myself
clearer. Probably it would be more correct to say of such cases, as we
now have under discussion, that they actually present neuroses. However,
these neuroses are not psychic but rather somatic, that is, they do not
originate from the soul, but rather from the body. Do you understand me?
“I do. But I am at a loss to connect all this with the psychological
aspect.”
That can easily be done, if only complications of the living substance
are sufficiently taken into consideration. What was the inherent feature
of a neurosis? That the “I,” constituting the very essence of the soul,
so to speak, developed and improved by the influence of the outer world,
proved unable to fulfill its mediating functions between the “It” and
reality; that the “I,” on account of its weakness, shirked its duties in
regard to the “It,” thus incurring repressions from which it suffers. It
is because such weakness of the “I” regularly takes place in all of us
in childhood that events of our tender years exert such great importance
in later life.
In the few years of our childhood, we have to cover the enormous
distance of development from primitive man of the Stone Age to civilized
man of today. In addition to this tremendous burden, the child has to
ward off the urges of an early sexuality. Small wonder, then, that our
“I” takes recourse to repressions, thus exposing itself to childhood
neuroses, the effects of which in turn furnish the disposition for
nervous disturbances in more mature years.
Everything now depends upon how the growing up individual will be
treated by fate. If life is too hard, the divergence between urges and
the opposition of reality too great, the “I” may remain unsuccessful in
its endeavors to mediate between the two. This is the more probable, the
more the “I” is encroached upon by such infantile dispositions as it may
have acquired in tender years. Thus, the process of repression is
repeated; urges tear themselves free from the sovereignty of the “I” to
gain, by way of regression, a substitute for the gratification they
crave, while the poor “I” has become helplessly neurotic.
Let us hold on firmly to this: that the most important, the pivotal
point in the whole situation, so to speak, is the relative strength of
the “I” in all its phases. It is easy, then, to complete our whole
etiological survey, that is our endeavor to assign causes to the
phenomena observed. We already know the normal causes for nervousness to
be the infantile weakness of the “I,” the checking of early sexual
urges, and the influence of chance episodes in our childhood.
But is there no possibility that there are also some other contributory
factors, antedating childhood? For example, an inborn strength and
unruliness of those urges which constitute the “It,” presenting right
from the very start a task much too difficult for the “I”? Or could a
certain weakness, existing for reasons unknown, in the development of
the “I” be held responsible? Of course, all these possibilities will
exert an etiological importance, in some cases of surpassing value.
The specific driving power of the “It” must always be taken into
consideration, and wherever it is developed to an excessive degree,
there are only meagre chances for a successful application of our
therapy. Of the reasons that block the development of the “I,” we still
know too little to account for such cases of neurosis which arise on a
constitutional basis. It may be assumed that neurosis hardly ever
develops unless there are constitutional or congenital factors
increasing the possibility for such a condition. However, if it is
correct that the relative weakness of the “I” is the deciding factor for
the development of neuroses, then it would also appear possible that
later, physical disturbances may result in a neurosis provided it also
results in a weakening of the “I.”
This happens only too frequently. Such a physical disturbance may aim at
the “It,” intensifying its urges to an extent where the “I” is not able
to cope with them any more. As an example for such developments, the
changes induced in woman by the disturbances of menstruation and
menopause could perhaps be drawn upon. Other reasons that may weaken the
“I” are general physical disturbances, organic diseases of the central
nervous system. All of these may result in interference with those
sources from which the soul apparatus draws its strength, to lead, in
turn, to an encroachment of its more delicate functions, which are
necessary to maintain unimpaired the whole “I” organization. In all
these cases, neurosis presents about the same picture. However, while
manifesting the same psychological mechanism, neuroses develop on the
basis of a multifarious, frequently highly complicated etiology; that
is, they arise from a great number of various causes.
“That suits me better. At last you have spoken like a physician. And now
I am waiting for you to admit that so complicated a condition as a
neurosis should only be treated by a physician.”
I am afraid you are expecting too much. What we have just discussed
belonged in the realm of pathology. Psychoanalysis, however, is a
therapeutical process. I admit, no, I even insist, that a physician
should first diagnose each and every case where psychoanalysis seems
applicable. Fortunately, the greater number of neuroses are of a
psychical nature and not pathologically induced. As soon as the
physician has ascertained this, he may safely leave the treatment to the
lay-analyst. We have always followed this procedure within our
analytical societies. Thanks to this close coöperation between the
medically trained and non-trained members, errors almost never occur.
There is another emergency when the analyst has to invite the assistance
of a physician. It is possible that, in the course of psychoanalytical
treatment, symptoms—mostly of physical nature—appear which may either be
part of the neurosis, or else manifestations of independent, organic
disturbances. Here, the decision must once more be left to the
physician.
“From all this, there follows that the analysts, even during the
analysis, cannot dispense with the physician. This is another argument
against lay-analyses.”
No, this possibility cannot be drawn upon as an argument against
lay-analyses, because in an analogous case the medically trained analyst
would not proceed any differently.
“I do not understand that.”
There is a rule that even a medically trained analyst, running across
such dubious symptoms in the course of the treatment, is not to depend
on his own judgment, but to consult some colleague, preferably a
specialist of internal diseases.
“Why this rule, apparently so superfluous?”
This rule is not superfluous at all. There are several reasons for it.
In the first place, it is hard to combine organic and psychical
treatment. In the second place, the particular condition of transference
frequently prevailing in analyses may make it inadvisable for the
analyst to subject his patient to physical examination. In the third
place, there are all the reasons in the world for the analyst to doubt
his own opinion, inasmuch as he is so intensely interested in the
psychical aspects of the case.
“I now understand your position towards lay-analyses. You insist that
there must be lay-analysts. However, as you have to admit their
insufficiency for the task, you compile everything that could serve to
excuse them, and make things in general easier for them. To be frank
with you, I cannot understand why we should have lay-analysts at all,
inasmuch as they would never be more than second-class therapeutists.
This need not include those few laymen who have already received their
training, but institutes for psychological training should not accept
laymen any more.”
I would assent to all this, if I could be shown that such restrictions
would benefit all parties interested. You will admit that these
interests are tri-fold:—There is the interest of the patient, the
interest of the physicians, and last but not least, the interest of
science which, in turn, includes the interest of all patients of the
future. Let us investigate these three points.
It does not matter whether the patient be analysed by a physician or a
layman, as long as any danger of mistaking his condition is excluded by
being properly examined by a physician before the beginning of the
treatment, or re-examined as soon as developments, in the course of the
analysis, make this advisable. It is much more important for the patient
that the analyst possesses those personal qualities which invite full
confidence, and that he has that knowledge and experience which alone
qualify him to apply psychoanalysis. To some people, it may seem that it
might undermine the authority of the analyst to have his patient know
that he is no physician and must obtain the advice of a medically
trained expert in certain matters. However, although we have never kept
a patient in the dark, as to the qualifications of an analyst, we have
come to the conclusion that the patients have no prejudice against a
non-medically trained analyst; they are only too glad to accept the
benefits of treatment, wherever they offer themselves—a fact resented by
the medical profession for the longest time.
It also must be considered that analysts, practising today, are men and
women with academic training and degrees, pedagogues, of great
experience and impressive personality. The analysis, to which all
candidates of psychoanalytical institutes are required to submit, is the
best means of testing their personal suitability for the performance of
so exerting an activity as an analysis presents.
In reference to the interest of the physicians, I do not believe that
medicine has anything to gain by annexing psychoanalysis. Today, medical
training requires five years, with almost a whole sixth year taken up
with examinations. Ever so often, new demands in regard to training are
made with which the young student must comply, if his medical education
is to be considered adequate. Generally speaking, while it is difficult
today to enter the medical profession, the practice of medicine is
neither very satisfactory nor very advantageous. And as soon as the
undoubtedly justified necessity is realized that the physician be also
informed of the psychological aspects of diseases, thus including in
medical training a partial preparation for psychoanalysis, there would
follow an extension of the medical curriculum and a corresponding
extension of the period of training. I do not know how physicians would
like such a development, arising from the monopoly they claim on
psychoanalysis. But these demands would then have to be fulfilled and at
a time when, in general, the material aspects of those strata of society
which contribute the greatest contingent to the medical profession, are
such that young physicians must establish a practice, as soon as
possible.
However, the medical profession may not intend to include preparation
for psychoanalysis into the medical curriculum proper. The general
opinion may be that it is much more practical for the young physician to
acquire psychoanalytical knowledge only after having completed his
medical education. It may be said that such a procedure would not
involve any actual loss of time, inasmuch as a young man under thirty
never gains that confidence of patients which is an indispensable
condition for benefiting a patient psychoanalytically. Of course, it
could be said that a young physician, too, who has just won his diploma,
cannot command too much respect, as regards his opinion of the physical
ailments of his patients, and that the young analyst could very well
utilize his time, by working in a psychological clinic, under the
supervision of an experienced practitioner.
It seems to me that the aforementioned demand amounts to a waste of
energy which, in view of economic conditions, does not seem justified.
Although analytical training invades the field of medical training, it
neither includes this training, nor is included by it. If a
psychoanalytical college were to be organized, which today may strike
one as being a fantastic idea, the curriculum of this institution would
have to include much of what is taught in medical schools. Aside from
the Psychology of the Depths, which would naturally always be the main
subject taught, Biology would have to be included in the course, and
Science of Sex would also be one of the major subjects. In addition,
adequate instruction would have to be given on such disturbances which
belong in the realm of Psychiatry. Psychoanalytical training would have
to include a number of subjects which have no connection with medicine,
and never enter the physician’s practice, such as History of
Civilization, Mythology, Psychology of Religion, and Literature. Without
being well acquainted with these subjects, the analyst will be unable to
grasp the problems that will face him in the course of his practice.
Most of the subjects, however, belonging to medical training, will not
be of any use to him and although all this knowledge is highly valuable
for those who need it, it would not assist the analyst to understand a
neurotic condition nor to alleviate it. In case the objection is made
here that specialists in other fields of medical endeavor, also do not
need all the details they acquire in the course of their training, it
must be said that such a case could not be considered analogous. For
many branches of medicine, such facts as, for example, Pathology
presents, are of great importance. The analyst, however, reaches out for
a variety of experiences, with different phenomena, underlying different
laws. Although philosophy may succeed in bridging the chasm between body
and soul, as far as our own experience is concerned, this chasm,
nevertheless, exists, presenting itself in an especially striking light,
as regards our practical endeavors.
It seems unjust and impractical to force a person to take a roundabout
route via medical training, if this person be bent upon relieving
another individual from the agonies of a phobia or a fixed idea.
Moreover, such a procedure would be ineffective, as long as
psychoanalysis in general is not suppressed.
Just imagine that somewhere in the country, there is a certain mountain
top that can be reached by two different roads, the one being short and
straight, and the other long and winding. An attempt is made to block
the short road by a “no-trespass” sign. There is some chance of this
sign being respected, if the short road is steep and difficult to climb,
whereas the long road is easy to travel. However, if the detour should
be the more difficult road, you can easily surmise how little the
trespassing sign would be respected.
I am very much afraid it will be just as difficult to force the laymen
to study medicine, as it is for me to induce physicians to study
psychoanalysis. Human nature is like that.
“If you are correct in your assumption that analytical treatment cannot
be administered without a special training, but that on the other hand
the medical curriculum could not bear the burden of psychoanalytical
training, and that medical knowledge, to the greatest extent, is
superfluous for the analyst, how will we ever achieve the ideal medical
personality, the physician who can cope with all the demands of his
profession?”
I am unable to foresee how to solve these difficulties, and I do not
feel called upon to make any suggestions. I only perceive two things
clearly: firstly, that the analysis seems to constitute a dilemma, but
certainly the neurotic is also a dilemma; secondly, that for the time
being, all interests would be served if physicians resolve to tolerate a
class of therapeutists who will relieve them of the arduous treatment of
those tremendously frequent psychical neuroses, in addition benefiting
the patients by remaining in constant contact with them.
“Is that your last word in reference to the problem of lay-analyses, or
is there something else?”
There is a third interest to be considered:—that of science. Although
what I have to say in that respect may not mean much to you, it
nevertheless means a good deal to me.
We do not consider it advisable that psychoanalysis be swallowed up by
medicine, finally to be shelved in a text-book of psychiatry, under the
chapter heading of Therapy, together with such other treatments as
Hypnotic Suggestion, Auto Suggestion, Persuasion which, due to lack of
knowledge, were indebted for their short lives to the indolence and
ignorance of the broad masses. Psychoanalysis deserves a better fate,
which, let us hope, it will really attain.
As the Psychology of the Depths, the teaching of the Unconscious,
psychoanalysis may prove indispensable to all sciences which deal with
the development of human culture, and such of its great achievements as
art, religion, and civilized society. Psychoanalysis has already
appreciably assisted these sciences in the solution of their problems.
But all this is insignificant, compared to what may be achieved through
psychoanalysis in the future, when students of History, Psychology of
Religion, and Etymology, will avail themselves to the fullest extent of
the assistance psychoanalysis will be able to render them.
The employment of psychoanalysis for the treatment of neuroses is only
one of its possibilities, and time may yet prove that this is not even
the most important of them. At any rate, it would be unfair to sacrifice
all other advantages of psychoanalysis, simply because there is just one
phase where the application of psychoanalysis encroaches upon the
preserves of medicine.
Here another aspect manifests itself which cannot be interfered with,
without causing damage. If the representatives of the different sciences
should really take up the study of psychoanalysis, to apply it in their
own spheres of interest, it would not suffice for them to merely avail
themselves of such results as have been recorded in psychoanalytical
literature. They will have to come to an understanding of psychoanalysis
in the only way possible, that is, by submitting themselves to analysis.
Thus, to the neurotics in need of analysis, a second class of persons
would be added: those who undergo analysis for intellectual reasons and
who would welcome that intensification of their efficiency which would
result incidentally from analysis. To undertake these analyses, a number
of analysts would be necessary for whom medical knowledge would be of
specially limited importance. However, these instructor-analysts—as they
ought to be called—are in need of an especially thorough training, which
they can only obtain if they are given opportunities to study
interesting and convincing cases. Inasmuch as healthy persons do not
feel the necessity and curiosity to be analysed, neurotics would have to
be the objects of study for the instructor-analysts. Their study would
be guided by expert analysts, with a special eye to their future,
non-medical work. Of course, all this necessitates a certain amount of
freedom of action, and would not brook petty interference.
Perhaps you do not believe in these strictly theoretical endeavors of
psychoanalysis, and are not ready to admit their importance, in
connection with the practical side of the problem of lay-analyses. In
that case, let me remind you that there is another field for the
application of psychoanalysis, outside the hunting ground of the
“quack”—a field which physicians will hardly claim as their own. I
allude to the application of psychoanalysis to pedagogy.
As soon as a child manifests the first signs of an undesirable
development, by being moody, stubborn and inattentive, neither the child
specialist nor the school physician will be able to do anything for him;
not even when a child shows such clear signs of nervous disturbances as
timidity, lack of appetite, vomiting, and sleeplessness. A treatment
which combines analytical influence with pedagogic measures and is
applied by persons who are not above delving into the child’s own world
and who understand how to penetrate the soul life of the child, will
succeed not only in dissolving nervous disturbances, but also in
reversing incipient traits of character.
The importance which we were forced to attach to apparently unimportant
neurotic conditions of children, in view of the fact that they very
often serve as a disposition for disturbances in later life, would prove
that the analyses of children constitute a splendid means of
prophylaxis. Although psychoanalysis still has its enemies, I do not
know what means are at their disposal to hinder the activity of a
pedagogic analyst, or analytical pedagogue, and I doubt whether this
could be done so easily.
To return once more to the problem of the analytical treatment of
adults, suffering from nervous disturbances, we have not yet exhausted
all points of view. Civilized life of today exerts an almost unbearable
pressure, which necessitates corrective measures. Does it seem too
fantastic to expect that psychoanalysis, in spite of the many
difficulties it encounters, should be called upon to furnish this
corrective agent? Maybe some American millionaire will one day donate
enough money for the psychoanalytical training of the social workers of
his country, thus creating an emergency corps, to fight neurotic
conditions brought about by present-day life.
“You mean some sort of a new Salvation Army?”
Why not? After all, our fancy always follows existing patterns. The
stream of eager students that will then flood towards Europe, will, of
course, have to pass Vienna, because there the development of
psychoanalysis may have prematurely died, on account of governmental
interference. You smile? I’m not saying this to sway your judgment. I
know you don’t believe me, and I surely cannot guarantee that my
predictions will come true. But there is one thing I know: it is not at
all important what the opinions of individuals and of individual
governments may be, in respect to the problem of lay-analyses. All this
can only have limited effects. What is really important is that
potentialities for the development of psychoanalysis cannot be affected
by ordinances and prohibitions.
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL STUDY
I
Several of the contributors to this series of “Autobiographical
Studies”[2] have begun by expressing their misgivings at the unusual
difficulties of the task they have undertaken. The difficulties in my
case are, I think, even greater; for I have already more than once
published papers upon the same lines as the present one, papers which,
from the nature of the subject, have dealt more with personal
considerations than is usual or than would otherwise have been
necessary.
I gave my first account of the development and subject-matter of
psychoanalysis in five lectures which I delivered in 1909 before Clark
University at Worcester, Mass., where I had been invited to attend the
celebration of the twentieth anniversary of the foundation of that
body.[3] Only recently I gave way to the temptation of making a
contribution of a similar kind to an American collective publication
dealing with the opening years of the twentieth century, since its
editors had shown their recognition of the importance of psychoanalysis
by allotting a special chapter to it.[4] Between these two dates
appeared a paper, “On the History of the Psycho-Analytic Movement,”[5]
which, in fact, contains the essence of all that I can say on the
present occasion. Since I must not contradict myself and since I have no
wish to repeat myself exactly, I must endeavor to construct a narrative
in which subjective and objective attitudes, biographical and historical
interests, are combined in a new proportion.
I was born on May 6th, 1856, at Freiberg in Moravia, a small town in
what is now Czecho-Slovakia. My parents were Jews, and I have remained a
Jew myself. I have reason to believe that my father’s family were
settled for a long time on the Rhine (at Cologne), that, as a result of
a persecution of the Jews during the fourteenth or fifteenth century,
they fled eastwards, and that, in the course of the nineteenth century,
they migrated back from Lithuania through Galicia into German Austria.
When I was a child of four I came to Vienna, and I went through the
whole of my education there. At the Gymnasium I was at the top of my
class for seven years; I enjoyed special privileges there, and was
scarcely obliged to pass any examinations. Although we lived in very
limited circumstances, my father insisted that, in my choice of a
profession, I should follow my own inclinations. Neither at that time,
nor indeed in my later life, did I feel any particular predilection for
the career of a physician. I was moved, rather, by a sort of curiosity,
which was, however, directed more towards human concerns than towards
natural objects; nor had I recognized the importance of observation as
one of the best means of gratifying it. At the same time, the theories
of Darwin, which were then of topical interest, strongly attracted me,
for they held out hopes of an extraordinary advance in our understanding
of the world; and it was hearing Goethe’s beautiful essay on Nature read
aloud at a popular lecture just before I left school that decided me to
become a medical student.
When, in 1873, I first joined the University, I was met by some
appreciable disappointments. Above all, I found that I was expected to
feel myself inferior and an alien, because I was a Jew. I refused
absolutely to do the first of these things. I have never been able to
see why I should feel ashamed of my descent or, as people were beginning
to say, of my race. I put up, without much regret, with my nonadmission
to the community; for it seemed to me that in spite of this exclusion an
active fellow-worker could not fail to find some nook or cranny in the
frame-work of humanity. These first impressions at the University,
however, had one consequence which was afterwards to prove important;
for at an early age I was made familiar with the fate of being in the
Opposition and of being put under the ban of the “compact majority.” The
foundations were thus laid for a certain degree of independence of
judgment.
I was compelled, moreover, during my first years at the University, to
make the discovery that the peculiarities and limitations of my gifts
denied me all success in many of the departments of science into which
my youthful eagerness had plunged me. Thus I learned the truth of
Mephistopheles’ warning:
“Vergebens, dass ihr ringsum wissenschaftlich schweift,
Ein jeder lernt nur, was er lernen kann.”[6]
At length, in Ernst Brücke’s physiological laboratory, I found rest and
satisfaction—and men, too, whom I could respect and take as my models.
Brücke gave me a problem to work out in the histology of the nervous
system; I succeeded in solving it to his satisfaction and in carrying
the work further on my own account. I worked at this Institute, with
short interruptions, from 1876 to 1882, and it was generally thought
that I was marked out to fill the next post of Assistant that might fall
vacant there. The various branches of medicine proper, apart from
psychiatry, had no attraction for me. I was decidedly negligent in
pursuing my medical studies, and it was not until 1881 that I took my
somewhat belated degree as a Doctor of Medicine.
The turning point came in 1882, when my teacher, for whom I felt the
highest possible esteem, corrected my father’s generous improvidence by
strongly advising me, in view of my bad financial position, to abandon
my theoretical career. I followed his advice, left the physiological
laboratory and entered the General Hospital[7] as an “Aspirant.” I was
soon afterwards promoted to being a junior physician, and worked in
various departments of the hospital, amongst others for more than six
months under Meynert, by whose work and personality I had been greatly
struck while I was still a student.
In a certain sense I nevertheless remained faithful to the line of work
upon which I had originally started. The subject which Brücke had
proposed for my investigations had been the spinal cord of one of the
lowest of the fishes (Ammocoetes Petromyzon); and I now passed on to the
human central nervous system. Just at this time Flechsig’s discoveries
of the non-simultaneity of the formation of the medullary sheaths were
throwing a revealing light upon the intricate course of its tracts. The
fact that I began by choosing the medulla oblongata as the one and only
subject of my work was another sign of the continuity of my development.
In complete contrast to the diffuse character of my studies during my
earlier years at the University, I was now developing an inclination to
concentrate my work exclusively upon a single subject or problem. This
inclination has persisted and has since led to my being accused of
one-sidedness.
I now became as active a worker in the Institute of Cerebral Anatomy as
I had previously been in the physiological one. Some short papers upon
the course of the tracts and the nuclear origins in the medulla
oblongata date from these hospital years, and my results were regularly
noted down by Edinger. One day Meynert, who had given me access to the
laboratory even during the times when I was not actually working under
him, proposed that I should definitely devote myself to the anatomy of
the brain, and promised to hand over his lecturing work to me, as he
felt he was too old to manage the newer methods. This I declined, in
alarm at the magnitude of the task; it is possible, too, that I had
guessed already that this great man was by no means kindly disposed
towards me.
From the practical point of view, brain anatomy was certainly no better
than physiology, and, with an eye to material considerations, I began to
study nervous diseases. There were, at that time, few specialists in
that branch of medicine in Vienna, the material for its study was
distributed over a number of different departments of the hospital,
there was no satisfactory opportunity of learning the subject, and one
was forced to be one’s own teacher. Even Nothnagel, who had been
appointed a short time before, on account of his book upon cerebral
localization, did not single out neuropathology from among the other
subdivisions of medicine. In the distance glimmered the great name of
Charcot; so I formed a plan of first obtaining an appointment as
Lecturer on Nervous Diseases in Vienna and of then going to Paris to
continue my studies.
In the course of the following years, while I continued to work as a
junior physician, I published a number of clinical observations upon
organic diseases of the nervous system. I gradually became familiar with
the ground; I was able to localize the site of a lesion in the medulla
oblongata so accurately that the pathological anatomist had no further
information to add; I was the first person in Vienna to send a case for
autopsy with a diagnosis of polyneuritis acuta. The fame of my diagnoses
and their _post mortem_ confirmation brought me an influx of American
physicians, to whom I lectured upon the patients in my department in a
sort of pidgin-English. I understood nothing about the neuroses. On one
occasion I introduced to my audience a neurotic suffering from a
persistent headache as a case of chronic localized meningitis; they
quite rightly rose in revolt against me, and my premature activities as
a teacher came to an end. By way of excuse I may add that this happened
at a time when greater authorities than myself in Vienna were in the
habit of diagnosing neurasthenia as cerebral tumor.
In the spring of 1885 I was appointed Lecturer on Neuropathology on the
ground of my histological and clinical publications. Soon afterwards, as
the result of a warm testimonial from Brücke, I was awarded a Traveling
Fellowship of considerable value. In the autumn of the same year I made
the journey to Paris.
I became a student at the Salpêtrière, but as one of the crowd of
foreign visitors, I had little attention paid me to begin with. One day
in my hearing Charcot expressed his regret that since the war he had
heard nothing from the German translator of his lectures; he went on to
say that he would be glad if someone would undertake to translate the
new volume of his lectures into German. I wrote to him and offered to do
so; I can still remember a phrase in the letter, to the effect that I
suffered only from _l’aphasie motrice_ and not from _l’aphasie
sensorielle du français_. Charcot accepted the offer, I was admitted to
the circle of his personal acquaintances, and from that time forward I
took a full part in all that went on at the Clinic.
As I write these lines, a number of papers and newspaper-articles have
reached me from France, which gave evidence of a violent objection to
the acceptance of psychoanalysis, and which often make the most
inaccurate assertions in regard to my relations with the French school.
I read, for instance, that I made use of my visit to Paris to
familiarize myself with the theories of Pierre Janet and then made off
with my booty. I should therefore like to say explicitly that during the
whole of my visit to the Salpêtrière, Janet’s name was never so much as
mentioned.
What impressed me most of all while I was with Charcot were his latest
investigations upon hysteria, some of which were carried out under my
own eyes. He had proved, for instance, the genuineness of hysterical
phenomena and their conformity to laws (“_introite et hic dii sunt_”),
the frequent occurrence of hysteria in men, the production of hysterical
paralyses and contractures by hypnotic suggestion and the fact that such
artificial products showed, down to their smallest details, the same
features as spontaneous attacks, which were often brought on
traumatically. Many of Charcot’s demonstrations began by provoking in me
and in other visitors a sense of astonishment and an inclination to
scepticism, which we tried to justify by an appeal to one of the
theories of the day. He was always friendly and patient in dealing with
such doubts, but he was also most decided; it was in one of these
discussions that (speaking of theory) he remarked, “_Ça n’empêche pas
d’exister_,” a _mot_ which left an indelible mark upon my mind.
No doubt the whole of what Charcot taught us at that time does not hold
good today: some of it has become doubtful, some has definitely failed
to withstand the test of time. But enough is left over, and has found a
permanent place in the storehouse of science. Before leaving Paris I
discussed with the great man a plan for a comparative study of
hysterical and organic paralyses. I wished to establish the thesis that
in hysteria paralyses and anæsthesias of the various parts of the body
are demarcated according to the popular idea of their limits and not
according to anatomical facts. He agreed with this view, but it was easy
to see that in reality he took no special interest in penetrating more
deeply into the psychology of the neuroses. When all is said and done,
it was from pathological anatomy that his work had started.
Before I returned to Vienna I stopped for a few weeks in Berlin, in
order to gain a little knowledge of the general disorders of childhood.
Kassowitz, who was at the head of a public institute in Vienna for the
treatment of children’s diseases, had promised to put me in charge of a
department for the nervous diseases of children. In Berlin I was given
assistance and a friendly reception by Baginsky. In the course of the
next few years I published, from the Kassowitz Institute, several
monographs of considerable size on unilateral and bilateral cerebral
palsies in children. And for that reason, at a later date (in 1897),
Nothnagel made me responsible for dealing with the same subject in his
great _Handbuch der allgemeinen und speziellen Therapie_.
In the autumn of 1886 I settled down in Vienna as a physician, and
married the girl who had been waiting for me in a distant city for more
than four years. I may here go back a little and explain how it was the
fault of my _fiancée_ that I was not already famous at that early age. A
side interest, though it was a deep one, had led me in 1884 to obtain
from Merck some of what was then the little-known alkaloid cocaine and
to study its physiological action. While I was in the middle of this
work, an opportunity arose for making a journey to visit my _fiancée_,
from whom I had been parted for two years. I hastily wound up my
investigation of cocaine and contented myself in my book on the subject
with prophesying that further uses for it would soon be found. I
suggested, however, to my friend, L. Königstein, the ophthalmologist,
that he should investigate the question of how far the anæsthetizing
properties of cocaine were applicable in diseases of the eye. When I
returned from my holiday I found that not he, but another of my friends,
Carl Koller (now in New York), to whom I had also spoken about cocaine,
had made the decisive experiments upon animals’ eyes and had
demonstrated them at the Ophthalmological Congress at Heidelberg. Koller
is therefore rightly regarded as the discoverer of local anæsthesia by
cocaine, which has become so important in minor surgery; but I bore my
_fiancée_ no grudge for my neglected opportunity.
I will now return to the year of 1886, the time of my settling down in
Vienna as a specialist in nervous diseases. The duty devolved upon me of
giving a report before the “Gesellschaft der Aerzte” [Society of
Medicine] upon what I had seen and learnt with Charcot. But I met with a
bad reception. Persons of authority, such as the chairman (Bamberger,
the physician), declared that what I said was incredible. Meynert urged
me to find some cases in Vienna similar to those which I had described
and to present them before the Society. I tried to do so; but the senior
physicians in whose departments I found any such cases, refused to allow
me to observe them or to work at them. One of them, an old surgeon,
actually broke out with the exclamation: “But, my dear sir, how can you
talk such nonsense? _Hysteron_ (sic) means the uterus. So how can a man
be hysterical?” I objected in vain that what I wanted was, not to have
my diagnosis approved, but to have the case put at my disposal. At
length, outside the hospital, I came upon a case of classical hysterical
hemi-anæsthesia in a man, and demonstrated it before the “Gesellschaft
der Aerzte.” This time I was applauded, but no further interest was
taken in me. The impression that the great authorities had rejected my
innovations remained unshaken; and, with my hysteria in men and my
production of hysterical paralyses by suggestion, I found myself forced
into the Opposition. As I was soon afterwards excluded from the
laboratory of cerebral anatomy and for a whole term had nowhere to
deliver my lectures, I withdrew from academic life and ceased to attend
the learned societies. It is a whole generation since I have visited the
“Gesellschaft der Aerzte.”
Anyone who wanted to make a living from the treatment of nerve-patients
must clearly be able to do something to help them. My therapeutic
arsenal contained only two weapons, electrotherapy and hypnosis, for
prescribing a visit to a hydropathic establishment after a single
consultation was an inadequate source of income. My knowledge of
electrotherapy was derived from W. Erb’s text-book, which provided
detailed instructions for the treatment of all the symptoms of nervous
diseases. Unluckily I was soon driven to see that following these
instructions was of no help whatever and that what I had taken for an
epitome of exact observations was merely the construction of phantasy.
The realization that the work of the greatest name in German
neuropathology had no more relation to reality than some “Egyptian”
dream-book, such as are sold in cheap book-shops, was painful, but it
helped to rid me of yet another piece of the innocent faith in authority
by which I was still obsessed. So I put my electrical apparatus aside,
even before Möbius had solved the problem by explaining that the
successes of electric treatment in nervous disorders (in so far as there
were any) were the effect of suggestion on the part of the physician.
With hypnosis the case was better. While I was still a student I had
attended a public exhibition given by the “magnetist” Hansen and had
noticed that one of the persons experimented upon had became deathly
pale at the onset of cataleptic rigidity and had remained so as long as
that condition lasted. This firmly convinced me of the genuineness of
the phenomena of hypnosis. Scientific support was soon afterwards given
to this view by Heidenhain; but that did not restrain the professors of
psychiatry from declaring for a long time to come that hypnosis was not
only fraudulent but dangerous and from regarding hypnotists with
contempt. In Paris I had seen hypnosis used freely as a method for
producing symptoms in patients and then removing them again. And now the
news reached us that a school had arisen at Nancy which made an
extensive and remarkably successful use of suggestion, with or without
hypnosis, for therapeutic purposes. It thus came about, as a matter of
course, that in the first years of my activity as a physician my
principal instrument of work, apart from haphazard and unsystematic
psycho-therapeutic methods, was hypnotic suggestion.
This implied, of course, that I abandoned the treatment of organic
nervous diseases; but that was of little importance. For on the one hand
the prospects in the treatment of such disorders were in any case never
promising, while on the other hand, in the private practice of a
physician working in a large town, the quality of such patients was
nothing compared to the crowds of neurotics, whose number seemed further
multiplied by the manner in which they hurried, with their troubles
unsolved, from one physician to another. And apart from this, there was
something positively seductive in working with hypnosis. For the first
time there was a sense of having overcome one’s impotence; and it was
highly flattering to enjoy the reputation of being a miracle-worker. It
was not until later that I was to discover the drawbacks of the
procedure. At the moment there were only two points to complain of:
first, that I could not succeed in hypnotizing every patient, and
secondly, that I was unable to put individual patients into as deep a
state of hypnosis as I should have wished. With the idea of perfecting
my hypnotic technique, I made a journey to Nancy in the summer of 1889
and spent several weeks there. I witnessed the moving spectacle of old
Liébault working among the poor women and children of the laboring
classes, I was a spectator of Bernheim’s astonishing experiments upon
his hospital patients, and I received the profoundest impression of the
possibility that there could be powerful mental processes which
nevertheless remained hidden from the consciousness of men. Thinking it
would be instructive, I had persuaded one of my patients to follow me to
Nancy. She was a very highly gifted hysteric, a woman of good birth, who
had been handed over to me because no one knew what to do with her. By
hypnotic influence I had made it possible for her to lead a tolerable
existence and I was always able to take her out of the misery of her
condition. But she always relapsed again after a short time, and in my
ignorance I attributed this to the fact that her hypnosis had never
reached the stage of somnambulism with amnesia. Bernheim now attempted
several times to bring this about, but he too failed. He frankly
admitted to me that his great therapeutic successes by means of
suggestion were only achieved in his hospital practice and not with his
private patients. I had many stimulating conversations with him, and
undertook to translate into German his two works upon suggestion and its
therapeutic effects.
During the period from 1886 to 1891 I did little scientific work, and
published scarcely anything. I was occupied with establishing myself in
my new profession and with assuring my own material existence as well as
that of a rapidly increasing family. In 1891 there appeared the first of
my studies upon the cerebral palsies of children, which was written in
collaboration with my friend and assistant, Dr. Oskar Rie. An invitation
which I received in the same year to contribute to an encyclopædia of
medicine led me to investigate the theory of aphasia, which was at that
time dominated by the views of Wernicke and Lichtheim, which laid stress
exclusively upon localization. The fruit of this inquiry was a small
critical and speculative book, _Zur Auffassung der Aphasie_. But I must
now show how it happened that scientific research once more became the
chief interest of my life.
II
I must supplement what I have just said by explaining that from the very
first I made use of hypnosis in another manner, apart from hypnotic
suggestion. I used it for questioning the patient upon the origin of his
symptom, which in his waking state he could often describe only very
imperfectly or not at all. Not only did this method seem more effective
than bald suggestive commands or prohibitions, but it also satisfied the
curiosity of the physician, who, after all, had a right to learn
something of the origin of the phenomenon which he strove to remove by
the monotonous procedure of suggestion.
The manner in which I arrived at this other procedure was as follows:
While I was still working in Brücke’s laboratory I had made the
acquaintance of Dr. Josef Breuer, who was one of the most respected
family physicians in Vienna, but who also had a scientific past, since
he had produced several works of permanent value upon the physiology of
breathing and upon the organ of equilibrium. He was a man of striking
intelligence and fourteen years older than myself. Our relations soon
became more intimate and he became my friend and helper in my difficult
circumstances. We grew accustomed to share all our scientific interests
with each other. In this relationship the gain was naturally mine. The
development of psychoanalysis afterwards cost me his friendship. It was
not easy for me to pay such a price, but I could not escape it.
Even before I went to Paris, Breuer had told me about a case of hysteria
which, between 1880 and 1882, he had treated in a peculiar manner which
had allowed him to penetrate deeply into the causation and significance
of hysterical symptoms. This was at a time, therefore, when Janet’s
works still belonged to the future. He repeatedly read me pieces of the
case history, and I had an impression that it accomplished more towards
an understanding of neuroses than any previous observation. I determined
to inform Charcot of these discoveries when I reached Paris, and I
actually did so. But the great man showed no interest in my first
outline of the subject, so that I never recurred to it and allowed it to
pass from my mind.
When I was back in Vienna I turned once more to Breuer’s observation and
made him tell me more about it. The patient had been a young girl of
unusual education and gifts, who had fallen ill while she was nursing
her father, of whom she was devotedly fond. When Breuer took over her
case it presented a variegated picture of paralyses and contractures,
inhibitions and states of mental confusion. A chance observation showed
her physician that she could be relieved of these clouded states of
consciousness if she was induced to express in words the affective
phantasy by which she was at the moment dominated. From this discovery,
Breuer arrived at a new method of treatment. He put her into deep
hypnosis and made her tell him each time what it was that was oppressing
her mind. After the attacks of depressive confusion had been overcome in
this way, he employed the same procedure for removing her inhibitions
and physical disorders. In her waking state the girl could no more
describe than other patients how her symptoms had arisen, and she could
discover no link between them and any experiences of her life. In
hypnosis she immediately revealed the missing connection. It turned out
that all of her symptoms went back to moving events which she had
experienced while nursing her father; that is to say, her symptoms had a
meaning and were residues or reminiscences of those emotional
situations. It turned out in most instances that there had been some
thought or impulse which she had had to suppress while she was by her
father’s sick-bed, and that, in place of it, as a substitute for it, the
symptom had afterwards appeared. But as a rule the symptom was not the
precipitate of a single such “traumatic” scene, but the result of a
summation of a number of similar situations. When the patient recalled a
situation of this kind in a hallucinatory way under hypnosis and carried
through to its conclusion, with a free expression of emotion, the mental
act which she had originally suppressed, the symptom was wiped away and
did not return. By this procedure Breuer succeeded, after long and
painful efforts, in relieving his patient of all her symptoms.
The patient had recovered and had remained well and, in fact, had become
capable of doing serious work. But over the final stage of this hypnotic
treatment there rested a veil of obscurity, which Breuer never raised
for me; and I could not understand why he had so long kept secret what
seemed to me an invaluable discovery instead of making science the
richer by it. The immediate question, however, was whether it was
possible to generalize from what he had found in a single case. The
state of things which he had discovered seemed to me to be of so
fundamental a nature that I could not believe it could fail to be
present in any case of hysteria if it had been proved to occur in a
single one. But the question could only be decided by experience. I
therefore began to repeat Breuer’s investigations with my own patients
and eventually, especially after my visit to Bernheim in 1889 had taught
me the limitations of hypnotic suggestion, I worked at nothing else.
After observing for several years that his findings were invariably
confirmed in every case of hysteria that was accessible to such
treatment, and after having accumulated a considerable amount of
material in the shape of observations analogous to his, I proposed to
him that we should issue a joint publication. At first he objected
vehemently, but in the end he gave way, especially since, in the
meantime, Janet’s works had anticipated some of his results, such as the
tracing back of hysterical symptoms to events in the patient’s life, and
their removal by means of hypnotic reproduction _in statu nascendi_. In
1893 we issued a preliminary paper, “On the Psychical Mechanism of
Hysterical Phenomena,”[8] and in 1895 there followed our book, _Studien
über Hysterie_.
If the account I have so far given has led the reader to expect that the
_Studien über Hysterie_ must, in all essentials of their material
content, be the product of Breuer’s mind, that is precisely what I
myself have always maintained and what it has been my aim to repeat
here. As regards the theory put forward in the book, I was partly
responsible, but to an extent which it is today no longer possible to
determine. That theory was in any case unpretentious and hardly went
beyond the direct description of the observations. It did not seek to
establish the nature of hysteria but merely to throw light upon the
origin of its symptoms. Thus it laid stress upon the significance of the
life of the emotions and upon the importance of distinguishing between
mental acts which are unconscious and those which are conscious (or
rather capable of being conscious); it introduced a dynamic factor, by
supposing that a symptom arises through the damming-up of an effect, and
an economic factor, by regarding that same symptom as the product or
equivalent of a quantity of energy which would otherwise have been
employed in some other way. (This latter process was described as
_conversion_.) Breuer spoke of our method as _cathartic_; its
therapeutic aim was explained as being to provide that the accumulated
affect used for maintaining the symptom, which had got onto the wrong
lines and had, as it were, become stuck there, should be directed onto
the normal path along which it could obtain discharge (or _abreaction_).
The practical results of the cathartic procedure were excellent. Its
defects, which became evident later, were those of all forms of hypnotic
treatment. There are still a number of psychotherapists who have not
gone beyond catharsis as Breuer understood it and who still speak in its
favor. Its value as an abridged method of treatment was shown afresh in
the hands of E. Simmel in the treatment of war neuroses in the German
army during the Great War. The theory of catharsis had not much to say
on the subject of sexuality. In the case histories which I contributed
to the _Studien_, sexual factors played a certain part, but scarcely
more attention was paid to them than to other emotional excitations.
Breuer wrote of the girl, who has since become famous as his first
patient, that her sexual side was extraordinarily undeveloped. It would
have been difficult to guess from the _Studien über Hysterie_ what an
importance sexuality has in the ætiology of the neuroses.
The stage of development which now followed, the transition from
catharsis to psychoanalysis proper, has been described by me several
times already in such detail that I shall find it difficult to bring
forward any new facts. The event which formed the opening of this period
was Breuer’s retirement from our common work, so that I became sole
administrator of his legacy. There had been differences of opinion
between us at quite an early stage, but they had not been a ground for
our separating. In answering the question of when it is that a mental
process becomes pathogenic, that is, when it is that it becomes
impossible for it to find a normal discharge, Breuer preferred what
might be called a physiological theory: he thought that the processes
which could not find normal outcome were such as had originated during
unusual, hypnoid, mental states. This opened the further question of the
origin of these hypnoid states. I, on the other hand, was inclined to
suspect the existence of an interplay of forces and the operation of
intentions and purposes such as are to be observed in normal life. Thus
it was a case of “Hypnoid Hysteria” versus “Defence Neurosis.” But such
differences as this would scarcely have alienated him from the subject
if there had not been other factors at work. One of these was
undoubtedly that his work as a physician and family doctor took up much
of his time and that he could not, like me, devote his whole strength to
the work of catharsis. Again, he was affected by the reception which our
book had received both in Vienna and in Germany. His self-confidence and
powers of resistance were not developed so fully as the rest of his
mental organization. When, for instance, the _Studien_ met with a severe
rebuff from Strümpell, I was able to laugh at the lack of comprehension
which his criticism showed, but Breuer felt hurt and grew discouraged.
But what contributed chiefly to his decision was that my own further
work led in a direction with which he found it impossible to reconcile
himself.
The theory which we had attempted to construct in the _Studien_
remained, as I have said, very incomplete; and in particular we had
scarcely touched upon the problem of ætiology, upon the question of the
ground in which the pathogenic process takes root. I now learned from my
rapidly increasing experience that it was not _any_ kind of emotional
excitation that was in action behind the phenomena of the neurosis but
regularly one of a sexual nature, whether it was a current sexual
conflict or the effect of earlier sexual experiences. I was not prepared
for this conclusion and my expectations played no part in it, for I had
begun my investigation of neurotics quite unsuspectingly. While I was
writing my “History of the Psycho-Analytic Movement” in 1914, there
recurred to my mind some remarks that had been made to me by Breuer,
Charcot and Chrobak, which might have led me to this discovery earlier.
But at the time I heard them I did not understand what these authorities
meant; indeed they had told me more than they knew themselves or were
prepared to defend. What I heard from them lay dormant and passive
within me, until the chance of my cathartic experiments brought it out
as an apparently original discovery. Nor was I then aware that in
deriving hysteria from sexuality, I was going back to the very
beginnings of medicine and following up a thought of Plato’s. It was not
until later that I learnt this from an essay by Havelock Ellis.
Under the influence of my surprising discovery, I now took a momentous
step. I went beyond the domain of hysteria and began to investigate the
sexual life of the so-called neurasthenics who used to visit me in
numbers during my consultation hours. This experiment cost me, it is
true, my popularity as a doctor, but it brought me convictions which
today, almost thirty years later, have lost none of their force. There
was a great deal of equivocation and mystery-making to be overcome, but
once that had been done, it turned out that in all of these patients
grave abuses of the sexual function were present. Considering how
extremely widespread are these abuses on the one hand and neurasthenia
on the other, a frequent coincidence between the two would not have
proved much; but there was more in it than that one bald fact. Closer
observation suggested to me that it was possible to pick out from the
confused jumble of clinical pictures covered by the name of neurasthenia
two fundamentally different types, which might appear in any degree of
mixture but which were nevertheless to be observed in their pure forms.
In the one type the central phenomenon was the anxiety attack with its
equivalents, rudimentary forms and chronic surrogate symptoms; I
consequently gave it the name of _anxiety neurosis_, and limited the
term _neurasthenia_ to the other type. Now it was easy to establish the
fact that each of these types have a different abnormality of sexual
life as its corresponding ætiological factor: in the former case _coitus
interruptus_, undischarged excitement and sexual abstinence, and in the
latter, excessive masturbation and too numerous nocturnal emissions. In
a few specially instructive cases, which had shown a surprising
alternation in the clinical picture from one type to the other, it was
possible to prove that there had been a corresponding change in the
underlying sexual _régime_. If it was possible to put an end to the
abuse and allow its place to be taken by normal sexual activity, a
striking improvement in the condition was the reward.
I was thus led into regarding the neuroses as being without exception
disturbances of the sexual function, the so-called “actual” neuroses
being the direct toxic expression of such disturbances and the
psycho-neuroses their mental expression. My conscience as a physician
felt pleased at my having arrived at this conclusion. I hoped that I had
filled up a gap in medical science, which, in dealing with a function of
such great biological importance, had failed to take into account any
injuries beyond those caused by infection or by gross anatomical
lesions. The standpoint of medicine was, moreover, favored by the view
that sexuality was not something purely mental. It had a somatic side as
well, and it was possible to assign special chemical processes to it and
to attribute sexual excitement to the presence of some particular,
though at present unknown, substance. There must also have been some
good reason why the true spontaneous neuroses resembled no group of
diseases more closely than the phenomena of intoxication and abstinence,
which are produced by the administration or privation of certain toxic
substances, or than Basedow’s disease, which is known to depend upon the
product of the thyroid gland.
Since that time I have had no opportunity of returning to the
investigation of the actual neuroses; nor has this part of my work been
continued by anyone else. If I look back today at my early findings,
they strike me as being the first rough outlines of what is probably a
far more complicated subject. But on the whole they seem to me still to
hold good. I should have been very glad if I had been able, later on, to
make a psychoanalytical examination of some more cases of simple
juvenile neurasthenia, but unluckily the occasion did not arise. To
avoid misconceptions, I should like to make it clear that I am far from
denying the existence of mental conflicts and of neurotic complexes in
neurasthenia. All that I am asserting is that the symptoms of these
patients are not mentally determined or removable by analysis, but that
they must be regarded as direct toxic consequences of disturbed sexual
chemical processes.
During the years that followed the publication of the _Studien_, having
reached these conclusions upon the part played by sexuality in the
ætiology of the neuroses, I read some papers on the subject before
various medical societies, but was only met with incredulity and
contradiction. Breuer did what he could for some time longer to throw
the great weight of his personal influence into the scales in my favor,
but he effected nothing and it was easy to see that he too shrank from
recognizing the sexual ætiology of the neuroses. He might have crushed
me or at least disconcerted me by pointing to his own first patient, in
whose case sexual factors had ostensibly played no part whatever. But he
never did so, and I could not understand why this was until I came to
interpret the case correctly and to reconstruct, from some remarks which
he had made, the conclusion of his treatment of it. After the work of
catharsis had seemed to be completed, the girl had suddenly developed a
condition of “transference love”; he had not connected this with her
illness, and had therefore retired in dismay. It was obviously painful
to him to be reminded of this apparent _contretemps_. His attitude
towards me oscillated for some time between appreciation and bitter
criticism; then accidental difficulties arose, as they never fail to do
in a strained situation, and we parted.
Another result of my taking up the study of nervous disorders in general
was that I altered the technique of catharsis. I abandoned hypnosis and
sought to replace it by some other method, because I was anxious not to
be restricted to treating hysteriform conditions. Increasing experience
had also given rise to two grave doubts in my mind as to the use of
hypnosis even as a means to catharsis. The first was that even the most
brilliant results were liable to be suddenly wiped away if my personal
relation with the patient became disturbed. It was true that they became
reestablished if a reconciliation could be effected; but such an
occurrence showed that the personal emotional relation between doctor
and patient was after all stronger than the whole cathartic process, and
it was precisely that factor which escaped every effort at control. And
one day I had an experience which showed me in the crudest light what I
had long suspected. One of my most acquiescent patients, with whom
hypnosis had enabled me to bring about the most marvellous results, and
whom I was engaged in relieving of her suffering by tracing back her
attacks of pain to their origins, as she woke up on one occasion, threw
her arms round my neck. The unexpected entrance of a servant relieved us
from a painful discussion, but from that time onwards there was a tacit
understanding between us that hypnotic treatment should be discontinued.
I was modest enough not to attribute the event to my own irresistible
personal attraction, and I felt that I had now grasped the nature of the
element of mystery that was at work behind hypnosis. In order to exclude
it, or at all events to isolate it, it was necessary to abandon
hypnosis.
But hypnosis had been of immense help in the cathartic treatment, by
widening the field of the patient’s consciousness and putting within his
reach knowledge which he did not possess in his waking life. It seemed
no easy task to find a substitute for it. While I was in this
perplexity, a recollection came to my help of an experiment which I had
often witnessed while I was with Bernheim. When the subject awoke from
the state of somnambulism, he seemed to have lost all memory of what had
happened while he was in that state. But Bernheim maintained that the
memory was present all the same; and if he insisted on the subject
remembering, if he asseverated that he knew it all and had only to say
it, and if at the same time he laid his hand on the subject’s forehead,
then the forgotten memories used in fact to return, hesitatingly at
first, but eventually in a flood and with complete clarity. I determined
that I would act in the same way. My patients, I reflected, must in fact
“know” all the things which had hitherto only been made accessible to
them by hypnosis; and assurances and encouragement on my part, assisted
perhaps by the touch of my hand, would, I thought, have the power of
forcing the forgotten facts and connections into consciousness. No doubt
this seemed a more laborious process than putting them under hypnosis,
but it might prove highly instructive. So I abandoned hypnosis, only
retaining my practice of requiring the patient to lie upon a sofa while
I sat behind him, seeing him, but not seen myself.
III
My expectations were fulfilled; I was set free from hypnosis. But along
with the change in technique, the process of catharsis took on a new
complexion. Hypnosis had screened from view an interplay of forces which
now came in sight, and the understanding of which gave a solid
foundation to my theory.
How had it come about that the patients had forgotten so many of the
facts of their external and internal lives, but could nevertheless
recollect them if a particular technique was applied? Observation
supplied an exhaustive answer to these questions. Everything that had
been forgotten had in some way or other been painful; it had been either
alarming or disagreeable or shameful, by the standards of the subject’s
personality. The thought arose spontaneously: it was precisely on that
account that it had been forgotten, i. e. that it had not remained
conscious. In order to make it conscious again, in spite of this, it was
necessary to overcome something that fought against one in the patient;
it was necessary to make an expenditure of effort on one’s own part in
order to compel and subdue it. The amount of effort required of the
physician varied in different cases; it increased in direct proportion
to the difficulty of what had to be remembered. The expenditure of force
on the part of the physician was evidently the measure of a _resistance_
on the part of the patient. It was only necessary to translate into
words what I myself had observed, and I was in possession of the theory
of _repression_.
It was now easy to reconstruct the pathogenic process. Let us keep to a
simple example, in which a particular impulsion had arisen in the
subject’s mind, but was opposed by other powerful tendencies. We should
have expected the mental _conflict_ which now arose to take the
following course. The two dynamic quantities—for our present purposes
let us call them “the instinct” and “the resistance”—would struggle with
each other for some time in the fullest light of consciousness, until
the instinct was repudiated and the charge[9] of energy withdrawn from
it. This would have been the normal solution. In a neurosis, however,
(for reasons which were still unknown) the conflict found a different
outcome. The ego drew back, as it were, after the first shock of its
conflict with the objectionable impulse; it debarred the impulse from
access to consciousness and to direct motor discharge, but at the same
time the impulse retained its full charge of energy. I named this
process _repression_; it was a novelty, and nothing like it had ever
before been recognized in mental life. It was obviously a primary
mechanism of defence, comparable to an attempt at flight, and was only a
fore-runner of the later developed normal condemning judgment. The first
act of repression involved further consequences. In the first place, the
ego was obliged to protect itself against the constant threat of a
renewed advance on the part of the repressed impulse by making a
permanent expenditure of energy, a _counter-charge_, and it thus
impoverished itself. On the other hand, the repressed impulse, which was
now _unconscious_, was able to find means of discharge and of
substitutive gratification by circuitous routes and thus to bring the
whole purpose of the repression to nothing. In the case of
conversion-hysteria, the circuitous route led to the nerve supply of the
body; the repressed impulse broke through at some point or other and
produced _symptoms_. The symptoms were thus results of a compromise, for
although they were substitutive gratifications, they were nevertheless
distorted and deflected from their aim, owing to the resistance of the
ego.
The theory of repression became the foundation-stone of our
understanding of the neuroses. A different view had now to be taken of
the task of therapy. Its aim was no longer to “abreact” an effect which
had got onto the wrong lines, but to uncover repressions and replace
them by acts of judgment which might result either in the acceptance or
in the rejection of what had formerly been repudiated. I showed my
recognition of the new situation by no longer calling my method of
investigation and treatment _catharsis_ but _psychoanalysis_.
It is possible to take repression as a centre and to bring all the
elements of psychoanalytic theory into relation with it. But before
doing so, I have a further remark of a polemical nature to make.
According to Janet’s view, a hysteric was a wretched person who, on
account of a constitutional weakness, was unable to hold her mental acts
together, and it was for that reason that she fell a victim to mental
dissociation and to a restriction of the field of her consciousness. The
results of psychoanalytical investigations, on the other hand, showed
that these phenomena were the result of dynamic factors—of mental
conflict and of repression. This distinction seems to me to be
far-reaching enough to put an end to the glib repetition of the view
that whatever is of value in psychoanalysis is merely borrowed from the
ideas of Janet. The reader will have learned from my account that
historically psychoanalysis is completely independent of Janet’s
discoveries, just as, in its content, it diverges from them and goes far
beyond them. Janet’s works would never have had the implications which
have made psychoanalysis of such importance to the mental sciences and
have made it attract such universal interest. I always treated Janet
himself with respect, since his discoveries coincided, to a considerable
extent, with those of Breuer, which had been made earlier, but were
published later than his. But when, in the course of time,
psychoanalysis became a subject of discussion in France, Janet behaved
ill, showed ignorance of the facts and used ugly arguments. And finally
he revealed himself to my eyes and destroyed the value of his own work
by declaring that when he had spoken of ‘unconscious’ mental acts, he
had meant nothing by the phrase—it had been no more than a _façon de
parler_.
But the study of pathogenic repressions and of other phenomena which
have still to be mentioned compelled psychoanalysis to take the concept
of the “unconscious” seriously. Psychoanalysis regarded everything
mental as being in the first instance unconscious; the further quality
of “consciousness” might also be present, or again it might be absent.
This, of course, provoked a denial from the philosophers, for whom
“conscious” and “mental” were identical, and who protested that they
could not conceive of such a monstrosity as the “unconscious mental.”
There was no help for it, however, and this idiosyncrasy of the
philosophers could only be disregarded with a shrug. Experience (gained
from pathological material, of which the philosophers were ignorant) of
the frequency and power of impulses of which one knew nothing directly,
and whose existence had to be inferred like some fact in the external
world, left no alternative open. It could be pointed out, incidentally,
that this was only treating one’s own mental life as one had always
treated other people’s. One did not hesitate to ascribe mental processes
to other people, although one had no immediate consciousness of them and
could only infer them from their words and actions. But what held good
for other people must be applicable to oneself. Anyone who tried to push
the argument further and to conclude from it that one’s own hidden
processes belonged actually to a second consciousness would be faced
with the concept of a consciousness of which one knew nothing, of an
“unconscious consciousness”—and this would scarcely be preferable to the
assumption of an “unconscious mental.” If, on the other hand, one
declared, like some other philosophers, that one was prepared to take
pathological phenomena into account, but that the processes underlying
them ought not to be described as mental but as “psychoid,” the
difference of opinion would degenerate into an unfruitful dispute about
words, though, even so, expediency would decide in favour of keeping the
expression “unconscious mental.” The further question as to the ultimate
nature of this unconscious is no wiser or more profitable than the older
one as to the nature of the conscious.
It would be more difficult to explain concisely how it came about that
psychoanalysis made a further distinction in the unconscious, and
separated it into a _preconscious_ and an unconscious proper. It will be
sufficient to say that it appeared a legitimate course to supplement the
theories which were a direct expression of experience by hypotheses
which were designed to facilitate the handling of the material and
related to matters which could not be a subject of immediate
observation. The very same procedure is adopted by the older sciences.
The sub-division of the unconscious is part of an attempt to picture the
apparatus of the mind as being built up of a number of _instances_ or
systems, whose inter-relations may be expressed in spatial terms,
without reference, of course, to the actual anatomy of the brain. (I
have described this as the _topographical method of approach_.) Such
ideas as these are part of a speculative superstructure of
psychoanalysis, any portion of which can be abandoned or changed without
loss or regret the moment its inadequacy has been proved. But there is
still plenty to be described that lies closer to actual experience.
I have already mentioned that my investigation of the precipitating and
underlying causes of the neuroses led me more and more frequently to
conflicts between the subject’s sexual impulses and his resistances to
sexuality. In my search for the pathogenic situations in which the
repressions of sexuality had set in and in which the symptoms, as
substitutes for what was repressed, had their origin, I was carried
further and further back into the patient’s life and ended by reaching
the first years of his childhood. What poets and students of human
nature had always asserted turned out to be true: the impressions of
that remote period of life, though they were for the most part buried in
amnesia, left ineradicable traces upon the individual’s growth and in
particular laid the foundations of any nervous disorder that was to
follow. But since these experiences of childhood were always concerned
with sexual excitations and the reaction against them, I found myself
faced by the fact of infantile sexuality—once again a novelty and a
contradiction of one of the strongest of human prejudices. Childhood was
looked upon as “innocent” and free from the lusts of sex, and the fight
with the demon of “sensuality” was not thought to begin until the
troubled age of puberty. Such occasional sexual activities as it had
been impossible to overlook in children were put down as signs of
degeneracy and premature depravity or as a curious freak of nature. Few
of the findings of psychoanalysis have met with such universal
contradiction or have aroused such an outburst of indignation as the
assertion that the sexual function starts at the beginning of life and
reveals its presence by important signs even in childhood. And yet no
other finding of analysis can be demonstrated so easily and so
completely.
Before going further into the question of infantile sexuality, I must
mention an error into which I fell for a while and which might well have
had fatal consequences for the whole of my work. Under the pressure of
the technical procedure which I used at that time, the majority of my
patients reproduced from their childhood, scenes in which they were
sexually seduced by some grown-up person. With female patients the part
of seducer was almost always assigned to their father. I believed these
stories, and consequently supposed that I had discovered the roots of
the subsequent neurosis in these experiences of sexual seduction in
childhood. My confidence was strengthened by a few cases in which
relations of this kind with a father, uncle or elder brother had
continued up to an age at which memory was quite to be trusted. If the
reader feels inclined to shake his head at my credulity, I cannot
altogether blame him; though I may plead that this was at a time when I
was intentionally keeping my critical faculty in abeyance so as to
preserve an unprejudiced and receptive attitude towards the many
novelties which were coming to my notice every day. When, however, I was
at last obliged to recognize that these scenes of seduction had never
taken place, and that they were only phantasies which my patients had
made up or which I myself had perhaps forced upon them, I was for some
time completely at a loss. My confidence alike in my technique and in
its results suffered a severe blow, it could not be disputed that I had
arrived at these scenes by a technical method which I considered
correct, and their subject-matter was unquestionably related to the
symptoms from which my investigation had started. When I had pulled
myself together, I was able to draw the right conclusions from my
discovery: namely, that the neurotic symptoms were not related directly
to actual events but to phantasies embodying wishes, and that, as far as
the neurosis was concerned, psychical reality was of more importance
than material reality. I do not believe even now that I forced the
seduction-phantasies upon my patients, that I “suggested” them. I had,
in fact, stumbled for the first time upon the _Œdipus complex_, which
was later to assume such an overwhelming importance, but which I did not
recognize as yet in its disguise of phantasy. Moreover, seduction during
childhood retained a certain share, though a humbler one, in the
ætiology of neuroses. But the seducers turned out as a rule to have been
older children.
It will be seen, then, that my mistake was of the same kind as would be
made by someone who believed that the legendary story of the early kings
of Rome (as told by Livy) was historical truth instead of what it is in
fact—a reaction against the memory of times and circumstances that were
insignificant and occasionally, perhaps, inglorious. When the mistake
had been cleared up, the path to the study of the sexual life of
children lay open. It thus became possible to apply psychoanalysis to
another field of science and to use its data as a means of discovering a
new piece of biological knowledge.
The sexual function, as I found, is in existence from the very beginning
of the individual’s life, though at first it is assimilated to the other
vital functions and does not become independent of them until later; it
has to pass through a long and complicated process of development before
it becomes what we are familiar with as the normal sexual life of the
adult. It begins by manifesting itself in the activity of a whole number
of _component instincts_. These are dependent upon _erotogenic zones_ in
the body; some of them make their appearance in pairs of opposite
impulses (such as sadism and masochism or the impulses to look and to be
looked at); they operate independently of one another in their search
for pleasure, and they find their object for the most part in the
subject’s own body. Thus, to begin with, they are non-centralized and
predominantly _auto-erotic_. Later they begin to be co-ordinated; a
first stage of organization is reached under the dominance of the _oral_
components, an _anal-sadistic_ stage follows, and it is only after the
third stage has at last been reached that the primacy of the _genitals_
is established and that the sexual function begins to serve the ends of
reproduction. In the course of this process of development a number of
elements of the various component instincts turn out to be unserviceable
for this last end and are therefore left on one side or turned to other
uses, while others are diverted from their aims and carried over into
the genital organization. I gave the name of _libido_ to the energy of
the sexual instincts and to that form of energy alone. I was next driven
to suppose that the libido does not always pass through its prescribed
course of development smoothly. As a result either of the excessive
strength of certain of the components or of experiences involving
premature gratification, _fixations_ of the libido may occur at various
points in the course of its development. If subsequently a repression
takes place, the libido flows back to these points (a process described
as _regression_), and it is from them that the energy breaks through in
the form of a symptom. Later on it further became clear that the
localization of the point of fixation is what determines the _choice of
neurosis_, that is, the form in which the subsequent illness makes its
appearance.
The process of arriving at an object, which plays an important part in
mental life, takes place alongside of the organization of the libido.
After the stage of auto-erotism, the first love-object in the case of
both sexes is the mother; and it seems probable that, to begin with, the
child does not distinguish its mother’s organ of nutrition from its own
body. Later, but still in the first years of infancy, the relation known
as the Œdipus complex, becomes established: boys concentrate their
sexual wishes upon their mother and develop hostile impulses against
their father as being a rival, while girls develop an analogous
attitude. All of the different variations and consequences of the Œdipus
complex are important; and in particular the innately bisexual
constitution of human beings makes itself felt and increases the number
of simultaneously active tendencies. Children do not become clear for
quite a long time upon the differences between the sexes; and during
this period of _sexual enquiry_ they produce typical _sexual theories_
which, since they are limited by the incompleteness of their authors’
own physical development, are a mixture of truth and error and fail to
solve the problems of sexual life (the riddle of the Sphinx, the
question of where babies come from). We see, then, that a child’s first
object-choice is an _incestuous_ one. The whole course of development
that I have described is run through rapidly. For the most remarkable
feature of the sexual life of man is that it comes on in two waves, with
an interval between them. It reaches a first climax in the fourth or
fifth year of a child’s life. But this early growth of sexuality is
nipped in the bud; the sexual impulses, which have shown such
liveliness, are overcome by repression, and a _period of latency_
follows, which lasts until puberty and during which the
“reaction-formations” of morality, shame and disgust are built up. Of
all living creatures, man alone seems to show this double onset of
sexual growth, and it may perhaps be the biological determinant of his
predisposition to neuroses. At puberty the impulses and object-relations
of a child’s early years become re-animated, and amongst them the
emotional ties of his Œdipus complex. The sexual life of puberty is a
struggle between the impulses of early years and the inhibitions of the
latency period. Before this, and while the child is at the highest point
of its infantile sexual development, a genital organization of a sort is
established; but only the _male_ genitals play a part in it, and the
female ones remain undiscovered. (I have described this as the period of
_phallic_ primacy.) At this stage the contrast between the sexes is not
stated in terms of “male” or “female” but of “possessing a penis” or
“castrated.” The _castration complex_ which arises in this connexion is
of the profoundest importance in the formation alike of character and of
neuroses.
In order to make this condensed account of my discoveries as to the
sexual life of man more intelligible, I have brought together
conclusions which I reached at different dates and incorporated by way
of supplement or correction in the successive editions of my _Three
Contributions to the Theory of Sexuality_.[10] I hope it will have been
easy to gather the nature of my extension (on which so much stress has
been laid and which has excited so much opposition) of the concept of
sexuality. That extension is of a twofold kind. In the first place
sexuality is divorced from its too close connection with the genitals
and is regarded as a more comprehensive bodily function, having pleasure
as its goal and only secondarily coming to serve the ends of
reproduction. In the second place, the sexual impulses are regarded as
including all of those merely affectionate and friendly impulses to
which usage applies the exceedingly ambiguous word ‘love.’ I do not,
however, consider that these extensions are innovations, but rather
restorations: they signify the removal of inexpedient limitations of the
concept into which we had allowed ourselves to be led.
The detaching of sexuality from the genitals has the advantage of
allowing us to bring the sexual activities of children and of perverts
into the same scope as those of normal adults. The former have hitherto
been entirely neglected and, though the latter have been recognized, it
has been with moral indignation and without understanding. Looked at
from the psychoanalytic standpoint, even the most eccentric and
repellent perversions are explicable as manifestations of component
instincts of sexuality which have freed themselves from the primacy of
the genitals and are going in pursuit of pleasure on their own account
as they did in the very early days of the libido’s development. The most
important of these perversions, homosexuality, scarcely deserves the
name. It can be traced back to the constitutional bisexuality of all
human beings and to the after-effects of the phallic primacy.
Psychoanalysis enables us to point to some trace or other of a
homosexual object-choice in everyone. If I have described children as
“poly-morphously perverse,” I was only using a terminology that was
generally current; no moral judgment was implied by the phrase.
Psychoanalysis has no concern whatever with such judgments of value.
The second of my alleged extensions of the concept of sexuality finds
its justification in the fact revealed by psychoanalytic investigation,
that all of these affectionate impulses were originally of a completely
sexual nature but have become _inhibited in their aim or sublimated_.
The manner in which the sexual instincts can thus be influenced and
diverted enables them to be employed for cultural activities of every
kind, to which indeed they bring the most important contributions.
My surprising discoveries as to the sexuality of children were made in
the first instance through the analysis of adults. But later (from about
1908 onwards) it became possible to confirm them in the most
satisfactory way and in every detail by direct observations upon
children. Indeed, it is so easy to convince oneself of the regular
sexual activities of children, that one cannot help asking in
astonishment how the human race can have succeeded in over-looking the
facts and in maintaining for so long the agreeable legend of the
asexuality of childhood. This surprising circumstance must be connected
with the amnesia which, just as with the majority of adults, hides their
own infancy.
IV
The theories of resistance and of repression, of the unconscious, of the
ætiological significance of sexual life and of the importance of
infantile experiences—these form the principal constituents of the
theoretical structure of psychoanalysis. In these pages, unfortunately,
I have been able to describe only the separate elements and not their
inter-connections and their bearing upon one another. But I am obliged
now to turn to the alterations which gradually took place in the
technique of the analytic method.
The means which I first adopted for overcoming the patient’s resistance,
by pressing and encouraging him, had been indispensable for the purpose
of giving me a first general survey of what was to be expected. But in
the long run it proved to be too much of a strain upon both sides and,
further, it seemed open to certain obvious criticisms. It therefore gave
place to another method which was in one sense its opposite. Instead of
urging the patient to say something upon some particular subject, I now
asked him to abandon himself to a process of _free association_, i. e.
to say whatever came into his head, while ceasing to give any conscious
direction to his thoughts. It was essential, however, that he should
bind himself to report literally everything that occurred to his
self-perception and not to give way to critical objections which sought
to put certain associations on one side on the ground that they were not
sufficiently important or that they were irrelevant or that they were
altogether meaningless. There was no necessity to repeat explicitly the
insistence upon the need for candor on the patient’s part in reporting
his thoughts, for it was the precondition of the whole analytic
treatment.
It may seem surprising that this method of free association, carried out
subject to the observation of _the fundamental rule of psychoanalysis_,
should have achieved what was expected of it, namely the bringing into
consciousness of the repressed material which was held back by
resistances. We must, however, bear in mind that free association is not
really free. The patient remains under the influence of the analytic
situation even though he is not directing his mental activities onto a
particular subject. We shall be justified in assuming that nothing will
occur to him that has not some reference to that situation. His
resistance against reproducing the repressed material will now be
expressed in two ways. Firstly, it will be shown by critical objections;
and it was to deal with these that the fundamental rule of
psychoanalysis was invented. But if the patient observes that rule and
so overcomes his reticences, the resistance will find another means of
expression. It will so arrange it that the repressed material itself
will never occur to the patient but only something which approximates to
it in an allusive way; and the greater the resistance, the more remote
will be the substitutive association which the patient has to report
from the actual idea that the analyst is in search of. The analyst, who
listens composedly, but without any constrained effort, to the stream of
associations and who, from his experience, has a general notion of what
to expect can make use of the material brought to light by the patient
according to two possibilities. If the resistance is slight, he will be
able, from the patient’s allusions, to infer the unconscious material
itself; or if the resistance is stronger, he will be able to recognize
from the associations, as they seem to become more remote from the
subject, the character of the resistance itself and will explain it to
the patient. Uncovering the resistance, however, is the first step
towards overcoming it. Thus the work of analysis involves an _art of
interpretation_, the successful handling of which may require tact and
practice, but which is not hard to acquire. But it is not only in the
saving of labour that the method of free association has an advantage
over the earlier method. It exposes the patient to the least possible
amount of compulsion, it never allows of contact being lost with the
actual current situation, it guarantees to a great extent that no factor
in the structure of the neurosis will be overlooked and that nothing
will be introduced into it by the expectations of the analyst. It is
left to the patient in all essentials to determine the course of the
analysis and the arrangement of the material; any systematic handling of
particular symptoms or complexes thus becomes impossible. In complete
contrast to what happened with hypnosis and with the urging method,
inter-related material makes its appearance at different times and at
different points in the treatment. To a spectator, therefore—though, in
fact, there can be none—an analytic treatment would seem completely
obscure.
Another advantage of the method is that it need never break down. It
must theoretically always be possible to have an association, provided
that no conditions are made as to its character. Yet there is one case
in which, in fact, a break down occurs with absolute regularity; from
its very uniqueness, however, this case, too can be interpreted.
I now come to the description of a factor which adds an essential
feature to my picture of analysis and which can claim alike technically
and theoretically, to be regarded as of the first importance. In every
analytic treatment, there arises, without the physician’s agency, an
intense emotional relationship between the patient and the analyst which
is not to be accounted for by the actual situation. It can be of a
positive or of a negative character, and can vary between the extremes
of a passionate, completely sensual love and the unbridled expression of
an embittered defiance and hatred. This _transference_—to give it its
shortened name—soon replaces, in the patient’s mind, the desire to be
cured, and, so long as it is affectionate and moderate becomes the agent
of the physician’s influence and neither more nor less than the
main-spring of the joint work of analysis. Later on, when it has become
passionate or has been converted into hostility, it becomes the
principal tool of the resistance. It may then happen that it will
paralyse the patient’s powers of associating and endanger the success of
the treatment. Yet it would be senseless to try to evade it; for an
analysis without transference is an impossibility. It must not be
supposed, however, that the transference is created by analysis and does
not occur apart from it. The transference is merely uncovered and
isolated by analysis. It is a universal phenomenon of the human mind, it
decides the success of all medical influence and, in fact, dominates the
whole of each person’s relations to his human environment. We can easily
recognize it as the same dynamic factor that the hypnotists have named
“suggestibility,” which is the agent of hypnotic _rapport_ and the
incalculable behavior of which led to such difficulties with the
cathartic method. When there is no inclination to a transference of
emotion such as this, or when it has become entirely negative, as
happens in dementia præcox or paranoia, then there is also no
possibility of influencing the patient by psychological means.
It is perfectly true that psychoanalysis, like other psycho-therapeutic
methods, employs the instrument of suggestion (or transference). But the
difference is this: that in analysis it is not allowed to play the
decisive part in determining the therapeutic results. It is used instead
to induce the patient to perform a piece of mental work—the overcoming
of his transference-resistances—which involves a permanent alteration in
his mental economy. The transference is made conscious to the patient by
the analyst, and it is resolved by convincing him that in his
transference-attitude he is _re-experiencing_ emotional relations which
had their origin in his earliest object-relationships during the
repressed period of his childhood. In this way the transference is
changed from the strongest weapon of the resistance into the best
instrument of the analytic treatment. Nevertheless, its handling remains
the most difficult as well as the most important part of the technique
of analysis.
With the help of the method of free association and of the closely
related art of interpretation, psychoanalysis succeeded in achieving
something which appeared to be of no practical importance but which, in
fact, necessarily led to a fresh attitude and a fresh scale of values in
scientific thought. It became possible to prove that dreams have a
meaning and to discover it. In classical antiquity great importance was
attached to dreams as foretelling the future; but modern science would
have nothing to do with them, it handed them over to superstition,
declaring them to be purely “somatic” processes—a kind of spasm
occurring in a mind that is otherwise asleep. It seemed quite
inconceivable that anyone who had done serious scientific work could
make his appearance as an “interpreter of dreams.” But by disregarding
the excommunication pronounced upon dreams, by treating them as
unexplained neurotic symptoms, as delusional or obsessional ideas, by
neglecting their apparent content and by making their separate component
images into subjects for free association, a different conclusion was
reached. The numerous associations produced by the dreamer led to the
discovery of a mental structure which could no longer be described as
absurd or confused, which was on an equality with any other product of
the mind, and of which the _manifest_ dream was no more than a
distorted, abbreviated and misunderstood translation and usually a
translation into visual images. These _latent dream-thoughts_ contained
the meaning of the dream, while its manifest content was simply a
make-believe, a façade, which could serve as a starting-point for the
associations but not for the interpretation.
There were now a whole series of questions to be answered, among the
most important of them being whether there was a motive for the
formation of dreams, under what conditions it took place, by what
methods the dream-thoughts (which are invariably full of sense) became
converted into the dream (which is often senseless), and others besides.
I attempted to solve all of these problems in _The Interpretation of
Dreams_,[11] which I published in the year 1900. I can only find space
here for the briefest abstract of my investigation. When the latent
dream-thoughts that are revealed by the analysis of a dream are
examined, one of them is found to stand out from among the rest, which
are intelligible and well known to the dreamer. These latter thoughts
are residues of waking life (the _day’s residues_, as they are called
technically); but the isolated thought is found to be an impulse in the
form of a wish, often of a very repellent kind, which is foreign to the
waking life of the dreamer and is consequently disavowed by him with
surprise or indignation. This impulse is the actual constructor of the
dream: it provides the energy for its production and makes use of the
day’s residues as material; the dream which thus originates represents a
situation in which the impulse is satisfied, it is the fulfilment of the
wish which the impulse contains. It would not be possible for this
process to take place without being favored by the presence of something
in the nature of a state of sleep. The necessary mental precondition of
sleep is the concentration of the ego upon the wish to sleep and the
withdrawal of psychical energy from all the interests of life; since at
the same time all the paths of approach to motility are blocked, the ego
is also able to reduce the expenditure of energy by which at other times
it maintains the repressions. The unconscious impulse makes use of this
nocturnal relaxation of repression in order to push its way into
consciousness with the dream. But the repressive resistance of the ego
is not abolished in sleep, but merely reduced. Some of it remains in the
shape of a _censorship of dreams_ and forbids the unconscious impulse to
express itself in the forms which it would properly assume. In
consequence of the severity of the censorship of dreams, the latent
dream-thoughts are obliged to submit to being altered and softened so as
to make the forbidden meaning of the dream unrecognizable. This is the
explanation of _dream-distortion_, which accounts for the most striking
characteristic of the manifest dream. We are therefore justified in
asserting that _a dream is the (disguised) fulfilment of a (repressed)
wish_. It will now be seen that dreams are constructed like neurotic
symptoms: they are compromises between the demands of a repressed
impulse and the resistance of a censoring force in the ego. Since they
have a similar origin they are equally unintelligible and stand in equal
need of interpretation.
There is no difficulty in discovering the general function of dreaming.
It serves the purpose of warding off, by a kind of soothing action,
external or internal stimuli which would tend to arouse the sleeper, and
thus of securing sleep against interruption. External stimuli are warded
off by being given a new interpretation and by being woven into some
harmless situation; internal stimuli, caused by the pressure of
instincts, are given free play by the sleeper and allowed to find
satisfaction in the formation of dreams, so long as the latent
dream-thoughts submit to the control of the censorship. But if they
threaten to break free and the meaning of the dream becomes too plain,
the sleeper cuts short the dream and awakens in terror. (Dreams of this
class are known as _anxiety-dreams_). A similar failure in the function
of dreaming occurs if an external stimulus becomes too strong to be
warded off. (This is the class of _awakening-dreams_). I have given the
name of _dream-work_ to the process which, with the co-operation of the
censorship, converts the latent thoughts into the manifest content of
the dream. It consists in a peculiar way of treating the preconscious
material of thought, so that its component parts become _condensed_, its
mental emphasis becomes _displaced_, and the whole of it is translated
into visual images or _dramatized_, and filled out by a deceptive
secondary elaboration. The dream-work is an excellent example of the
processes occurring in the deeper, unconscious layers of the mind, which
differ considerably from the familiar normal processes of thought. It
also displays a number of archaic characteristics, such as the use of a
_symbolism_ (in this case of a predominantly sexual kind) which it has
since also been possible to discover in other spheres of mental
activity.
We have explained that the unconscious impulse which causes the dream
connects itself with part of the day’s residues, with some unexhausted
interest of waking life; this lends the dream which is thus brought into
being a double value for the work of analysis. It is true that, on the
one hand, a dream that has been analysed reveals itself as the
fulfilment of a repressed wish; but, on the other hand, it will be a
continuation of some preconscious activity of the day before and will
contain subject-matter of some kind or other, giving expression, for
instance, to a determination, a warning, a reflection or once more to
the fulfilment of a wish. Analysis exploits the dream in both directions
as a means of obtaining knowledge alike of the patient’s conscious and
of his unconscious processes. It also profits from the fact that dreams
have access to the forgotten material of childhood, and so it happens
that infantile amnesia is for the most part overcome in connection with
the interpretation of dreams. In this respect dreams achieve a part of
what was previously the task of hypnosis. On the other hand, I have
never maintained the assertion which has so often been ascribed to me,
that dream-interpretation shows that all dreams have a sexual content or
are derived from sexual motive forces. It is easy to see that hunger,
thirst, or the need to excrete, can produce dreams of satisfaction just
as well as any repressed sexual or egoistic impulse. The case of young
children affords us a convenient test of the validity of our theory of
dreams. In them the various psychical systems are not yet sharply
divided and the repressions have not yet grown deep, so that we often
come upon dreams which are nothing more than undisguised fulfilments of
impulses left over from waking life. Under the influence of imperative
needs, adults may also produce dreams of this infantile type.
In the same way that psychoanalysis makes use of dream-interpretation,
it also profits by the study of the numerous little slips and mistakes
which people make—symptomatic actions, as they are called. I
investigated this subject in a series of papers which were published for
the first time in book-form in 1904 under the title of _The
Psychopathology of Everyday Life_.[12] In this widely circulated work I
have pointed out that these phenomena are not accidental, that they
require more than physiological explanations, that they have a meaning
and can be interpreted, and that one is justified in inferring from them
the presence of restrained or repressed impulses and intentions. But
what constitutes the enormous importance of dream-interpretation, as
well as of this latter study, is not the assistance they give to the
work of analysis but another of their qualities. Previously
psychoanalysis had only been concerned with solving pathological
phenomena and in order to explain them it had often been driven into
making assumptions whose comprehensiveness was out of all proportion to
the importance of the actual material under consideration. But when it
came to dreams, it was no longer dealing with a pathological symptom,
but with a phenomenon of normal mental life which might occur in any
healthy person. If dreams turned out to be constructed like symptoms, if
their explanation required the same assumptions—the repression of
impulses, substitute-formation, compromise-formation, the dividing of
the conscious and the unconscious into various psychical systems—then
psychoanalysis was no longer a subsidiary science in the field of
psycho-pathology, it was rather the foundation for a new and deeper
science of the mind which would be equally indispensable for the
understanding of the normal. Its postulates and findings could be
carried over to other regions of mental happening; a path lay open to it
that led far afield, into spheres of universal interest.
V
I must interrupt my account of the internal growth of psychoanalysis and
turn to its external history. What I have so far described of its
discoveries has related for the most part to the results of my own work;
but I have filled in my account with material from later dates and have
not distinguished between my own contributions and those of my pupils
and followers.
For more than ten years after my separation from Breuer, I had no
followers. I was completely isolated. In Vienna I was shunned, abroad no
notice was taken of me. My _Interpretation of Dreams_, published in
1900, was scarcely reviewed in the technical journals. In my essay “On
the History of the Psycho-Analytic Movement” I mentioned, as an instance
of the attitude adopted by psychiatric circles in Vienna, a conversation
with an assistant at the Clinic, who had written a book against my
theories, but had never read my _Interpretation of Dreams_. He had been
told at the Clinic that it was not worth while. The man in question, who
has since become a professor, has gone so far as to repudiate my report
of the conversation and to throw doubts in general upon the accuracy of
my recollection. I can only say that I stand by every word of the
account I then gave.
As soon as I realized the inevitable nature of what I had come up
against, my sensitiveness greatly diminished. Moreover, my isolation
gradually came to an end. To begin with, a small circle of pupils
gathered round me in Vienna; and then, after 1906, came the news that
the psychiatrists at Zurich, E. Bleuler, his assistant C. G. Jung, and
others, were taking a lively interest in psychoanalysis. We got into
personal touch with one another, and at Easter 1908, the friends of the
young science met at Salzburg, agreed upon the regular repetition of
similar informal congresses and arranged for the publication of a
periodical which was edited by Jung and was given the title of _Jahrbuch
für psychopathologische und psychoanalytische Forschungen_. It was
brought out under the direction of Bleuler and myself and ceased
publication at the beginning of the Great War. At the same time that the
Swiss psychiatrists joined the movement, interest in psychoanalysis
began to be aroused all over Germany, it became the subject of a large
number of written comments as well as of lively discussions at
scientific congresses. But its reception was nowhere friendly or even
benevolently impartial. After the briefest acquaintance with
psychoanalysis, German science was united in rejecting it.
Even today it is, of course, impossible for me to foresee the final
judgment of posterity upon the value of psychoanalysis for psychiatry,
psychology and the mental sciences in general. But I fancy that, when
the history of the phase we have lived through comes to be written,
German science will not have cause to be proud of those who represented
it. I am not thinking of the fact that they rejected psychoanalysis or
of the decisive way in which they did so; both of these things were
easily intelligible, they were only to be expected and at any rate they
threw no discredit upon the character of the opponents of analysis. But
for the degree of arrogance which they displayed, for their
conscienceless contempt of logic, and for the coarseness and bad taste
of their attacks, there could be no excuse. It may be said that it is
childish of me to give free rein to such feelings as these now, after
fifteen years have passed; nor would I do so unless I had something more
to add. Years later, during the Great War, when a chorus of enemies were
bringing against the German nation the charge of barbarism, a charge
which sums up all that I have written above, it none the less hurt
deeply to feel that my own experience would not allow me to contradict
it.
One of my opponents boasted of silencing his patients as soon as they
began to talk of anything sexual and evidently thought that this
technique gave him a right to judge the part played by sexuality in the
neuroses. Apart from emotional resistances, which were so easily
explicable by the psychoanalytical theory that it was impossible to be
misled by them, it seemed to me that the main obstacle to agreement lay
in the fact that my opponents regarded psychoanalysis as a product of my
speculative imagination and were unwilling to believe in the long,
patient and unbiased work which had gone to its making. Since, in their
opinion, analysis had nothing to do with observation or experience, they
believed that they themselves were justified in rejecting it without
experience. Others again, who did not feel so strongly convinced of
this, repeated in their resistance the classical manœuvre of not looking
through the microscope so as to avoid seeing what they had denied. It is
remarkable, indeed, how incorrectly most people act when they are
obliged to form a judgment of their own upon some new subject. I have
heard for years from “benevolent” critics—and I am told the same thing
even today—that psychoanalysis is right up to such-and-such a point, but
that there it begins to exaggerate and to generalize without
justification. But I know that, while nothing is more difficult than to
draw such a line, only a few weeks or days earlier the critic has been
completely ignorant of the whole subject.
The result of the official anathema against psychoanalysis was that the
analysts began to come closer together. At the second Congress, held at
Nuremberg in 1910, they formed themselves, on the proposal of S.
Ferenczi, into an “International Psycho-Analytical Association,” divided
into a number of local societies, but under a common president. The
Association survived the Great War and still exists, consisting today of
branch societies in Austria, Germany, Hungary, Switzerland, Great
Britain, Holland, Russia and India as well as two in the United
States.[13] I arranged that C. G. Jung should be appointed as the first
President, which turned out later to have been a most unfortunate step.
At the same time a second journal devoted to psychoanalysis was started,
the _Zentralblatt für Psychoanalyse_, edited by Adler and Stekel, and a
little later a third, _Imago_, edited by two non-medical analysts, H.
Sachs and O. Rank, and intended to deal with the application of analysis
to the mental sciences. Soon afterwards Bleuler published a paper in
defence of psychoanalysis.[14] Though it was a relief to find honesty
and straight-forward logic for once taking part in the dispute yet I
could not feel completely satisfied by Bleuler’s essay. He strove too
eagerly after an appearance of impartiality; nor is it a matter of
chance that it is to him that our science owes the valuable concept of
_ambivalence_. In later papers Bleuler adopted such a critical attitude
towards the theoretical structure of analysis and rejected or threw
doubts upon such essential parts of it, that I could not help asking
myself in astonishment what could be left of it for him to admire. Yet
not only has he subsequently uttered the strongest pleas in favor of
“depth psychology,” but he based his comprehensive study of
schizophrenia upon it. Nevertheless Bleuler did not for long remain a
member of the International Psycho-Analytical Association; he resigned
from it as a result of misunderstandings with Jung, and the
Burghölzli[15] was lost to analysis.
Official disapproval could not hinder the spread of psychoanalysis
either in Germany or in other countries. I have elsewhere[16] followed
the stages of its growth and given the names of those who were its first
representatives. In 1909 G. Stanley Hall invited Jung and me to America
to go to the Clark University, Worcester, Mass., of which he was
President, and to spend a week giving lectures (in German) at the
celebration of the twentieth anniversary of that body’s foundation. Hall
was justly esteemed as a psychologist and educationalist, and had
introduced psychoanalysis into his courses some years before; there was
a touch of the “king-maker” about him, a pleasure in setting up
authorities and in then deposing them. We also met James J. Putnam
there, the Harvard neurologist, who, in spite of his age, was an
enthusiastic supporter of psychoanalysis and threw the whole weight of a
personality that was universally respected into the defence of the
cultural value of analysis and the purity of its aims. He was an
estimable man, in whom, as a reaction against a predisposition to
obsessional neurosis, an ethical bias predominated; and the only thing
in him that we could regret was his inclination to attach psychoanalysis
to a particular philosophical system and to make it the servant of moral
aims. Another event of this time, which made a lasting impression upon
me, was a meeting with William James, the philosopher. I shall never
forget one little scene that occurred as we were on a walk together. He
stopped suddenly, handed me a bag he was carrying and asked me to walk
on, saying that he would catch me up as soon as he had got through an
attack of angina pectoris which was just coming on. He died of that
disease a year later; and I have always wished that I might be as
fearless as he was in the face of approaching death.
At that time I was only 53, I felt young and healthy, and my short visit
to the new world encouraged my self-respect in every way. In Europe I
felt as though I were despised; but over there I found myself received
by the foremost men as an equal. As I stepped onto the platform at
Worcester to deliver my _Five Lectures upon Psycho-Analysis_, it seemed
like the realization of some incredible day-dream: psychoanalysis was no
longer a product of delusion, it had become a valuable part of reality.
It has not lost ground in America since our visit; it is extremely
popular among the lay public and is recognized by a number of official
psychiatrists as an important element in medical training.
Unfortunately, however, it has suffered a great deal from being watered
down. Moreover, many abuses which have no relation to it find a cover
under its name, and there are few opportunities for any thorough
training in technique or theory. In America, too, it has come in
conflict with Behaviorism, a theory which is naïve enough to boast that
it has put the whole problem of psychology completely out of court.
In Europe, during the years 1911–1913, two secessionist movements from
psychoanalysis took place, led by men who had previously played a
considerable part in the young science, Alfred Adler and C. G. Jung.
Both movements seemed most threatening and quickly obtained a large
following. But their strength lay, not in their own content, but in the
temptation which they offered of being freed from what were felt as the
repellent findings of psychoanalysis without the necessity of rejecting
its actual material. Jung attempted to give to the facts of analysis a
fresh interpretation of an abstract, impersonal and non-historical
character, and thus hoped to escape the need for recognizing the
importance of infantile sexuality and of the Œdipus complex, as well as
the necessity for any analysis of childhood. Adler seemed to depart
still further from psychoanalysis; he entirely repudiated the importance
of sexuality, traced back the formation both of character and of the
neuroses solely to men’s desire for power and to their need to
compensate for their constitutional inferiority, and threw all the
psychological discoveries of psychoanalysis to the winds. But what he
had rejected forced its way back into his closed system under other
names; his “masculine protest” is nothing else than repression
unjustifiably sexualized. The criticism with which the two heretics were
met was a mild one; I only insisted that both Adler and Jung should
cease to describe their theories as “psychoanalysis.” After a lapse of
ten years, it can be asserted that both of these attempts against
psychoanalysis have blown over without doing any harm.
If a community is based on agreement upon a few cardinal points, it is
obvious that people who have abandoned that common ground will cease to
belong to it. Yet the secession of former pupils has often been brought
up against me as a sign of my intolerance or has been regarded as
evidence of some special fatality that hangs over me. It is a sufficient
answer to point out that, in contrast to those who have left me, like
Jung, Adler, Stekel and a few besides, there are a great number of men,
like Abraham, Eitingon, Ferenczi, Rank, Jones, Brill, Sachs, Pfister,
van Emden, Reik and others who have worked with me for some fifteen
years in loyal collaboration and for the most part in uninterrupted
friendship. I have only mentioned the oldest of my pupils who have
already made a distinguished name for themselves in the literature of
psychoanalysis; if I have passed over others, that is not to be taken as
a slight, and indeed among those who are young and have joined me
lately, talents are to be found on which great hopes may be set. But I
think I can say in my defence that an intolerant man, dominated by an
arrogant belief in his own infallibility, would never have been able to
maintain his hold upon so large a number of intelligent people,
especially if he had at his command as few practical attractions as I
had.
The Great War, which broke up so many other organizations, could do
nothing against our “International.” The first meeting after the war
took place in 1920 at the Hague on neutral ground. It was moving to see
how hospitably the Dutch welcomed the starving and impoverished subjects
of the Central European states; and I believe this was the first
occasion in a ruined world on which Englishmen and Germans sat at the
same table for the friendly discussion of scientific interests. Both in
Germany and in the countries of Western Europe, the war had actually
stimulated interest in psychoanalysis. The observation of war neuroses
had at last opened the eyes of the medical profession to the importance
of psycho-genesis in neurotic disturbances, and some of our
psychological conceptions, such as the “advantage of being ill” and the
“flight into illness,” suddenly became popular. The last Congress before
the German collapse, which was held at Budapest in 1918, was attended by
official representatives of the allied governments of the Central
European powers, and they agreed to the establishment of psychoanalytic
stations for the treatment of war neuroses. But this point was never
reached. Similarly, too, the comprehensive plans made by one of our
leading members, Dr. Anton von Freund, for establishing in Budapest a
centre for analytic study and treatment came to grief as a result of the
political disorders of the time and of the premature death of their
generous author. At a later date some of his ideas were put into
execution by Max Eitingon, who, in 1920, founded a psychoanalytical
clinic in Berlin. During the brief period of Bolshevist rule in Hungary,
Ferenczi was able to carry on a successful course of instruction as the
official representative of psychoanalysis at the University of Budapest.
After the war, our opponents announced with great joy that events had
produced a conclusive argument against the validity of the theses of
analysis. The war neuroses, they said, had proved that sexual factors
were unnecessary to the ætiology of neurotic disorders. But their
triumph was frivolous and premature. For, on the one hand, no one had
been able to carry out a thorough analysis of a case of war neurosis, so
that, in fact, nothing whatever was known for certain as to their
motivation and no conclusions could be drawn from this uncertainty.
While, on the other hand, psychoanalysis had long before arrived at the
concept of narcissism and of narcissistic neuroses, in which the
subject’s libido is attached to his own ego instead of to an object.
Though, on other occasions, therefore, the charge was brought against
psychoanalysis of having made an unjustifiable extension of the concept
of sexuality, yet, when it became convenient for polemical ends, this
crime was forgotten and we were once more held down to the narrowest
meaning of the word.
If the preliminary cathartic period is left on one side, the history of
psychoanalysis falls, from my point of view, into two phases. In the
first of these, I stood alone and had to do all the work myself: this
was from 1895–96 until 1906 or 1907. In the second phase, lasting from
then until the present time, the contributions of my pupils and
collaborators have been growing more and more in importance, so that
today, when a grave illness warns me of the approaching end, I can think
with a quiet mind of the cessation of my own labors. For that very
reason, however, it is impossible for me in this _Autobiographical
Study_ to deal as fully with the progress of psychoanalysis during the
second phase as I did with its gradual rise during the first phase,
which was concerned with my own activity alone. I feel that I should
only be justified in mentioning here those new discoveries in which I
still played a prominent part—in particular, therefore, those made in
the sphere of narcissism, of the theory of the instincts, and of the
application of psychoanalysis to the psychoses.
I must begin by saying that increasing experience showed more and more
plainly that the Œdipus complex was the nucleus of the neuroses. It was
at once the climax of infantile sexual life and the point of junction
from which all of its later developments proceeded. But if so, it was no
longer possible to expect analysis to discover a factor that was
specific in the ætiology of the neuroses. It must be true, as Jung
expressed it so well in the early days when he was still an analyst,
that neuroses have no peculiar content which belongs exclusively to
them, but that neurotics break down at the same difficulties that are
successfully overcome by normal people. This discovery was very far from
being a disappointment. It was in complete harmony with another one:
that the depth psychology revealed by psychoanalysis was in fact the
psychology of the normal mind. Our path had been like that of chemistry:
the great qualitative differences between substances were traced back to
quantitative variations in the proportions in which the same elements
were combined.
In the Œdipus complex, the libido is attached to the image of the
parents. But earlier there has been a period in which there were no such
objects. There followed from this fact the concept (of fundamental
importance for the libido theory) of a state in which the subject’s
libido fills his own ego and has that for its object. This state could
be called _narcissism_ or self-love. A moment’s reflection showed that
this state never completely ceases. All through the subject’s life his
ego remains the great reservoir of his libido, from which the
attachments to objects (the _objectcathexes_[17]) radiate out and into
which the libido can stream back again from the objects. Thus
narcissistic libido is constantly being converted into object-libido,
and _vice versa_. An excellent instance of the length to which this
conversion can go is afforded by the sexual or sublimated devotion which
involves a sacrifice of the self. Whereas, hitherto, in considering the
process of repression, attention had only been paid to what was
repressed, these ideas made it also possible to form a correct estimate
of the repressing forces. It had been said that repression was set in
action by the instincts of self-preservation operating in the ego (the
“ego-instincts”), and that it was brought to bear upon the libidinal
instincts. But since the instincts of self-preservation were now
recognized as also being of a libidinal nature, as being narcissistic
libido, the process of repression was seen to be a process occurring
within the libido itself; narcissistic libido was opposed to
object-libido, the interests of self-preservation defended themselves
against the demands of object-love, that is, against the demands of
sexuality in the narrower sense.
There is no more urgent need in psychology than for a securely founded
theory of the instincts on which it might then be possible to build
further. Nothing of the sort exists, however, and psychoanalysis is
driven to making tentative efforts towards some such theory. It began by
drawing a contrast between the ego-instincts (the instinct of
self-preservation, hunger) and the libidinal instincts (love), but later
replaced it by a new contrast between narcissistic and object-libido.
This was clearly not the last word on the subject; biological
considerations seemed to make it impossible to remain content with
assuming the existence of only a single class of instincts.
In the works of my later years (_Beyond the Pleasure Principle_, _Group
Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego_, and _The Ego and the Id_)[18] I
have given free rein to the inclination to speculation which I kept down
for so long and I have also taken stock of a new solution of the problem
of the instincts. I have combined the instincts for self-preservation
and for the preservation of the species under the concept of _Eros_ and
have contrasted with it an instinct of death or destruction which works
in silence. Instinct, in general, is regarded as a kind of elasticity of
living things, an impulsion towards the restoration of a situation which
once existed but was brought to an end by some external disturbance.
This essentially conservative character of instincts is exemplified by
the phenomena of the _compulsion to repeat_. The picture which life
presents to us is the result of the working of Eros and the
death-instinct together and against each other.
It remains to be seen whether this construction will turn out to be
serviceable. Although it arose from a desire to fix some of the most
important theoretical ideas of psychoanalysis, it goes far beyond
psychoanalysis. I have repeatedly heard it said contemptuously that it
is impossible to take a science seriously whose most general concepts
are as lacking in precision as those of libido and of instinct in
psychoanalysis. But this reproach is based upon a complete misconception
of the facts. Clear fundamental concepts and sharply drawn definitions
are only possible in the mental sciences in so far as the latter seek to
fit a department of facts into the frame of a logical system. In the
natural sciences, of which psychology is one, such clearcut general
concepts are superfluous and indeed impossible. Zoology and Botany did
not start from correct and adequate definitions of an animal and a
plant; to this very day Biology has been unable to give any certain
meaning to the concept of life. Physics itself, indeed, would never have
made any advance if it had had to wait until its concepts of matter,
force, gravitation, and so on, had reached the desirable degree of
clarity and precision. The fundamental concepts or most general ideas in
any of the disciplines of science are always left indeterminate at first
and are only explained to begin with by reference to the realm of
phenomena from which they were derived; it is only by means of a
progressive analysis of the material of observation that they can be
made clear and can find a significant and consistent meaning.
I had already made attempts at earlier stages of my work to arrive at
some more general points of view, starting from the observations of
psychoanalysis. In a short essay, “Formulations regarding the Two
Principles of Mental Functioning,”[19] published in 1911, I drew
attention (and there was, of course, nothing original in this), to the
domination of the “pleasure-pain principle” in mental life and to its
displacement by the so-called “reality principle.” Later on (1915–17), I
made an attempt to produce a “Metapsychology.” By this I meant a method
of approach according to which every mental process is considered in
relation to three coördinates, which I described as _dynamic_,
_topographical_, and _economic_ respectively; and this seemed to me to
represent the farthest goal that psychology could attain. The attempt
remained no more than a torso; after writing two or three
papers—“Instincts and their Vicissitudes,” “Repression,” “The
Unconscious,” “Mourning and Melancholia,” etc[20]—I broke off, wisely
perhaps, since the time for theoretical predictions of this kind had not
yet come. In my latest speculative works I have set about the task of
dissecting our mental apparatus on the basis of the analytic view of
pathological facts and have divided it into an _ego_, and _id_, and a
_super-ego_.[21] The super-ego is the heir of the Œdipus complex and
represents the ethical standards of mankind.
I should not like to create an impression that during this last period
of my work I have turned my back upon patient observation and have
abandoned myself entirely to speculation. I have, on the contrary,
always remained in the closest touch with the analytic material and have
never ceased working at detailed points of clinical or technical
importance. Even when I have moved away from observation, I have
carefully avoided any contact with philosophy proper. This avoidance has
been greatly facilitated by constitutional incapacity. I was always open
to the ideas of G. T. Fechner and have followed that thinker upon many
important points. The large extent to which psychoanalysis coincides
with the philosophy of Schopenhauer—not only did he assert the dominance
of the emotions and the supreme importance of sexuality, but he was even
aware of the mechanism of repression—is not to be traced to my
acquaintance with his teaching. I read Schopenhauer very late in my
life. Nietzsche, another philosopher whose guesses and intuitions often
agree in the most astonishing way with the laborious findings of
psychoanalysis, was, for a long time, avoided by me on that very
account; I was less concerned with the question of priority than with
keeping my mind unembarrassed.
The neuroses were the first subject of analysis and for a long time they
were the only one. No analyst could doubt that medical practice was
wrong in separating those disorders from the psychoses and in attaching
them to the organic nervous diseases. The theory of the neuroses belongs
to psychiatry and is indispensable as an introduction to it. It would
seem, however, that the analytical study of the psychoses is
impracticable owing to its lack of therapeutic results. Mental patients
are, as a rule, without the capacity for forming a positive
transference, so that the principal instrument of analytic technique is
inapplicable to them. There are, nevertheless, a number of methods of
approach to be found. Transference is often not so completely absent but
that it can be used to a certain extent; and analysis has achieved
undoubted successes with cyclical depressions, light paranoic
modifications and partial schizophrenias. It has at least been a benefit
to science that in many cases the diagnosis can oscillate for quite a
long time between assuming the presence of a psychoneurosis or of a
dementia præcox; for therapeutic attempts initiated in such cases have
resulted in valuable discoveries before they have had to be broken off.
But the chief consideration in this connection is that so many things
that, in the neuroses, have to be laboriously fetched up from the
depths, are found in the psychoses upon the surface, visible to every
eye. So that the best subjects for the demonstration of many of the
assertions of analysis are provided by the psychiatric clinic. It was
thus bound to happen before long that analysis would find its way to the
objects of psychiatric observation. At a very early date (1896) I was
able to establish, in a case of paranoid dementia, the presence of the
same ætiological factors and the same emotional complexes as in the
neuroses. Jung explained some most puzzling stereotypes in dements by
bringing them into relation with the patients’ life histories; Bleuler
demonstrated the existence in various psychoses of mechanisms like those
which analysis had discovered in neurotics. Since then analysts have
never relaxed their efforts to come to an understanding of the
psychoses. Especially since it has been possible to work with the
concept of narcissism, they have managed, now in this place and now in
that, to get a glimpse beyond the wall. Most of all, no doubt, was
achieved by Abraham in his elucidation of melancholia. It is true that
in this sphere all our knowledge is not yet converted into therapeutic
power; but the mere theoretical gain is not to be despised, and we may
be content to wait for its practical application. In the long run even
the psychiatrists have been unable to resist the convincing force of
their own clinical material. At the present time German psychiatry is
undergoing a kind of “peaceful penetration” by analytic views. While
they continually declare that they will never be psychoanalysts, that
they do not belong to the “orthodox” school or agree with its
exaggerations, and in particular that they do not believe in the
predominance of the sexual factor, nevertheless the majority of the
younger workers take over one piece or another of analytic theory and
apply it in their own fashion to the material. All the signs point to
the proximity of further developments in the same direction.
VI
I now watch from a distance the symptomatic reactions that are
accompanying the introduction of psychoanalysis into the France which
was for so long refractory. It seems like a reproduction of something I
have lived through before, and yet it has peculiarities of its own.
Objections of incredible simplicity are raised, such as that French
sensitiveness is offended by the pedantry and crudity of
psychoanalytical terminology. (One cannot help being reminded of
Lessing’s immortal Chevalier Riccaut de la Marlinière.[22]) Another
comment has a more serious ring (a Professor of Psychology at the
Sorbonne did not think it beneath him): the whole method of thought of
psychoanalysis is inconsistent with the _génie latin_. Here the
Anglo-Saxon allies of France, who count as supporters of analysis, are
explicitly thrown over. Anyone hearing such words would suppose that
psychoanalysis had been the favourite child of the _génie teutonique_
and had been clasped to its heart from the moment of birth.
In France the interest in psychoanalysis began among the men of letters.
To understand this, it must be borne in mind that from the time of the
writing of _The Interpretation of Dreams_, psychoanalysis ceased to be a
purely medical subject. Between its appearance in Germany and in France
lies the history of its numerous applications to departments of
literature and of æsthetics, to the history of religions and to
pre-history, to my theology, to folk-lore, to education, and so on. None
of these things have much to do with medicine; in fact it is only
through psychoanalysis that they are connected with it. I have no
business, therefore, to go into them in detail in these pages.[23] I
cannot pass them over completely in silence, however, for, on the one
hand, they are essential to a correct appreciation of the nature and
value of psychoanalysis, and, on the other hand, I have, after all,
undertaken to give an account of my lifework. The beginnings of the
majority of these applications of psychoanalysis will be found in my
works. Here and there I have gone a little way along the path in order
to gratify my non-medical interests. Later on, others (not only doctors,
but specialists in the various fields as well) have followed in my
tracks and penetrated far into the different subjects. But since my
programme limits me to a mention of my own share in these applications
of psychoanalysis, I can only give a quite inadequate picture of their
extent and importance.
A number of suggestions came to me out of the Œdipus complex, the
ubiquity of which gradually dawned on me. The poet’s choice, or his
invention, of such a terrible subject seemed puzzling; and so, too, did
the overwhelming effect of its dramatic treatment, and the general
nature of such tragedies of destiny. But all of this became intelligible
when one realized that a universal law of mental life had here been
captured in all its emotional significance. Fate and the oracle were no
more than materializations of an internal necessity; and the fact of the
hero sinning without his knowledge and against his intentions was
evidently a right expression of the _unconscious_ nature of his criminal
tendencies. From understanding this tragedy of destiny it was only a
step further to understanding a tragedy of character—_Hamlet_, which had
been admired for 300 years without its meaning being discovered or its
author’s motives guessed. It could scarcely be a chance that this
neurotic creation of the poet should have broken down, like his
numberless fellows in the real world, at the Œdipus complex; for Hamlet
was faced with the task of taking vengeance upon another for the two
deeds which are the subject of the Œdipus desires, and before that task
his arm was paralysed by his own obscure sense of guilt. Shakespeare
wrote _Hamlet_ very soon after his father’s death. The suggestions made
by me for the analysis of this tragedy were fully worked out later on by
Ernest Jones. And the same example was afterwards used by Otto Rank as
the starting-point for his investigation of the choice of material made
by dramatists. In his large volume upon the incest theme[24] he was able
to show how often imaginative writers have taken as their subject the
themes of the Œdipus situation, and traced in the different literatures
of the world the way in which the material has been transformed,
modified and softened.
It was tempting to go on from there to an attempt at an analysis of
poetic and artistic creation in general. The realm of imagination was
evidently a “sanctuary” made during the painful transition from the
pleasure principle to the reality principle in order to provide a
substitute for the gratification of instincts which had to be given up
in real life. The artist, like the neurotic, had withdrawn from an
unsatisfying reality into this world of imagination, but, unlike the
neurotic, he knew how to find a way back from it and once more to get a
firm foothold in reality. His creations, works of art, were the
imaginary gratifications of unconscious wishes, just as dreams are; and
like them, they were in the nature of compromises, since they too were
obliged to avoid any open conflict with the forces of repression. But
they differed from the asocial, narcissistic products of dreaming in
that they were calculated to arouse interest in other people and were
able to evoke and to gratify the same unconscious wishes in them too.
Besides this, they have made use of the perceptual pleasure of formal
beauty as what I have called an “incitement-premium.” What
psychoanalysis was able to do was to take the inter-relations between
the impressions of the artist’s life, his chance experiences and his
works, and from them to construct his constitution and the impulses at
work in it—that is to say, that part of him which he shared with all
men. With this aim in view, for instance, I made Leonardo da Vinci the
subject of a study which is based upon a single memory of childhood
related by him and which aims chiefly at explaining his picture of “St.
Anne with the Virgin and Child.” It does not appear that the enjoyment
of a work of art is spoiled by the knowledge gained from such an
analysis. The layman may perhaps expect too much from analysis in this
field, for it must be admitted that it throws no light upon the two
problems which probably interest him the most. It can do nothing towards
elucidating the nature of the artistic gift, nor can it explain the
means by which the artist works—artistic technique.
I was able to show from a short story by W. Jensen called _Gradiva_,
which has no particular merit in itself, that invented dreams can be
interpreted in the same way as real ones and that the unconscious
mechanisms familiar to us in the “dream-work” are thus also operative in
the processes of imaginative writing.
My book upon _Wit and its Relation to the Unconscious_[25] was a
side-issue, indirectly derived from _The Interpretation of Dreams_. The
only friend of mine who was at that time interested in my work remarked
to me that my interpretations of dreams often impressed him as being
like jokes. In order to throw some light on this impression, I began to
investigate jokes and found that their essence lay in the technical
methods employed in them, and that these were the same as the means used
in the “dream-work”—that is to say, condensation, displacement, the
representation of a thing by its opposite or by a triviality, and so on.
This led to an economic enquiry as to the origin of the high degree of
pleasure obtained from hearing a joke. And to this the answer was that
it was due to the momentary suspension of the energy expended upon
maintaining repression owing to the attraction exercised by the offer of
a premium of pleasure (“fore-pleasure”).
I myself set a higher value upon my contributions to the psychology of
religion, which began in 1907 with the establishment of a remarkable
similarity between obsessive acts and religious practices or ritual.
Without as yet understanding the deeper connections, I described the
obsessional neurosis as a distorted private religion and religion as a
kind of universal obsessional neurosis. Later on, in 1912, the explicit
indications of Jung as to the far-reaching analogies between the mental
products of neurotics and of primitive peoples, led me to turn my
attention to that subject. In four essays, which were collected into a
book with the title of _Totem and Taboo_,[26] I showed that the dread of
incest was even more marked among primitive than among civilized races
and had given rise to very special measures of defence against it; I
examined the relations between taboo prohibitions (the earliest form in
which moral restrictions make their appearance) and emotional
ambivalence; and I discovered under the primitive scheme of the
universe, known as animism, the principle of the over-estimation of the
importance of psychical reality, the principle of “the omnipotence of
thoughts,” which also lies at the root of magic. I developed the
comparison with the obsessional neurosis at every point, and showed how
many of the postulates of primitive mental life are still in force in
that remarkable disorder. Above all, however, I was attracted by
totemism, the first system of organization in primitive tribes, a system
in which the beginnings of social order are united with a rudimentary
religion and the implacable domination of a small number of taboo
prohibitions. The being that is honored is ultimately always an animal,
from which the clan also claims to be descended. Many indications
pointed to the conclusion that every race, even the most highly
developed, had once passed through the stage of totemism.
The chief literary sources of my studies in this field were the well
known works of J. G. Frazer (_Totemism and Exogamy_ and _The Golden
Bough_), a mine of valuable facts and opinions. But Frazer effected
little towards elucidating the problems of totemism; he had more than
once fundamentally altered his views on the subject, and the other
ethnologists and prehistorians seemed in equal uncertainty and
disagreement. My starting-point was the striking correspondence between
the two taboo-injunctions of totemism (not to kill the totem and not to
have sexual relations with any woman of the same totem-clan) and the two
elements of the Œdipus complex (killing the father and taking the mother
to wife). I was therefore tempted to equate the totem animal with the
father; and, in fact, primitive peoples themselves do this explicitly,
by honouring it as the forefather of the clan. There next came to my
help two facts from psychoanalysis, a lucky observation of a child made
by Ferenczi, which made it possible to speak of an “infantile return of
totemism,” and the analysis of early animal-phobias in children, which
so often showed that the animal was a substitute for the father, a
substitute onto which the fear of the father derived from the Œdipus
complex had been displaced. Not much was lacking to enable me to
recognize the killing of the father as the nucleus of totemism and the
starting-point in the formation of religion.
This missing element was supplied when I became acquainted with W.
Robertson Smith’s work, _The Religion of the Semites_. Its author (a man
of genius, who was both a physicist and a biblical expert) introduced
the so-called totem-feast as an essential part of the totemistic
religion. Once a year the totem animal, which was at other times
regarded as sacred, was solemnly killed in the presence of all the
members of the clan, was devoured and was then mourned over. The
mourning was followed by a great festival. When I further took into
account Darwin’s conjecture that men originally lived in hordes, each
under the domination of a single, powerful, violent and jealous male,
there rose before me, out of all these components, the following
hypothesis, or, I would rather say, vision. The father of the primal
horde, since he was an unlimited despot, had seized all the women for
himself; his sons, being dangerous to him as rivals, had been killed or
driven away. One day, however, the sons came together and united to
overwhelm, kill and devour their father, who had been their enemy, but
also their ideal. After the deed, they were unable to take over their
heritage since they stood in one another’s way. Under the influence of
failure and regret, they learned to come to an agreement among
themselves, they banded themselves into a clan of brothers by the help
of the ordinances of totemism, which aimed at preventing a repetition of
such a deed, and they jointly undertook to forego the possession of the
women on whose account they had killed their father. They were then
driven to finding strange women, and this was the origin of the exogamy
which is so closely bound up with totemism. The totem-feast was the
commemoration of the fearful deed, from which sprang man’s sense of
guilt (or “original sin”) and which was the beginning at once of social
organization, of religion, and of ethical restrictions.
Now, whether we suppose that such a possibility was a historical event
or not, it brings the formation of religion within the circle of the
father-complex and bases it upon the ambivalence which dominates that
complex. After the totem animal had ceased to serve as a substitute for
him, the primal father, at once feared and hated, honoured and envied,
became the prototype of God himself. The son’s rebelliousness and his
affection for his father struggled against each other through a constant
succession of compromises, which sought, on the one hand, to atone for
the act of parricide, and, on the other, to consolidate the advantages
it had brought. This view of religion throws a particularly clear light
upon the psychological basis of Christianity, in which, it may be added,
the ceremony of the totem-feast still survives, with but little
distortion, in the form of Communion. I should like explicitly to
mention that this last observation was not made by me, but is to be
found in the works of Robertson Smith and Frazer.
Theodor Reik and G. Róheim, the ethnologist, have taken up the line of
thought which I developed in _Totem and Taboo_, and, in a series of
important works, have extended it, amplified it or corrected it. I
myself have since returned to it more than once in the course of my
investigations into the “unconscious sense of guilt” (which also plays
such an important part among the motives of neurotic suffering) and in
my attempts at forming a closer connection between social psychology and
the psychology of the individual.[27] I have, moreover, made use of the
idea of an archaic inheritance from the “primal horde” epoch of
mankind’s development in explaining susceptibility to hypnosis.
I have taken but little direct part in certain other applications of
psychoanalysis, though they are none the less of general interest. It is
only a step from the phantasies of individual neurotics to the
imaginative creations of groups and peoples as we find them in myths,
legends and fairy tales. Mythology became the special province of Otto
Rank; the interpretation of myths, the tracing of them back to the
familiar unconscious complexes of infancy, the replacing of astral
explanations by a discovery of human motives, all of this is to a large
extent due to his analytic efforts. The subject of symbolism has also
found many students among my followers. Symbolism has brought
psychoanalysis many enemies; many enquirers with unduly prosaic minds
have never been able to forgive it the recognition of symbolism, which
followed from the interpretation of dreams. But analysis is guiltless of
the discovery of symbolism, for it had long been known in other regions
of thought (such as folk-lore, legends and myths) and plays even a
larger part in them than in the “language of dreams.”
I myself have contributed nothing to the application of analysis to
education. It was natural, however, that the analytic discoveries as to
the sexual life and mental development of children should attract the
attention of educators and make them see their problems in a new light.
Dr. Oskar Pfister, a protestant pastor at Zurich, led the way as a
tireless pioneer along these lines, nor did he find the practice of
analysis incompatible with the retention of his religion, though it is
true that this was of a sublimated kind. Among the many others who
worked alongside of him, I may mention Frau Dr. Hug-Hellmuth and Dr. S.
Bernfeld, both of Vienna. The application of analysis to the
prophylactic education of healthy children and to the correcting of
those who, though not actually neurotic, have deviated from the normal
course of development, has led to one consequence which is of practical
importance. It is no longer possible to restrict the practice of
psychoanalysis to physicians and to exclude laymen from it. In fact, a
physician who has not been through a special training is, in spite of
his diploma, a layman in analysis, and a non-physician who has been
suitably trained can, with occasional reference to a physician, even
carry out the analytic treatment of neuroses.
By a process of development against which it would have been useless to
struggle, the word “psychoanalysis” has itself become ambiguous. While
it was originally the name of a particular therapeutic method, it has
now also become the name of a science—the science of unconscious mental
processes. By itself this science is seldom able to deal with a problem
completely, but it seems destined to give important contributory help in
a large number of regions of knowledge. The sphere of application of
psychoanalysis extends as far as that of psychology, to which it forms a
complement of the greatest moment.
Looking back, then, over the patch-work of my life’s labours, I can say
that I have made many beginnings and thrown out many suggestions.
Something will come of them in the future. But I cannot tell myself
whether it will be much or little.
-----
Footnote 1:
These laws are on the statutes of the Austrian Republic.
Footnote 2:
[The present work appeared originally in Volume 4 of _Die Medizin der
Gegenwart in Selbstdarstellungen_ (Leipzig: Felix Meiner, 1925), a
collection of autobiographical studies by leaders of the medical
profession.]
Footnote 3:
The lectures were first published (in English) in the _American
Journal of Psychology_ (1910); the original German was issued under
the title of _Ueber Psychoanalyse_, (Vienna, 1910).
Footnote 4:
_These Eventful Years_ (New York, 1924). My essay translated by Dr. A.
A. Brill, forms Chapter LXXIII of the second volume. [The original
German appears in Vol. XI of Freud’s _Gesammelte Schriften_ (Vienna,
1927).]
Footnote 5:
Published in the _Jahrbuch der Psychoanalyse_, Vol. VI, 1914. [English
translation in Freud’s _Collected Papers_, Vol. I].
Footnote 6:
[“It is in vain that you range around from science to science: each
man learns only what he can learn.” _Faust_, Part I.]
Footnote 7:
The principal hospital in Vienna.
Footnote 8:
Freud, _Collected Papers_, Vol. I.
Footnote 9:
[The German word _Besetzung_, here translated “charge,” is applied by
Freud to the sum of energy which he supposes to become attached
(somewhat upon the analogy of an electric charge) to mental impulses,
whether conscious or unconscious, when they are in a condition of
activity. The recognized English technical translation of the word is
“cathexis”. Trans.]
Footnote 10:
[First German edition, under the title of _Drei Abhandlungen zur
Sexual theorie_, Vienna, 1905.]
Footnote 11:
_Die Traumdeutung_, Vienna, 1900.
Footnote 12:
_Zur Psychopathologie des Alltagslebens_, Berlin, 1904.
Footnote 13:
[A branch society has since been formed in France.—Trans.]
Footnote 14:
“Die Psychoanalyse Freud’s,” _Jahrbuch für psychoanalytische und
psychopathologische Forschungen_, Bd. II, 1910.
Footnote 15:
[The public mental hospital at Zurich.—Trans.]
Footnote 16:
“On the History of the Psycho-Analytic Movement.”
Footnote 17:
[See foot-note, p. 35.]
Footnote 18:
_Jenseits des Lustprinzips_, Vienna, 1920, _Massenpsychologie und
Ichanalyse_, Vienna, 1921, and _Das Ich und das Es_, Vienna, 1923.
Footnote 19:
_Jahrbuch für psychoanalytische und psychopathologische Forschungen_,
Bd. III, 1911. English translation in Freud’s _Collected Papers_, Vol.
IV.
Footnote 20:
Published in the _Zeitschrift für Psychoanalyse_ between 1915 and
1917. English Translation in Freud’s _Collected Papers_, Vol. IV.
Footnote 21:
_The Ego and the Id._
Footnote 22:
[The comic French soldier of fortune in _Minna von Barnhelm_, who is
amazed when his sharp practice at cards is described as cheating:
“Comment, Mademoiselle? Vous appelez cela ‘cheating’? Corriger la
fortune, l’enchaîner sous ses doigts, être sûr de son fait—do the
Germans call that ‘cheating’? Cheating! Oh, what a poor language, what
a crude language German must be!”—_Trans._]
Footnote 23:
[The present work originally formed part of a series of medical
autobiographies.—_Trans._]
Footnote 24:
_Das Inzest-Motiv in Dichtung und Sage_, Vienna, 1912.
Footnote 25:
_Der Witz und seine Beziehung zum Unbewussten_, Vienna, 1905.
Footnote 26:
_Totem und Tabu_, Vienna, 1913.
Footnote 27:
_The Ego and the Id_, and _Group Psychology and the Analysis of the
Ego_.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Used numbers for footnotes, placing them all at the end of the last
chapter.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PROBLEM OF LAY-ANALYSES ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when
you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
provided that:
• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™
Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.
The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.
Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.
This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
