I
DREAMS HAVE A MEANING
In what we may term "prescientific days" people were in no
uncertainty about the interpretation of dreams. When they were recalled
after awakening they were regarded as either the friendly or hostile
manifestation of some higher powers, demoniacal and Divine. With the
rise of scientific thought the whole of this expressive mythology was
transferred to psychology; to-day there is but a small minority among
educated persons who doubt that the dream is the dreamer's own psychical
act.
Three tendencies can be observed in the estimation of dreams. Many
philosophers have given currency to one of these tendencies, one which
at the same time preserves something of the dream's former
over-valuation. The foundation of dream life is for them a peculiar
state of psychical activity, which they even celebrate as elevation to
some higher state. Schubert, for instance, claims: "The dream is the
liberation of the spirit from the pressure of external nature, a
detachment of the soul from the fetters of matter." Not all go so far as
this, but many maintain that dreams have their origin in real spiritual
excitations, and are the outward manifestations of spiritual powers
whose free movements have been hampered during
the day ("Dream Phantasies," Scherner, Volkelt). A large number of
observers acknowledge that dream life is capable of extraordinary
achievements—at any rate, in certain fields ("Memory").
In striking contradiction with this the majority of medical writers
hardly admit that the dream is a psychical phenomenon at all. According
to them dreams are provoked and initiated exclusively by stimuli
proceeding from the senses or the body, which either reach the sleeper
from without or are accidental disturbances of his internal organs. The
dream has no greater claim to meaning and importance than the sound
called forth by the ten fingers of a person quite unacquainted with
music running his fingers over the keys of an instrument. The dream is
to be regarded, says Binz, "as a physical process always useless,
frequently morbid." All the peculiarities of dream life are explicable
as the incoherent effort, due to some physiological stimulus, of certain
organs, or of the cortical elements of a brain otherwise asleep.
But slightly affected by scientific opinion and untroubled as to the
origin of dreams, the popular view holds firmly to the belief that
dreams really have got a meaning, in some way they do foretell the
future, whilst the meaning can be unravelled in
some way or other from its oft bizarre and enigmatical content. The
reading of dreams consists in replacing the events of the dream, so far
as remembered, by other events. This is done either scene by scene,
according to some rigid key, or the dream as a whole is replaced by
something else of which it was a symbol. Serious-minded persons laugh
at these efforts—"Dreams are but sea-foam!"
One day I discovered to my amazement that the popular view grounded
in superstition, and not the medical one, comes nearer to the truth
about dreams. I arrived at new conclusions about dreams by the use of a
new method of psychological investigation, one which had rendered me
good service in the investigation of phobias, obsessions, illusions, and
the like, and which, under the name "psycho-analysis," had found
acceptance by a whole school of investigators. The manifold analogies of
dream life with the most diverse conditions of psychical disease in the
waking state have been rightly insisted upon by a number of medical
observers. It seemed, therefore, a priori, hopeful to apply to the
interpretation of dreams methods of investigation which had been tested
in psychopathological processes. Obsessions and those peculiar
sensations of haunting dread remain as strange to normal consciousness
as do dreams to our waking consciousness; their
origin is as unknown to consciousness as is that of dreams. It was
practical ends that impelled us, in these diseases, to fathom their
origin and formation. Experience had shown us that a cure and a
consequent mastery of the obsessing ideas did result when once those
thoughts, the connecting links between the morbid ideas and the rest of
the psychical content, were revealed which were heretofore veiled from
consciousness. The procedure I employed for the interpretation of dreams
thus arose from psychotherapy.
This procedure is readily described, although its practice demands
instruction and experience. Suppose the patient is suffering from
intense morbid dread. He is requested to direct his attention to the
idea in question, without, however, as he has so frequently done,
meditating upon it. Every impression about it, without any exception,
which occurs to him should be imparted to the doctor. The statement
which will be perhaps then made, that he cannot concentrate his
attention upon anything at all, is to be countered by assuring him most
positively that such a blank state of mind is utterly impossible. As a
matter of fact, a great number of impressions will soon occur, with
which others will associate themselves. These will be invariably
accompanied by the expression of the observer's
opinion that they have no meaning or are unimportant. It will be at once
noticed that it is this self-criticism which prevented the patient from
imparting the ideas, which had indeed already excluded them from
consciousness. If the patient can be induced to abandon this
self-criticism and to pursue the trains of thought which are yielded by
concentrating the attention, most significant matter will be obtained,
matter which will be presently seen to be clearly linked to the morbid
idea in question. Its connection with other ideas will be manifest, and
later on will permit the replacement of the morbid idea by a fresh one,
which is perfectly adapted to psychical continuity.
This is not the place to examine thoroughly the hypothesis upon which
this experiment rests, or the deductions which follow from its
invariable success. It must suffice to state that we obtain matter
enough for the resolution of every morbid idea if we especially direct
our attention to the unbidden associations which disturb our
thoughts—those which are otherwise put aside by the critic as
worthless refuse. If the procedure is exercised on oneself, the best
plan of helping the experiment is to write down at once all one's first
indistinct fancies.
I will now point out where this method leads when I apply it to the examination of dreams. Any dream
could be made use of in this way. From certain motives I, however,
choose a dream of my own, which appears confused and meaningless to my
memory, and one which has the advantage of brevity. Probably my dream of
last night satisfies the requirements. Its content, fixed immediately
after awakening, runs as follows:
"Company; at table or table d'hôte.... Spinach is served. Mrs. E.L.,
sitting next to me, gives me her undivided attention, and places her
hand familiarly upon my knee. In defence I remove her hand. Then she
says: 'But you have always had such beautiful eyes.'.... I then
distinctly see something like two eyes as a sketch or as the contour of
a spectacle lens...."
This is the whole dream, or, at all events, all that I can remember.
It appears to me not only obscure and meaningless, but more especially
odd. Mrs. E.L. is a person with whom I am scarcely on visiting terms,
nor to my knowledge have I ever desired any more cordial relationship. I
have not seen her for a long time, and do not think there was any
mention of her recently. No emotion whatever accompanied the dream
process.
Reflecting upon this dream does not make it a bit clearer to my mind.
I will now, however, present the ideas, without
premeditation and without criticism, which introspection yielded. I soon
notice that it is an advantage to break up the dream into its elements,
and to search out the ideas which link themselves to each fragment.
Company; at table or table d'hôte. The recollection of the slight
event with which the evening of yesterday ended is at once called up. I
left a small party in the company of a friend, who offered to drive me
home in his cab. "I prefer a taxi," he said; "that gives one such a
pleasant occupation; there is always something to look at." When we were
in the cab, and the cab-driver turned the disc so that the first sixty
hellers were visible, I continued the jest. "We have hardly got in and
we already owe sixty hellers. The taxi always reminds me of the table
d'hôte. It makes me avaricious and selfish by continuously reminding me
of my debt. It seems to me to mount up too quickly, and I am always
afraid that I shall be at a disadvantage, just as I cannot resist at
table d'hôte the comical fear that I am getting too little, that I must
look after myself." In far-fetched connection with this I quote:
"To earth, this weary earth, ye bring us,
To guilt ye let us heedless go."
Another idea about the table d'hôte. A few
weeks ago I was very cross with my dear wife at the dinner-table at a
Tyrolese health resort, because she was not sufficiently reserved with
some neighbors with whom I wished to have absolutely nothing to do. I
begged her to occupy herself rather with me than with the strangers.
That is just as if I had been at a disadvantage at the table d'hôte.
The contrast between the behavior of my wife at the table and that of
Mrs. E.L. in the dream now strikes me: "Addresses herself entirely to
me."
Further, I now notice that the dream is the reproduction of a little
scene which transpired between my wife and myself when I was secretly
courting her. The caressing under cover of the tablecloth was an answer
to a wooer's passionate letter. In the dream, however, my wife is
replaced by the unfamiliar E.L.
Mrs. E.L. is the daughter of a man to whom I owed money! I cannot
help noticing that here there is revealed an unsuspected connection
between the dream content and my thoughts. If the chain of associations
be followed up which proceeds from one element of the dream one is soon
led back to another of its elements. The thoughts evoked by the dream stir up associations which were not
noticeable in the dream itself.
Is it not customary, when some one expects others to look after his
interests without any advantage to themselves, to ask the innocent
question satirically: "Do you think this will be done for the sake of
your beautiful eyes?" Hence Mrs. E.L.'s speech in the dream. "You have
always had such beautiful eyes," means nothing but "people always do
everything to you for love of you; you have had everything for
nothing." The contrary is, of course, the truth; I have always paid
dearly for whatever kindness others have shown me. Still, the fact that
I had a ride for nothing yesterday when my friend drove me home in his
cab must have made an impression upon me.
In any case, the friend whose guests we were yesterday has often made
me his debtor. Recently I allowed an opportunity of requiting him to go
by. He has had only one present from me, an antique shawl, upon which
eyes are painted all round, a so-called Occhiale, as a charm against
the Malocchio. Moreover, he is an eye specialist. That same evening
I had asked him after a patient whom I had sent to him for
glasses.
As I remarked, nearly all parts of the dream have been brought into
this new connection. I still might ask why in
the dream it was spinach that was served up. Because spinach called up
a little scene which recently occurred at our table. A child, whose
beautiful eyes are really deserving of praise, refused to eat spinach.
As a child I was just the same; for a long time I loathed spinach,
until in later life my tastes altered, and it became one of my favorite
dishes. The mention of this dish brings my own childhood and that of my
child's near together. "You should be glad that you have some spinach,"
his mother had said to the little gourmet. "Some children would be very
glad to get spinach." Thus I am reminded of the parents' duties towards
their children. Goethe's words—
"To earth, this weary earth, ye bring us,
To guilt ye let us heedless go"—
take on another meaning in this connection.
Here I will stop in order that I may recapitulate the results of the
analysis of the dream. By following the associations which were linked
to the single elements of the dream torn from their context, I have been
led to a series of thoughts and reminiscences where I am bound to
recognize interesting expressions of my psychical life. The matter
yielded by an analysis of the dream stands in intimate relationship with
the dream content, but this relationship is so
special that I should never have been able to have inferred the new
discoveries directly from the dream itself. The dream was passionless,
disconnected, and unintelligible. During the time that I am unfolding
the thoughts at the back of the dream I feel intense and well-grounded
emotions. The thoughts themselves fit beautifully together into chains
logically bound together with certain central ideas which ever repeat
themselves. Such ideas not represented in the dream itself are in this
instance the antitheses selfish, unselfish, to be indebted, to work for
nothing. I could draw closer the threads of the web which analysis has
disclosed, and would then be able to show how they all run together into
a single knot; I am debarred from making this work public by
considerations of a private, not of a scientific, nature. After having
cleared up many things which I do not willingly acknowledge as mine, I
should have much to reveal which had better remain my secret. Why, then,
do not I choose another dream whose analysis would be more suitable for
publication, so that I could awaken a fairer conviction of the sense and
cohesion of the results disclosed by analysis? The answer is, because
every dream which I investigate leads to the same difficulties and
places me under the same need of discretion;
nor should I forgo this difficulty any the more were I to analyze the
dream of some one else. That could only be done when opportunity allowed
all concealment to be dropped without injury to those who trusted
me.
The conclusion which is now forced upon me is that the dream is a
sort of substitution for those emotional and intellectual trains of
thought which I attained after complete analysis. I do not yet know the
process by which the dream arose from those thoughts, but I perceive
that it is wrong to regard the dream as psychically unimportant, a
purely physical process which has arisen from the activity of isolated
cortical elements awakened out of sleep.
I must further remark that the dream is far shorter than the thoughts
which I hold it replaces; whilst analysis discovered that the dream was
provoked by an unimportant occurrence the evening before the dream.
Naturally, I would not draw such far-reaching conclusions if only one
analysis were known to me. Experience has shown me that when the
associations of any dream are honestly followed such a chain of thought
is revealed, the constituent parts of the dream reappear correctly and
sensibly linked together; the slight suspicion that this concatenation
was merely an accident of a single first
observation must, therefore, be absolutely relinquished. I regard it,
therefore, as my right to establish this new view by a proper
nomenclature. I contrast the dream which my memory evokes with the dream
and other added matter revealed by analysis: the former I call the
dream's manifest content; the latter, without at first further
subdivision, its latent content. I arrive at two new problems hitherto
unformulated: (1) What is the psychical process which has transformed
the latent content of the dream into its manifest content? (2) What is
the motive or the motives which have made such transformation exigent?
The process by which the change from latent to manifest content is
executed I name the dream-work. In contrast with this is the work of
analysis, which produces the reverse transformation. The other problems
of the dream—the inquiry as to its stimuli, as to the source of
its materials, as to its possible purpose, the function of dreaming, the
forgetting of dreams—these I will discuss in connection with the
latent dream-content.
I shall take every care to avoid a confusion between the manifest
and the latent content, for I ascribe all the contradictory as well as
the incorrect accounts of dream-life to the ignorance of this latent content, now first laid bare through
analysis.
The conversion of the latent dream thoughts into those manifest
deserves our close study as the first known example of the
transformation of psychical stuff from one mode of expression into
another. From a mode of expression which, moreover, is readily
intelligible into another which we can only penetrate by effort and with
guidance, although this new mode must be equally reckoned as an effort
of our own psychical activity. From the standpoint of the relationship
of latent to manifest dream-content, dreams can be divided into three
classes. We can, in the first place, distinguish those dreams which have
a meaning and are, at the same time, intelligible, which allow us to
penetrate into our psychical life without further ado. Such dreams are
numerous; they are usually short, and, as a general rule, do not seem
very noticeable, because everything remarkable or exciting surprise is
absent. Their occurrence is, moreover, a strong argument against the
doctrine which derives the dream from the isolated activity of certain
cortical elements. All signs of a lowered or subdivided psychical
activity are wanting. Yet we never raise any objection to characterizing
them as dreams, nor do we confound them with the products of our waking
life.
A second group is formed by those dreams
which are indeed self-coherent and have a distinct meaning, but appear
strange because we are unable to reconcile their meaning with our mental
life. That is the case when we dream, for instance, that some dear
relative has died of plague when we know of no ground for expecting,
apprehending, or assuming anything of the sort; we can only ask ourself
wonderingly: "What brought that into my head?" To the third group those
dreams belong which are void of both meaning and intelligibility; they
are incoherent, complicated, and meaningless. The overwhelming number
of our dreams partake of this character, and this has given rise to the
contemptuous attitude towards dreams and the medical theory of their
limited psychical activity. It is especially in the longer and more
complicated dream-plots that signs of incoherence are seldom
missing.
The contrast between manifest and latent dream-content is clearly
only of value for the dreams of the second and more especially for those
of the third class. Here are problems which are only solved when the
manifest dream is replaced by its latent content; it was an example of
this kind, a complicated and unintelligible dream, that we subjected to
analysis. Against our expectation we, however, struck upon reasons which
prevented a complete cognizance of the latent
dream thought. On the repetition of this same experience we were forced
to the supposition that there is an intimate bond, with laws of its
own, between the unintelligible and complicated nature of the dream and
the difficulties attending communication of the thoughts connected with
the dream. Before investigating the nature of this bond, it will be
advantageous to turn our attention to the more readily intelligible
dreams of the first class where, the manifest and latent content being
identical, the dream work seems to be omitted.
The investigation of these dreams is also advisable from another
standpoint. The dreams of children are of this nature; they have a
meaning, and are not bizarre. This, by the way, is a further objection
to reducing dreams to a dissociation of cerebral activity in sleep, for
why should such a lowering of psychical functions belong to the nature
of sleep in adults, but not in children? We are, however, fully
justified in expecting that the explanation of psychical processes in
children, essentially simplified as they may be, should serve as an
indispensable preparation towards the psychology of the adult.
I shall therefore cite some examples of dreams which I have gathered
from children. A girl of nineteen months was
made to go without food for a day because she had been sick in the
morning, and, according to nurse, had made herself ill through eating
strawberries. During the night, after her day of fasting, she was heard
calling out her name during sleep, and adding: "Tawberry, eggs, pap."
She is dreaming that she is eating, and selects out of her menu exactly
what she supposes she will not get much of just now.
The same kind of dream about a forbidden dish was that of a little
boy of twenty-two months. The day before he was told to offer his uncle
a present of a small basket of cherries, of which the child was, of
course, only allowed one to taste. He woke up with the joyful news:
"Hermann eaten up all the cherries."
A girl of three and a half years had made during the day a sea trip
which was too short for her, and she cried when she had to get out of
the boat. The next morning her story was that during the night she had
been on the sea, thus continuing the interrupted trip.
A boy of five and a half years was not at all pleased with his party
during a walk in the Dachstein region. Whenever a new peak came into
sight he asked if that were the Dachstein, and, finally, refused to
accompany the party to the waterfall. His
behavior was ascribed to fatigue; but a better explanation was
forthcoming when the next morning he told his dream: he had ascended
the Dachstein. Obviously he expected the ascent of the Dachstein to be
the object of the excursion, and was vexed by not getting a glimpse of
the mountain. The dream gave him what the day had withheld. The dream of
a girl of six was similar; her father had cut short the walk before
reaching the promised objective on account of the lateness of the hour.
On the way back she noticed a signpost giving the name of another place
for excursions; her father promised to take her there also some other
day. She greeted her father next day with the news that she had dreamt
that her father had been with her to both places.
What is common in all these dreams is obvious. They completely
satisfy wishes excited during the day which remain unrealized. They are
simply and undisguisedly realizations of wishes.
The following child-dream, not quite understandable at first sight,
is nothing else than a wish realized. On account of poliomyelitis a
girl, not quite four years of age, was brought from the country into
town, and remained over night with a childless aunt in a big—for
her, naturally, huge—bed. The next morning she stated that she had
dreamt that the bed was much too small for
her, so that she could find no place in it. To explain this dream as a
wish is easy when we remember that to be "big" is a frequently expressed
wish of all children. The bigness of the bed reminded Miss
Little-Would-be-Big only too forcibly of her smallness. This nasty
situation became righted in her dream, and she grew so big that the bed
now became too small for her.
Even when children's dreams are complicated and polished, their
comprehension as a realization of desire is fairly evident. A boy of
eight dreamt that he was being driven with Achilles in a war-chariot,
guided by Diomedes. The day before he was assiduously reading about
great heroes. It is easy to show that he took these heroes as his
models, and regretted that he was not living in those days.
From this short collection a further characteristic of the dreams of
children is manifest—their connection with the life of the day.
The desires which are realized in these dreams are left over from the
day or, as a rule, the day previous, and the feeling has become intently
emphasized and fixed during the day thoughts. Accidental and indifferent
matters, or what must appear so to the child, find no acceptance in the
contents of the dream.
Innumerable instances of such dreams of the
infantile type can be found among adults also, but, as mentioned, these
are mostly exactly like the manifest content. Thus, a random selection
of persons will generally respond to thirst at night-time with a dream
about drinking, thus striving to get rid of the sensation and to let
sleep continue. Many persons frequently have these comforting dreams
before waking, just when they are called. They then dream that they are
already up, that they are washing, or already in school, at the office,
etc., where they ought to be at a given time. The night before an
intended journey one not infrequently dreams that one has already
arrived at the destination; before going to a play or to a party the
dream not infrequently anticipates, in impatience, as it were, the
expected pleasure. At other times the dream expresses the realization of
the desire somewhat indirectly; some connection, some sequel must be
known—the first step towards recognizing the desire. Thus, when a
husband related to me the dream of his young wife, that her monthly
period had begun, I had to bethink myself that the young wife would have
expected a pregnancy if the period had been absent. The dream is then a
sign of pregnancy. Its meaning is that it shows the wish realized that
pregnancy should not occur just yet. Under
unusual and extreme circumstances, these dreams of the infantile type
become very frequent. The leader of a polar expedition tells us, for
instance, that during the wintering amid the ice the crew, with their
monotonous diet and slight rations, dreamt regularly, like children, of
fine meals, of mountains of tobacco, and of home.
It is not uncommon that out of some long, complicated and intricate
dream one specially lucid part stands out containing unmistakably the
realization of a desire, but bound up with much unintelligible matter.
On more frequently analyzing the seemingly more transparent dreams of
adults, it is astonishing to discover that these are rarely as simple as
the dreams of children, and that they cover another meaning beyond that
of the realization of a wish.
It would certainly be a simple and convenient solution of the riddle
if the work of analysis made it at all possible for us to trace the
meaningless and intricate dreams of adults back to the infantile type,
to the realization of some intensely experienced desire of the day. But
there is no warrant for such an expectation. Their dreams are generally
full of the most indifferent and bizarre matter, and no trace of the
realization of the wish is to be found in their content.
Before leaving these infantile dreams, which
are obviously unrealized desires, we must not fail to mention another
chief characteristic of dreams, one that has been long noticed, and one
which stands out most clearly in this class. I can replace any of these
dreams by a phrase expressing a desire. If the sea trip had only lasted
longer; if I were only washed and dressed; if I had only been allowed to
keep the cherries instead of giving them to my uncle. But the dream
gives something more than the choice, for here the desire is already
realized; its realization is real and actual. The dream presentations
consist chiefly, if not wholly, of scenes and mainly of visual sense
images. Hence a kind of transformation is not entirely absent in this
class of dreams, and this may be fairly designated as the dream work.
An idea merely existing in the region of possibility is replaced by a
vision of its accomplishment.
We are compelled to assume that such transformation of scene has also
taken place in intricate dreams, though we do not know whether it has
encountered any possible desire. The dream instanced at the
commencement, which we analyzed somewhat thoroughly, did give us
occasion in two places to suspect something of the kind. Analysis
brought out that my wife was occupied with others at table, and that I
did not like it; in the dream itself exactly the opposite occurs, for
the person who replaces my wife gives me her undivided attention. But
can one wish for anything pleasanter after a disagreeable incident than
that the exact contrary should have occurred, just as the dream has it?
The stinging thought in the analysis, that I have never had anything for
nothing, is similarly connected with the woman's remark in the dream:
"You have always had such beautiful eyes." Some portion of the
opposition between the latent and manifest content of the dream must be
therefore derived from the realization of a wish.
Another manifestation of the dream work which
all incoherent dreams have in common is still more noticeable. Choose
any instance, and compare the number of separate elements in it, or the
extent of the dream, if written down, with the dream thoughts yielded by
analysis, and of which but a trace can be refound in the dream itself.
There can be no doubt that the dream working has resulted in an
extraordinary compression or condensation. It is not at first easy to
form an opinion as to the extent of the condensation; the more deeply
you go into the analysis, the more deeply you are impressed by it. There
will be found no factor in the dream whence the chains of associations
do not lead in two or more directions, no scene which has not been
pieced together out of two or more impressions and events. For instance,
I once dreamt about a kind of swimming-bath where the bathers suddenly
separated in all directions; at one place on the edge a person stood
bending towards one of the bathers as if to drag him out. The scene was
a composite one, made up out of an event that occurred at the time of
puberty, and of two pictures, one of which I had seen just shortly
before the dream. The two pictures were The Surprise in the Bath, from
Schwind's Cycle of the Melusine (note the bathers suddenly separating),
and The Flood, by an Italian master. The little
incident was that I once witnessed a lady, who had tarried in the
swimming-bath until the men's hour, being helped out of the water by the
swimming-master. The scene in the dream which was selected for analysis
led to a whole group of reminiscences, each one of which had contributed
to the dream content. First of all came the little episode from the time
of my courting, of which I have already spoken; the pressure of a hand
under the table gave rise in the dream to the "under the table," which I
had subsequently to find a place for in my recollection. There was, of
course, at the time not a word about "undivided attention." Analysis
taught me that this factor is the realization of a desire through its
contradictory and related to the behavior of my wife at the table
d'hôte. An exactly similar and much more important episode of our
courtship, one which separated us for an entire day, lies hidden behind
this recent recollection. The intimacy, the hand resting upon the knee,
refers to a quite different connection and to quite other persons. This
element in the dream becomes again the starting-point of two distinct
series of reminiscences, and so on.
The stuff of the dream thoughts which has been accumulated for the
formation of the dream scene must be naturally fit for this application.
There must be one or more common factors. The
dream work proceeds like Francis Galton with his family photographs. The
different elements are put one on top of the other; what is common to
the composite picture stands out clearly, the opposing details cancel
each other. This process of reproduction partly explains the wavering
statements, of a peculiar vagueness, in so many elements of the dream.
For the interpretation of dreams this rule holds good: When analysis
discloses uncertainty, as to either—or read and, taking
each section of the apparent alternatives as a separate outlet for a
series of impressions.
When there is nothing in common between the dream thoughts, the dream
work takes the trouble to create a something, in order to make a common
presentation feasible in the dream. The simplest way to approximate two
dream thoughts, which have as yet nothing in common, consists in making
such a change in the actual expression of one idea as will meet a slight
responsive recasting in the form of the other idea. The process is
analogous to that of rhyme, when consonance supplies the desired common
factor. A good deal of the dream work consists in the creation of those
frequently very witty, but often exaggerated, digressions. These vary
from the common presentation in the dream
content to dream thoughts which are as varied as are the causes in form
and essence which give rise to them. In the analysis of our example of a
dream, I find a like case of the transformation of a thought in order
that it might agree with another essentially foreign one. In following
out the analysis I struck upon the thought: I should like to have
something for nothing. But this formula is not serviceable to the
dream. Hence it is replaced by another one: "I should like to enjoy
something free of cost."1 The
word "kost" (taste), with its double meaning, is appropriate to a table
d'hôte; it, moreover, is in place through the special sense in the
dream. At home if there is a dish which the children decline, their
mother first tries gentle persuasion, with a "Just taste it." That the
dream work should unhesitatingly use the double meaning of the word is
certainly remarkable; ample experience has shown, however, that the
occurrence is quite usual.
Through condensation of the dream certain constituent parts of its content are explicable which are
peculiar to the dream life alone, and which are not found in the waking
state. Such are the composite and mixed persons, the extraordinary mixed
figures, creations comparable with the fantastic animal compositions of
Orientals; a moment's thought and these are reduced to unity, whilst the
fancies of the dream are ever formed anew in an inexhaustible profusion.
Every one knows such images in his own dreams; manifold are their
origins. I can build up a person by borrowing one feature from one
person and one from another, or by giving to the form of one the name of
another in my dream. I can also visualize one person, but place him in a
position which has occurred to another. There is a meaning in all these
cases when different persons are amalgamated into one substitute. Such
cases denote an "and," a "just like," a comparison of the original
person from a certain point of view, a comparison which can be also
realized in the dream itself. As a rule, however, the identity of the
blended persons is only discoverable by analysis, and is only indicated
in the dream content by the formation of the "combined" person.
The same diversity in their ways of formation and the same rules for
its solution hold good also for the innumerable medley of dream
contents, examples of which I need scarcely
adduce. Their strangeness quite disappears when we resolve not to place
them on a level with the objects of perception as known to us when
awake, but to remember that they represent the art of dream condensation
by an exclusion of unnecessary detail. Prominence is given to the common
character of the combination. Analysis must also generally supply the
common features. The dream says simply: All these things have an "x" in
common. The decomposition of these mixed images by analysis is often
the quickest way to an interpretation of the dream. Thus I once dreamt
that I was sitting with one of my former university tutors on a bench,
which was undergoing a rapid continuous movement amidst other benches.
This was a combination of lecture-room and moving staircase. I will not
pursue the further result of the thought. Another time I was sitting in
a carriage, and on my lap an object in shape like a top-hat, which,
however, was made of transparent glass. The scene at once brought to my
mind the proverb: "He who keeps his hat in his hand will travel safely
through the land." By a slight turn the glass hat reminded me of
Auer's light, and I knew that I was about to invent something which
was to make me as rich and independent as his invention had made my
countryman, Dr. Auer, of Welsbach; then I
should be able to travel instead of remaining in Vienna. In the dream I
was traveling with my invention, with the, it is true, rather awkward
glass top-hat. The dream work is peculiarly adept at representing two
contradictory conceptions by means of the same mixed image. Thus, for
instance, a woman dreamt of herself carrying a tall flower-stalk, as in
the picture of the Annunciation (Chastity-Mary is her own name), but the
stalk was bedecked with thick white blossoms resembling camellias
(contrast with chastity: La dame aux Camelias).
A great deal of what we have called "dream condensation" can be thus
formulated. Each one of the elements of the dream content is
overdetermined by the matter of the dream thoughts; it is not derived
from one element of these thoughts, but from a whole series. These are
not necessarily interconnected in any way, but may belong to the most
diverse spheres of thought. The dream element truly represents all this
disparate matter in the dream content. Analysis, moreover, discloses
another side of the relationship between dream content and dream
thoughts. Just as one element of the dream leads to associations with
several dream thoughts, so, as a rule, the one dream thought represents
more than one dream element. The threads of
the association do not simply converge from the dream thoughts to the
dream content, but on the way they overlap and interweave in every
way.
Next to the transformation of one thought in the scene (its
"dramatization"), condensation is the most important and most
characteristic feature of the dream work. We have as yet no clue as to
the motive calling for such compression of the content.
In the complicated and intricate dreams with which we are now
concerned, condensation and dramatization do not wholly account for the
difference between dream contents and dream thoughts. There is evidence
of a third factor, which deserves careful consideration.
When I have arrived at an understanding of the dream thoughts by my
analysis I notice, above all, that the matter of the manifest is very
different from that of the latent dream content. That is, I admit, only
an apparent difference which vanishes on closer investigation, for in
the end I find the whole dream content carried out in the dream
thoughts, nearly all the dream thoughts again represented in the dream
content. Nevertheless, there does remain a certain amount of
difference.
The essential content which stood out clearly and broadly in the
dream must, after analysis, rest satisfied with
a very subordinate rôle among the dream thoughts. These very dream
thoughts which, going by my feelings, have a claim to the greatest
importance are either not present at all in the dream content, or are
represented by some remote allusion in some obscure region of the dream.
I can thus describe these phenomena: During the dream work the
psychical intensity of those thoughts and conceptions to which it
properly pertains flows to others which, in my judgment, have no claim
to such emphasis. There is no other process which contributes so much
to concealment of the dream's meaning and to make the connection between
the dream content and dream ideas irrecognizable. During this process,
which I will call the dream displacement, I notice also the psychical
intensity, significance, or emotional nature of the thoughts become
transposed in sensory vividness. What was clearest in the dream seems to
me, without further consideration, the most important; but often in some
obscure element of the dream I can recognize the most direct offspring
of the principal dream thought.
I could only designate this dream displacement as the transvaluation
of psychical values. The phenomena will not have been considered in all
its bearings unless I add that this displacement or transvaluation is shared by different dreams in
extremely varying degrees. There are dreams which take place almost
without any displacement. These have the same time, meaning, and
intelligibility as we found in the dreams which recorded a desire. In
other dreams not a bit of the dream idea has retained its own psychical
value, or everything essential in these dream ideas has been replaced by
unessentials, whilst every kind of transition between these conditions
can be found. The more obscure and intricate a dream is, the greater is
the part to be ascribed to the impetus of displacement in its
formation.
The example that we chose for analysis shows, at least, this much of
displacement—that its content has a different center of interest
from that of the dream ideas. In the forefront of the dream content the
main scene appears as if a woman wished to make advances to me; in the
dream idea the chief interest rests on the desire to enjoy disinterested
love which shall "cost nothing"; this idea lies at the back of the talk
about the beautiful eyes and the far-fetched allusion to "spinach."
If we abolish the dream displacement, we attain through analysis
quite certain conclusions regarding two problems of the dream which are
most disputed—as to what provokes a dream at all, and as to the connection of the dream with our waking
life. There are dreams which at once expose their links with the events
of the day; in others no trace of such a connection can be found. By the
aid of analysis it can be shown that every dream, without any exception,
is linked up with our impression of the day, or perhaps it would be more
correct to say of the day previous to the dream. The impressions which
have incited the dream may be so important that we are not surprised at
our being occupied with them whilst awake; in this case we are right in
saying that the dream carries on the chief interest of our waking life.
More usually, however, when the dream contains anything relating to the
impressions of the day, it is so trivial, unimportant, and so deserving
of oblivion, that we can only recall it with an effort. The dream
content appears, then, even when coherent and intelligible, to be
concerned with those indifferent trifles of thought undeserving of our
waking interest. The depreciation of dreams is largely due to the
predominance of the indifferent and the worthless in their content.
Analysis destroys the appearance upon which this derogatory judgment
is based. When the dream content discloses nothing but some indifferent
impression as instigating the dream, analysis ever indicates some
significant event, which has been replaced by
something indifferent with which it has entered into abundant
associations. Where the dream is concerned with uninteresting and
unimportant conceptions, analysis reveals the numerous associative paths
which connect the trivial with the momentous in the psychical estimation
of the individual. It is only the action of displacement if what is
indifferent obtains recognition in the dream content instead of those
impressions which are really the stimulus, or instead of the things of
real interest. In answering the question as to what provokes the dream,
as to the connection of the dream, in the daily troubles, we must say,
in terms of the insight given us by replacing the manifest latent dream
content: The dream does never trouble itself about things which are not
deserving of our concern during the day, and trivialities which do not
trouble us during the day have no power to pursue us whilst asleep.
What provoked the dream in the example which we have analyzed? The
really unimportant event, that a friend invited me to a free ride in
his cab. The table d'hôte scene in the dream contains an allusion to
this indifferent motive, for in conversation I had brought the taxi
parallel with the table d'hôte. But I can indicate the important event
which has as its substitute the trivial one. A few days before I had disbursed a large sum of money
for a member of my family who is very dear to me. Small wonder, says the
dream thought, if this person is grateful to me for this—this love
is not cost-free. But love that shall cost nothing is one of the prime
thoughts of the dream. The fact that shortly before this I had had
several drives with the relative in question puts the one drive with
my friend in a position to recall the connection with the other person.
The indifferent impression which, by such ramifications, provokes the
dream is subservient to another condition which is not true of the real
source of the dream—the impression must be a recent one,
everything arising from the day of the dream.
I cannot leave the question of dream displacement without the
consideration of a remarkable process in the formation of dreams in
which condensation and displacement work together towards one end. In
condensation we have already considered the case where two conceptions
in the dream having something in common, some point of contact, are
replaced in the dream content by a mixed image, where the distinct germ
corresponds to what is common, and the indistinct secondary
modifications to what is distinctive. If displacement is added to
condensation, there is no formation of a mixed
image, but a common mean which bears the same relationship to the
individual elements as does the resultant in the parallelogram of forces
to its components. In one of my dreams, for instance, there is talk of
an injection with propyl. On first analysis I discovered an
indifferent but true incident where amyl played a part as the excitant
of the dream. I cannot yet vindicate the exchange of amyl for propyl. To
the round of ideas of the same dream, however, there belongs the
recollection of my first visit to Munich, when the Propylœa
struck me. The attendant circumstances of the analysis render it
admissible that the influence of this second group of conceptions caused
the displacement of amyl to propyl. Propyl is, so to say, the mean
idea between amyl and propylœa; it got into the dream as a
kind of compromise by simultaneous condensation and displacement.
The need of discovering some motive for this bewildering work of the
dream is even more called for in the case of displacement than in
condensation.
Although the work of displacement must be held mainly responsible if
the dream thoughts are not refound or recognized in the dream content
(unless the motive of the changes be guessed), it is another and milder
kind of transformation which will be considered with the dream thoughts
which leads to the discovery of a new but
readily understood act of the dream work. The first dream thoughts which
are unravelled by analysis frequently strike one by their unusual
wording. They do not appear to be expressed in the sober form which our
thinking prefers; rather are they expressed symbolically by allegories
and metaphors like the figurative language of the poets. It is not
difficult to find the motives for this degree of constraint in the
expression of dream ideas. The dream content consists chiefly of visual
scenes; hence the dream ideas must, in the first place, be prepared to
make use of these forms of presentation. Conceive that a political
leader's or a barrister's address had to be transposed into pantomime,
and it will be easy to understand the transformations to which the dream
work is constrained by regard for this dramatization of the dream
content.
Around the psychical stuff of dream thoughts there are ever found
reminiscences of impressions, not infrequently of early
childhood—scenes which, as a rule, have been visually grasped.
Whenever possible, this portion of the dream ideas exercises a definite
influence upon the modelling of the dream content; it works like a
center of crystallization, by attracting and rearranging the stuff of
the dream thoughts. The scene of the dream is not infrequently nothing but a modified repetition, complicated by
interpolations of events that have left such an impression; the dream
but very seldom reproduces accurate and unmixed reproductions of real
scenes.
The dream content does not, however, consist exclusively of scenes,
but it also includes scattered fragments of visual images,
conversations, and even bits of unchanged thoughts. It will be perhaps
to the point if we instance in the briefest way the means of
dramatization which are at the disposal of the dream work for the
repetition of the dream thoughts in the peculiar language of the
dream.
The dream thoughts which we learn from the analysis exhibit
themselves as a psychical complex of the most complicated
superstructure. Their parts stand in the most diverse relationship to
each other; they form backgrounds and foregrounds, stipulations,
digressions, illustrations, demonstrations, and protestations. It may be
said to be almost the rule that one train of thought is followed by its
contradictory. No feature known to our reason whilst awake is absent. If
a dream is to grow out of all this, the psychical matter is submitted to
a pressure which condenses it extremely, to an inner shrinking and
displacement, creating at the same time fresh surfaces, to a selective
interweaving among the constituents best
adapted for the construction of these scenes. Having regard to the
origin of this stuff, the term regression can be fairly applied to
this process. The logical chains which hitherto held the psychical stuff
together become lost in this transformation to the dream content. The
dream work takes on, as it were, only the essential content of the dream
thoughts for elaboration. It is left to analysis to restore the
connection which the dream work has destroyed.
The dream's means of expression must therefore be regarded as meager
in comparison with those of our imagination, though the dream does not
renounce all claims to the restitution of logical relation to the dream
thoughts. It rather succeeds with tolerable frequency in replacing these
by formal characters of its own.
By reason of the undoubted connection existing between all the parts
of dream thoughts, the dream is able to embody this matter into a single
scene. It upholds a logical connection as approximation in time and
space, just as the painter, who groups all the poets for his picture of
Parnassus who, though they have never been all together on a mountain
peak, yet form ideally a community. The dream continues this method of
presentation in individual dreams, and often when it displays two
elements close together in the dream content it
warrants some special inner connection between what they represent in
the dream thoughts. It should be, moreover, observed that all the dreams
of one night prove on analysis to originate from the same sphere of
thought.
The causal connection between two ideas is either left without
presentation, or replaced by two different long portions of dreams one
after the other. This presentation is frequently a reversed one, the
beginning of the dream being the deduction, and its end the hypothesis.
The direct transformation of one thing into another in the dream seems
to serve the relationship of cause and effect.
The dream never utters the alternative "either-or," but accepts
both as having equal rights in the same connection. When "either-or" is
used in the reproduction of dreams, it is, as I have already mentioned,
to be replaced by "and."
Conceptions which stand in opposition to one another are preferably
expressed in dreams by the same element.2 There seems no "not" in dreams.
Opposition between two ideas, the relation of
conversion, is represented in dreams in a very remarkable way. It is
expressed by the reversal of another part of the dream content just as
if by way of appendix. We shall later on deal with another form of
expressing disagreement. The common dream sensation of movement
checked serves the purpose of representing disagreement of
impulses—a conflict of the will.
Only one of the logical relationships—that of similarity,
identity, agreement—is found highly developed in the mechanism of
dream formation. Dream work makes use of these cases as a starting-point
for condensation, drawing together everything which shows such agreement
to a fresh unity.
These short, crude observations naturally do not suffice as an
estimate of the abundance of the dream's formal means of presenting the
logical relationships of the dream thoughts. In this respect, individual
dreams are worked up more nicely or more carelessly, our text will have
been followed more or less closely, auxiliaries of the dream work will have been taken more or less into
consideration. In the latter case they appear obscure, intricate,
incoherent. When the dream appears openly absurd, when it contains an
obvious paradox in its content, it is so of purpose. Through its
apparent disregard of all logical claims, it expresses a part of the
intellectual content of the dream ideas. Absurdity in the dream denotes
disagreement, scorn, disdain in the dream thoughts. As this
explanation is in entire disagreement with the view that the dream owes
its origin to dissociated, uncritical cerebral activity, I will
emphasize my view by an example:
"One of my acquaintances, Mr. M____, has been attacked by no less a
person than Goethe in an essay with, we all maintain, unwarrantable
violence. Mr. M____ has naturally been ruined by this attack. He
complains very bitterly of this at a dinner-party, but his respect for
Goethe has not diminished through this personal experience. I now
attempt to clear up the chronological relations which strike me as
improbable. Goethe died in 1832. As his attack upon Mr. M____ must, of
course, have taken place before, Mr. M____ must have been then a very
young man. It seems to me plausible that he was eighteen. I am not
certain, however, what year we are actually in, and the whole
calculation falls into obscurity. The attack
was, moreover, contained in Goethe's well-known essay on 'Nature.'"
The absurdity of the dream becomes the more glaring when I state that
Mr. M____ is a young business man without any poetical or literary
interests. My analysis of the dream will show what method there is in
this madness. The dream has derived its material from three sources:
1. Mr. M____, to whom I was introduced at a dinner-party, begged me
one day to examine his elder brother, who showed signs of mental
trouble. In conversation with the patient, an unpleasant episode
occurred. Without the slightest occasion he disclosed one of his
brother's youthful escapades. I had asked the patient the year of his
birth (year of death in dream), and led him to various calculations
which might show up his want of memory.
2. A medical journal which displayed my name among others on the
cover had published a ruinous review of a book by my friend F____ of
Berlin, from the pen of a very juvenile reviewer. I communicated with
the editor, who, indeed, expressed his regret, but would not promise any
redress. Thereupon I broke off my connection with the paper; in my
letter of resignation I expressed the hope that our personal relations
would not suffer from this. Here is the real
source of the dream. The derogatory reception of my friend's work had
made a deep impression upon me. In my judgment, it contained a
fundamental biological discovery which only now, several years later,
commences to find favor among the professors.
3. A little while before, a patient gave me the medical history of
her brother, who, exclaiming "Nature, Nature!" had gone out of his
mind. The doctors considered that the exclamation arose from a study of
Goethe's beautiful essay, and indicated that the patient had been
overworking. I expressed the opinion that it seemed more plausible to
me that the exclamation "Nature!" was to be taken in that sexual meaning
known also to the less educated in our country. It seemed to me that
this view had something in it, because the unfortunate youth afterwards
mutilated his genital organs. The patient was eighteen years old when
the attack occurred.
The first person in the dream-thoughts behind the ego was my friend
who had been so scandalously treated. "I now attempted to clear up the
chronological relation." My friend's book deals with the chronological
relations of life, and, amongst other things, correlates Goethe's
duration of life with a number of days in many ways important to
biology. The ego is, however, represented as a
general paralytic ("I am not certain what year we are actually in").
The dream exhibits my friend as behaving like a general paralytic, and
thus riots in absurdity. But the dream thoughts run ironically. "Of
course he is a madman, a fool, and you are the genius who understands
all about it. But shouldn't it be the other way round?" This inversion
obviously took place in the dream when Goethe attacked the young man,
which is absurd, whilst any one, however young, can to-day easily attack
the great Goethe.
I am prepared to maintain that no dream is inspired by other than
egoistic emotions. The ego in the dream does not, indeed, represent only
my friend, but stands for myself also. I identify myself with him
because the fate of his discovery appears to me typical of the
acceptance of my own. If I were to publish my own theory, which gives
sexuality predominance in the ætiology of psychoneurotic disorders (see
the allusion to the eighteen-year-old patient—"Nature,
Nature!"), the same criticism would be leveled at me, and it would even
now meet with the same contempt.
When I follow out the dream thoughts closely, I ever find only
scorn and contempt as correlated with the dream's absurdity. It is
well known that the discovery of a cracked sheep's skull on the Lido in
Venice gave Goethe the hint for the so-called
vertebral theory of the skull. My friend plumes himself on having as a
student raised a hubbub for the resignation of an aged professor who had
done good work (including some in this very subject of comparative
anatomy), but who, on account of decrepitude, had become quite
incapable of teaching. The agitation my friend inspired was so
successful because in the German Universities an age limit is not
demanded for academic work. Age is no protection against folly. In the
hospital here I had for years the honor to serve under a chief who, long
fossilized, was for decades notoriously feebleminded, and was yet
permitted to continue in his responsible office. A trait, after the
manner of the find in the Lido, forces itself upon me here. It was to
this man that some youthful colleagues in the hospital adapted the then
popular slang of that day: "No Goethe has written that," "No Schiller
composed that," etc.
We have not exhausted our valuation of the dream work. In addition to
condensation, displacement, and definite arrangement of the psychical
matter, we must ascribe to it yet another activity—one which is,
indeed, not shared by every dream. I shall not treat this position of
the dream work exhaustively; I will only point out that the readiest way to arrive at a conception of it is to take for
granted, probably unfairly, that it only subsequently influences the
dream content which has already been built up. Its mode of action thus
consists in so coördinating the parts of the dream that these coalesce
to a coherent whole, to a dream composition. The dream gets a kind of
façade which, it is true, does not conceal the whole of its content.
There is a sort of preliminary explanation to be strengthened by
interpolations and slight alterations. Such elaboration of the dream
content must not be too pronounced; the misconception of the dream
thoughts to which it gives rise is merely superficial, and our first
piece of work in analyzing a dream is to get rid of these early attempts
at interpretation.
The motives for this part of the dream work are easily gauged. This
final elaboration of the dream is due to a regard for
intelligibility—a fact at once betraying the origin of an action
which behaves towards the actual dream content just as our normal
psychical action behaves towards some proffered perception that is to
our liking. The dream content is thus secured under the pretense of
certain expectations, is perceptually classified by the supposition of
its intelligibility, thereby risking its falsification, whilst, in fact,
the most extraordinary misconceptions arise if
the dream can be correlated with nothing familiar. Every one is aware
that we are unable to look at any series of unfamiliar signs, or to
listen to a discussion of unknown words, without at once making
perpetual changes through our regard for intelligibility, through our
falling back upon what is familiar.
We can call those dreams properly made up which are the result of
an elaboration in every way analogous to the psychical action of our
waking life. In other dreams there is no such action; not even an
attempt is made to bring about order and meaning. We regard the dream as
"quite mad," because on awaking it is with this last-named part of the
dream work, the dream elaboration, that we identify ourselves. So far,
however, as our analysis is concerned, the dream, which resembles a
medley of disconnected fragments, is of as much value as the one with a
smooth and beautifully polished surface. In the former case we are
spared, to some extent, the trouble of breaking down the
super-elaboration of the dream content.
All the same, it would be an error to see in the dream façade nothing
but the misunderstood and somewhat arbitrary elaboration of the dream
carried out at the instance of our psychical life. Wishes and phantasies
are not infrequently employed in the erection
of this façade, which were already fashioned in the dream thoughts; they
are akin to those of our waking life—"day-dreams," as they are
very properly called. These wishes and phantasies, which analysis
discloses in our dreams at night, often present themselves as
repetitions and refashionings of the scenes of infancy. Thus the dream
façade may show us directly the true core of the dream, distorted
through admixture with other matter.
Beyond these four activities there is nothing else to be discovered
in the dream work. If we keep closely to the definition that dream work
denotes the transference of dream thoughts to dream content, we are
compelled to say that the dream work is not creative; it develops no
fancies of its own, it judges nothing, decides nothing. It does nothing
but prepare the matter for condensation and displacement, and refashions
it for dramatization, to which must be added the inconstant last-named
mechanism—that of explanatory elaboration. It is true that a good
deal is found in the dream content which might be understood as the
result of another and more intellectual performance; but analysis shows
conclusively every time that these intellectual operations were already
present in the dream thoughts, and have only been taken over by the dream content. A syllogism in the dream is
nothing other than the repetition of a syllogism in the dream thoughts;
it seems inoffensive if it has been transferred to the dream without
alteration; it becomes absurd if in the dream work it has been
transferred to other matter. A calculation in the dream content simply
means that there was a calculation in the dream thoughts; whilst this is
always correct, the calculation in the dream can furnish the silliest
results by the condensation of its factors and the displacement of the
same operations to other things. Even speeches which are found in the
dream content are not new compositions; they prove to be pieced together
out of speeches which have been made or heard or read; the words are
faithfully copied, but the occasion of their utterance is quite
overlooked, and their meaning is most violently changed.
It is, perhaps, not superfluous to support these assertions by
examples:
1. A seemingly inoffensive, well-made dream of a patient. She was
going to market with her cook, who carried the basket. The butcher said
to her when she asked him for something: "That is all gone," and wished
to give her something else, remarking; "That's very good." She declines,
and goes to the greengrocer, who wants to sell her a peculiar vegetable which is bound up in bundles
and of a black color. She says: "I don't know that; I won't take
it."
The remark "That is all gone" arose from the treatment. A few days
before I said myself to the patient that the earliest reminiscences of
childhood are all gone as such, but are replaced by transferences and
dreams. Thus I am the butcher.
The second remark, "I don't know that" arose in a very different
connection. The day before she had herself called out in rebuke to the
cook (who, moreover, also appears in the dream): "Behave yourself
properly; I don't know that"—that is, "I don't know this kind
of behavior; I won't have it." The more harmless portion of this speech
was arrived at by a displacement of the dream content; in the dream
thoughts only the other portion of the speech played a part, because the
dream work changed an imaginary situation into utter irrecognizability
and complete inoffensiveness (while in a certain sense I behave in an
unseemly way to the lady). The situation resulting in this phantasy is,
however, nothing but a new edition of one that actually took place.
2. A dream apparently meaningless relates to figures. "She wants to
pay something; her daughter takes three florins sixty-five kreuzers out
of her purse; but she says: 'What are you
doing? It only cost twenty-one kreuzers.'"
The dreamer was a stranger who had placed her child at school in
Vienna, and who was able to continue under my treatment so long as her
daughter remained at Vienna. The day before the dream the directress of
the school had recommended her to keep the child another year at school.
In this case she would have been able to prolong her treatment by one
year. The figures in the dream become important if it be remembered that
time is money. One year equals 365 days, or, expressed in kreuzers, 365
kreuzers, which is three florins sixty-five kreuzers. The twenty-one
kreuzers correspond with the three weeks which remained from the day of
the dream to the end of the school term, and thus to the end of the
treatment. It was obviously financial considerations which had moved the
lady to refuse the proposal of the directress, and which were answerable
for the triviality of the amount in the dream.
3. A lady, young, but already ten years married, heard that a friend
of hers, Miss Elise L____, of about the same age, had become engaged.
This gave rise to the following dream:
She was sitting with her husband in the theater; the one side of the
stalls was quite empty. Her husband tells her,
Elise L____ and her fiancé had intended coming, but could only get some
cheap seats, three for one florin fifty kreuzers, and these they would
not take. In her opinion, that would not have mattered very much.
The origin of the figures from the matter of the dream thoughts and
the changes the figures underwent are of interest. Whence came the one
florin fifty kreuzers? From a trifling occurrence of the previous day.
Her sister-in-law had received 150 florins as a present from her
husband, and had quickly got rid of it by buying some ornament. Note
that 150 florins is one hundred times one florin fifty kreuzers. For the
three concerned with the tickets, the only link is that Elise L____ is
exactly three months younger than the dreamer. The scene in the dream is
the repetition of a little adventure for which she has often been teased
by her husband. She was once in a great hurry to get tickets in time for
a piece, and when she came to the theater one side of the stalls was
almost empty. It was therefore quite unnecessary for her to have been
in such a hurry. Nor must we overlook the absurdity of the dream that
two persons should take three tickets for the theater.
Now for the dream ideas. It was stupid to have married so early; I
need not have been in so great a hurry.
Elise L____'s example shows me that I should have been able to get a
husband later; indeed, one a hundred times better if I had but waited.
I could have bought three such men with the money (dowry).
Footnote
1: "Ich möchte gerne etwas geniessen ohne 'Kosten' zu haben." A a
pun upon the word "kosten," which has two meanings—"taste" and
"cost." In "Die Traumdeutung," third edition, p. 71 footnote, Professor
Freud remarks that "the finest example of dream interpretation left us
by the ancients is based upon a pun" (from "The Interpretation of
Dreams," by Artemidorus Daldianus). "Moreover, dreams are so intimately
bound up with language that Ferenczi truly points out that every tongue
has its own language of dreams. A dream is as a rule untranslatable into
other languages."—TRANSLATOR.
Footnote
2: It is worthy of remark that eminent philologists maintain that
the oldest languages used the same word for expressing quite general
antitheses. In C. Abel's essay, "Ueber den Gegensinn der Urworter"
(1884, the following examples of such words in England are given:
"gleam—gloom"; "to lock—loch"; "down—The Downs"; "to
step—to stop." In his essay on "The Origin of Language"
("Linguistic Essays," p. 240), Abel says: "When the Englishman says
'without,' is not his judgment based upon the comparative juxtaposition
of two opposites, 'with' and 'out'; 'with' itself originally meant
'without,' as may still be seen in 'withdraw.' 'Bid' includes the
opposite sense of giving and of proffering." Abel, "The English Verbs of
Command," "Linguistic Essays," p. 104; see also Freud, "Ueber den
Gegensinn der Urworte"; Jahrbuch für Psychoanalytische und
Psychopathologische Forschungen, Band II., part i., p.
179).—TRANSLATOR.
In the foregoing exposition we have now learnt something of the dream
work; we must regard it as a quite special psychical process, which, so
far as we are aware, resembles nothing else. To the dream work has been
transferred that bewilderment which its product, the dream, has aroused
in us. In truth, the dream work is only the first recognition of a group
of psychical processes to which must be referred the origin of
hysterical symptoms, the ideas of morbid dread, obsession, and illusion.
Condensation, and especially displacement, are never-failing features in
these other processes. The regard for appearance remains, on the other
hand, peculiar to the dream work. If this explanation brings the dream
into line with the formation of psychical disease, it becomes the more
important to fathom the essential conditions of processes like dream
building. It will be probably a surprise to hear that neither the state
of sleep nor illness is among the indispensable conditions. A whole
number of phenomena of the everyday life of
healthy persons, forgetfulness, slips in speaking and in holding things,
together with a certain class of mistakes, are due to a psychical
mechanism analogous to that of the dream and the other members of this
group.
Displacement is the core of the problem, and the most striking of all
the dream performances. A thorough investigation of the subject shows
that the essential condition of displacement is purely psychological; it
is in the nature of a motive. We get on the track by thrashing out
experiences which one cannot avoid in the analysis of dreams. I had to
break off the relations of my dream thoughts in the analysis of my dream
on p. 8 because I found some experiences which I
do not wish strangers to know, and which I could not relate without
serious damage to important considerations. I added, it would be no use
were I to select another instead of that particular dream; in every
dream where the content is obscure or intricate, I should hit upon dream
thoughts which call for secrecy. If, however, I continue the analysis
for myself, without regard to those others, for whom, indeed, so
personal an event as my dream cannot matter, I arrive finally at ideas
which surprise me, which I have not known to be mine, which not only
appear foreign to me, but which are unpleasant, and which I would
like to oppose vehemently, whilst the chain of
ideas running through the analysis intrudes upon me inexorably. I can
only take these circumstances into account by admitting that these
thoughts are actually part of my psychical life, possessing a certain
psychical intensity or energy. However, by virtue of a particular
psychological condition, the thoughts could not become conscious to
me. I call this particular condition "Repression." It is therefore
impossible for me not to recognize some casual relationship between the
obscurity of the dream content and this state of repression—this
incapacity of consciousness. Whence I conclude that the cause of the
obscurity is the desire to conceal these thoughts. Thus I arrive at
the conception of the dream distortion as the deed of the dream work,
and of displacement serving to disguise this object.
I will test this in my own dream, and ask myself, What is the thought
which, quite innocuous in its distorted form, provokes my liveliest
opposition in its real form? I remember that the free drive reminded me
of the last expensive drive with a member of my family, the
interpretation of the dream being: I should for once like to experience
affection for which I should not have to pay, and that shortly before
the dream I had to make a heavy disbursement for this very person. In
this connection, I cannot get away from the
thought that I regret this disbursement. It is only when I acknowledge
this feeling that there is any sense in my wishing in the dream for an
affection that should entail no outlay. And yet I can state on my honor
that I did not hesitate for a moment when it became necessary to expend
that sum. The regret, the counter-current, was unconscious to me. Why it
was unconscious is quite another question which would lead us far away
from the answer which, though within my knowledge, belongs
elsewhere.
If I subject the dream of another person instead of one of my own to
analysis, the result is the same; the motives for convincing others is,
however, changed. In the dream of a healthy person the only way for me
to enable him to accept this repressed idea is the coherence of the
dream thoughts. He is at liberty to reject this explanation. But if we
are dealing with a person suffering from any neurosis—say from
hysteria—the recognition of these repressed ideas is compulsory by
reason of their connection with the symptoms of his illness and of the
improvement resulting from exchanging the symptoms for the repressed
ideas. Take the patient from whom I got the last dream about the three
tickets for one florin fifty kreuzers. Analysis shows that she does not
think highly of her husband, that she regrets
having married him, that she would be glad to change him for some one
else. It is true that she maintains that she loves her husband, that her
emotional life knows nothing about this depreciation (a hundred times
better!), but all her symptoms lead to the same conclusion as this
dream. When her repressed memories had rewakened a certain period when
she was conscious that she did not love her husband, her symptoms
disappeared, and therewith disappeared her resistance to the
interpretation of the dream.
This conception of repression once fixed, together with the
distortion of the dream in relation to repressed psychical matter, we
are in a position to give a general exposition of the principal results
which the analysis of dreams supplies. We learnt that the most
intelligible and meaningful dreams are unrealized desires; the desires
they pictured as realized are known to consciousness, have been held
over from the daytime, and are of absorbing interest. The analysis of
obscure and intricate dreams discloses something very similar; the dream
scene again pictures as realized some desire which regularly proceeds
from the dream ideas, but the picture is unrecognizable, and is only
cleared up in the analysis. The desire itself is either one repressed,
foreign to consciousness, or it is closely bound up with repressed ideas. The formula for these dreams
may be thus stated: They are concealed realizations of repressed
desires. It is interesting to note that they are right who regard the
dream as foretelling the future. Although the future which the dream
shows us is not that which will occur, but that which we would like to
occur. Folk psychology proceeds here according to its wont; it believes
what it wishes to believe.
Dreams can be divided into three classes according to their relation
towards the realization of desire. Firstly come those which exhibit a
non-repressed, non-concealed desire; these are dreams of the infantile
type, becoming ever rarer among adults. Secondly, dreams which express
in veiled form some repressed desire; these constitute by far the
larger number of our dreams, and they require analysis for their
understanding. Thirdly, these dreams where repression exists, but
without or with but slight concealment. These dreams are invariably
accompanied by a feeling of dread which brings the dream to an end. This
feeling of dread here replaces dream displacement; I regarded the dream
work as having prevented this in the dream of the second class. It is
not very difficult to prove that what is now present as intense dread in
the dream was once desire, and is now secondary
to the repression.
There are also definite dreams with a painful content, without the
presence of any anxiety in the dream. These cannot be reckoned among
dreams of dread; they have, however, always been used to prove the
unimportance and the psychical futility of dreams. An analysis of such
an example will show that it belongs to our second class of
dreams—a perfectly concealed realization of repressed desires.
Analysis will demonstrate at the same time how excellently adapted is
the work of displacement to the concealment of desires.
A girl dreamt that she saw lying dead before her the only surviving
child of her sister amid the same surroundings as a few years before she
saw the first child lying dead. She was not sensible of any pain, but
naturally combatted the view that the scene represented a desire of
hers. Nor was that view necessary. Years ago it was at the funeral of
the child that she had last seen and spoken to the man she loved. Were
the second child to die, she would be sure to meet this man again in her
sister's house. She is longing to meet him, but struggles against this
feeling. The day of the dream she had taken a ticket for a lecture,
which announced the presence of the man she
always loved. The dream is simply a dream of impatience common to those
which happen before a journey, theater, or simply anticipated pleasures.
The longing is concealed by the shifting of the scene to the occasion
when any joyous feeling were out of place, and yet where it did once
exist. Note, further, that the emotional behavior in the dream is
adapted, not to the displaced, but to the real but suppressed dream
ideas. The scene anticipates the long-hoped-for meeting; there is here
no call for painful emotions.
There has hitherto been no occasion for philosophers to bestir
themselves with a psychology of repression. We must be allowed to
construct some clear conception as to the origin of dreams as the first
steps in this unknown territory. The scheme which we have formulated not
only from a study of dreams is, it is true, already somewhat
complicated, but we cannot find any simpler one that will suffice. We
hold that our psychical apparatus contains two procedures for the
construction of thoughts. The second one has the advantage that its
products find an open path to consciousness, whilst the activity of the
first procedure is unknown to itself, and can only arrive at
consciousness through the second one. At the borderland of these two
procedures, where the first passes over into the second, a censorship is established which only passes what pleases it,
keeping back everything else. That which is rejected by the censorship
is, according to our definition, in a state of repression. Under certain
conditions, one of which is the sleeping state, the balance of power
between the two procedures is so changed that what is repressed can no
longer be kept back. In the sleeping state this may possibly occur
through the negligence of the censor; what has been hitherto repressed
will now succeed in finding its way to consciousness. But as the
censorship is never absent, but merely off guard, certain alterations
must be conceded so as to placate it. It is a compromise which becomes
conscious in this case—a compromise between what one procedure has
in view and the demands of the other. Repression, laxity of the censor,
compromise—this is the foundation for the origin of many another
psychological process, just as it is for the dream. In such compromises
we can observe the processes of condensation, of displacement, the
acceptance of superficial associations, which we have found in the dream
work.
It is not for us to deny the demonic element which has played a part
in constructing our explanation of dream work. The impression left is
that the formation of obscure dreams proceeds as if a person had something to say which must be
agreeable for another person upon whom he is dependent to hear. It is by
the use of this image that we figure to ourselves the conception of the
dream distortion and of the censorship, and ventured to crystallize
our impression in a rather crude, but at least definite, psychological
theory. Whatever explanation the future may offer of these first and
second procedures, we shall expect a confirmation of our correlate that
the second procedure commands the entrance to consciousness, and can
exclude the first from consciousness.
Once the sleeping state overcome, the censorship resumes complete
sway, and is now able to revoke that which was granted in a moment of
weakness. That the forgetting of dreams explains this in part, at
least, we are convinced by our experience, confirmed again and again.
During the relation of a dream, or during analysis of one, it not
infrequently happens that some fragment of the dream is suddenly
forgotten. This fragment so forgotten invariably contains the best and
readiest approach to an understanding of the dream. Probably that is why
it sinks into oblivion—i.e., into a renewed suppression.
Viewing the dream content as the representation of a realized desire,
and referring its vagueness to the changes made
by the censor in the repressed matter, it is no longer difficult to
grasp the function of dreams. In fundamental contrast with those saws
which assume that sleep is disturbed by dreams, we hold the dream as
the guardian of sleep. So far as children's dreams are concerned, our
view should find ready acceptance.
The sleeping state or the psychical change to sleep, whatsoever it
be, is brought about by the child being sent to sleep or compelled
thereto by fatigue, only assisted by the removal of all stimuli which
might open other objects to the psychical apparatus. The means which
serve to keep external stimuli distant are known; but what are the means
we can employ to depress the internal psychical stimuli which frustrate
sleep? Look at a mother getting her child to sleep. The child is full of
beseeching; he wants another kiss; he wants to play yet awhile. His
requirements are in part met, in part drastically put off till the
following day. Clearly these desires and needs, which agitate him, are
hindrances to sleep. Every one knows the charming story of the bad boy
(Baldwin Groller's) who awoke at night bellowing out, "I want the
rhinoceros." A really good boy, instead of bellowing, would have
dreamt that he was playing with the rhinoceros. Because the dream
which realizes his desire is believed during
sleep, it removes the desire and makes sleep possible. It cannot be
denied that this belief accords with the dream image, because it is
arrayed in the psychical appearance of probability; the child is without
the capacity which it will acquire later to distinguish hallucinations
or phantasies from reality.
The adult has learnt this differentiation; he has also learnt the
futility of desire, and by continuous practice manages to postpone his
aspirations, until they can be granted in some roundabout method by a
change in the external world. For this reason it is rare for him to have
his wishes realized during sleep in the short psychical way. It is even
possible that this never happens, and that everything which appears to
us like a child's dream demands a much more elaborate explanation. Thus
it is that for adults—for every sane person without
exception—a differentiation of the psychical matter has been
fashioned which the child knew not. A psychical procedure has been
reached which, informed by the experience of life, exercises with
jealous power a dominating and restraining influence upon psychical
emotions; by its relation to consciousness, and by its spontaneous
mobility, it is endowed with the greatest means of psychical power. A
portion of the infantile emotions has been
withheld from this procedure as useless to life, and all the thoughts
which flow from these are found in the state of repression.
Whilst the procedure in which we recognize our normal ego reposes
upon the desire for sleep, it appears compelled by the
psycho-physiological conditions of sleep to abandon some of the energy
with which it was wont during the day to keep down what was repressed.
This neglect is really harmless; however much the emotions of the
child's spirit may be stirred, they find the approach to consciousness
rendered difficult, and that to movement blocked in consequence of the
state of sleep. The danger of their disturbing sleep must, however, be
avoided. Moreover, we must admit that even in deep sleep some amount of
free attention is exerted as a protection against sense-stimuli which
might, perchance, make an awakening seem wiser than the continuance of
sleep. Otherwise we could not explain the fact of our being always
awakened by stimuli of certain quality. As the old physiologist Burdach
pointed out, the mother is awakened by the whimpering of her child, the
miller by the cessation of his mill, most people by gently calling out
their names. This attention, thus on the alert, makes use of the
internal stimuli arising from repressed desires, and fuses them into the
dream, which as a compromise satisfies both
procedures at the same time. The dream creates a form of psychical
release for the wish which is either suppressed or formed by the aid of
repression, inasmuch as it presents it as realized. The other procedure
is also satisfied, since the continuance of the sleep is assured. Our
ego here gladly behaves like a child; it makes the dream pictures
believable, saying, as it were, "Quite right, but let me sleep." The
contempt which, once awakened, we bear the dream, and which rests upon
the absurdity and apparent illogicality of the dream, is probably
nothing but the reasoning of our sleeping ego on the feelings about what
was repressed; with greater right it should rest upon the incompetency
of this disturber of our sleep. In sleep we are now and then aware of
this contempt; the dream content transcends the censorship rather too
much, we think, "It's only a dream," and sleep on.
It is no objection to this view if there are borderlines for the
dream where its function, to preserve sleep from interruption, can no
longer be maintained—as in the dreams of impending dread. It is
here changed for another function—to suspend the sleep at the
proper time. It acts like a conscientious night-watchman, who first does
his duty by quelling disturbances so as not to waken the citizen, but equally does his duty quite properly
when he awakens the street should the causes of the trouble seem to him
serious and himself unable to cope with them alone.
This function of dreams becomes especially well marked when there
arises some incentive for the sense perception. That the senses aroused
during sleep influence the dream is well known, and can be
experimentally verified; it is one of the certain but much overestimated
results of the medical investigation of dreams. Hitherto there has been
an insoluble riddle connected with this discovery. The stimulus to the
sense by which the investigator affects the sleeper is not properly
recognized in the dream, but is intermingled with a number of indefinite
interpretations, whose determination appears left to psychical
free-will. There is, of course, no such psychical free-will. To an
external sense-stimulus the sleeper can react in many ways. Either he
awakens or he succeeds in sleeping on. In the latter case he can make
use of the dream to dismiss the external stimulus, and this, again, in
more ways than one. For instance, he can stay the stimulus by dreaming
of a scene which is absolutely intolerable to him. This was the means
used by one who was troubled by a painful perineal abscess. He dreamt
that he was on horseback, and made use of the
poultice, which was intended to alleviate his pain, as a saddle, and
thus got away from the cause of the trouble. Or, as is more frequently
the case, the external stimulus undergoes a new rendering, which leads
him to connect it with a repressed desire seeking its realization, and
robs him of its reality, and is treated as if it were a part of the
psychical matter. Thus, some one dreamt that he had written a comedy
which embodied a definite motif; it was being performed; the first act
was over amid enthusiastic applause; there was great clapping. At this
moment the dreamer must have succeeded in prolonging his sleep despite
the disturbance, for when he woke he no longer heard the noise; he
concluded rightly that some one must have been beating a carpet or bed.
The dreams which come with a loud noise just before waking have all
attempted to cover the stimulus to waking by some other explanation, and
thus to prolong the sleep for a little while.
Whosoever has firmly accepted this censorship as the chief motive
for the distortion of dreams will not be surprised to learn as the
result of dream interpretation that most of the dreams of adults are
traced by analysis to erotic desires. This assertion is not drawn from
dreams obviously of a sexual nature, which are known to all dreamers
from their own experience, and are the only
ones usually described as "sexual dreams." These dreams are ever
sufficiently mysterious by reason of the choice of persons who are made
the objects of sex, the removal of all the barriers which cry halt to
the dreamer's sexual needs in his waking state, the many strange
reminders as to details of what are called perversions. But analysis
discovers that, in many other dreams in whose manifest content nothing
erotic can be found, the work of interpretation shows them up as, in
reality, realization of sexual desires; whilst, on the other hand, that
much of the thought-making when awake, the thoughts saved us as surplus
from the day only, reaches presentation in dreams with the help of
repressed erotic desires.
Towards the explanation of this statement, which is no theoretical
postulate, it must be remembered that no other class of instincts has
required so vast a suppression at the behest of civilization as the
sexual, whilst their mastery by the highest psychical processes are in
most persons soonest of all relinquished. Since we have learnt to
understand infantile sexuality, often so vague in its expression, so
invariably overlooked and misunderstood, we are justified in saying that
nearly every civilized person has retained at some point or other the
infantile type of sex life; thus we understand
that repressed infantile sex desires furnish the most frequent and most
powerful impulses for the formation of dreams.1
If the dream, which is the expression of some erotic desire, succeeds
in making its manifest content appear innocently asexual, it is only
possible in one way. The matter of these sexual presentations cannot be
exhibited as such, but must be replaced by allusions, suggestions, and
similar indirect means; differing from other cases of indirect
presentation, those used in dreams must be deprived of direct
understanding. The means of presentation which answer these requirements
are commonly termed "symbols." A special interest has been directed
towards these, since it has been observed that the dreamers of the same
language use the like symbols—indeed, that in certain cases
community of symbol is greater than community of speech. Since the
dreamers do not themselves know the meaning of the symbols they use, it
remains a puzzle whence arises their relationship with what they replace
and denote. The fact itself is undoubted, and becomes of importance for
the technique of the interpretation of dreams,
since by the aid of a knowledge of this symbolism it is possible to
understand the meaning of the elements of a dream, or parts of a dream,
occasionally even the whole dream itself, without having to question the
dreamer as to his own ideas. We thus come near to the popular idea of an
interpretation of dreams, and, on the other hand, possess again the
technique of the ancients, among whom the interpretation of dreams was
identical with their explanation through symbolism.
Though the study of dream symbolism is far removed from finality, we
now possess a series of general statements and of particular
observations which are quite certain. There are symbols which
practically always have the same meaning: Emperor and Empress (King and
Queen) always mean the parents; room, a woman2, and so on. The sexes are
represented by a great variety of symbols, many of which would be at
first quite incomprehensible had not the clews to the meaning been often
obtained through other channels.
There are symbols of universal circulation, found in all dreamers, of
one range of speech and culture; there are
others of the narrowest individual significance which an individual has
built up out of his own material. In the first class those can be
differentiated whose claim can be at once recognized by the replacement
of sexual things in common speech (those, for instance, arising from
agriculture, as reproduction, seed) from others whose sexual references
appear to reach back to the earliest times and to the obscurest depths
of our image-building. The power of building symbols in both these
special forms of symbols has not died out. Recently discovered things,
like the airship, are at once brought into universal use as sex
symbols.
It would be quite an error to suppose that a profounder knowledge of
dream symbolism (the "Language of Dreams") would make us independent of
questioning the dreamer regarding his impressions about the dream, and
would give us back the whole technique of ancient dream interpreters.
Apart from individual symbols and the variations in the use of what is
general, one never knows whether an element in the dream is to be
understood symbolically or in its proper meaning; the whole content of
the dream is certainly not to be interpreted symbolically. The knowledge
of dream symbols will only help us in understanding portions of the
dream content, and does not render the use of the technical rules previously given at all
superfluous. But it must be of the greatest service in interpreting a
dream just when the impressions of the dreamer are withheld or are
insufficient.
Dream symbolism proves also indispensable for understanding the
so-called "typical" dreams and the dreams that "repeat themselves."
Dream symbolism leads us far beyond the dream; it does not belong only
to dreams, but is likewise dominant in legend, myth, and saga, in wit
and in folklore. It compels us to pursue the inner meaning of the dream
in these productions. But we must acknowledge that symbolism is not a
result of the dream work, but is a peculiarity probably of our
unconscious thinking, which furnishes to the dream work the matter for
condensation, displacement, and dramatization.
Footnote
1: Freud, "Three Contributions to Sexual Theory," translated by A.A.
Brill (Journal of Nervous and Mental Disease Publishing Company, New
York).
Footnote
2: The words from "and" to "channels" in the next sentence is a
short summary of the passage in the original. As this book will be read
by other than professional people the passage has not been translated,
in deference to English opinion.—TRANSLATOR.
Perhaps we shall now begin to suspect that dream interpretation is
capable of giving us hints about the structure of our psychic apparatus
which we have thus far expected in vain from philosophy. We shall not,
however, follow this track, but return to our original problem as soon
as we have cleared up the subject of dream-disfigurement. The question
has arisen how dreams with disagreeable content can be analyzed as the
fulfillment of wishes. We see now that this is possible in case
dream-disfigurement has taken place, in case the disagreeable content
serves only as a disguise for what is wished. Keeping in mind our
assumptions in regard to the two psychic instances, we may now proceed
to say: disagreeable dreams, as a matter of fact, contain something
which is disagreeable to the second instance, but which at the same time
fulfills a wish of the first instance. They are wish dreams in the sense
that every dream originates in the first instance, while the second
instance acts towards the dream only in repelling, not in a creative
manner. If we limit ourselves to a
consideration of what the second instance contributes to the dream, we
can never understand the dream. If we do so, all the riddles which the
authors have found in the dream remain unsolved.
That the dream actually has a secret meaning, which turns out to be
the fulfillment of a wish, must be proved afresh for every case by means
of an analysis. I therefore select several dreams which have painful
contents and attempt an analysis of them. They are partly dreams of
hysterical subjects, which require long preliminary statements, and now
and then also an examination of the psychic processes which occur in
hysteria. I cannot, however, avoid this added difficulty in the
exposition.
When I give a psychoneurotic patient analytical treatment, dreams are
always, as I have said, the subject of our discussion. It must,
therefore, give him all the psychological explanations through whose aid
I myself have come to an understanding of his symptoms, and here I
undergo an unsparing criticism, which is perhaps not less keen than that
I must expect from my colleagues. Contradiction of the thesis that all
dreams are the fulfillments of wishes is raised by my patients with
perfect regularity. Here are several examples of the dream material which is offered me to refute this
position.
"You always tell me that the dream is a wish fulfilled," begins a
clever lady patient. "Now I shall tell you a dream in which the content
is quite the opposite, in which a wish of mine is not fulfilled. How
do you reconcile that with your theory? The dream is as
follows:—
"I want to give a supper, but having nothing at hand except some
smoked salmon, I think of going marketing, but I remember that it is
Sunday afternoon, when all the shops are closed. I next try to telephone
to some caterers, but the telephone is out of order.... Thus I must
resign my wish to give a supper."
I answer, of course, that only the analysis can decide the meaning of
this dream, although I admit that at first sight it seems sensible and
coherent, and looks like the opposite of a wish-fulfillment. "But what
occurrence has given rise to this dream?" I ask. "You know that the
stimulus for a dream always lies among the experiences of the preceding
day."
Analysis.—The husband of the patient, an upright and
conscientious wholesale butcher, had told her the day before that he is
growing too fat, and that he must, therefore, begin treatment for
obesity. He was going to get up early, take exercise, keep to a strict diet, and above all accept no more
invitations to suppers. She proceeds laughingly to relate how her
husband at an inn table had made the acquaintance of an artist, who
insisted upon painting his portrait because he, the painter, had never
found such an expressive head. But her husband had answered in his rough
way, that he was very thankful for the honor, but that he was quite
convinced that a portion of the backside of a pretty young girl would
please the artist better than his whole face1. She said that she was at the
time very much in love with her husband, and teased him a good deal. She
had also asked him not to send her any caviare. What does that mean?
As a matter of fact, she had wanted for a long time to eat a caviare
sandwich every forenoon, but had grudged herself the expense. Of course,
she would at once get the caviare from her husband, as soon as she asked
him for it. But she had begged him, on the contrary, not to send her the
caviare, in order that she might tease him about it longer.
This explanation seems far-fetched to me. Unadmitted motives are in
the habit of hiding behind such unsatisfactory explanations. We are
reminded of subjects hypnotized by Bernheim, who
carried out a posthypnotic order, and who, upon being asked for their
motives, instead of answering: "I do not know why I did that," had to
invent a reason that was obviously inadequate. Something similar is
probably the case with the caviare of my patient. I see that she is
compelled to create an unfulfilled wish in life. Her dream also shows
the reproduction of the wish as accomplished. But why does she need an
unfulfilled wish?
The ideas so far produced are insufficient for the interpretation of
the dream. I beg for more. After a short pause, which corresponds to the
overcoming of a resistance, she reports further that the day before she
had made a visit to a friend, of whom she is really jealous, because her
husband is always praising this woman so much. Fortunately, this friend
is very lean and thin, and her husband likes well-rounded figures. Now
of what did this lean friend speak? Naturally of her wish to become
somewhat stouter. She also asked my patient: "When are you going to
invite us again? You always have such a good table."
Now the meaning of the dream is clear. I may say to the patient: "It
is just as though you had thought at the time of the request: 'Of
course, I'll invite you, so you can eat yourself fat at my house and become still more pleasing to my
husband. I would rather give no more suppers.' The dream then tells you
that you cannot give a supper, thereby fulfilling your wish not to
contribute anything to the rounding out of your friend's figure. The
resolution of your husband to refuse invitations to supper for the sake
of getting thin teaches you that one grows fat on the things served in
company." Now only some conversation is necessary to confirm the
solution. The smoked salmon in the dream has not yet been traced. "How
did the salmon mentioned in the dream occur to you?" "Smoked salmon is
the favorite dish of this friend," she answered. I happen to know the
lady, and may corroborate this by saying that she grudges herself the
salmon just as much as my patient grudges herself the caviare.
The dream admits of still another and more exact interpretation,
which is necessitated only by a subordinate circumstance. The two
interpretations do not contradict one another, but rather cover each
other and furnish a neat example of the usual ambiguity of dreams as
well as of all other psychopathological formations. We have seen that at
the same time that she dreams of the denial of the wish, the patient is
in reality occupied in securing an unfulfilled wish (the caviare
sandwiches). Her friend, too, had expressed a
wish, namely, to get fatter, and it would not surprise us if our lady
had dreamt that the wish of the friend was not being fulfilled. For it
is her own wish that a wish of her friend's—for increase in
weight—should not be fulfilled. Instead of this, however, she
dreams that one of her own wishes is not fulfilled. The dream becomes
capable of a new interpretation, if in the dream she does not intend
herself, but her friend, if she has put herself in the place of her
friend, or, as we may say, has identified herself with her friend.
I think she has actually done this, and as a sign of this
identification she has created an unfulfilled wish in reality. But what
is the meaning of this hysterical identification? To clear this up a
thorough exposition is necessary. Identification is a highly important
factor in the mechanism of hysterical symptoms; by this means patients
are enabled in their symptoms to represent not merely their own
experiences, but the experiences of a great number of other persons, and
can suffer, as it were, for a whole mass of people, and fill all the
parts of a drama by means of their own personalities alone. It will here
be objected that this is well-known hysterical imitation, the ability of
hysteric subjects to copy all the symptoms which impress them when they occur in others, as though their
pity were stimulated to the point of reproduction. But this only
indicates the way in which the psychic process is discharged in
hysterical imitation; the way in which a psychic act proceeds and the
act itself are two different things. The latter is slightly more
complicated than one is apt to imagine the imitation of hysterical
subjects to be: it corresponds to an unconscious concluded process, as
an example will show. The physician who has a female patient with a
particular kind of twitching, lodged in the company of other patients in
the same room of the hospital, is not surprised when some morning he
learns that this peculiar hysterical attack has found imitations. He
simply says to himself: The others have seen her and have done likewise:
that is psychic infection. Yes, but psychic infection proceeds in
somewhat the following manner: As a rule, patients know more about one
another than the physician knows about each of them, and they are
concerned about each other when the visit of the doctor is over. Some of
them have an attack to-day: soon it is known among the rest that a
letter from home, a return of lovesickness or the like, is the cause of
it. Their sympathy is aroused, and the following syllogism, which does
not reach consciousness, is completed in them: "If it is possible to have this kind of an attack from
such causes, I too may have this kind of an attack, for I have the same
reasons." If this were a cycle capable of becoming conscious, it would
perhaps express itself in fear of getting the same attack; but it
takes place in another psychic sphere, and, therefore, ends in the
realization of the dreaded symptom. Identification is therefore not a
simple imitation, but a sympathy based upon the same etiological claim;
it expresses an "as though," and refers to some common quality which has
remained in the unconscious.
Identification is most often used in hysteria to express sexual
community. An hysterical woman identifies herself most
readily—although not exclusively—with persons with whom she
has had sexual relations, or who have sexual intercourse with the same
persons as herself. Language takes such a conception into consideration:
two lovers are "one." In the hysterical phantasy, as well as in the
dream, it is sufficient for the identification if one thinks of sexual
relations, whether or not they become real. The patient, then, only
follows the rules of the hysterical thought processes when she gives
expression to her jealousy of her friend (which, moreover, she herself
admits to be unjustified, in that she puts herself in her place and
identifies herself with her by creating a
symptom—the denied wish). I might further clarify the process
specifically as follows: She puts herself in the place of her friend in
the dream, because her friend has taken her own place relation to her
husband, and because she would like to take her friend's place in the
esteem of her husband2.
The contradiction to my theory of dreams in the case of another
female patient, the most witty among all my dreamers, was solved in a
simpler manner, although according to the scheme that the
non-fulfillment of one wish signifies the fulfillment of another. I had
one day explained to her that the dream is a wish of fulfillment. The
next day she brought me a dream to the effect that she was traveling
with her mother-in-law to their common summer resort. Now I knew that
she had struggled violently against spending the summer in the
neighborhood of her mother-in-law. I also knew that she had luckily
avoided her mother-in-law by renting an estate in a far-distant country
resort. Now the dream reversed this wished-for
solution; was not this in the flattest contradiction to my theory of
wish-fulfillment in the dream? Certainly, it was only necessary to draw
the inferences from this dream in order to get at its interpretation.
According to this dream, I was in the wrong. It was thus her wish that
I should be in the wrong, and this wish the dream showed her as
fulfilled. But the wish that I should be in the wrong, which was
fulfilled in the theme of the country home, referred to a more serious
matter. At that time I had made up my mind, from the material furnished
by her analysis, that something of significance for her illness must
have occurred at a certain time in her life. She had denied it because
it was not present in her memory. We soon came to see that I was in the
right. Her wish that I should be in the wrong, which is transformed into
the dream, thus corresponded to the justifiable wish that those things,
which at the time had only been suspected, had never occurred at
all.
Without an analysis, and merely by means of an assumption, I took the
liberty of interpreting a little occurrence in the case of a friend, who
had been my colleague through the eight classes of the Gymnasium. He
once heard a lecture of mine delivered to a
small assemblage, on the novel subject of the dream as the fulfillment
of a wish. He went home, dreamt that he had lost all his
suits—he was a lawyer—and then complained to me about it. I
took refuge in the evasion: "One can't win all one's suits," but I
thought to myself: "If for eight years I sat as Primus on the first
bench, while he moved around somewhere in the middle of the class, may
he not naturally have had a wish from his boyhood days that I, too,
might for once completely disgrace myself?"
In the same way another dream of a more gloomy character was offered
me by a female patient as a contradiction to my theory of the
wish-dream. The patient, a young girl, began as follows: "You remember
that my sister has now only one boy, Charles: she lost the elder one,
Otto, while I was still at her house. Otto was my favorite; it was I who
really brought him up. I like the other little fellow, too, but of
course not nearly as much as the dead one. Now I dreamt last night that
I saw Charles lying dead before me. He was lying in his little coffin,
his hands folded: there were candles all about, and, in short, it was
just like the time of little Otto's death, which shocked me so
profoundly. Now tell me, what does this mean? You know me: am I really bad enough to wish my sister to lose
the only child she has left? Or does the dream mean that I wish Charles
to be dead rather than Otto, whom I like so much better?"
I assured her that this interpretation was impossible. After some
reflection I was able to give her the interpretation of the dream, which
I subsequently made her confirm.
Having become an orphan at an early age, the girl had been brought up
in the house of a much older sister, and had met among the friends and
visitors who came to the house, a man who made a lasting impression upon
her heart. It looked for a time as though these barely expressed
relations were to end in marriage, but this happy culmination was
frustrated by the sister, whose motives have never found a complete
explanation. After the break, the man who was loved by our patient
avoided the house: she herself became independent some time after little
Otto's death, to whom her affection had now turned. But she did not
succeed in freeing herself from the inclination for her sister's friend
in which she had become involved. Her pride commanded her to avoid him;
but it was impossible for her to transfer her love to the other suitors
who presented themselves in order. Whenever the man whom she loved, who
was a member of the literary profession,
announced a lecture anywhere, she was sure to be found in the audience;
she also seized every other opportunity to see him from a distance
unobserved by him. I remembered that on the day before she had told me
that the Professor was going to a certain concert, and that she was also
going there, in order to enjoy the sight of him. This was on the day of
the dream; and the concert was to take place on the day on which she
told me the dream. I could now easily see the correct interpretation,
and I asked her whether she could think of any event which had happened
after the death of little Otto. She answered immediately: "Certainly; at
that time the Professor returned after a long absence, and I saw him
once more beside the coffin of little Otto." It was exactly as I had
expected. I interpreted the dream in the following manner: "If now the
other boy were to die, the same thing would be repeated. You would spend
the day with your sister, the Professor would surely come in order to
offer condolence, and you would see him again under the same
circumstances as at that time. The dream signifies nothing but this wish
of yours to see him again, against which you are fighting inwardly. I
know that you are carrying the ticket for to-day's concert in your bag.
Your dream is a dream of impatience; it has anticipated the meeting which is to take place to-day by
several hours."
In order to disguise her wish she had obviously selected a situation
in which wishes of that sort are commonly suppressed—a situation
which is so filled with sorrow that love is not thought of. And yet, it
is very easily probable that even in the actual situation at the bier of
the second, more dearly loved boy, which the dream copied faithfully,
she had not been able to suppress her feelings of affection for the
visitor whom she had missed for so long a time.
A different explanation was found in the case of a similar dream of
another female patient, who was distinguished in her earlier years by
her quick wit and her cheerful demeanors and who still showed these
qualities at least in the notion, which occurred to her in the course of
treatment. In connection with a longer dream, it seemed to this lady
that she saw her fifteen-year-old daughter lying dead before her in a
box. She was strongly inclined to convert this dream-image into an
objection to the theory of wish-fulfillment, but herself suspected that
the detail of the box must lead to a different conception of the
dream.3 In the course of the
analysis it occurred to her that on the evening before, the conversation of the company had turned upon the
English word "box," and upon the numerous translations of it into
German, such as box, theater box, chest, box on the ear, &c. From other
components of the same dream it is now possible to add that the lady had
guessed the relationship between the English word "box" and the German
Büchse, and had then been haunted by the memory that Büchse (as well
as "box") is used in vulgar speech to designate the female genital
organ. It was therefore possible, making a certain allowance for her
notions on the subject of topographical anatomy, to assume that the
child in the box signified a child in the womb of the mother. At this
stage of the explanation she no longer denied that the picture of the
dream really corresponded to one of her wishes. Like so many other young
women, she was by no means happy when she became pregnant, and admitted
to me more than once the wish that her child might die before its birth;
in a fit of anger following a violent scene with her husband she had
even struck her abdomen with her fists in order to hit the child within.
The dead child was, therefore, really the fulfillment of a wish, but a
wish which had been put aside for fifteen years, and it is not
surprising that the fulfillment of the wish was no longer recognized
after so long an interval. For there had been
many changes meanwhile.
The group of dreams to which the two last mentioned belong, having as
content the death of beloved relatives, will be considered again under
the head of "Typical Dreams." I shall there be able to show by new
examples that in spite of their undesirable content, all these dreams
must be interpreted as wish-fulfillments. For the following dream, which
again was told me in order to deter me from a hasty generalization of
the theory of wishing in dreams, I am indebted, not to a patient, but to
an intelligent jurist of my acquaintance. "I dream," my informant
tells me, "that I am walking in front of my house with a lady on my
arm. Here a closed wagon is waiting, a gentleman steps up to me, gives
his authority as an agent of the police, and demands that I should
follow him. I only ask for time in which to arrange my affairs. Can you
possibly suppose this is a wish of mine to be arrested?" "Of course
not," I must admit. "Do you happen to know upon what charge you were
arrested?" "Yes; I believe for infanticide." "Infanticide? But you know
that only a mother can commit this crime upon her newly born child?"
"That is true."4 "And under
what circumstances did you dream; what happened
on the evening before?" "I would rather not tell you that; it is a
delicate matter." "But I must have it, otherwise we must forgo the
interpretation of the dream." "Well, then, I will tell you. I spent the
night, not at home, but at the house of a lady who means very much to
me. When we awoke in the morning, something again passed between us.
Then I went to sleep again, and dreamt what I have told you." "The woman
is married?" "Yes." "And you do not wish her to conceive a child?" "No;
that might betray us." "Then you do not practice normal coitus?" "I take
the precaution to withdraw before ejaculation." "Am I permitted to
assume that you did this trick several times during the night, and that
in the morning you were not quite sure whether you had succeeded?" "That
might be the case." "Then your dream is the fulfillment of a wish. By
means of it you secure the assurance that you have not begotten a child,
or, what amounts to the same thing, that you have killed a child. I can
easily demonstrate the connecting links. Do you remember, a few days ago
we were talking about the distress of matrimony (Ehenot), and about the
inconsistency of permitting the practice of coitus as long as no impregnation takes place, while every
delinquency after the ovum and the semen meet and a fœtus is
formed is punished as a crime? In connection with this, we also recalled
the mediæval controversy about the moment of time at which the soul is
really lodged in the fœtus, since the concept of murder becomes
admissible only from that point on. Doubtless you also know the gruesome
poem by Lenau, which puts infanticide and the prevention of children on
the same plane." "Strangely enough, I had happened to think of Lenau
during the afternoon." "Another echo of your dream. And now I shall
demonstrate to you another subordinate wish-fulfillment in your dream.
You walk in front of your house with the lady on your arm. So you take
her home, instead of spending the night at her house, as you do in
actuality. The fact that the wish-fulfillment, which is the essence of
the dream, disguises itself in such an unpleasant form, has perhaps more
than one reason. From my essay on the etiology of anxiety neuroses, you
will see that I note interrupted coitus as one of the factors which
cause the development of neurotic fear. It would be consistent with this
that if after repeated cohabitation of the kind mentioned you should be
left in an uncomfortable mood, which now becomes an element in the
composition of your dream. You also make use of
this unpleasant state of mind to conceal the wish-fulfillment.
Furthermore, the mention of infanticide has not yet been explained. Why
does this crime, which is peculiar to females, occur to you?" "I shall
confess to you that I was involved in such an affair years ago. Through
my fault a girl tried to protect herself from the consequences of a
liaison with me by securing an abortion. I had nothing to do with
carrying out the plan, but I was naturally for a long time worried lest
the affair might be discovered." "I understand; this recollection
furnished a second reason why the supposition that you had done your
trick badly must have been painful to you."
A young physician, who had heard this dream of my colleague when it
was told, must have felt implicated by it, for he hastened to imitate it
in a dream of his own, applying its mode of thinking to another subject.
The day before he had handed in a declaration of his income, which was
perfectly honest, because he had little to declare. He dreamt that an
acquaintance of his came from a meeting of the tax commission and
informed him that all the other declarations of income had passed
uncontested, but that his own had awakened general suspicion, and that
he would be punished with a heavy fine. The dream is a poorly-concealed
fulfillment of the wish to be known as a
physician with a large income. It likewise recalls the story of the
young girl who was advised against accepting her suitor because he was a
man of quick temper who would surely treat her to blows after they were
married.
The answer of the girl was: "I wish he would strike me!" Her wish
to be married is so strong that she takes into the bargain the
discomfort which is said to be connected with matrimony, and which is
predicted for her, and even raises it to a wish.
If I group the very frequently occurring dreams of this sort, which
seem flatly to contradict my theory, in that they contain the denial of
a wish or some occurrence decidedly unwished for, under the head of
"counter wish-dreams," I observe that they may all be referred to two
principles, of which one has not yet been mentioned, although it plays a
large part in the dreams of human beings. One of the motives inspiring
these dreams is the wish that I should appear in the wrong. These dreams
regularly occur in the course of my treatment if the patient shows a
resistance against me, and I can count with a large degree of certainty
upon causing such a dream after I have once explained to the patient my
theory that the dream is a wish-fulfillment.5 I may
even expect this to be the case in a dream merely in order to fulfill
the wish that I may appear in the wrong. The last dream which I shall
tell from those occurring in the course of treatment again shows this
very thing. A young girl who has struggled hard to continue my
treatment, against the will of her relatives and the authorities whom
she had consulted, dreams as follows: She is forbidden at home to come
to me any more. She then reminds me of the promise I made her to treat
her for nothing if necessary, and I say to her: "I can show no
consideration in money matters."
It is not at all easy in this case to demonstrate the fulfillment of
a wish, but in all cases of this kind there is a second problem, the
solution of which helps also to solve the first. Where does she get the
words which she puts into my mouth? Of course I have never told her
anything like that, but one of her brothers, the very one who has the
greatest influence over her, has been kind enough to make this remark
about me. It is then the purpose of the dream that this brother should
remain in the right; and she does not try to justify this brother merely
in the dream; it is her purpose in life and the motive for her being
ill.
The other motive for counter wish-dreams is so clear that there is danger of overlooking it, as
for some time happened in my own case. In the sexual make-up of many
people there is a masochistic component, which has arisen through the
conversion of the aggressive, sadistic component into its opposite. Such
people are called "ideal" masochists, if they seek pleasure not in the
bodily pain which may be inflicted upon them, but in humiliation and in
chastisement of the soul. It is obvious that such persons can have
counter wish-dreams and disagreeable dreams, which, however, for them
are nothing but wish-fulfillment, affording satisfaction for their
masochistic inclinations. Here is such a dream. A young man, who has in
earlier years tormented his elder brother, towards whom he was
homosexually inclined, but who had undergone a complete change of
character, has the following dream, which consists of three parts: (1)
He is "insulted" by his brother. (2) Two adults are caressing each
other with homosexual intentions. (3) His brother has sold the
enterprise whose management the young man reserved for his own future.
He awakens from the last-mentioned dream with the most unpleasant
feelings, and yet it is a masochistic wish-dream, which might be
translated: It would serve me quite right if my brother were to make
that sale against my interest, as a punishment
for all the torments which he has suffered at my hands.
I hope that the above discussion and examples will
suffice—until further objection can be raised—to make it
seem credible that even dreams with a painful content are to be analyzed
as the fulfillments of wishes. Nor will it seem a matter of chance that
in the course of interpretation one always happens upon subjects of
which one does not like to speak or think. The disagreeable sensation
which such dreams arouse is simply identical with the antipathy which
endeavors—usually with success—to restrain us from the
treatment or discussion of such subjects, and which must be overcome by
all of us, if, in spite of its unpleasantness, we find it necessary to
take the matter in hand. But this disagreeable sensation, which occurs
also in dreams, does not preclude the existence of a wish; every one has
wishes which he would not like to tell to others, which he does not want
to admit even to himself. We are, on other grounds, justified in
connecting the disagreeable character of all these dreams with the fact
of dream disfigurement, and in concluding that these dreams are
distorted, and that the wish-fulfillment in them is disguised until
recognition is impossible for no other reason than that a repugnance, a
will to suppress, exists in relation to the
subject-matter of the dream or in relation to the wish which the dream
creates. Dream disfigurement, then, turns out in reality to be an act of
the censor. We shall take into consideration everything which the
analysis of disagreeable dreams has brought to light if we reword our
formula as follows: The dream is the (disguised) fulfillment of a
(suppressed, repressed) wish.
Now there still remain as a particular species of dreams with painful
content, dreams of anxiety, the inclusion of which under dreams of
wishing will find least acceptance with the uninitiated. But I can
settle the problem of anxiety dreams in very short order; for what they
may reveal is not a new aspect of the dream problem; it is a question in
their case of understanding neurotic anxiety in general. The fear which
we experience in the dream is only seemingly explained by the dream
content. If we subject the content of the dream to analysis, we become
aware that the dream fear is no more justified by the dream content than
the fear in a phobia is justified by the idea upon which the phobia
depends. For example, it is true that it is possible to fall out of a
window, and that some care must be exercised when one is near a window,
but it is inexplicable why the anxiety in the corresponding phobia is so
great, and why it follows its victims to an
extent so much greater than is warranted by its origin. The same
explanation, then, which applies to the phobia applies also to the dream
of anxiety. In both cases the anxiety is only superficially attached to
the idea which accompanies it and comes from another source.
On account of the intimate relation of dream fear to neurotic fear,
discussion of the former obliges me to refer to the latter. In a little
essay on "The Anxiety Neurosis,"6 I maintained that neurotic fear
has its origin in the sexual life, and corresponds to a libido which has
been turned away from its object and has not succeeded in being applied.
From this formula, which has since proved its validity more and more
clearly, we may deduce the conclusion that the content of anxiety dreams
is of a sexual nature, the libido belonging to which content has been
transformed into fear.
Footnote
1: To sit for the painter. Goethe: "And if he has no backside, how
can the nobleman sit?"
Footnote
2: I myself regret the introduction of such passages from the
psychopathology of hysteria, which, because of their fragmentary
representation and of being torn from all connection with the subject,
cannot have a very enlightening influence. If these passages are capable
of throwing light upon the intimate relations between the dream and the
psychoneuroses, they have served the purpose for which I have taken them
up.
Footnote
3: Something like the smoked salmon in the dream of the deferred
supper.
Footnote
4: It often happens that a dream is told incompletely, and that a
recollection of the omitted portions appear only in the course of the
analysis. These portions subsequently fitted in, regularly furnish the
key to the interpretation. Cf. below, about forgetting in
dreams.
Footnote
5: Similar "counter wish-dreams" have been repeatedly reported to me
within the last few years by my pupils who thus reacted to their first
encounter with the "wish theory of the dream."
Footnote
6: See Selected Papers on Hysteria and other Psychoneuroses, p.
133, translated by A.A. Brill, Journal of Nervous and Mental Diseases,
Monograph Series.
The more one is occupied with the solution of dreams, the more
willing one must become to acknowledge that the majority of the dreams
of adults treat of sexual material and give expression to erotic wishes.
Only one who really analyzes dreams, that is to say, who pushes forward
from their manifest content to the latent dream thoughts, can form an
opinion on this subject—never the person who is satisfied with
registering the manifest content (as, for example, Näcke in his works on
sexual dreams). Let us recognize at once that this fact is not to be
wondered at, but that it is in complete harmony with the fundamental
assumptions of dream explanation. No other impulse has had to undergo so
much suppression from the time of childhood as the sex impulse in its
numerous components, from no other impulse have survived so many and
such intense unconscious wishes, which now act in the sleeping state in
such a manner as to produce dreams. In dream interpretation, this
significance of sexual complexes must never be forgotten, nor must they, of course, be exaggerated to the point
of being considered exclusive.
Of many dreams it can be ascertained by a careful interpretation that
they are even to be taken bisexually, inasmuch as they result in an
irrefutable secondary interpretation in which they realize homosexual
feelings—that is, feelings that are common to the normal sexual
activity of the dreaming person. But that all dreams are to be
interpreted bisexually, seems to me to be a generalization as
indemonstrable as it is improbable, which I should not like to support.
Above all I should not know how to dispose of the apparent fact that
there are many dreams satisfying other than—in the widest
sense—erotic needs, as dreams of hunger, thirst, convenience, &c.
Likewise the similar assertions "that behind every dream one finds the
death sentence" (Stekel), and that every dream shows "a continuation
from the feminine to the masculine line" (Adler), seem to me to proceed
far beyond what is admissible in the interpretation of dreams.
We have already asserted elsewhere that dreams which are
conspicuously innocent invariably embody coarse erotic wishes, and we
might confirm this by means of numerous fresh examples. But many dreams
which appear indifferent, and which would never be suspected of any
particular significance, can be traced back,
after analysis, to unmistakably sexual wish-feelings, which are often of
an unexpected nature. For example, who would suspect a sexual wish in
the following dream until the interpretation had been worked out? The
dreamer relates: Between two stately palaces stands a little house,
receding somewhat, whose doors are closed. My wife leads me a little way
along the street up to the little house, and pushes in the door, and
then I slip quickly and easily into the interior of a courtyard that
slants obliquely upwards.
Any one who has had experience in the translating of dreams will, of
course, immediately perceive that penetrating into narrow spaces, and
opening locked doors, belong to the commonest sexual symbolism, and will
easily find in this dream a representation of attempted coition from
behind (between the two stately buttocks of the female body). The narrow
slanting passage is of course the vagina; the assistance attributed to
the wife of the dreamer requires the interpretation that in reality it
is only consideration for the wife which is responsible for the
detention from such an attempt. Moreover, inquiry shows that on the
previous day a young girl had entered the household of the dreamer who
had pleased him, and who had given him the impression that she would not
be altogether opposed to an approach of this
sort. The little house between the two palaces is taken from a
reminiscence of the Hradschin in Prague, and thus points again to the
girl who is a native of that city.
If with my patients I emphasize the frequency of the Oedipus
dream—of having sexual intercourse with one's mother—I get
the answer: "I cannot remember such a dream." Immediately afterwards,
however, there arises the recollection of another disguised and
indifferent dream, which has been dreamed repeatedly by the patient, and
the analysis shows it to be a dream of this same content—that is,
another Oedipus dream. I can assure the reader that veiled dreams of
sexual intercourse with the mother are a great deal more frequent than
open ones to the same effect.
There are dreams about landscapes and localities in which emphasis is
always laid upon the assurance: "I have been there before." In this case
the locality is always the genital organ of the mother; it can indeed be
asserted with such certainty of no other locality that one "has been
there before."
A large number of dreams, often full of fear, which are concerned
with passing through narrow spaces or with staying, in the water, are
based upon fancies about the embryonic life, about the sojourn in the
mother's womb, and about the act of birth. The
following is the dream of a young man who in his fancy has already while
in embryo taken advantage of his opportunity to spy upon an act of
coition between his parents.
"He is in a deep shaft, in which there is a window, as in the
Semmering Tunnel. At first he sees an empty landscape through this
window, and then he composes a picture into it, which is immediately at
hand and which fills out the empty space. The picture represents a field
which is being thoroughly harrowed by an implement, and the delightful
air, the accompanying idea of hard work, and the bluish-black clods of
earth make a pleasant impression. He then goes on and sees a primary
school opened ... and he is surprised that so much attention is devoted
in it to the sexual feelings of the child, which makes him think of
me."
Here is a pretty water-dream of a female patient, which was turned to
extraordinary account in the course of treatment.
At her summer resort at the ... Lake, she hurls herself into the
dark water at a place where the pale moon is reflected in the
water.
Dreams of this sort are parturition dreams; their interpretation is
accomplished by reversing the fact reported in the manifest dream
content; thus, instead of "throwing one's self into the water," read "coming out of the water," that is, "being born."
The place from which one is born is recognized if one thinks of the bad
sense of the French "la lune." The pale moon thus becomes the white
"bottom" (Popo), which the child soon recognizes as the place from which
it came. Now what can be the meaning of the patient's wishing to be born
at her summer resort? I asked the dreamer this, and she answered without
hesitation: "Hasn't the treatment made me as though I were born again?"
Thus the dream becomes an invitation to continue the cure at this summer
resort, that is, to visit her there; perhaps it also contains a very
bashful allusion to the wish to become a mother herself.1
Another dream of parturition, with its interpretation, I take from
the work of E. Jones. "She stood at the seashore watching a small boy,
who seemed to be hers, wading into the water. This he did till the water
covered him, and she could only see his head bobbing up and down near
the surface. The scene then changed to the crowded hall of a hotel. Her husband left her, and she 'entered into
conversation with' a stranger." The second half of the dream was
discovered in the analysis to represent a flight from her husband, and
the entering into intimate relations with a third person, behind whom
was plainly indicated Mr. X.'s brother mentioned in a former dream. The
first part of the dream was a fairly evident birth phantasy. In dreams
as in mythology, the delivery of a child from the uterine waters is
commonly presented by distortion as the entry of the child into water;
among many others, the births of Adonis, Osiris, Moses, and Bacchus are
well-known illustrations of this. The bobbing up and down of the head in
the water at once recalled to the patient the sensation of quickening
she had experienced in her only pregnancy. Thinking of the boy going
into the water induced a reverie in which she saw herself taking him out
of the water, carrying him into the nursery, washing him and dressing
him, and installing him in her household.
The second half of the dream, therefore, represents thoughts
concerning the elopement, which belonged to the first half of the
underlying latent content; the first half of the dream corresponded with
the second half of the latent content, the birth phantasy. Besides this
inversion in order, further inversions took
place in each half of the dream. In the first half the child entered
the water, and then his head bobbed; in the underlying dream thoughts
first the quickening occurred, and then the child left the water (a
double inversion). In the second half her husband left her; in the dream
thoughts she left her husband.
Another parturition dream is related by Abraham of a young woman
looking forward to her first confinement. From a place in the floor of
the house a subterranean canal leads directly into the water
(parturition path, amniotic liquor). She lifts up a trap in the floor,
and there immediately appears a creature dressed in a brownish fur,
which almost resembles a seal. This creature changes into the younger
brother of the dreamer, to whom she has always stood in maternal
relationship.
Dreams of "saving" are connected with parturition dreams. To save,
especially to save from the water, is equivalent to giving birth when
dreamed by a woman; this sense is, however, modified when the dreamer is
a man.
Robbers, burglars at night, and ghosts, of which we are afraid before
going to bed, and which occasionally even disturb our sleep, originate
in one and the same childish reminiscence. They are the nightly visitors who have awakened the child to
set it on the chamber so that it may not wet the bed, or have lifted the
cover in order to see clearly how the child is holding its hands while
sleeping. I have been able to induce an exact recollection of the
nocturnal visitor in the analysis of some of these anxiety dreams. The
robbers were always the father, the ghosts more probably corresponded to
feminine persons with white night-gowns.
When one has become familiar with the abundant use of symbolism for
the representation of sexual material in dreams, one naturally raises
the question whether there are not many of these symbols which appear
once and for all with a firmly established significance like the signs
in stenography; and one is tempted to compile a new dream-book according
to the cipher method. In this connection it may be remarked that this
symbolism does not belong peculiarly to the dream, but rather to
unconscious thinking, particularly that of the masses, and it is to be
found in greater perfection in the folklore, in the myths, legends, and
manners of speech, in the proverbial sayings, and in the current
witticisms of a nation than in its dreams.
The dream takes advantage of this symbolism in order to give a
disguised representation to its latent
thoughts. Among the symbols which are used in this manner there are of
course many which regularly, or almost regularly, mean the same thing.
Only it is necessary to keep in mind the curious plasticity of psychic
material. Now and then a symbol in the dream content may have to be
interpreted not symbolically, but according to its real meaning; at
another time the dreamer, owing to a peculiar set of recollections, may
create for himself the right to use anything whatever as a sexual
symbol, though it is not ordinarily used in that way. Nor are the most
frequently used sexual symbols unambiguous every time.
After these limitations and reservations I may call attention to the
following: Emperor and Empress (King and Queen) in most cases really
represent the parents of the dreamer; the dreamer himself or herself is
the prince or princess. All elongated objects, sticks, tree-trunks, and
umbrellas (on account of the stretching-up which might be compared to an
erection! all elongated and sharp weapons, knives, daggers, and pikes,
are intended to represent the male member. A frequent, not very
intelligible, symbol for the same is a nail-file (on account of the
rubbing and scraping?). Little cases, boxes, caskets, closets, and
stoves correspond to the female part. The symbolism of lock and key has been very gracefully employed by Uhland in
his song about the "Grafen Eberstein," to make a common smutty joke. The
dream of walking through a row of rooms is a brothel or harem dream.
Staircases, ladders, and flights of stairs, or climbing on these, either
upwards or downwards, are symbolic representations of the sexual act.
Smooth walls over which one is climbing, façades of houses upon which
one is letting oneself down, frequently under great anxiety, correspond
to the erect human body, and probably repeat in the dream reminiscences
of the upward climbing of little children on their parents or foster
parents. "Smooth" walls are men. Often in a dream of anxiety one is
holding on firmly to some projection from a house. Tables, set tables,
and boards are women, perhaps on account of the opposition which does
away with the bodily contours. Since "bed and board" (mensa et thorus)
constitute marriage, the former are often put for the latter in the
dream, and as far as practicable the sexual presentation complex is
transposed to the eating complex. Of articles of dress the woman's hat
may frequently be definitely interpreted as the male genital. In dreams
of men one often finds the cravat as a symbol for the penis; this indeed
is not only because cravats hang down long, and are characteristic of the man, but also because one can select them at
pleasure, a freedom which is prohibited by nature in the original of the
symbol. Persons who make use of this symbol in the dream are very
extravagant with cravats, and possess regular collections of them. All
complicated machines and apparatus in dream are very probably genitals,
in the description of which dream symbolism shows itself to be as
tireless as the activity of wit. Likewise many landscapes in dreams,
especially with bridges or with wooded mountains, can be readily
recognized as descriptions of the genitals. Finally where one finds
incomprehensible neologisms one may think of combinations made up of
components having a sexual significance. Children also in the dream
often signify the genitals, as men and women are in the habit of fondly
referring to their genital organ as their "little one." As a very recent
symbol of the male genital may be mentioned the flying machine,
utilization of which is justified by its relation to flying as well as
occasionally by its form. To play with a little child or to beat a
little one is often the dream's representation of onanism. A number of
other symbols, in part not sufficiently verified are given by Stekel,
who illustrates them with examples. Right and left, according to him,
are to be conceived in the dream in an ethical sense. "The right way always signifies the road to
righteousness, the left the one to crime. Thus the left may signify
homosexuality, incest, and perversion, while the right signifies
marriage, relations with a prostitute, &c. The meaning is always
determined by the individual moral view-point of the dreamer." Relatives
in the dream generally play the rôle of genitals. Not to be able to
catch up with a wagon is interpreted by Stekel as regret not to be able
to come up to a difference in age. Baggage with which one travels is the
burden of sin by which one is oppressed. Also numbers, which frequently
occur in the dream, are assigned by Stekel a fixed symbolical meaning,
but these interpretations seem neither sufficiently verified nor of
general validity, although the interpretation in individual cases can
generally be recognized as probable. In a recently published book by W.
Stekel, Die Sprache des Traumes, which I was unable to utilize, there
is a list of the most common sexual symbols, the object of which is to
prove that all sexual symbols can be bisexually used. He states: "Is
there a symbol which (if in any way permitted by the phantasy) may not
be used simultaneously in the masculine and the feminine sense!" To be
sure the clause in parentheses takes away much of the absoluteness of
this assertion, for this is not at all permitted by the phantasy. I do not, however, think it
superfluous to state that in my experience Stekel's general statement
has to give way to the recognition of a greater manifoldness. Besides
those symbols, which are just as frequent for the male as for the female
genitals, there are others which preponderately, or almost exclusively,
designate one of the sexes, and there are still others of which only the
male or only the female signification is known. To use long, firm
objects and weapons as symbols of the female genitals, or hollow objects
(chests, pouches, &c.), as symbols of the male genitals, is indeed not
allowed by the fancy.
It is true that the tendency of the dream and the unconscious fancy
to utilize the sexual symbol bisexually betrays an archaic trend, for in
childhood a difference in the genitals is unknown, and the same genitals
are attributed to both sexes.
These very incomplete suggestions may suffice to stimulate others to
make a more careful collection.
I shall now add a few examples of the application of such symbolisms
in dreams, which will serve to show how impossible it becomes to
interpret a dream without taking into account the symbolism of dreams,
and how imperatively it obtrudes itself in many cases.
1. The hat as a symbol of the man (of the male
genital): (a fragment from the dream of a young woman who suffered from
agoraphobia on account of a fear of temptation).
"I am walking in the street in summer, I wear a straw hat of peculiar
shape, the middle piece of which is bent upwards and the side pieces of
which hang downwards (the description became here obstructed), and in
such a fashion that one is lower than the other. I am cheerful and in a
confidential mood, and as I pass a troop of young officers I think to
myself: None of you can have any designs upon me."
As she could produce no associations to the hat, I said to her: "The
hat is really a male genital, with its raised middle piece and the two
downward hanging side pieces." I intentionally refrained from
interpreting those details concerning the unequal downward hanging of
the two side pieces, although just such individualities in the
determinations lead the way to the interpretation. I continued by saying
that if she only had a man with such a virile genital she would not have
to fear the officers—that is, she would have nothing to wish from
them, for she is mainly kept from going without protection and company
by her fancies of temptation. This last explanation of her fear I had
already been able to give her repeatedly on the
basis of other material.
It is quite remarkable how the dreamer behaved after this
interpretation. She withdrew her description of the hat, and claimed not
to have said that the two side pieces were hanging downwards. I was,
however, too sure of what I had heard to allow myself to be misled, and
I persisted in it. She was quiet for a while, and then found the courage
to ask why it was that one of her husband's testicles was lower than the
other, and whether it was the same in all men. With this the peculiar
detail of the hat was explained, and the whole interpretation was
accepted by her. The hat symbol was familiar to me long before the
patient related this dream. From other but less transparent cases I
believe that the hat may also be taken as a female genital.
2. The little one as the genital—to be run over as a symbol of
sexual intercourse (another dream of the same agoraphobic patient).
"Her mother sends away her little daughter so that she must go alone.
She rides with her mother to the railroad and sees her little one
walking directly upon the tracks, so that she cannot avoid being run
over. She hears the bones crackle. (From this she experiences a feeling
of discomfort but no real horror.) She then
looks out through the car window to see whether the parts cannot be seen
behind. She then reproaches her mother for allowing the little one to go
out alone." Analysis. It is not an easy matter to give here a complete
interpretation of the dream. It forms part of a cycle of dreams, and can
be fully understood only in connection with the others. For it is not
easy to get the necessary material sufficiently isolated to prove the
symbolism. The patient at first finds that the railroad journey is to be
interpreted historically as an allusion to a departure from a sanatorium
for nervous diseases, with the superintendent of which she naturally was
in love. Her mother took her away from this place, and the physician
came to the railroad station and handed her a bouquet of flowers on
leaving; she felt uncomfortable because her mother witnessed this
homage. Here the mother, therefore, appears as a disturber of her love
affairs, which is the rôle actually played by this strict woman during
her daughter's girlhood. The next thought referred to the sentence: "She
then looks to see whether the parts can be seen behind." In the dream
façade one would naturally be compelled to think of the parts of the
little daughter run over and ground up. The thought, however, turns in
quite a different direction. She recalls that she once saw her father in the bath-room naked from
behind; she then begins to talk about the sex differentiation, and
asserts that in the man the genitals can be seen from behind, but in the
woman they cannot. In this connection she now herself offers the
interpretation that the little one is the genital, her little one (she
has a four-year-old daughter) her own genital. She reproaches her mother
for wanting her to live as though she had no genital, and recognizes
this reproach in the introductory sentence of the dream; the mother
sends away her little one so that she must go alone. In her phantasy
going alone on the street signifies to have no man and no sexual
relations (coire = to go together), and this she does not like.
According to all her statements she really suffered as a girl on account
of the jealousy of her mother, because she showed a preference for her
father.
The "little one" has been noted as a symbol for the male or the
female genitals by Stekel, who can refer in this connection to a very
widespread usage of language.
The deeper interpretation of this dream depends upon another dream of
the same night in which the dreamer identifies herself with her brother.
She was a "tomboy," and was always being told that she should have been
born a boy. This identification with the
brother shows with special clearness that "the little one" signifies the
genital. The mother threatened him (her) with castration, which could
only be understood as a punishment for playing with the parts, and the
identification, therefore, shows that she herself had masturbated as a
child, though this fact she now retained only in memory concerning her
brother. An early knowledge of the male genital which she later lost she
must have acquired at that time according to the assertions of this
second dream. Moreover the second dream points to the infantile sexual
theory that girls originate from boys through castration. After I had
told her of this childish belief, she at once confirmed it with an
anecdote in which the boy asks the girl: "Was it cut off?" to which the
girl replied, "No, it's always been so."
The sending away of the little one, of the genital, in the first
dream therefore also refers to the threatened castration. Finally she
blames her mother for not having been born a boy.
That "being run over" symbolizes sexual intercourse would not be
evident from this dream if we were not sure of it from many other
sources.
3. Representation of the genital by structures, stairways, and
shafts. (Dream of a young man inhibited by a father complex.)
"He is taking a walk with his father in a
place which is surely the Prater, for the Rotunda may be seen in front
of which there is a small front structure to which is attached a captive
balloon; the balloon, however, seems quite collapsed. His father asks
him what this is all for; he is surprised at it, but he explains it to
his father. They come into a court in which lies a large sheet of tin.
His father wants to pull off a big piece of this, but first looks around
to see if any one is watching. He tells his father that all he needs to
do is to speak to the watchman, and then he can take without any further
difficulty as much as he wants to. From this court a stairway leads down
into a shaft, the walls of which are softly upholstered something like a
leather pocketbook. At the end of this shaft there is a longer platform,
and then a new shaft begins...."
Analysis. This dream belongs to a type of patient which is not
favorable from a therapeutic point of view. They follow in the analysis
without offering any resistances whatever up to a certain point, but
from that point on they remain almost inaccessible. This dream he almost
analyzed himself. "The Rotunda," he said, "is my genital, the captive
balloon in front is my penis, about the weakness of which I have
worried." We must, however, interpret in
greater detail; the Rotunda is the buttock which is regularly associated
by the child with the genital, the smaller front structure is the
scrotum. In the dream his father asks him what this is all
for—that is, he asks him about the purpose and arrangement of the
genitals. It is quite evident that this state of affairs should be
turned around, and that he should be the questioner. As such a
questioning on the side of the father has never taken place in reality,
we must conceive the dream thought as a wish, or take it conditionally,
as follows: "If I had only asked my father for sexual enlightenment."
The continuation of this thought we shall soon find in another
place.
The court in which the tin sheet is spread out is not to be conceived
symbolically in the first instance, but originates from his father's
place of business. For discretionary reasons I have inserted the tin for
another material in which the father deals, without, however, changing
anything in the verbal expression of the dream. The dreamer had entered
his father's business, and had taken a terrible dislike to the
questionable practices upon which profit mainly depends. Hence the
continuation of the above dream thought ("if I had only asked him")
would be: "He would have deceived me just as he does his customers." For
the pulling off, which serves to represent
commercial dishonesty, the dreamer himself gives a second
explanation—namely, onanism. This is not only entirely familiar to
us, but agrees very well with the fact that the secrecy of onanism is
expressed by its opposite ("Why one can do it quite openly"). It,
moreover, agrees entirely with our expectations that the onanistic
activity is again put off on the father, just as was the questioning in
the first scene of the dream. The shaft he at once interprets as the
vagina by referring to the soft upholstering of the walls. That the act
of coition in the vagina is described as a going down instead of in the
usual way as a going up, I have also found true in other instances2.
The details that at the end of the first shaft there is a longer
platform and then a new shaft, he himself explains biographically. He
had for some time consorted with women sexually, but had then given it
up because of inhibitions and now hopes to be able to take it up again
with the aid of the treatment. The dream, however, becomes indistinct
toward the end, and to the experienced interpreter it becomes evident
that in the second scene of the dream the influence of another subject
has begun to assert itself; in this his father's business and his dishonest practices signify the first
vagina represented as a shaft so that one might think of a reference to
the mother.
4. The male genital symbolized by persons and the female by a
landscape.
(Dream of a woman of the lower class, whose husband is a policeman,
reported by B. Dattner.)
... Then some one broke into the house and anxiously called for a
policeman. But he went with two tramps by mutual consent into a
church,3 to which led a great
many stairs;4 behind the
church there was a mountain,5
on top of which a dense forest.6 The policeman was furnished
with a helmet, a gorget, and a cloak.7 The two vagrants, who went
along with the policeman quite peaceably, had tied to their loins
sack-like aprons.8 A road led
from the church to the mountain. This road was overgrown on each side
with grass and brushwood, which became thicker and thicker as it reached
the height of the mountain, where it spread out into quite a forest.
5. A stairway dream.
(Reported and interpreted by Otto Rank.)
For the following transparent pollution
dream, I am indebted to the same colleague who furnished us with the
dental-irritation dream.
"I am running down the stairway in the stair-house after a little
girl, whom I wish to punish because she has done something to me. At the
bottom of the stairs some one held the child for me. (A grown-up woman?)
I grasp it, but do not know whether I have hit it, for I suddenly find
myself in the middle of the stairway where I practice coitus with the
child (in the air as it were). It is really no coitus, I only rub my
genital on her external genital, and in doing this I see it very
distinctly, as distinctly as I see her head which is lying sideways.
During the sexual act I see hanging to the left and above me (also as if
in the air) two small pictures, landscapes, representing a house on a
green. On the smaller one my surname stood in the place where the
painter's signature should be; it seemed to be intended for my birthday
present. A small sign hung in front of the pictures to the effect that
cheaper pictures could also be obtained. I then see myself very
indistinctly lying in bed, just as I had seen myself at the foot of the
stairs, and I am awakened by a feeling of dampness which came from the
pollution."
Interpretation. The dreamer had been in a
book-store on the evening of the day of the dream, where, while he was
waiting, he examined some pictures which were exhibited, which
represented motives similar to the dream pictures. He stepped nearer to
a small picture which particularly took his fancy in order to see the
name of the artist, which, however, was quite unknown to him.
Later in the same evening, in company, he heard about a Bohemian
servant-girl who boasted that her illegitimate child "was made on the
stairs." The dreamer inquired about the details of this unusual
occurrence, and learned that the servant-girl went with her lover to the
home of her parents, where there was no opportunity for sexual
relations, and that the excited man performed the act on the stairs. In
witty allusion to the mischievous expression used about wine-adulterers,
the dreamer remarked, "The child really grew on the cellar steps."
These experiences of the day, which are quite prominent in the dream
content, were readily reproduced by the dreamer. But he just as readily
reproduced an old fragment of infantile recollection which was also
utilized by the dream. The stair-house was the house in which he had
spent the greatest part of his childhood, and in which he had first
become acquainted with sexual problems. In this
house he used, among other things, to slide down the banister astride
which caused him to become sexually excited. In the dream he also comes
down the stairs very rapidly—so rapidly that, according to his own
distinct assertions, he hardly touched the individual stairs, but rather
"flew" or "slid down," as we used to say. Upon reference to this
infantile experience, the beginning of the dream seems to represent the
factor of sexual excitement. In the same house and in the adjacent
residence the dreamer used to play pugnacious games with the neighboring
children, in which he satisfied himself just as he did in the dream.
If one recalls from Freud's investigation of sexual symbolism9 that in the dream stairs or
climbing stairs almost regularly symbolizes coitus, the dream becomes
clear. Its motive power as well as its effect, as is shown by the
pollution, is of a purely libidinous nature. Sexual excitement became
aroused during the sleeping state (in the dream this is represented by
the rapid running or sliding down the stairs) and the sadistic thread in
this is, on the basis of the pugnacious playing, indicated in the
pursuing and overcoming of the child. The libidinous excitement becomes
enhanced and urges to sexual action (represented in the dream by the grasping of the child and the conveyance of it to
the middle of the stairway). Up to this point the dream would be one of
pure, sexual symbolism, and obscure for the unpracticed dream
interpreter. But this symbolic gratification, which would have insured
undisturbed sleep, was not sufficient for the powerful libidinous
excitement. The excitement leads to an orgasm, and thus the whole
stairway symbolism is unmasked as a substitute for coitus. Freud lays
stress on the rhythmical character of both actions as one of the reasons
for the sexual utilization of the stairway symbolism, and this dream
especially seems to corroborate this, for, according to the express
assertion of the dreamer, the rhythm of a sexual act was the most
pronounced feature in the whole dream.
Still another remark concerning the two pictures, which, aside from
their real significance, also have the value of "Weibsbilder" (literally
woman-pictures, but idiomatically women). This is at once shown by
the fact that the dream deals with a big and a little picture, just as
the dream content presents a big (grown up) and a little girl. That
cheap pictures could also be obtained points to the prostitution
complex, just as the dreamer's surname on the little picture and the
thought that it was intended for his birthday, point to the parent complex (to be born on the stairway—to be
conceived in coitus).
The indistinct final scene, in which the dreamer sees himself on the
staircase landing lying in bed and feeling wet, seems to go back into
childhood even beyond the infantile onanism, and manifestly has its
prototype in similarly pleasurable scenes of bed-wetting.
6. A modified stair-dream.
To one of my very nervous patients, who was an abstainer, whose fancy
was fixed on his mother, and who repeatedly dreamed of climbing stairs
accompanied by his mother, I once remarked that moderate masturbation
would be less harmful to him than enforced abstinence. This influence
provoked the following dream:
"His piano teacher reproaches him for neglecting his piano-playing,
and for not practicing the Etudes of Moscheles and Clementi's Gradus
ad Parnassum." In relation to this he remarked that the Gradus is
only a stairway, and that the piano itself is only a stairway as it has
a scale.
It is correct to say that there is no series of associations which
cannot be adapted to the representation of sexual facts. I conclude with
the dream of a chemist, a young man, who has been trying to give up his habit of masturbation by
replacing it with intercourse with women.
Preliminary statement.—On the day before the dream he had
given a student instruction concerning Grignard's reaction, in which
magnesium is to be dissolved in absolutely pure ether under the
catalytic influence of iodine. Two days before, there had been an
explosion in the course of the same reaction, in which the investigator
had burned his hand.
Dream I. He is to make phenylmagnesium-bromid; he sees the apparatus
with particular clearness, but he has substituted himself for the
magnesium. He is now in a curious swaying attitude. He keeps repeating
to himself, "This is the right thing, it is working, my feet are
beginning to dissolve and my knees are getting soft." Then he reaches
down and feels for his feet, and meanwhile (he does not know how) he
takes his legs out of the crucible, and then again he says to himself,
"That cannot be.... Yes, it must be so, it has been done correctly."
Then he partially awakens, and repeats the dream to himself, because he
wants to tell it to me. He is distinctly afraid of the analysis of the
dream. He is much excited during this semi-sleeping state, and repeats
continually, "Phenyl, phenyl."
II. He is in ....ing with his whole family;
at half-past eleven. He is to be at the Schottenthor for a rendezvous
with a certain lady, but he does not wake up until half-past eleven. He
says to himself, "It is too late now; when you get there it will be
half-past twelve." The next instant he sees the whole family gathered
about the table—his mother and the servant girl with the
soup-tureen with particular clearness. Then he says to himself, "Well,
if we are eating already, I certainly can't get away."
Analysis: He feels sure that even the first dream contains a
reference to the lady whom he is to meet at the rendezvous (the dream
was dreamed during the night before the expected meeting). The student
to whom he gave the instruction is a particularly unpleasant fellow; he
had said to the chemist: "That isn't right," because the magnesium was
still unaffected, and the latter answered as though he did not care
anything about it: "It certainly isn't right." He himself must be this
student; he is as indifferent towards his analysis as the student is
towards his synthesis; the He in the dream, however, who accomplishes
the operation, is myself. How unpleasant he must seem to me with his
indifference towards the success achieved!
Moreover, he is the material with which the analysis (synthesis) is made. For it is a question of the
success of the treatment. The legs in the dream recall an impression of
the previous evening. He met a lady at a dancing lesson whom he wished
to conquer; he pressed her to him so closely that she once cried out.
After he had stopped pressing against her legs, he felt her firm
responding pressure against his lower thighs as far as just above his
knees, at the place mentioned in the dream. In this situation, then, the
woman is the magnesium in the retort, which is at last working. He is
feminine towards me, as he is masculine towards the woman. If it will
work with the woman, the treatment will also work. Feeling and becoming
aware of himself in the region of his knees refers to masturbation, and
corresponds to his fatigue of the previous day.... The rendezvous had
actually been set for half-past eleven. His wish to oversleep and to
remain with his usual sexual objects (that is, with masturbation)
corresponds with his resistance.
Footnote
1: It is only of late that I have learned to value the significance
of fancies and unconscious thoughts about life in the womb. They contain
the explanation of the curious fear felt by so many people of being
buried alive, as well as the profoundest unconscious reason for the
belief in a life after death which represents nothing but a projection
into the future of this mysterious life before birth. The act of birth,
moreover, is the first experience with fear, and is thus the source and
model of the emotion of fear.
Footnote
2: Cf. Zentralblatt für psychoanalyse, I.
Footnote
3: Or chapel—vagina.
Footnote
4: Symbol of coitus.
Footnote
5: Mons veneris.
Footnote
6: Crines pubis.
Footnote
7: Demons in cloaks and capucines are, according to the explanation
of a man versed in the subject, of a phallic nature.
Footnote
8: The two halves of the scrotum.
Footnote
9: See Zentralblatt für Psychoanalyse, vol. i., p. 2.
That the dream should be nothing but a wish-fulfillment surely seemed
strange to us all—and that not alone because of the contradictions
offered by the anxiety dream.
After learning from the first analytical explanations that the dream
conceals sense and psychic validity, we could hardly expect so simple a
determination of this sense. According to the correct but concise
definition of Aristotle, the dream is a continuation of thinking in
sleep (in so far as one sleeps). Considering that during the day our
thoughts produce such a diversity of psychic acts—judgments,
conclusions, contradictions, expectations, intentions, &c.—why
should our sleeping thoughts be forced to confine themselves to the
production of wishes? Are there not, on the contrary, many dreams that
present a different psychic act in dream form, e.g., a solicitude, and
is not the very transparent father's dream mentioned above of just such
a nature? From the gleam of light falling into his eyes while asleep the
father draws the solicitous conclusion that a
candle has been upset and may have set fire to the corpse; he transforms
this conclusion into a dream by investing it with a senseful situation
enacted in the present tense. What part is played in this dream by the
wish-fulfillment, and which are we to suspect—the predominance of
the thought continued from, the waking state or of the thought incited
by the new sensory impression?
All these considerations are just, and force us to enter more deeply
into the part played by the wish-fulfillment in the dream, and into the
significance of the waking thoughts continued in sleep.
It is in fact the wish-fulfillment that has already induced us to
separate dreams into two groups. We have found some dreams that were
plainly wish-fulfillments; and others in which wish-fulfillment could
not be recognized, and was frequently concealed by every available
means. In this latter class of dreams we recognized the influence of the
dream censor. The undisguised wish dreams were chiefly found in
children, yet fleeting open-hearted wish dreams seemed (I purposely
emphasize this word) to occur also in adults.
We may now ask whence the wish fulfilled in the dream originates. But
to what opposition or to what diversity do we refer this "whence"? I
think it is to the opposition between conscious
daily life and a psychic activity remaining unconscious which can only
make itself noticeable during the night. I thus find a threefold
possibility for the origin of a wish. Firstly, it may have been incited
during the day, and owing to external circumstances failed to find
gratification, there is thus left for the night an acknowledged but
unfulfilled wish. Secondly, it may come to the surface during the day
but be rejected, leaving an unfulfilled but suppressed wish. Or,
thirdly, it may have no relation to daily life, and belong to those
wishes that originate during the night from the suppression. If we now
follow our scheme of the psychic apparatus, we can localize a wish of
the first order in the system Forec. We may assume that a wish of the
second order has been forced back from the Forec. system into the Unc.
system, where alone, if anywhere, it can maintain itself; while a
wish-feeling of the third order we consider altogether incapable of
leaving the Unc. system. This brings up the question whether wishes
arising from these different sources possess the same value for the
dream, and whether they have the same power to incite a dream.
On reviewing the dreams which we have at our disposal for answering
this question, we are at once moved to add as a fourth source of the
dream-wish the actual wish incitements arising
during the night, such as thirst and sexual desire. It then becomes
evident that the source of the dream-wish does not affect its capacity
to incite a dream. That a wish suppressed during the day asserts itself
in the dream can be shown by a great many examples. I shall mention a
very simple example of this class. A somewhat sarcastic young lady,
whose younger friend has become engaged to be married, is asked
throughout the day by her acquaintances whether she knows and what she
thinks of the fiancé. She answers with unqualified praise, thereby
silencing her own judgment, as she would prefer to tell the truth,
namely, that he is an ordinary person. The following night she dreams
that the same question is put to her, and that she replies with the
formula: "In case of subsequent orders it will suffice to mention the
number." Finally, we have learned from numerous analyses that the wish
in all dreams that have been subject to distortion has been derived from
the unconscious, and has been unable to come to perception in the waking
state. Thus it would appear that all wishes are of the same value and
force for the dream formation.
I am at present unable to prove that the state of affairs is really
different, but I am strongly inclined to assume a more stringent
determination of the dream-wish. Children's
dreams leave no doubt that an unfulfilled wish of the day may be the
instigator of the dream. But we must not forget that it is, after all,
the wish of a child, that it is a wish-feeling of infantile strength
only. I have a strong doubt whether an unfulfilled wish from the day
would suffice to create a dream in an adult. It would rather seem that
as we learn to control our impulses by intellectual activity, we more
and more reject as vain the formation or retention of such intense
wishes as are natural to childhood. In this, indeed, there may be
individual variations; some retain the infantile type of psychic
processes longer than others. The differences are here the same as those
found in the gradual decline of the originally distinct visual
imagination.
In general, however, I am of the opinion that unfulfilled wishes of
the day are insufficient to produce a dream in adults. I readily admit
that the wish instigators originating in conscious like contribute
towards the incitement of dreams, but that is probably all. The dream
would not originate if the foreconscious wish were not reinforced from
another source.
That source is the unconscious. I believe that the conscious wish is
a dream inciter only if it succeeds in arousing a similar unconscious
wish which reinforces it. Following the
suggestions obtained through the psychoanalysis of the neuroses, I
believe that these unconscious wishes are always active and ready for
expression whenever they find an opportunity to unite themselves with an
emotion from conscious life, and that they transfer their greater
intensity to the lesser intensity of the latter.1 It may therefore seem that the
conscious wish alone has been realized in a dream; but a slight
peculiarity in the formation of this dream will put us on the track of
the powerful helper from the unconscious. These ever active and, as it
were, immortal wishes from the unconscious recall the legendary Titans
who from time immemorial have borne the ponderous mountains which were
once rolled upon them by the victorious gods, and which even now quiver
from time to time from the convulsions of their mighty limbs; I say that
these wishes found in the repression are of themselves of an infantile
origin, as we have learned from the psychological investigation of the neuroses. I should like,
therefore, to withdraw the opinion previously expressed that it is
unimportant whence the dream-wish originates, and replace it by another,
as follows: The wish manifested in the dream must be an infantile one.
In the adult it originates in the Unc., while in the child, where no
separation and censor as yet exist between Forec. and Unc., or where
these are only in the process of formation, it is an unfulfilled and
unrepressed wish from the waking state. I am aware that this conception
cannot be generally demonstrated, but I maintain nevertheless that it
can be frequently demonstrated, even when it was not suspected, and that
it cannot be generally refuted.
The wish-feelings which remain from the conscious waking state are,
therefore, relegated to the background in the dream formation. In the
dream content I shall attribute to them only the part attributed to the
material of actual sensations during sleep. If I now take into account
those other psychic instigations remaining from the waking state which
are not wishes, I shall only adhere to the line mapped out for me by
this train of thought. We may succeed in provisionally terminating the
sum of energy of our waking thoughts by deciding to go to sleep. He is a
good sleeper who can do this; Napoleon I. is
reputed to have been a model of this sort. But we do not always succeed
in accomplishing it, or in accomplishing it perfectly. Unsolved
problems, harassing cares, overwhelming impressions continue the
thinking activity even during sleep, maintaining psychic processes in
the system which we have termed the foreconscious. These mental
processes continuing into sleep may be divided into the following
groups: 1, That which has not been terminated during the day owing to
casual prevention; 2, that which has been left unfinished by temporary
paralysis of our mental power, i.e. the unsolved; 3, that which has
been rejected and suppressed during the day. This unites with a powerful
group (4) formed by that which has been excited in our Unc. during the
day by the work of the foreconscious. Finally, we may add group (5)
consisting of the indifferent and hence unsettled impressions of the
day.
We should not underrate the psychic intensities introduced into sleep
by these remnants of waking life, especially those emanating from the
group of the unsolved. These excitations surely continue to strive for
expression during the night, and we may assume with equal certainty that
the sleeping state renders impossible the usual continuation of the
excitement in the foreconscious and the termination of the excitement by its becoming conscious. As far
as we can normally become conscious of our mental processes, even during
the night, in so far we are not asleep. I shall not venture to state
what change is produced in the Forec. system by the sleeping state, but
there is no doubt that the psychological character of sleep is
essentially due to the change of energy in this very system, which also
dominates the approach to motility, which is paralyzed during sleep. In
contradistinction to this, there seems to be nothing in the psychology
of the dream to warrant the assumption that sleep produces any but
secondary changes in the conditions of the Unc. system. Hence, for the
nocturnal excitation in the Force, there remains no other path than that
followed by the wish excitements from the Unc. This excitation must seek
reinforcement from the Unc., and follow the detours of the unconscious
excitations. But what is the relation of the foreconscious day remnants
to the dream? There is no doubt that they penetrate abundantly into the
dream, that they utilize the dream content to obtrude themselves upon
consciousness even during the night; indeed, they occasionally even
dominate the dream content, and impel it to continue the work of the
day; it is also certain that the day remnants may just as well have any other character as that of wishes; but it
is highly instructive and even decisive for the theory of
wish-fulfillment to see what conditions they must comply with in order
to be received into the dream.
Let us pick out one of the dreams cited above as examples, e.g.,
the dream in which my friend Otto seems to show the symptoms of
Basedow's disease. My friend Otto's appearance occasioned me some
concern during the day, and this worry, like everything else referring
to this person, affected me. I may also assume that these feelings
followed me into sleep. I was probably bent on finding out what was the
matter with him. In the night my worry found expression in the dream
which I have reported, the content of which was not only senseless, but
failed to show any wish-fulfillment. But I began to investigate for the
source of this incongruous expression of the solicitude felt during the
day, and analysis revealed the connection. I identified my friend Otto
with a certain Baron L. and myself with a Professor R. There was only
one explanation for my being impelled to select just this substitution
for the day thought. I must have always been prepared in the Unc. to
identify myself with Professor R., as it meant the realization of one of
the immortal infantile wishes, viz. that of becoming great. Repulsive
ideas respecting my friend, that would certainly
have been repudiated in a waking state, took advantage of the
opportunity to creep into the dream, but the worry of the day likewise
found some form of expression through a substitution in the dream
content. The day thought, which was no wish in itself but rather a
worry, had in some way to find a connection with the infantile now
unconscious and suppressed wish, which then allowed it, though already
properly prepared, to "originate" for consciousness. The more dominating
this worry, the stronger must be the connection to be established;
between the contents of the wish and that of the worry there need be no
connection, nor was there one in any of our examples.
We can now sharply define the significance of the unconscious wish
for the dream. It may be admitted that there is a whole class of dreams
in which the incitement originates preponderatingly or even exclusively
from the remnants of daily life; and I believe that even my cherished
desire to become at some future time a "professor extraordinarius" would
have allowed me to slumber undisturbed that night had not my worry about
my friend's health been still active. But this worry alone would not
have produced a dream; the motive power needed by the dream had to be
contributed by a wish, and it was the affair of
the worriment to procure for itself such wish as a motive power of the
dream. To speak figuratively, it is quite possible that a day thought
plays the part of the contractor (entrepreneur) in the dream. But it
is known that no matter what idea the contractor may have in mind, and
how desirous he may be of putting it into operation, he can do nothing
without capital; he must depend upon a capitalist to defray the
necessary expenses, and this capitalist, who supplies the psychic
expenditure for the dream is invariably and indisputably a wish from
the unconscious, no matter what the nature of the waking thought may
be.
In other cases the capitalist himself is the contractor for the
dream; this, indeed, seems to be the more usual case. An unconscious
wish is produced by the day's work, which in turn creates the dream. The
dream processes, moreover, run parallel with all the other possibilities
of the economic relationship used here as an illustration. Thus, the
entrepreneur may contribute some capital himself, or several
entrepreneurs may seek the aid of the same capitalist, or several
capitalists may jointly supply the capital required by the entrepreneur.
Thus there are dreams produced by more than one dream-wish, and many
similar variations which may readily be passed
over and are of no further interest to us. What we have left unfinished
in this discussion of the dream-wish we shall be able to develop
later.
The "tertium comparationis" in the comparisons just
employed—i.e. the sum placed at our free disposal in proper
allotment—admits of still finer application for the illustration
of the dream structure. We can recognize in most dreams a center
especially supplied with perceptible intensity. This is regularly the
direct representation of the wish-fulfillment; for, if we undo the
displacements of the dream-work by a process of retrogression, we find
that the psychic intensity of the elements in the dream thoughts is
replaced by the perceptible intensity of the elements in the dream
content. The elements adjoining the wish-fulfillment have frequently
nothing to do with its sense, but prove to be descendants of painful
thoughts which oppose the wish. But, owing to their frequently
artificial connection with the central element, they have acquired
sufficient intensity to enable them to come to expression. Thus, the
force of expression of the wish-fulfillment is diffused over a certain
sphere of association, within which it raises to expression all
elements, including those that are in themselves impotent. In dreams having several strong wishes we can readily
separate from one another the spheres of the individual
wish-fulfillments; the gaps in the dream likewise can often be explained
as boundary zones.
Although the foregoing remarks have considerably limited the
significance of the day remnants for the dream, it will nevertheless be
worth our while to give them some attention. For they must be a
necessary ingredient in the formation of the dream, inasmuch as
experience reveals the surprising fact that every dream shows in its
content a connection with some impression of a recent day, often of the
most indifferent kind. So far we have failed to see any necessity for
this addition to the dream mixture. This necessity appears only when we
follow closely the part played by the unconscious wish, and then seek
information in the psychology of the neuroses. We thus learn that the
unconscious idea, as such, is altogether incapable of entering into the
foreconscious, and that it can exert an influence there only by uniting
with a harmless idea already belonging to the foreconscious, to which it
transfers its intensity and under which it allows itself to be
concealed. This is the fact of transference which furnishes an
explanation for so many surprising occurrences in the psychic life of
neurotics.
The idea from the foreconscious which thus
obtains an unmerited abundance of intensity may be left unchanged by the
transference, or it may have forced upon it a modification from the
content of the transferring idea. I trust the reader will pardon my
fondness for comparisons from daily life, but I feel tempted to say that
the relations existing for the repressed idea are similar to the
situations existing in Austria for the American dentist, who is
forbidden to practise unless he gets permission from a regular physician
to use his name on the public signboard and thus cover the legal
requirements. Moreover, just as it is naturally not the busiest
physicians who form such alliances with dental practitioners, so in the
psychic life only such foreconscious or conscious ideas are chosen to
cover a repressed idea as have not themselves attracted much of the
attention which is operative in the foreconscious. The unconscious
entangles with its connections preferentially either those impressions
and ideas of the foreconscious which have been left unnoticed as
indifferent, or those that have soon been deprived of this attention
through rejection. It is a familiar fact from the association studies
confirmed by every experience, that ideas which have formed intimate
connections in one direction assume an almost negative attitude to whole
groups of new connections. I once tried from
this principle to develop a theory for hysterical paralysis.
If we assume that the same need for the transference of the repressed
ideas which we have learned to know from the analysis of the neuroses
makes its influence felt in the dream as well, we can at once explain
two riddles of the dream, viz. that every dream analysis shows an
interweaving of a recent impression, and that this recent element is
frequently of the most indifferent character. We may add what we have
already learned elsewhere, that these recent and indifferent elements
come so frequently into the dream content as a substitute for the most
deep-lying of the dream thoughts, for the further reason that they have
least to fear from the resisting censor. But while this freedom from
censorship explains only the preference for trivial elements, the
constant presence of recent elements points to the fact that there is a
need for transference. Both groups of impressions satisfy the demand of
the repression for material still free from associations, the
indifferent ones because they have offered no inducement for extensive
associations, and the recent ones because they have had insufficient
time to form such associations.
We thus see that the day remnants, among which we may now include the
indifferent impressions when they participate
in the dream formation, not only borrow from the Unc. the motive power
at the disposal of the repressed wish, but also offer to the unconscious
something indispensable, namely, the attachment necessary to the
transference. If we here attempted to penetrate more deeply into the
psychic processes, we should first have to throw more light on the play
of emotions between the foreconscious and the unconscious, to which,
indeed, we are urged by the study of the psychoneuroses, whereas the
dream itself offers no assistance in this respect.
Just one further remark about the day remnants. There is no doubt
that they are the actual disturbers of sleep, and not the dream, which,
on the contrary, strives to guard sleep. But we shall return to this
point later.
We have so far discussed the dream-wish, we have traced it to the
sphere of the Unc., and analyzed its relations to the day remnants,
which in turn may be either wishes, psychic emotions of any other kind,
or simply recent impressions. We have thus made room for any claims that
may be made for the importance of conscious thought activity in dream
formations in all its variations. Relying upon our thought series, it
would not be at all impossible for us to explain even those extreme
cases in which the dream as a continuer of the
day work brings to a happy conclusion and unsolved problem possess an
example, the analysis of which might reveal the infantile or repressed
wish source furnishing such alliance and successful strengthening of the
efforts of the foreconscious activity. But we have not come one step
nearer a solution of the riddle: Why can the unconscious furnish the
motive power for the wish-fulfillment only during sleep? The answer to
this question must throw light on the psychic nature of wishes; and it
will be given with the aid of the diagram of the psychic apparatus.
We do not doubt that even this apparatus attained its present
perfection through a long course of development. Let us attempt to
restore it as it existed in an early phase of its activity. From
assumptions, to be confirmed elsewhere, we know that at first the
apparatus strove to keep as free from excitement as possible, and in its
first formation, therefore, the scheme took the form of a reflex
apparatus, which enabled it promptly to discharge through the motor
tracts any sensible stimulus reaching it from without. But this simple
function was disturbed by the wants of life, which likewise furnish the
impulse for the further development of the
apparatus. The wants of life first manifested themselves to it in the
form of the great physical needs. The excitement aroused by the inner
want seeks an outlet in motility, which may be designated as "inner
changes" or as an "expression of the emotions." The hungry child cries
or fidgets helplessly, but its situation remains unchanged; for the
excitation proceeding from an inner want requires, not a momentary
outbreak, but a force working continuously. A change can occur only if
in some way a feeling of gratification is experienced—which in the
case of the child must be through outside help—in order to remove
the inner excitement. An essential constituent of this experience is the
appearance of a certain perception (of food in our example), the memory
picture of which thereafter remains associated with the memory trace of
the excitation of want.
Thanks to the established connection, there results at the next
appearance of this want a psychic feeling which revives the memory
picture of the former perception, and thus recalls the former perception
itself, i.e. it actually re-establishes the situation of the first
gratification. We call such a feeling a wish; the reappearance of the
perception constitutes the wish-fulfillment, and the full revival of the
perception by the want excitement constitutes
the shortest road to the wish-fulfillment. We may assume a primitive
condition of the psychic apparatus in which this road is really
followed, i.e. where the wishing merges into an hallucination, This
first psychic activity therefore aims at an identity of perception,
i.e. it aims at a repetition of that perception which is connected
with the fulfillment of the want.
This primitive mental activity must have been modified by bitter
practical experience into a more expedient secondary activity. The
establishment of the identity perception on the short regressive road
within the apparatus does not in another respect carry with it the
result which inevitably follows the revival of the same perception from
without. The gratification does not take place, and the want continues.
In order to equalize the internal with the external sum of energy, the
former must be continually maintained, just as actually happens in the
hallucinatory psychoses and in the deliriums of hunger which exhaust
their psychic capacity in clinging to the object desired. In order to
make more appropriate use of the psychic force, it becomes necessary to
inhibit the full regression so as to prevent it from extending beyond
the image of memory, whence it can select other paths leading ultimately
to the establishment of the desired identity
from the outer world. This inhibition and consequent deviation from the
excitation becomes the task of a second system which dominates the
voluntary motility, i.e. through whose activity the expenditure of
motility is now devoted to previously recalled purposes. But this entire
complicated mental activity which works its way from the memory picture
to the establishment of the perception identity from the outer world
merely represents a detour which has been forced upon the
wish-fulfillment by experience.2 Thinking is indeed nothing but
the equivalent of the hallucinatory wish; and if the dream be called a
wish-fulfillment this becomes self-evident, as nothing but a wish can
impel our psychic apparatus to activity. The dream, which in fulfilling
its wishes follows the short regressive path, thereby preserves for us
only an example of the primary form of the psychic apparatus which has
been abandoned as inexpedient. What once ruled in the waking state when
the psychic life was still young and unfit seems to have been banished
into the sleeping state, just as we see again in the nursery the bow and
arrow, the discarded primitive weapons of grown-up humanity. The dream
is a fragment of the abandoned psychic life of
the child. In the psychoses these modes of operation of the psychic
apparatus, which are normally suppressed in the waking state, reassert
themselves, and then betray their inability to satisfy our wants in the
outer world.
The unconscious wish-feelings evidently strive to assert themselves
during the day also, and the fact of transference and the psychoses
teach us that they endeavor to penetrate to consciousness and dominate
motility by the road leading through the system of the foreconscious. It
is, therefore, the censor lying between the Unc. and the Forec., the
assumption of which is forced upon us by the dream, that we have to
recognize and honor as the guardian of our psychic health. But is it not
carelessness on the part of this guardian to diminish its vigilance
during the night and to allow the suppressed emotions of the Unc. to
come to expression, thus again making possible the hallucinatory
regression? I think not, for when the critical guardian goes to
rest—and we have proof that his slumber is not profound—he
takes care to close the gate to motility. No matter what feelings from
the otherwise inhibited Unc. may roam about on the scene, they need not
be interfered with; they remain harmless because they are unable to put
in motion the motor apparatus which alone can exert a modifying influence upon the outer world. Sleep guarantees
the security of the fortress which is under guard. Conditions are less
harmless when a displacement of forces is produced, not through a
nocturnal diminution in the operation of the critical censor, but
through pathological enfeeblement of the latter or through pathological
reinforcement of the unconscious excitations, and this while the
foreconscious is charged with energy and the avenues to motility are
open. The guardian is then overpowered, the unconscious excitations
subdue the Forec.; through it they dominate our speech and actions, or
they enforce the hallucinatory regression, thus governing an apparatus
not designed for them by virtue of the attraction exerted by the
perceptions on the distribution of our psychic energy. We call this
condition a psychosis.
We are now in the best position to complete our psychological
construction, which has been interrupted by the introduction of the two
systems, Unc. and Forec. We have still, however, ample reason for giving
further consideration to the wish as the sole psychic motive power in
the dream. We have explained that the reason why the dream is in every
case a wish realization is because it is a product of the Unc., which
knows no other aim in its activity but the fulfillment of wishes, and
which has no other forces at its disposal but
wish-feelings. If we avail ourselves for a moment longer of the right to
elaborate from the dream interpretation such far-reaching psychological
speculations, we are in duty bound to demonstrate that we are thereby
bringing the dream into a relationship which may also comprise other
psychic structures. If there exists a system of the Unc.—or
something sufficiently analogous to it for the purpose of our
discussion—the dream cannot be its sole manifestation; every dream
may be a wish-fulfillment, but there must be other forms of abnormal
wish-fulfillment beside this of dreams. Indeed, the theory of all
psychoneurotic symptoms culminates in the proposition that they too
must be taken as wish-fulfillments of the unconscious. Our explanation
makes the dream only the first member of a group most important for the
psychiatrist, an understanding of which means the solution of the purely
psychological part of the psychiatric problem. But other members of this
group of wish-fulfillments, e.g., the hysterical symptoms, evince one
essential quality which I have so far failed to find in the dream. Thus,
from the investigations frequently referred to in this treatise, I know
that the formation of an hysterical symptom necessitates the combination
of both streams of our psychic life. The symptom is not merely the expression of a realized
unconscious wish, but it must be joined by another wish from the
foreconscious which is fulfilled by the same symptom; so that the
symptom is at least doubly determined, once by each one of the
conflicting systems. Just as in the dream, there is no limit to further
over-determination. The determination not derived from the Unc. is, as
far as I can see, invariably a stream of thought in reaction against the
unconscious wish, e.g., a self-punishment. Hence I may say, in
general, that an hysterical symptom originates only where two
contrasting wish-fulfillments, having their source in different psychic
systems, are able to combine in one expression. (Compare my latest
formulation of the origin of the hysterical symptoms in a treatise
published by the Zeitschrift für Sexualwissenschaft, by Hirschfeld and
others, 1908). Examples on this point would prove of little value, as
nothing but a complete unveiling of the complication in question would
carry conviction. I therefore content myself with the mere assertion,
and will cite an example, not for conviction but for explication. The
hysterical vomiting of a female patient proved, on the one hand, to be
the realization of an unconscious fancy from the time of puberty, that
she might be continuously pregnant and have a
multitude of children, and this was subsequently united with the wish
that she might have them from as many men as possible. Against this
immoderate wish there arose a powerful defensive impulse. But as the
vomiting might spoil the patient's figure and beauty, so that she would
not find favor in the eyes of mankind, the symptom was therefore in
keeping with her punitive trend of thought, and, being thus admissible
from both sides, it was allowed to become a reality. This is the same
manner of consenting to a wish-fulfillment which the queen of the
Parthians chose for the triumvir Crassus. Believing that he had
undertaken the campaign out of greed for gold, she caused molten gold to
be poured into the throat of the corpse. "Now hast thou what thou hast
longed for." As yet we know of the dream only that it expresses a
wish-fulfillment of the unconscious; and apparently the dominating
foreconscious permits this only after it has subjected the wish to some
distortions. We are really in no position to demonstrate regularly a
stream of thought antagonistic to the dream-wish which is realized in
the dream as in its counterpart. Only now and then have we found in the
dream traces of reaction formations, as, for instance, the tenderness
toward friend R. in the "uncle dream." But the contribution from the foreconscious, which is missing here, may
be found in another place. While the dominating system has withdrawn on
the wish to sleep, the dream may bring to expression with manifold
distortions a wish from the Unc., and realize this wish by producing the
necessary changes of energy in the psychic apparatus, and may finally
retain it through the entire duration of sleep.3
This persistent wish to sleep on the part of the foreconscious in
general facilitates the formation of the dream. Let us refer to the
dream of the father who, by the gleam of light from the death chamber,
was brought to the conclusion that the body has been set on fire. We
have shown that one of the psychic forces decisive in causing the father
to form this conclusion, instead of being awakened by the gleam of
light, was the wish to prolong the life of the child seen in the dream
by one moment. Other wishes proceeding from the repression probably
escape us, because we are unable to analyze this dream. But as a second
motive power of the dream we may mention the father's desire to sleep,
for, like the life of the child, the sleep of the father is prolonged
for a moment by the dream. The underlying motive is: "Let the dream go
on, otherwise I must wake up." As in this dream
so also in all other dreams, the wish to sleep lends its support to the
unconscious wish. We reported dreams which were apparently dreams of
convenience. But, properly speaking, all dreams may claim this
designation. The efficacy of the wish to continue to sleep is the most
easily recognized in the waking dreams, which so transform the objective
sensory stimulus as to render it compatible with the continuance of
sleep; they interweave this stimulus with the dream in order to rob it
of any claims it might make as a warning to the outer world. But this
wish to continue to sleep must also participate in the formation of all
other dreams which may disturb the sleeping state from within only.
"Now, then, sleep on; why, it's but a dream"; this is in many cases the
suggestion of the Forec. to consciousness when the dream goes too far;
and this also describes in a general way the attitude of our dominating
psychic activity toward dreaming, though the thought remains tacit. I
must draw the conclusion that throughout our entire sleeping state we
are just as certain that we are dreaming as we are certain that we are
sleeping. We are compelled to disregard the objection urged against
this conclusion that our consciousness is never directed to a knowledge
of the former, and that it is directed to a
knowledge of the latter only on special occasions when the censor is
unexpectedly surprised. Against this objection we may say that there are
persons who are entirely conscious of their sleeping and dreaming, and
who are apparently endowed with the conscious faculty of guiding their
dream life. Such a dreamer, when dissatisfied with the course taken by
the dream, breaks it off without awakening, and begins it anew in order
to continue it with a different turn, like the popular author who, on
request, gives a happier ending to his play. Or, at another time, if
placed by the dream in a sexually exciting situation, he thinks in his
sleep: "I do not care to continue this dream and exhaust myself by a
pollution; I prefer to defer it in favor of a real situation."
Footnote
1: They share this character of indestructibility with all psychic
acts that are really unconscious—that is, with psychic acts
belonging to the system of the unconscious only. These paths are
constantly open and never fall into disuse; they conduct the discharge
of the exciting process as often as it becomes endowed with unconscious
excitement To speak metaphorically they suffer the same form of
annihilation as the shades of the lower region in the Odyssey, who
awoke to new life the moment they drank blood. The processes depending
on the foreconscious system are destructible in a different way. The
psychotherapy of the neuroses is based on this difference.
Footnote
2: Le Lorrain justly extols the wish-fulfilment of the dream: "Sans
fatigue sérieuse, sans être obligé de recourir à cette lutte opinâtre et
longue qui use et corrode les jouissances poursuivies."
Footnote
3: This idea has been borrowed from The Theory of Sleep by
Liébault, who revived hypnotic investigation in our days. (Du Sommeil
provoqué, etc.; Paris, 1889.)
Since we know that the foreconscious is suspended during the night by
the wish to sleep, we can proceed to an intelligent investigation of the
dream process. But let us first sum up the knowledge of this process
already gained. We have shown that the waking activity leaves day
remnants from which the sum of energy cannot be entirely removed; or the
waking activity revives during the day one of the unconscious wishes; or
both conditions occur simultaneously; we have already discovered the
many variations that may take place. The unconscious wish has already
made its way to the day remnants, either during the day or at any rate
with the beginning of sleep, and has effected a transference to it. This
produces a wish transferred to the recent material, or the suppressed
recent wish comes to life again through a reinforcement from the
unconscious. This wish now endeavors to make its way to consciousness on
the normal path of the mental processes through the foreconscious, to
which indeed it belongs through one of its
constituent elements. It is confronted, however, by the censor, which is
still active, and to the influence of which it now succumbs. It now
takes on the distortion for which the way has already been paved by its
transference to the recent material. Thus far it is in the way of
becoming something resembling an obsession, delusion, or the like,
i.e. a thought reinforced by a transference and distorted in
expression by the censor. But its further progress is now checked
through the dormant state of the foreconscious; this system has
apparently protected itself against invasion by diminishing its
excitements. The dream process, therefore, takes the regressive course,
which has just been opened by the peculiarity of the sleeping state, and
thereby follows the attraction exerted on it by the memory groups, which
themselves exist in part only as visual energy not yet translated into
terms of the later systems. On its way to regression the dream takes on
the form of dramatization. The subject of compression will be discussed
later. The dream process has now terminated the second part of its
repeatedly impeded course. The first part expended itself progressively
from the unconscious scenes or phantasies to the foreconscious, while
the second part gravitates from the advent of the censor back to the
perceptions. But when the dream process becomes
a content of perception it has, so to speak, eluded the obstacle set up
in the Forec. by the censor and by the sleeping state. It succeeds in
drawing attention to itself and in being noticed by consciousness. For
consciousness, which means to us a sensory organ for the reception of
psychic qualities, may receive stimuli from two sources—first,
from the periphery of the entire apparatus, viz. from the perception
system, and, secondly, from the pleasure and pain stimuli, which
constitute the sole psychic quality produced in the transformation of
energy within the apparatus. All other processes in the system, even
those in the foreconscious, are devoid of any psychic quality, and are
therefore not objects of consciousness inasmuch as they do not furnish
pleasure or pain for perception. We shall have to assume that those
liberations of pleasure and pain automatically regulate the outlet of
the occupation processes. But in order to make possible more delicate
functions, it was later found necessary to render the course of the
presentations more independent of the manifestations of pain. To
accomplish this the Forec. system needed some qualities of its own which
could attract consciousness, and most probably received them through the
connection of the foreconscious processes with the memory system of the
signs of speech, which is not devoid of
qualities. Through the qualities of this system, consciousness, which
had hitherto been a sensory organ only for the perceptions, now becomes
also a sensory organ for a part of our mental processes. Thus we have
now, as it were, two sensory surfaces, one directed to perceptions and
the other to the foreconscious mental processes.
I must assume that the sensory surface of consciousness devoted to
the Forec. is rendered less excitable by sleep than that directed to the
P-systems. The giving up of interest for the nocturnal mental processes
is indeed purposeful. Nothing is to disturb the mind; the Forec. wants
to sleep. But once the dream becomes a perception, it is then capable of
exciting consciousness through the qualities thus gained. The sensory
stimulus accomplishes what it was really destined for, namely, it
directs a part of the energy at the disposal of the Forec. in the form
of attention upon the stimulant. We must, therefore, admit that the
dream invariably awakens us, that is, it puts into activity a part of
the dormant force of the Forec. This force imparts to the dream that
influence which we have designated as secondary elaboration for the sake
of connection and comprehensibility. This means that the dream is
treated by it like any other content of
perception; it is subjected to the same ideas of expectation, as far at
least as the material admits. As far as the direction is concerned in
this third part of the dream, it may be said that here again the
movement is progressive.
To avoid misunderstanding, it will not be amiss to say a few words
about the temporal peculiarities of these dream processes. In a very
interesting discussion, apparently suggested by Maury's puzzling
guillotine dream, Goblet tries to demonstrate that the dream requires no
other time than the transition period between sleeping and awakening.
The awakening requires time, as the dream takes place during that
period. One is inclined to believe that the final picture of the dream
is so strong that it forces the dreamer to awaken; but, as a matter of
fact, this picture is strong only because the dreamer is already very
near awakening when it appears. "Un rêve c'est un réveil qui
commence."
It has already been emphasized by Dugas that Goblet was forced to
repudiate many facts in order to generalize his theory. There are,
moreover, dreams from which we do not awaken, e.g., some dreams in
which we dream that we dream. From our knowledge of the dream-work, we
can by no means admit that it extends only over the period of awakening.
On the contrary, we must consider it probable
that the first part of the dream-work begins during the day when we are
still under the domination of the foreconscious. The second phase of the
dream-work, viz. the modification through the censor, the attraction by
the unconscious scenes, and the penetration to perception must continue
throughout the night. And we are probably always right when we assert
that we feel as though we had been dreaming the whole night, although we
cannot say what. I do not, however, think it necessary to assume that,
up to the time of becoming conscious, the dream processes really follow
the temporal sequence which we have described, viz. that there is first
the transferred dream-wish, then the distortion of the censor, and
consequently the change of direction to regression, and so on. We were
forced to form such a succession for the sake of description; in
reality, however, it is much rather a matter of simultaneously trying
this path and that, and of emotions fluctuating to and fro, until
finally, owing to the most expedient distribution, one particular
grouping is secured which remains. From certain personal experiences, I
am myself inclined to believe that the dream-work often requires more
than one day and one night to produce its result; if this be true, the
extraordinary art manifested in the construction of the dream loses all its marvels. In my opinion, even the regard
for comprehensibility as an occurrence of perception may take effect
before the dream attracts consciousness to itself. To be sure, from now
on the process is accelerated, as the dream is henceforth subjected to
the same treatment as any other perception. It is like fireworks, which
require hours of preparation and only a moment for ignition.
Through the dream-work the dream process now gains either sufficient
intensity to attract consciousness to itself and arouse the
foreconscious, which is quite independent of the time or profundity of
sleep, or, its intensity being insufficient it must wait until it meets
the attention which is set in motion immediately before awakening. Most
dreams seem to operate with relatively slight psychic intensities, for
they wait for the awakening. This, however, explains the fact that we
regularly perceive something dreamt on being suddenly aroused from a
sound sleep. Here, as well as in spontaneous awakening, the first glance
strikes the perception content created by the dream-work, while the next
strikes the one produced from without.
But of greater theoretical interest are those dreams which are
capable of waking us in the midst of sleep. We must bear in mind the
expediency elsewhere universally demonstrated, and ask ourselves why the dream or the unconscious wish has the power
to disturb sleep, i.e. the fulfillment of the foreconscious wish. This
is probably due to certain relations of energy into which we have no
insight. If we possessed such insight we should probably find that the
freedom given to the dream and the expenditure of a certain amount of
detached attention represent for the dream an economy in energy, keeping
in view the fact that the unconscious must be held in check at night
just as during the day. We know from experience that the dream, even if
it interrupts sleep, repeatedly during the same night, still remains
compatible with sleep. We wake up for an instant, and immediately resume
our sleep. It is like driving off a fly during sleep, we awake ad hoc,
and when we resume our sleep we have removed the disturbance. As
demonstrated by familiar examples from the sleep of wet nurses, &c., the
fulfillment of the wish to sleep is quite compatible with the retention
of a certain amount of attention in a given direction.
But we must here take cognizance of an objection that is based on a
better knowledge of the unconscious processes. Although we have
ourselves described the unconscious wishes as always active, we have,
nevertheless, asserted that they are not sufficiently strong during the
day to make themselves perceptible. But when we
sleep, and the unconscious wish has shown its power to form a dream, and
with it to awaken the foreconscious, why, then, does this power become
exhausted after the dream has been taken cognizance of? Would it not
seem more probable that the dream should continually renew itself, like
the troublesome fly which, when driven away, takes pleasure in returning
again and again? What justifies our assertion that the dream removes the
disturbance of sleep?
That the unconscious wishes always remain active is quite true. They
represent paths which are passable whenever a sum of excitement makes
use of them. Moreover, a remarkable peculiarity of the unconscious
processes is the fact that they remain indestructible. Nothing can be
brought to an end in the unconscious; nothing can cease or be forgotten.
This impression is most strongly gained in the study of the neuroses,
especially of hysteria. The unconscious stream of thought which leads to
the discharge through an attack becomes passable again as soon as there
is an accumulation of a sufficient amount of excitement. The
mortification brought on thirty years ago, after having gained access to
the unconscious affective source, operates during all these thirty years
like a recent one. Whenever its memory is touched, it is revived and shows itself to be supplied with the excitement
which is discharged in a motor attack. It is just here that the office
of psychotherapy begins, its task being to bring about adjustment and
forgetfulness for the unconscious processes. Indeed, the fading of
memories and the flagging of affects, which we are apt to take as
self-evident and to explain as a primary influence of time on the
psychic memories, are in reality secondary changes brought about by
painstaking work. It is the foreconscious that accomplishes this work;
and the only course to be pursued by psychotherapy is the subjugate the
Unc, to the domination of the Forec.
There are, therefore, two exits for the individual unconscious
emotional process. It is either left to itself, in which case it
ultimately breaks through somewhere and secures for once a discharge for
its excitation into motility; or it succumbs to the influence of the
foreconscious, and its excitation becomes confined through this
influence instead of being discharged. It is the latter process that
occurs in the dream. Owing to the fact that it is directed by the
conscious excitement, the energy from the Forec., which confronts the
dream when grown to perception, restricts the unconscious excitement of
the dream and renders it harmless as a disturbing factor. When the
dreamer wakes up for a moment, he has actually
chased away the fly that has threatened to disturb his sleep. We can now
understand that it is really more expedient and economical to give full
sway to the unconscious wish, and clear its way to regression so that it
may form a dream, and then restrict and adjust this dream by means of a
small expenditure of foreconscious labor, than to curb the unconscious
throughout the entire period of sleep. We should, indeed, expect that
the dream, even if it was not originally an expedient process, would
have acquired some function in the play of forces of the psychic life.
We now see what this function is. The dream has taken it upon itself to
bring the liberated excitement of the Unc. back under the domination of
the foreconscious; it thus affords relief for the excitement of the Unc.
and acts as a safety-valve for the latter, and at the same time it
insures the sleep of the foreconscious at a slight expenditure of the
waking state. Like the other psychic formations of its group, the dream
offers itself as a compromise serving simultaneously both systems by
fulfilling both wishes in so far as they are compatible with each other.
A glance at Robert's "elimination theory," will show that we must agree
with this author in his main point, viz. in the determination of the
function of the dream, though we differ from him in our hypotheses and in our treatment of the dream
process.
The above qualification—in so far as the two wishes are
compatible with each other—contains a suggestion that there may be
cases in which the function of the dream suffers shipwreck. The dream
process is in the first instance admitted as a wish-fulfillment of the
unconscious, but if this tentative wish-fulfillment disturbs the
foreconscious to such an extent that the latter can no longer maintain
its rest, the dream then breaks the compromise and fails to perform the
second part of its task. It is then at once broken off, and replaced by
complete wakefulness. Here, too, it is not really the fault of the
dream, if, while ordinarily the guardian of sleep, it is here compelled
to appear as the disturber of sleep, nor should this cause us to
entertain any doubts as to its efficacy. This is not the only case in
the organism in which an otherwise efficacious arrangement became
inefficacious and disturbing as soon as some element is changed in the
conditions of its origin; the disturbance then serves at least the new
purpose of announcing the change, and calling into play against it the
means of adjustment of the organism. In this connection, I naturally
bear in mind the case of the anxiety dream, and in order not to have the
appearance of trying to exclude this testimony
against the theory of wish-fulfillment wherever I encounter it, I will
attempt an explanation of the anxiety dream, at least offering some
suggestions.
That a psychic process developing anxiety may still be a
wish-fulfillment has long ceased to impress us as a contradiction. We
may explain this occurrence by the fact that the wish belongs to one
system (the Unc.), while by the other system (the Forec.), this wish has
been rejected and suppressed. The subjection of the Unc. by the Forec.
is not complete even in perfect psychic health; the amount of this
suppression shows the degree of our psychic normality. Neurotic symptoms
show that there is a conflict between the two systems; the symptoms are
the results of a compromise of this conflict, and they temporarily put
an end to it. On the one hand, they afford the Unc. an outlet for the
discharge of its excitement, and serve it as a sally port, while, on the
other hand, they give the Forec. the capability of dominating the Unc.
to some extent. It is highly instructive to consider, e.g., the
significance of any hysterical phobia or of an agoraphobia. Suppose a
neurotic incapable of crossing the street alone, which we would justly
call a "symptom." We attempt to remove this symptom by urging him to the
action which he deems himself incapable of. The
result will be an attack of anxiety, just as an attack of anxiety in the
street has often been the cause of establishing an agoraphobia. We thus
learn that the symptom has been constituted in order to guard against
the outbreak of the anxiety. The phobia is thrown before the anxiety
like a fortress on the frontier.
Unless we enter into the part played by the affects in these
processes, which can be done here only imperfectly, we cannot continue
our discussion. Let us therefore advance the proposition that the reason
why the suppression of the unconscious becomes absolutely necessary is
because, if the discharge of presentation should be left to itself, it
would develop an affect in the Unc. which originally bore the character
of pleasure, but which, since the appearance of the repression, bears
the character of pain. The aim, as well as the result, of the
suppression is to stop the development of this pain. The suppression
extends over the unconscious ideation, because the liberation of pain
might emanate from the ideation. The foundation is here laid for a very
definite assumption concerning the nature of the affective development.
It is regarded as a motor or secondary activity, the key to the
innervation of which is located in the presentations of the Unc. Through
the domination of the Forec. these
presentations become, as it were, throttled and inhibited at the exit of
the emotion-developing impulses. The danger, which is due to the fact
that the Forec. ceases to occupy the energy, therefore consists in the
fact that the unconscious excitations liberate such an affect
as—in consequence of the repression that has previously taken
place—can only be perceived as pain or anxiety.
This danger is released through the full sway of the dream process.
The determinations for its realization consist in the fact that
repressions have taken place, and that the suppressed emotional wishes
shall become sufficiently strong. They thus stand entirely without the
psychological realm of the dream structure. Were it not for the fact
that our subject is connected through just one factor, namely, the
freeing of the Unc. during sleep, with the subject of the development of
anxiety, I could dispense with discussion of the anxiety dream, and thus
avoid all obscurities connected with it.
As I have often repeated, the theory of the anxiety belongs to the
psychology of the neuroses. I would say that the anxiety in the dream is
an anxiety problem and not a dream problem. We have nothing further to
do with it after having once demonstrated its point of contact with the
subject of the dream process. There is only one thing left for me to do. As I have asserted that the neurotic
anxiety originates from sexual sources, I can subject anxiety dreams to
analysis in order to demonstrate the sexual material in their dream
thoughts.
For good reasons I refrain from citing here any of the numerous
examples placed at my disposal by neurotic patients, but prefer to give
anxiety dreams from young persons.
Personally, I have had no real anxiety dream for decades, but I
recall one from my seventh or eighth year which I subjected to
interpretation about thirty years later. The dream was very vivid, and
showed me my beloved mother, with peculiarly calm sleeping countenance,
carried into the room and laid on the bed by two (or three) persons with
birds' beaks. I awoke crying and screaming, and disturbed my parents.
The very tall figures—draped in a peculiar manner—with
beaks, I had taken from the illustrations of Philippson's bible; I
believe they represented deities with heads of sparrowhawks from an
Egyptian tomb relief. The analysis also introduced the reminiscence of a
naughty janitor's boy, who used to play with us children on the meadow
in front of the house; I would add that his name was Philip. I feel that
I first heard from this boy the vulgar word signifying sexual
intercourse, which is replaced among the educated by the Latin "coitus," but to which the dream
distinctly alludes by the selection of the birds' heads. I must have
suspected the sexual significance of the word from the facial expression
of my worldly-wise teacher. My mother's features in the dream were
copied from the countenance of my grandfather, whom I had seen a few
days before his death snoring in the state of coma. The interpretation
of the secondary elaboration in the dream must therefore have been that
my mother was dying; the tomb relief, too, agrees with this. In this
anxiety I awoke, and could not calm myself until I had awakened my
parents. I remember that I suddenly became calm on coming face to face
with my mother, as if I needed the assurance that my mother was not
dead. But this secondary interpretation of the dream had been effected
only under the influence of the developed anxiety. I was not frightened
because I dreamed that my mother was dying, but I interpreted the dream
in this manner in the foreconscious elaboration because I was already
under the domination of the anxiety. The latter, however, could be
traced by means of the repression to an obscure obviously sexual desire,
which had found its satisfying expression in the visual content of the
dream.
A man twenty-seven years old who had been severely ill for a year had had many terrifying dreams
between the ages of eleven and thirteen. He thought that a man with an
ax was running after him; he wished to run, but felt paralyzed and could
not move from the spot. This may be taken as a good example of a very
common, and apparently sexually indifferent, anxiety dream. In the
analysis the dreamer first thought of a story told him by his uncle,
which chronologically was later than the dream, viz. that he was
attacked at night by a suspicious-looking individual. This occurrence
led him to believe that he himself might have already heard of a similar
episode at the time of the dream. In connection with the ax he recalled
that during that period of his life he once hurt his hand with an ax
while chopping wood. This immediately led to his relations with his
younger brother, whom he used to maltreat and knock down. In particular,
he recalled an occasion when he struck his brother on the head with his
boot until he bled, whereupon his mother remarked: "I fear he will kill
him some day." While he was seemingly thinking of the subject of
violence, a reminiscence from his ninth year suddenly occurred to him.
His parents came home late and went to bed while he was feigning sleep.
He soon heard panting and other noises that appeared strange to him, and
he could also make out the position of his
parents in bed. His further associations showed that he had established
an analogy between this relation between his parents and his own
relation toward his younger brother. He subsumed what occurred between
his parents under the conception "violence and wrestling," and thus
reached a sadistic conception of the coitus act, as often happens among
children. The fact that he often noticed blood on his mother's bed
corroborated his conception.
That the sexual intercourse of adults appears strange to children who
observe it, and arouses fear in them, I dare say is a fact of daily
experience. I have explained this fear by the fact that sexual
excitement is not mastered by their understanding, and is probably also
inacceptable to them because their parents are involved in it. For the
same son this excitement is converted into fear. At a still earlier
period of life sexual emotion directed toward the parent of opposite sex
does not meet with repression but finds free expression, as we have seen
before.
For the night terrors with hallucinations (pavor nocturnus)
frequently found in children, I would unhesitatingly give the same
explanation. Here, too, we are certainly dealing with the
incomprehensible and rejected sexual feelings, which, if noted, would probably show a temporal periodicity, for an
enhancement of the sexual libido may just as well be produced
accidentally through emotional impressions as through the spontaneous
and gradual processes of development.
I lack the necessary material to sustain these explanations from
observation. On the other hand, the pediatrists seem to lack the point
of view which alone makes comprehensible the whole series of phenomena,
on the somatic as well as on the psychic side. To illustrate by a
comical example how one wearing the blinders of medical mythology may
miss the understanding of such cases I will relate a case which I found
in a thesis on pavor nocturnus by Debacker, 1881. A
thirteen-year-old boy of delicate health began to become anxious and
dreamy; his sleep became restless, and about once a week it was
interrupted by an acute attack of anxiety with hallucinations. The
memory of these dreams was invariably very distinct. Thus, he related
that the devil shouted at him: "Now we have you, now we have you," and
this was followed by an odor of sulphur; the fire burned his skin. This
dream aroused him, terror-stricken. He was unable to scream at first;
then his voice returned, and he was heard to say distinctly: "No, no,
not me; why, I have done nothing," or, "Please don't, I shall never do it again." Occasionally, also, he
said: "Albert has not done that." Later he avoided undressing, because,
as he said, the fire attacked him only when he was undressed. From amid
these evil dreams, which menaced his health, he was sent into the
country, where he recovered within a year and a half, but at the age of
fifteen he once confessed: "Je n'osais pas l'avouer, mais j'éprouvais
continuellement des picotements et des surexcitations aux parties; à
la fin, cela m'énervait tant que plusieurs fois, j'ai pensé me jeter par
la fenêtre au dortoir."
It is certainly not difficult to suspect: 1, that the boy had
practiced masturbation in former years, that he probably denied it, and
was threatened with severe punishment for his wrongdoing (his
confession: Je ne le ferai plus; his denial: Albert n'a jamais fait ça).
2, That under the pressure of puberty the temptation to self-abuse
through the tickling of the genitals was reawakened. 3, That now,
however, a struggle of repression arose in him, suppressing the libido
and changing it into fear, which subsequently took the form of the
punishments with which he was then threatened.
Let us, however, quote the conclusions drawn by our author. This
observation shows: 1, That the influence of
puberty may produce in a boy of delicate health a condition of extreme
weakness, and that it may lead to a very marked cerebral anæmia.
2. This cerebral anæmia produces a transformation of character,
demonomaniacal hallucinations, and very violent nocturnal, perhaps also
diurnal, states of anxiety.
3. Demonomania and the self-reproaches of the day can be traced to
the influences of religious education which the subject underwent as a
child.
4. All manifestations disappeared as a result of a lengthy sojourn in
the country, bodily exercise, and the return of physical strength after
the termination of the period of puberty.
5. A predisposing influence for the origin of the cerebral condition
of the boy may be attributed to heredity and to the father's chronic
syphilitic state.
The concluding remarks of the author read: "Nous avons fait entrer
cette observation dans le cadre des délires apyrétiques d'inanition, car
c'est à l'ischémie cérébrale que nous rattachons cet état
particulier."
In venturing to attempt to penetrate more deeply into the psychology
of the dream processes, I have undertaken a difficult task, to which,
indeed, my power of description is hardly equal. To reproduce in
description by a succession of words the simultaneousness of so complex
a chain of events, and in doing so to appear unbiassed throughout the
exposition, goes fairly beyond my powers. I have now to atone for the
fact that I have been unable in my description of the dream psychology
to follow the historic development of my views. The view-points for my
conception of the dream were reached through earlier investigations in
the psychology of the neuroses, to which I am not supposed to refer
here, but to which I am repeatedly forced to refer, whereas I should
prefer to proceed in the opposite direction, and, starting from the
dream, to establish a connection with the psychology of the neuroses. I
am well aware of all the inconveniences arising for the reader from this
difficulty, but I know of no way to avoid them.
As I am dissatisfied with this state of
affairs, I am glad to dwell upon another view-point which seems to raise
the value of my efforts. As has been shown in the introduction to the
first chapter, I found myself confronted with a theme which had been
marked by the sharpest contradictions on the part of the authorities.
After our elaboration of the dream problems we found room for most of
these contradictions. We have been forced, however, to take decided
exception to two of the views pronounced, viz. that the dream is a
senseless and that it is a somatic process; apart from these cases we
have had to accept all the contradictory views in one place or another
of the complicated argument, and we have been able to demonstrate that
they had discovered something that was correct. That the dream continues
the impulses and interests of the waking state has been quite generally
confirmed through the discovery of the latent thoughts of the dream.
These thoughts concern themselves only with things that seem important
and of momentous interest to us. The dream never occupies itself with
trifles. But we have also concurred with the contrary view, viz., that
the dream gathers up the indifferent remnants from the day, and that not
until it has in some measure withdrawn itself from the waking activity
can an important event of the day be taken up
by the dream. We found this holding true for the dream content, which
gives the dream thought its changed expression by means of
disfigurement. We have said that from the nature of the association
mechanism the dream process more easily takes possession of recent or
indifferent material which has not yet been seized by the waking mental
activity; and by reason of the censor it transfers the psychic intensity
from the important but also disagreeable to the indifferent material.
The hypermnesia of the dream and the resort to infantile material have
become main supports in our theory. In our theory of the dream we have
attributed to the wish originating from the infantile the part of an
indispensable motor for the formation of the dream. We naturally could
not think of doubting the experimentally demonstrated significance of
the objective sensory stimuli during sleep; but we have brought this
material into the same relation to the dream-wish as the thought
remnants from the waking activity. There was no need of disputing the
fact that the dream interprets the objective sensory stimuli after the
manner of an illusion; but we have supplied the motive for this
interpretation which has been left undecided by the authorities. The
interpretation follows in such a manner that the perceived object is rendered harmless as a sleep
disturber and becomes available for the wish-fulfillment. Though we do
not admit as special sources of the dream the subjective state of
excitement of the sensory organs during sleep, which seems to have been
demonstrated by Trumbull Ladd, we are nevertheless able to explain this
excitement through the regressive revival of active memories behind the
dream. A modest part in our conception has also been assigned to the
inner organic sensations which are wont to be taken as the cardinal
point in the explanation of the dream. These—the sensation of
falling, flying, or inhibition—stand as an ever ready material to
be used by the dream-work to express the dream thought as often as need
arises.
That the dream process is a rapid and momentary one seems to be true
for the perception through consciousness of the already prepared dream
content; the preceding parts of the dream process probably take a slow,
fluctuating course. We have solved the riddle of the superabundant dream
content compressed within the briefest moment by explaining that this is
due to the appropriation of almost fully formed structures from the
psychic life. That the dream is disfigured and distorted by memory we
found to be correct, but not troublesome, as this is only the last manifest operation in the work of
disfigurement which has been active from the beginning of the
dream-work. In the bitter and seemingly irreconcilable controversy as to
whether the psychic life sleeps at night or can make the same use of all
its capabilities as during the day, we have been able to agree with both
sides, though not fully with either. We have found proof that the dream
thoughts represent a most complicated intellectual activity, employing
almost every means furnished by the psychic apparatus; still it cannot
be denied that these dream thoughts have originated during the day, and
it is indispensable to assume that there is a sleeping state of the
psychic life. Thus, even the theory of partial sleep has come into play;
but the characteristics of the sleeping state have been found not in the
dilapidation of the psychic connections but in the cessation of the
psychic system dominating the day, arising from its desire to sleep. The
withdrawal from the outer world retains its significance also for our
conception; though not the only factor, it nevertheless helps the
regression to make possible the representation of the dream. That we
should reject the voluntary guidance of the presentation course is
uncontestable; but the psychic life does not thereby become aimless, for
we have seen that after the abandonment of the desired end-presentation undesired ones gain the mastery.
The loose associative connection in the dream we have not only
recognized, but we have placed under its control a far greater territory
than could have been supposed; we have, however, found it merely the
feigned substitute for another correct and senseful one. To be sure we,
too, have called the dream absurd; but we have been able to learn from
examples how wise the dream really is when it simulates absurdity. We do
not deny any of the functions that have been attributed to the dream.
That the dream relieves the mind like a valve, and that, according to
Robert's assertion, all kinds of harmful material are rendered harmless
through representation in the dream, not only exactly coincides with our
theory of the twofold wish-fulfillment in the dream, but, in his own
wording, becomes even more comprehensible for us than for Robert
himself. The free indulgence of the psychic in the play of its faculties
finds expression with us in the non-interference with the dream on the
part of the foreconscious activity. The "return to the embryonal state
of psychic life in the dream" and the observation of Havelock Ellis, "an
archaic world of vast emotions and imperfect thoughts," appear to us as
happy anticipations of our deductions to the effect that primitive
modes of work suppressed during the day
participate in the formation of the dream; and with us, as with Delage,
the suppressed material becomes the mainspring of the dreaming.
We have fully recognized the rôle which Scherner ascribes to the
dream phantasy, and even his interpretation; but we have been obliged,
so to speak, to conduct them to another department in the problem. It is
not the dream that produces the phantasy but the unconscious phantasy
that takes the greatest part in the formation of the dream thoughts. We
are indebted to Scherner for his clew to the source of the dream
thoughts, but almost everything that he ascribes to the dream-work is
attributable to the activity of the unconscious, which is at work during
the day, and which supplies incitements not only for dreams but for
neurotic symptoms as well. We have had to separate the dream-work from
this activity as being something entirely different and far more
restricted. Finally, we have by no means abandoned the relation of the
dream to mental disturbances, but, on the contrary, we have given it a
more solid foundation on new ground.
Thus held together by the new material of our theory as by a superior
unity, we find the most varied and most contradictory conclusions of the
authorities fitting into our structure; some of them are differently disposed, only a few of them are
entirely rejected. But our own structure is still unfinished. For,
disregarding the many obscurities which we have necessarily encountered
in our advance into the darkness of psychology, we are now apparently
embarrassed by a new contradiction. On the one hand, we have allowed the
dream thoughts to proceed from perfectly normal mental operations,
while, on the other hand, we have found among the dream thoughts a
number of entirely abnormal mental processes which extend likewise to
the dream contents. These, consequently, we have repeated in the
interpretation of the dream. All that we have termed the "dream-work"
seems so remote from the psychic processes recognized by us as correct,
that the severest judgments of the authors as to the low psychic
activity of dreaming seem to us well founded.
Perhaps only through still further advance can enlightenment and
improvement be brought about. I shall pick out one of the constellations
leading to the formation of dreams.
We have learned that the dream replaces a number of thoughts derived
from daily life which are perfectly formed logically. We cannot
therefore doubt that these thoughts originate from our normal mental
life. All the qualities which we esteem in our
mental operations, and which distinguish these as complicated activities
of a high order, we find repeated in the dream thoughts. There is,
however, no need of assuming that this mental work is performed during
sleep, as this would materially impair the conception of the psychic
state of sleep we have hitherto adhered to. These thoughts may just as
well have originated from the day, and, unnoticed by our consciousness
from their inception, they may have continued to develop until they
stood complete at the onset of sleep. If we are to conclude anything
from this state of affairs, it will at most prove that the most complex
mental operations are possible without the coöperation of
consciousness, which we have already learned independently from every
psychoanalysis of persons suffering from hysteria or obsessions. These
dream thoughts are in themselves surely not incapable of consciousness;
if they have not become conscious to us during the day, this may have
various reasons. The state of becoming conscious depends on the exercise
of a certain psychic function, viz. attention, which seems to be
extended only in a definite quantity, and which may have been withdrawn
from the stream of thought in Question by other aims. Another way in
which such mental streams are kept from consciousness is the
following:—Our conscious reflection
teaches us that when exercising attention we pursue a definite course.
But if that course leads us to an idea which does not hold its own with
the critic, we discontinue and cease to apply our attention. Now,
apparently, the stream of thought thus started and abandoned may spin on
without regaining attention unless it reaches a spot of especially
marked intensity which forces the return of attention. An initial
rejection, perhaps consciously brought about by the judgment on the
ground of incorrectness or unfitness for the actual purpose of the
mental act, may therefore account for the fact that a mental process
continues until the onset of sleep unnoticed by consciousness.
Let us recapitulate by saying that we call such a stream of thought a
foreconscious one, that we believe it to be perfectly correct, and that
it may just as well be a more neglected one or an interrupted and
suppressed one. Let us also state frankly in what manner we conceive
this presentation course. We believe that a certain sum of excitement,
which we call occupation energy, is displaced from an end-presentation
along the association paths selected by that end-presentation. A
"neglected" stream of thought has received no such occupation, and from
a "suppressed" or "rejected" one this occupation has been withdrawn;
both have thus been left to their own emotions.
The end-stream of thought stocked with energy is under certain
conditions able to draw to itself the attention of consciousness,
through which means it then receives a "surplus of energy." We shall be
obliged somewhat later to elucidate our assumption concerning the nature
and activity of consciousness.
A train of thought thus incited in the Forec. may either disappear
spontaneously or continue. The former issue we conceive as follows: It
diffuses its energy through all the association paths emanating from it,
and throws the entire chain of ideas into a state of excitement which,
after lasting for a while, subsides through the transformation of the
excitement requiring an outlet into dormant energy.1 If this first issue is brought
about the process has no further significance for the dream formation.
But other end-presentations are lurking in our foreconscious that
originate from the sources of our unconscious and from the ever active
wishes. These may take possession of the excitations in the circle of
thought thus left to itself, establish a connection between it and the
unconscious wish, and transfer to it the energy inherent in the
unconscious wish. Henceforth the neglected or suppressed train of thought is in a position to maintain
itself, although this reinforcement does not help it to gain access to
consciousness. We may say that the hitherto foreconscious train of
thought has been drawn into the unconscious.
Other constellations for the dream formation would result if the
foreconscious train of thought had from the beginning been connected
with the unconscious wish, and for that reason met with rejection by the
dominating end-occupation; or if an unconscious wish were made active
for other—possibly somatic—reasons and of its own accord
sought a transference to the psychic remnants not occupied by the Forec.
All three cases finally combine in one issue, so that there is
established in the foreconscious a stream of thought which, having been
abandoned by the foreconscious occupation, receives occupation from the
unconscious wish.
The stream of thought is henceforth subjected to a series of
transformations which we no longer recognize as normal psychic processes
and which give us a surprising result, viz. a psychopathological
formation. Let us emphasize and group the same.
1. The intensities of the individual ideas become capable of
discharge in their entirety, and, proceeding from one conception to the
other, they thus form single presentations endowed with marked
intensity. Through the repeated recurrence of
this process the intensity of an entire train of ideas may ultimately be
gathered in a single presentation element. This is the principle of
compression or condensation. It is condensation that is mainly
responsible for the strange impression of the dream, for we know of
nothing analogous to it in the normal psychic life accessible to
consciousness. We find here, also, presentations which possess great
psychic significance as junctions or as end-results of whole chains of
thought; but this validity does not manifest itself in any character
conspicuous enough for internal perception; hence, what has been
presented in it does not become in any way more intensive. In the
process of condensation the entire psychic connection becomes
transformed into the intensity of the presentation content. It is the
same as in a book where we space or print in heavy type any word upon
which particular stress is laid for the understanding of the text. In
speech the same word would be pronounced loudly and deliberately and
with emphasis. The first comparison leads us at once to an example taken
from the chapter on "The Dream-Work" (trimethylamine in the dream of
Irma's injection). Historians of art call our attention to the fact that
the most ancient historical sculptures follow a similar principle in expressing the rank of the persons represented
by the size of the statue. The king is made two or three times as large
as his retinue or the vanquished enemy. A piece of art, however, from
the Roman period makes use of more subtle means to accomplish the same
purpose. The figure of the emperor is placed in the center in a firmly
erect posture; special care is bestowed on the proper modelling of his
figure; his enemies are seen cowering at his feet; but he is no longer
represented a giant among dwarfs. However, the bowing of the subordinate
to his superior in our own days is only an echo of that ancient
principle of representation.
The direction taken by the condensations of the dream is prescribed
on the one hand by the true foreconscious relations of the dream
thoughts, an the other hand by the attraction of the visual
reminiscences in the unconscious. The success of the condensation work
produces those intensities which are required for penetration into the
perception systems.
2. Through this free transferability of the intensities, moreover,
and in the service of condensation, intermediary
presentations—compromises, as it were—are formed (cf. the
numerous examples). This, likewise, is something unheard of in the
normal presentation course, where it is above all a question of selection and retention of the
"proper" presentation element. On the other hand, composite and
compromise formations occur with extraordinary frequency when we are
trying to find the linguistic expression for foreconscious thoughts;
these are considered "slips of the tongue."
3. The presentations which transfer their intensities to one another
are very loosely connected, and are joined together by such forms of
association as are spurned in our serious thought and are utilized in
the production of the effect of wit only. Among these we particularly
find associations of the sound and consonance types.
4. Contradictory thoughts do not strive to eliminate one another, but
remain side by side. They often unite to produce condensation as if no
contradiction existed, or they form compromises for which we should
never forgive our thoughts, but which we frequently approve of in our
actions.
These are some of the most conspicuous abnormal processes to which
the thoughts which have previously been rationally formed are subjected
in the course of the dream-work. As the main feature of these processes
we recognize the high importance attached to the fact of rendering the
occupation energy mobile and capable of discharge; the content and the
actual significance of the psychic elements, to
which these energies adhere, become a matter of secondary importance.
One might possibly think that the condensation and compromise formation
is effected only in the service of regression, when occasion arises for
changing thoughts into pictures. But the analysis and—still more
distinctly—the synthesis of dreams which lack regression toward
pictures, e.g. the dream "Autodidasker—Conversation with
Court-Councilor N.," present the same processes of displacement and
condensation as the others.
Hence we cannot refuse to acknowledge that the two kinds of
essentially different psychic processes participate in the formation of
the dream; one forms perfectly correct dream thoughts which are
equivalent to normal thoughts, while the other treats these ideas in a
highly surprising and incorrect manner. The latter process we have
already set apart as the dream-work proper. What have we now to advance
concerning this latter psychic process?
We should be unable to answer this question here if we had not
penetrated considerably into the psychology of the neuroses and
especially of hysteria. From this we learn that the same incorrect
psychic processes—as well as others that have not been
enumerated—control the formation of hysterical symptoms. In hysteria, too, we at once find a
series of perfectly correct thoughts equivalent to our conscious
thoughts, of whose existence, however, in this form we can learn nothing
and which we can only subsequently reconstruct. If they have forced
their way anywhere to our perception, we discover from the analysis of
the symptom formed that these normal thoughts have been subjected to
abnormal treatment and have been transformed into the symptom by means
of condensation and compromise formation, through superficial
associations, under cover of contradictions, and eventually over the
road of regression. In view of the complete identity found between the
peculiarities of the dream-work and of the psychic activity forming the
psychoneurotic symptoms, we shall feel justified in transferring to the
dream the conclusions urged upon us by hysteria.
From the theory of hysteria we borrow the proposition that such an
abnormal psychic elaboration of a normal train of thought takes place
only when the latter has been used for the transference of an
unconscious wish which dates from the infantile life and is in a state
of repression. In accordance with this proposition we have construed
the theory of the dream on the assumption that the actuating dream-wish
invariably originates in the unconscious,
which, as we ourselves have admitted, cannot be universally demonstrated
though it cannot be refuted. But in order to explain the real meaning of
the term repression, which we have employed so freely, we shall be
obliged to make some further addition to our psychological
construction.
We have above elaborated the fiction of a primitive psychic
apparatus, whose work is regulated by the efforts to avoid accumulation
of excitement and as far as possible to maintain itself free from
excitement. For this reason it was constructed after the plan of a
reflex apparatus; the motility, originally the path for the inner bodily
change, formed a discharging path standing at its disposal. We
subsequently discussed the psychic results of a feeling of
gratification, and we might at the same time have introduced the second
assumption, viz. that accumulation of excitement—following certain
modalities that do not concern us—is perceived as pain and sets
the apparatus in motion in order to reproduce a feeling of gratification
in which the diminution of the excitement is perceived as pleasure. Such
a current in the apparatus which emanates from pain and strives for
pleasure we call a wish. We have said that nothing but a wish is capable
of setting the apparatus in motion, and that the discharge of excitement
in the apparatus is regulated automatically by
the perception of pleasure and pain. The first wish must have been an
hallucinatory occupation of the memory for gratification. But this
hallucination, unless it were maintained to the point of exhaustion,
proved incapable of bringing about a cessation of the desire and
consequently of securing the pleasure connected with gratification.
Thus there was required a second activity—in our terminology
the activity of a second system—which should not permit the memory
occupation to advance to perception and therefrom to restrict the
psychic forces, but should lead the excitement emanating from the
craving stimulus by a devious path over the spontaneous motility which
ultimately should so change the outer world as to allow the real
perception of the object of gratification to take place. Thus far we
have elaborated the plan of the psychic apparatus; these two systems are
the germ of the Unc. and Forec, which we include in the fully developed
apparatus.
In order to be in a position successfully to change the outer world
through the motility, there is required the accumulation of a large sum
of experiences in the memory systems as well as a manifold fixation of
the relations which are evoked in this memory material by different
end-presentations. We now proceed further with
our assumption. The manifold activity of the second system, tentatively
sending forth and retracting energy, must on the one hand have full
command over all memory material, but on the other hand it would be a
superfluous expenditure for it to send to the individual mental paths
large quantities of energy which would thus flow off to no purpose,
diminishing the quantity available for the transformation of the outer
world. In the interests of expediency I therefore postulate that the
second system succeeds in maintaining the greater part of the occupation
energy in a dormant state and in using but a small portion for the
purposes of displacement. The mechanism of these processes is entirely
unknown to me; any one who wishes to follow up these ideas must try to
find the physical analogies and prepare the way for a demonstration of
the process of motion in the stimulation of the neuron. I merely hold to
the idea that the activity of the first Ψ-system is directed to
the free outflow of the quantities of excitement, and that the second
system brings about an inhibition of this outflow through the energies
emanating from it, i.e. it produces a transformation into dormant
energy, probably by raising the level. I therefore assume that under
the control of the second system as compared
with the first, the course of the excitement is bound to entirely
different mechanical conditions. After the second system has finished
its tentative mental work, it removes the inhibition and congestion of
the excitements and allows these excitements to flow off to the
motility.
An interesting train of thought now presents itself if we consider
the relations of this inhibition of discharge by the second system to
the regulation through the principle of pain. Let us now seek the
counterpart of the primary feeling of gratification, namely, the
objective feeling of fear. A perceptive stimulus acts on the primitive
apparatus, becoming the source of a painful emotion. This will then be
followed by irregular motor manifestations until one of these withdraws
the apparatus from perception and at the same time from pain, but on the
reappearance of the perception this manifestation will immediately
repeat itself (perhaps as a movement of flight) until the perception has
again disappeared. But there will here remain no tendency again to
occupy the perception of the source of pain in the form of an
hallucination or in any other form. On the contrary, there will be a
tendency in the primary apparatus to abandon the painful memory picture
as soon as it is in any way awakened, as the overflow of its excitement
would surely produce (more precisely, begin to
produce) pain. The deviation from memory, which is but a repetition of
the former flight from perception, is facilitated also by the fact that,
unlike perception, memory does not possess sufficient quality to excite
consciousness and thereby to attract to itself new energy. This easy and
regularly occurring deviation of the psychic process from the former
painful memory presents to us the model and the first example of
psychic repression. As is generally known, much of this deviation from
the painful, much of the behavior of the ostrich, can be readily
demonstrated even in the normal psychic life of adults.
By virtue of the principle of pain the first system is therefore
altogether incapable of introducing anything unpleasant into the mental
associations. The system cannot do anything but wish. If this remained
so the mental activity of the second system, which should have at its
disposal all the memories stored up by experiences, would be hindered.
But two ways are now opened: the work of the second system either frees
itself completely from the principle of pain and continues its course,
paying no heed to the painful reminiscence, or it contrives to occupy
the painful memory in such a manner as to preclude the liberation of
pain. We may reject the first possibility, as
the principle of pain also manifests itself as a regulator for the
emotional discharge of the second system; we are, therefore, directed to
the second possibility, namely, that this system occupies a reminiscence
in such a manner as to inhibit its discharge and hence, also, to inhibit
the discharge comparable to a motor innervation for the development of
pain. Thus from two starting points we are led to the hypothesis that
occupation through the second system is at the same time an inhibition
for the emotional discharge, viz. from a consideration of the principle
of pain and from the principle of the smallest expenditure of
innervation. Let us, however, keep to the fact—this is the key to
the theory of repression—that the second system is capable of
occupying an idea only when it is in position to check the development
of pain emanating from it. Whatever withdraws itself from this
inhibition also remains inaccessible for the second system and would
soon be abandoned by virtue of the principle of pain. The inhibition of
pain, however, need not be complete; it must be permitted to begin, as
it indicates to the second system the nature of the memory and possibly
its defective adaptation for the purpose sought by the mind.
The psychic process which is admitted by the
first system only I shall now call the primary process; and the one
resulting from the inhibition of the second system I shall call the
secondary process. I show by another point for what purpose the second
system is obliged to correct the primary process. The primary process
strives for a discharge of the excitement in order to establish a
perception identity with the sum of excitement thus gathered; the
secondary process has abandoned this intention and undertaken instead
the task of bringing about a thought identity. All thinking is only a
circuitous path from the memory of gratification taken as an
end-presentation to the identical occupation of the same memory, which
is again to be attained on the track of the motor experiences. The state
of thinking must take an interest in the connecting paths between the
presentations without allowing itself to be misled by their intensities.
But it is obvious that condensations and intermediate or compromise
formations occurring in the presentations impede the attainment of this
end-identity; by substituting one idea for the other they deviate from
the path which otherwise would have been continued from the original
idea. Such processes are therefore carefully avoided in the secondary
thinking. Nor is it difficult to understand that the principle of pain
also impedes the progress of the mental stream
in its pursuit of the thought identity, though, indeed, it offers to the
mental stream the most important points of departure. Hence the tendency
of the thinking process must be to free itself more and more from
exclusive adjustment by the principle of pain, and through the working
of the mind to restrict the affective development to that minimum which
is necessary as a signal. This refinement of the activity must have been
attained through a recent over-occupation of energy brought about by
consciousness. But we are aware that this refinement is seldom
completely successful even in the most normal psychic life and that our
thoughts ever remain accessible to falsification through the
interference of the principle of pain.
This, however, is not the breach in the functional efficiency of our
psychic apparatus through which the thoughts forming the material of the
secondary mental work are enabled to make their way into the primary
psychic process—with which formula we may now describe the work
leading to the dream and to the hysterical symptoms. This case of
insufficiency results from the union of the two factors from the history
of our evolution; one of which belongs solely to the psychic apparatus
and has exerted a determining influence on the relation of the two systems, while the other operates
fluctuatingly and introduces motive forces of organic origin into the
psychic life. Both originate in the infantile life and result from the
transformation which our psychic and somatic organism has undergone
since the infantile period.
When I termed one of the psychic processes in the psychic apparatus
the primary process, I did so not only in consideration of the order of
precedence and capability, but also as admitting the temporal relations
to a share in the nomenclature. As far as our knowledge goes there is no
psychic apparatus possessing only the primary process, and in so far it
is a theoretic fiction; but so much is based on fact that the primary
processes are present in the apparatus from the beginning, while the
secondary processes develop gradually in the course of life, inhibiting
and covering the primary ones, and gaining complete mastery over them
perhaps only at the height of life. Owing to this retarded appearance of
the secondary processes, the essence of our being, consisting in
unconscious wish feelings, can neither be seized nor inhibited by the
foreconscious, whose part is once for all restricted to the indication
of the most suitable paths for the wish feelings originating in the
unconscious. These unconscious wishes establish for all subsequent
psychic efforts a compulsion to which they have
to submit and which they must strive if possible to divert from its
course and direct to higher aims. In consequence of this retardation of
the foreconscious occupation a large sphere of the memory material
remains inaccessible.
Among these indestructible and unincumbered wish feelings originating
from the infantile life, there are also some, the fulfillments of which
have entered into a relation of contradiction to the end-presentation of
the secondary thinking. The fulfillment of these wishes would no longer
produce an affect of pleasure but one of pain; and it is just this
transformation of affect that constitutes the nature of what we
designate as "repression," in which we recognize the infantile first
step of passing adverse sentence or of rejecting through reason. To
investigate in what way and through what motive forces such a
transformation can be produced constitutes the problem of repression,
which we need here only skim over. It will suffice to remark that such a
transformation of affect occurs in the course of development (one may
think of the appearance in infantile life of disgust which was
originally absent), and that it is connected with the activity of the
secondary system. The memories from which the unconscious wish brings
about the emotional discharge have never been
accessible to the Forec., and for that reason their emotional discharge
cannot be inhibited. It is just on account of this affective development
that these ideas are not even now accessible to the foreconscious
thoughts to which they have transferred their wishing power. On the
contrary, the principle of pain comes into play, and causes the Forec.
to deviate from these thoughts of transference. The latter, left to
themselves, are "repressed," and thus the existence of a store of
infantile memories, from the very beginning withdrawn from the Forec.,
becomes the preliminary condition of repression.
In the most favorable case the development of pain terminates as soon
as the energy has been withdrawn from the thoughts of transference in
the Forec., and this effect characterizes the intervention of the
principle of pain as expedient. It is different, however, if the
repressed unconscious wish receives an organic enforcement which it can
lend to its thoughts of transference and through which it can enable
them to make an effort towards penetration with their excitement, even
after they have been abandoned by the occupation of the Forec. A
defensive struggle then ensues, inasmuch as the Forec. reinforces the
antagonism against the repressed ideas, and subsequently this leads to a
penetration by the thoughts of transference
(the carriers of the unconscious wish) in some form of compromise
through symptom formation. But from the moment that the suppressed
thoughts are powerfully occupied by the unconscious wish-feeling and
abandoned by the foreconscious occupation, they succumb to the primary
psychic process and strive only for motor discharge; or, if the path be
free, for hallucinatory revival of the desired perception identity. We
have previously found, empirically, that the incorrect processes
described are enacted only with thoughts that exist in the repression.
We now grasp another part of the connection. These incorrect processes
are those that are primary in the psychic apparatus; they appear
wherever thoughts abandoned by the foreconscious occupation are left to
themselves, and can fill themselves with the uninhibited energy,
striving for discharge from the unconscious. We may add a few further
observations to support the view that these processes designated
"incorrect" are really not falsifications of the normal defective
thinking, but the modes of activity of the psychic apparatus when freed
from inhibition. Thus we see that the transference of the foreconscious
excitement to the motility takes place according to the same processes,
and that the connection of the foreconscious presentations with words readily manifest the same displacements
and mixtures which are ascribed to inattention. Finally, I should like
to adduce proof that an increase of work necessarily results from the
inhibition of these primary courses from the fact that we gain a
comical effect, a surplus to be discharged through laughter, if we
allow these streams of thought to come to consciousness.
The theory of the psychoneuroses asserts with complete certainty that
only sexual wish-feelings from the infantile life experience repression
(emotional transformation) during the developmental period of childhood.
These are capable of returning to activity at a later period of
development, and then have the faculty of being revived, either as a
consequence of the sexual constitution, which is really formed from the
original bisexuality, or in consequence of unfavorable influences of the
sexual life; and they thus supply the motive power for all
psychoneurotic symptom formations. It is only by the introduction of
these sexual forces that the gaps still demonstrable in the theory of
repression can be filled. I will leave it undecided whether the
postulate of the sexual and infantile may also be asserted for the
theory of the dream; I leave this here unfinished because I have already
passed a step beyond the demonstrable in assuming that the dream-wish invariably originates from the
unconscious.2 Nor will I
further investigate the difference in the play of the psychic forces in
the dream formation and in the formation of the hysterical symptoms, for
to do this we ought to possess a more explicit knowledge of one of the
members to be compared. But I regard another point as important, and
will here confess that it was on account of
this very point that I have just undertaken this entire discussion
concerning the two psychic systems, their modes of operation, and the
repression. For it is now immaterial whether I have conceived the
psychological relations in question with approximate correctness, or, as
is easily possible in such a difficult matter, in an erroneous and
fragmentary manner. Whatever changes may be made in the interpretation
of the psychic censor and of the correct and of the abnormal elaboration
of the dream content, the fact nevertheless remains that such processes
are active in dream formation, and that essentially they show the
closest analogy to the processes observed in the formation of the
hysterical symptoms. The dream is not a pathological phenomenon, and it
does not leave behind an enfeeblement of the mental faculties. The
objection that no deduction can be drawn regarding the dreams of healthy
persons from my own dreams and from those of neurotic patients may be
rejected without comment. Hence, when we draw conclusions from the
phenomena as to their motive forces, we recognize that the psychic
mechanism made use of by the neuroses is not created by a morbid
disturbance of the psychic life, but is found ready in the normal
structure of the psychic apparatus. The two psychic systems, the censor
crossing between them, the inhibition and the
covering of the one activity by the other, the relations of both to
consciousness—or whatever may offer a more correct interpretation
of the actual conditions in their stead—all these belong to the
normal structure of our psychic instrument, and the dream points out for
us one of the roads leading to a knowledge of this structure. If, in
addition to our knowledge, we wish to be contented with a minimum
perfectly established, we shall say that the dream gives us proof that
the suppressed, material continues to exist even in the normal person
and remains capable of psychic activity. The dream itself is one of the
manifestations of this suppressed material; theoretically, this is true
in all cases; according to substantial experience it is true in at
least a great number of such as most conspicuously display the prominent
characteristics of dream life. The suppressed psychic material, which in
the waking state has been prevented from expression and cut off from
internal perception by the antagonistic adjustment of the
contradictions, finds ways and means of obtruding itself on
consciousness during the night under the domination of the compromise
formations.
"Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo."
At any rate the interpretation of dreams is
the via regia to a knowledge of the unconscious in the psychic
life.
In following the analysis of the dream we have made some progress
toward an understanding of the composition of this most marvelous and
most mysterious of instruments; to be sure, we have not gone very far,
but enough of a beginning has been made to allow us to advance from
other so-called pathological formations further into the analysis of the
unconscious. Disease—at least that which is justly termed
functional—is not due to the destruction of this apparatus, and
the establishment of new splittings in its interior; it is rather to be
explained dynamically through the strengthening and weakening of the
components in the play of forces by which so many activities are
concealed during the normal function. We have been able to show in
another place how the composition of the apparatus from the two systems
permits a subtilization even of the normal activity which would be
impossible for a single system.
Footnote
1: Cf. the significant observations by J. Bueuer in our Studies
on Hysteria, 1895, and 2nd ed. 1909.
Footnote
2: Here, as in other places, there are gaps in the treatment of the
subject, which I have left intentionally, because to fill them up would
require on the one hand too great effort, and on the other hand an
extensive reference to material that is foreign to the dream. Thus I
have avoided stating whether I connect with the word "suppressed"
another sense than with the word "repressed." It has been made clear
only that the latter emphasizes more than the former the relation to the
unconscious. I have not entered into the cognate problem why the dream
thoughts also experience distortion by the censor when they abandon the
progressive continuation to consciousness and choose the path of
regression. I have been above all anxious to awaken an interest in the
problems to which the further analysis of the dreamwork leads and to
indicate the other themes which meet these on the way. It was not always
easy to decide just where the pursuit should be discontinued. That I
have not treated exhaustively the part played in the dream by the
psychosexual life and have avoided the interpretation of dreams of an
obvious sexual content is due to a special reason which may not come up
to the reader's expectation. To be sure, it is very far from my ideas
and the principles expressed by me in neuropathology to regard the
sexual life as a "pudendum" which should be left unconsidered by the
physician and the scientific investigator. I also consider ludicrous the
moral indignation which prompted the translator of Artemidoros of Daldis
to keep from the reader's knowledge the chapter on sexual dreams
contained in the Symbolism of the Dreams. As for myself, I have been
actuated solely by the conviction that in the explanation of sexual
dreams I should be bound to entangle myself deeply in the still
unexplained problems of perversion and bisexuality; and for that reason
I have reserved this material for another connection.
On closer inspection we find that it is not the existence of two
systems near the motor end of the apparatus but of two kinds of
processes or modes of emotional discharge, the assumption of which was
explained in the psychological discussions of the previous chapter. This
can make no difference for us, for we must always be ready to drop our
auxiliary ideas whenever we deem ourselves in position to replace them
by something else approaching more closely to the unknown reality. Let
us now try to correct some views which might be erroneously formed as
long as we regarded the two systems in the crudest and most obvious
sense as two localities within the psychic apparatus, views which have
left their traces in the terms "repression" and "penetration." Thus,
when we say that an unconscious idea strives for transference into the
foreconscious in order later to penetrate consciousness, we do not mean
that a second idea is to be formed situated in a new locality like an
interlineation near which the original
continues to remain; also, when we speak of penetration into
consciousness, we wish carefully to avoid any idea of change of
locality. When we say that a foreconscious idea is repressed and
subsequently taken up by the unconscious, we might be tempted by these
figures, borrowed from the idea of a struggle over a territory, to
assume that an arrangement is really broken up in one psychic locality
and replaced by a new one in the other locality. For these comparisons
we substitute what would seem to correspond better with the real state
of affairs by saying that an energy occupation is displaced to or
withdrawn from a certain arrangement so that the psychic formation falls
under the domination of a system or is withdrawn from the same. Here
again we replace a topical mode of presentation by a dynamic; it is not
the psychic formation that appears to us as the moving factor but the
innervation of the same.
I deem it appropriate and justifiable, however, to apply ourselves
still further to the illustrative conception of the two systems. We
shall avoid any misapplication of this manner of representation if we
remember that presentations, thoughts, and psychic formations should
generally not be localized in the organic elements of the nervous
system, but, so to speak, between them, where resistances and paths form the correlate corresponding to them.
Everything that can become an object of our internal perception is
virtual, like the image in the telescope produced by the passage of the
rays of light. But we are justified in assuming the existence of the
systems, which have nothing psychic in themselves and which never become
accessible to our psychic perception, corresponding to the lenses of the
telescope which design the image. If we continue this comparison, we may
say that the censor between two systems corresponds to the refraction of
rays during their passage into a new medium.
Thus far we have made psychology on our own responsibility; it is now
time to examine the theoretical opinions governing present-day
psychology and to test their relation to our theories. The question of
the unconscious, in psychology is, according to the authoritative words
of Lipps, less a psychological question than the question of psychology.
As long as psychology settled this question with the verbal explanation
that the "psychic" is the "conscious" and that "unconscious psychic
occurrences" are an obvious contradiction, a psychological estimate of
the observations gained by the physician from abnormal mental states was
precluded. The physician and the philosopher agree only when both acknowledge that unconscious psychic processes are
"the appropriate and well-justified expression for an established fact."
The physician cannot but reject with a shrug of his shoulders the
assertion that "consciousness is the indispensable quality of the
psychic"; he may assume, if his respect for the utterings of the
philosophers still be strong enough, that he and they do not treat the
same subject and do not pursue the same science. For a single
intelligent observation of the psychic life of a neurotic, a single
analysis of a dream must force upon him the unalterable conviction that
the most complicated and correct mental operations, to which no one will
refuse the name of psychic occurrences, may take place without exciting
the consciousness of the person. It is true that the physician does not
learn of these unconscious processes until they have exerted such an
effect on consciousness as to admit communication or observation. But
this effect of consciousness may show a psychic character widely
differing from the unconscious process, so that the internal perception
cannot possibly recognize the one as a substitute for the other. The
physician must reserve for himself the right to penetrate, by a process
of deduction, from the effect on consciousness to the unconscious
psychic process; he learns in this way that the effect on consciousness
is only a remote psychic product of the
unconscious process and that the latter has not become conscious as
such; that it has been in existence and operative without betraying
itself in any way to consciousness.
A reaction from the over-estimation of the quality of consciousness
becomes the indispensable preliminary condition for any correct insight
into the behavior of the psychic. In the words of Lipps, the unconscious
must be accepted as the general basis of the psychic life. The
unconscious is the larger circle which includes within itself the
smaller circle of the conscious; everything conscious has its
preliminary step in the unconscious, whereas the unconscious may stop
with this step and still claim full value as a psychic activity.
Properly speaking, the unconscious is the real psychic; its inner
nature is just as unknown to us as the reality of the external world,
and it is just as imperfectly reported to us through the data of
consciousness as is the external world through the indications of our
sensory organs.
A series of dream problems which have intensely occupied older
authors will be laid aside when the old opposition between conscious
life and dream life is abandoned and the unconscious psychic assigned to
its proper place. Thus many of the activities whose performances in the
dream have excited our admiration are now no
longer to be attributed to the dream but to unconscious thinking, which
is also active during the day. If, according to Scherner, the dream
seems to play with a symboling representation of the body, we know that
this is the work of certain unconscious phantasies which have probably
given in to sexual emotions, and that these phantasies come to
expression not only in dreams but also in hysterical phobias and in
other symptoms. If the dream continues and settles activities of the day
and even brings to light valuable inspirations, we have only to subtract
from it the dream disguise as a feat of dream-work and a mark of
assistance from obscure forces in the depth of the mind (cf. the devil
in Tartini's sonata dream). The intellectual task as such must be
attributed to the same psychic forces which perform all such tasks
during the day. We are probably far too much inclined to over-estimate
the conscious character even of intellectual and artistic productions.
From the communications of some of the most highly productive persons,
such as Goethe and Helmholtz, we learn, indeed, that the most essential
and original parts in their creations came to them in the form of
inspirations and reached their perceptions almost finished. There is
nothing strange about the assistance of the conscious activity in other
cases where there was a concerted effort of all
the psychic forces. But it is a much abused privilege of the conscious
activity that it is allowed to hide from us all other activities
wherever it participates.
It will hardly be worth while to take up the historical significance
of dreams as a special subject. Where, for instance, a chieftain has
been urged through a dream to engage in a bold undertaking the success
of which has had the effect of changing history, a new problem results
only so long as the dream, regarded as a strange power, is contrasted
with other more familiar psychic forces; the problem, however,
disappears when we regard the dream as a form of expression for feelings
which are burdened with resistance during the day and which can receive
reinforcements at night from deep emotional sources. But the great
respect shown by the ancients for the dream is based on a correct
psychological surmise. It is a homage paid to the unsubdued and
indestructible in the human mind, and to the demoniacal which furnishes
the dream-wish and which we find again in our unconscious.
Not inadvisedly do I use the expression "in our unconscious," for
what we so designate does not coincide with the unconscious of the
philosophers, nor with the unconscious of Lipps. In the latter uses it
is intended to designate only the opposite of
conscious. That there are also unconscious psychic processes beside the
conscious ones is the hotly contested and energetically defended issue.
Lipps gives us the more far-reaching theory that everything psychic
exists as unconscious, but that some of it may exist also as conscious.
But it was not to prove this theory that we have adduced the phenomena
of the dream and of the hysterical symptom formation; the observation of
normal life alone suffices to establish its correctness beyond any
doubt. The new fact that we have learned from the analysis of the
psychopathological formations, and indeed from their first member, viz.
dreams, is that the unconscious—hence the psychic—occurs as
a function of two separate systems and that it occurs as such even in
normal psychic life. Consequently there are two kinds of unconscious,
which we do not as yet find distinguished by the psychologists. Both are
unconscious in the psychological sense; but in our sense the first,
which we call Unc., is likewise incapable of consciousness, whereas the
second we term "Forec." because its emotions, after the observance of
certain rules, can reach consciousness, perhaps not before they have
again undergone censorship, but still regardless of the Unc. system. The
fact that in order to attain consciousness the emotions must traverse an
unalterable series of events or succession of
instances, as is betrayed through their alteration by the censor, has
helped us to draw a comparison from spatiality. We described the
relations of the two systems to each other and to consciousness by
saying that the system Forec. is like a screen between the system Unc.
and consciousness. The system Forec. not only bars access to
consciousness, but also controls the entrance to voluntary motility and
is capable of sending out a sum of mobile energy, a portion of which is
familiar to us as attention.
We must also steer clear of the distinctions superconscious and
subconscious which have found so much favor in the more recent
literature on the psychoneuroses, for just such a distinction seems to
emphasize the equivalence of the psychic and the conscious.
What part now remains in our description of the once all-powerful and
all-overshadowing consciousness? None other than that of a sensory organ
for the perception of psychic qualities. According to the fundamental
idea of schematic undertaking we can conceive the conscious perception
only as the particular activity of an independent system for which the
abbreviated designation "Cons." commends itself. This system we conceive
to be similar in its mechanical characteristics to the perception system P, hence excitable by qualities and
incapable of retaining the trace of changes, i.e. it is devoid of
memory. The psychic apparatus which, with the sensory organs of the
P-system, is turned to the outer world, is itself the outer world for
the sensory organ of Cons.; the teleological justification of which
rests on this relationship. We are here once more confronted with the
principle of the succession of instances which seems to dominate the
structure of the apparatus. The material under excitement flows to the
Cons, sensory organ from two sides, firstly from the P-system whose
excitement, qualitatively determined, probably experiences a new
elaboration until it comes to conscious perception; and, secondly, from
the interior of the apparatus itself, the quantitative processes of
which are perceived as a qualitative series of pleasure and pain as soon
as they have undergone certain changes.
The philosophers, who have learned that correct and highly
complicated thought structures are possible even without the coöperation
of consciousness, have found it difficult to attribute any function to
consciousness; it has appeared to them a superfluous mirroring of the
perfected psychic process. The analogy of our Cons. system with the
systems of perception relieves us of this embarrassment. We see that perception through our sensory organs
results in directing the occupation of attention to those paths on which
the incoming sensory excitement is diffused; the qualitative excitement
of the P-system serves the mobile quantity of the psychic apparatus as a
regulator for its discharge. We may claim the same function for the
overlying sensory organ of the Cons. system. By assuming new qualities,
it furnishes a new contribution toward the guidance and suitable
distribution of the mobile occupation quantities. By means of the
perceptions of pleasure and pain, it influences the course of the
occupations within the psychic apparatus, which normally operates
unconsciously and through the displacement of quantities. It is probable
that the principle of pain first regulates the displacements of
occupation automatically, but it is quite possible that the
consciousness of these qualities adds a second and more subtle
regulation which may even oppose the first and perfect the working
capacity of the apparatus by placing it in a position contrary to its
original design for occupying and developing even that which is
connected with the liberation of pain. We learn from neuropsychology
that an important part in the functional activity of the apparatus is
attributed to such regulations through the qualitative excitation of the sensory organs. The automatic control of
the primary principle of pain and the restriction of mental capacity
connected with it are broken by the sensible regulations, which in their
turn are again automatisms. We learn that the repression which, though
originally expedient, terminates nevertheless in a harmful rejection of
inhibition and of psychic domination, is so much more easily
accomplished with reminiscences than with perceptions, because in the
former there is no increase in occupation through the excitement of the
psychic sensory organs. When an idea to be rejected has once failed to
become conscious because it has succumbed to repression, it can be
repressed on other occasions only because it has been withdrawn from
conscious perception on other grounds. These are hints employed by
therapy in order to bring about a retrogression of accomplished
repressions.
The value of the over-occupation which is produced by the regulating
influence of the Cons. sensory organ on the mobile quantity, is
demonstrated in the teleological connection by nothing more clearly than
by the creation of a new series of qualities and consequently a new
regulation which constitutes the precedence of man over the animals. For
the mental processes are in themselves devoid of quality except for the
excitements of pleasure and pain accompanying
them, which, as we know, are to be held in check as possible
disturbances of thought. In order to endow them with a quality, they are
associated in man with verbal memories, the qualitative remnants of
which suffice to draw upon them the attention of consciousness which in
turn endows thought with a new mobile energy.
The manifold problems of consciousness in their entirety can be
examined only through an analysis of the hysterical mental process. From
this analysis we receive the impression that the transition from the
foreconscious to the occupation of consciousness is also connected with
a censorship similar to the one between the Unc. and the Forec. This
censorship, too, begins to act only with the reaching of a certain
quantitative degree, so that few intense thought formations escape it.
Every possible case of detention from consciousness, as well as of
penetration to consciousness, under restriction is found included within
the picture of the psychoneurotic phenomena; every case points to the
intimate and twofold connection between the censor and consciousness. I
shall conclude these psychological discussions with the report of two
such occurrences.
On the occasion of a consultation a few years ago the subject was an
intelligent and innocent-looking girl. Her attire was strange; whereas a
woman's garb is usually groomed to the last
fold, she had one of her stockings hanging down and two of her waist
buttons opened. She complained of pains in one of her legs, and exposed
her leg unrequested. Her chief complaint, however, was in her own words
as follows: She had a feeling in her body as if something was stuck into
it which moved to and fro and made her tremble through and through. This
sometimes made her whole body stiff. On hearing this, my colleague in
consultation looked at me; the complaint was quite plain to him. To both
of us it seemed peculiar that the patient's mother thought nothing of
the matter; of course she herself must have been repeatedly in the
situation described by her child. As for the girl, she had no idea of
the import of her words or she would never have allowed them to pass her
lips. Here the censor had been deceived so successfully that under the
mask of an innocent complaint a phantasy was admitted to consciousness
which otherwise would have remained in the foreconscious.
Another example: I began the psychoanalytic treatment of a boy of
fourteen years who was suffering from tic convulsif, hysterical
vomiting, headache, &c., by assuring him that, after closing his eyes,
he would see pictures or have ideas, which I requested him to
communicate to me. He answered by describing
pictures. The last impression he had received before coming to me was
visually revived in his memory. He had played a game of checkers with
his uncle, and now saw the checkerboard before him. He commented on
various positions that were favorable or unfavorable, on moves that were
not safe to make. He then saw a dagger lying on the checker-board, an
object belonging to his father, but transferred to the checker-board by
his phantasy. Then a sickle was lying on the board; next a scythe was
added; and, finally, he beheld the likeness of an old peasant mowing the
grass in front of the boy's distant parental home. A few days later I
discovered the meaning of this series of pictures. Disagreeable family
relations had made the boy nervous. It was the case of a strict and
crabbed father who lived unhappily with his mother, and whose
educational methods consisted in threats; of the separation of his
father from his tender and delicate mother, and the remarrying of his
father, who one day brought home a young woman as his new mamma. The
illness of the fourteen-year-old boy broke out a few days later. It was
the suppressed anger against his father that had composed these pictures
into intelligible allusions. The material was furnished by a
reminiscence from mythology, The sickle was the
one with which Zeus castrated his father; the scythe and the likeness of
the peasant represented Kronos, the violent old man who eats his
children and upon whom Zeus wreaks vengeance in so unfilial a manner.
The marriage of the father gave the boy an opportunity to return the
reproaches and threats of his father—which had previously been
made because the child played with his genitals (the checkerboard; the
prohibitive moves; the dagger with which a person may be killed). We
have here long repressed memories and their unconscious remnants which,
under the guise of senseless pictures have slipped into consciousness by
devious paths left open to them.
I should then expect to find the theoretical value of the study of
dreams in its contribution to psychological knowledge and in its
preparation for an understanding of neuroses. Who can foresee the
importance of a thorough knowledge of the structure and activities of
the psychic apparatus when even our present state of knowledge produces
a happy therapeutic influence in the curable forms of the
psychoneuroses? What about the practical value of such study some one
may ask, for psychic knowledge and for the discovering of the secret
peculiarities of individual character? Have not the unconscious feelings
revealed by the dream the value of real forces
in the psychic life? Should we take lightly the ethical significance of
the suppressed wishes which, as they now create dreams, may some day
create other things?
I do not feel justified in answering these questions. I have not
thought further upon this side of the dream problem. I believe, however,
that at all events the Roman Emperor was in the wrong who ordered one of
his subjects executed because the latter dreamt that he had killed the
Emperor. He should first have endeavored to discover the significance of
the dream; most probably it was not what it seemed to be. And even if a
dream of different content had the significance of this offense against
majesty, it would still have been in place to remember the words of
Plato, that the virtuous man contents himself with dreaming that which
the wicked man does in actual life. I am therefore of the opinion that
it is best to accord freedom to dreams. Whether any reality is to be
attributed to the unconscious wishes, and in what sense, I am not
prepared to say offhand. Reality must naturally be denied to all
transition—and intermediate thoughts. If we had before us the
unconscious wishes, brought to their last and truest expression, we
should still do well to remember that more than one single form of
existence must be ascribed to the psychic reality. Action and the conscious expression of thought
mostly suffice for the practical need of judging a man's character.
Action, above all, merits to be placed in the first rank; for many of
the impulses penetrating consciousness are neutralized by real forces of
the psychic life before they are converted into action; indeed, the
reason why they frequently do not encounter any psychic obstacle on
their way is because the unconscious is certain of their meeting with
resistances later. In any case it is instructive to become familiar with
the much raked-up soil from which our virtues proudly arise. For the
complication of human character moving dynamically in all directions
very rarely accommodates itself to adjustment through a simple
alternative, as our antiquated moral philosophy would have it.
And how about the value of the dream for a knowledge of the future?
That, of course, we cannot consider. One feels inclined to substitute:
"for a knowledge of the past." For the dream originates from the past in
every sense. To be sure the ancient belief that the dream reveals the
future is not entirely devoid of truth. By representing to us a wish as
fulfilled the dream certainly leads us into the future; but this future,
taken by the dreamer as present, has been formed into the likeness of
that past by the indestructible wish.
1 comment:
It is actually a nice and useful piece of info. I am glad that you shared this helpful info with us.
Please stay us informed like this. Thanks for sharing.
Also visit my web blog: Anxiety attack
Post a Comment