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Jung's first meeting with Freud took place in Feb
ruary 1 907, though the two had been in corres
pondence for a year and Jung had been applying
Freud's ideas in various directions since 1904.
Until 1912, the association of the two doctors
was very close, and Jung was regarded as one of
the leading spokesmen for and practitioners of
psychoanalysis. The personal relationship subse
quently became remote, though Jung continued
to serve as president of the International Psycho-
Analytical Association until 1914.

In the Editorial Note to Volume i it was pointed out that Jung's
interest had gradually transferred itself, over the years, from
psychiatry through psychoanalysis and typology to the theory
of archetypes, and finally to the psychology of religious motifs.
This facilitated the grouping of his published researches under
the relevant headings, even though some of the material could
equally well fit into any of several volumes. It follows that there
is an underlying network linking, in time or subject-matter, each
volume with others, and that wide reading among the volumes
is required for a thorough grasp of Jung's views on any particu
lar topic. From no single volume, whatever the arrangement,
could the continuity of development be seen in historical
The present volume gives the substance of Jung's published
writings on Freud and psychoanalysis between the years 1906
and 1916; two later papers are, however, added for reasons which
will become apparent. Anyone familiar with Jung's work will
be aware that references to Freud's observations and theories oc
cur frequently throughout his writings; indeed, the discussion
of them has engaged his interest from the beginning of the cen
tury to the present day. The scientific papers in this volume,
while falling short of a complete account of Freud and psycho
analysis, nevertheless give the essential elements in Jung's chang
ing views on this subject.
Between the years 1907 and 1912, when Jung was a psycho
analyst, his association with Freud was very close. Though the
personal relationship between the two then became strained,
largely owing to the publication of Wandlungen und Symbols
der Libido in 191 1-12, Jung continued to serve as president of
the International Psycho-Analytical Association until 1914. Part
I of this volume covers the period of Jung's close and "enthusias
tic" collaboration with Freud; the papers in Parts II and III
contain the essentials of the criticism that led to the formal rup
ture. The contents of Part IV are more in need of explanation.
"The Significance of the Father in the Destiny of the Individ
ual/' having been originally written in 1908, is associated with
the material of Part I. It was, however, considerably revised by
the author in 1949, and the revisions are sufficiently extensive to
warrant its being placed in Part IV. In view of their special in
terest, the most important differences between the two versions
have been indicated by the use of brackets and footnotes (a com
parative method applied also to "The Theory of Psychoanalysis"
in Part II). The essay "Freud and Jung: Contrasts" was com
missioned in 1929 by the editor of the Kolnische Zeitung in view
of the then current interest in the relation between Freud and
Jung. It is included here because it shows the continuity in
Jung's thinking from the time he wrote "The Theory of Psycho
analysis" (1912), serving at the same time as an outline of the
changes that had taken place in the interim. In particular, it
stresses that the element of confession and the personality of the
investigator cannot be eradicated from psychological formula
tions and may even be considered an essential part of them.
Jung's estimate of Freud must be seen in this light, not only in
the writings in the present volume but in Volume 15, where
Freud is viewed in his cultural setting. "Freud and Jung: Con
trasts" and the Introduction to Kranefeldt's Secret Ways of the
Mind (1930) therefore form a basis for further study of Jung's
reassessment of psychoanalysis in that and other volumes o this
The concept of personality is closely bound up with the sub
ject of typology, first broached in this volume and elaborated
systematically in Psychological Types (Volume 6). Indeed, Jung
has once again declared (in his British television broadcast, No
vember 1959) that it was the difference between Freud's views
and his own that originally impelled him to work out a psychol
ogy of types. We can see this very clearly in the publications
between the years 1913 and 1921, when Psychological Types was
published. The break with Freud was followed by a relatively
fallow period. Except for a handful of publications chiefly in
English only two works appeared during those years, but they
are very important indeed: "The Conception of the Uncon
scious" and "The Psychology of the Unconscious Processes" (a
revision of a 1912 work), published in 1916 and 1917. Through
periodic revision these ultimately became the celebrated Two
Essays on Analytical Psychology (Volume 7), and they contain in
embryo the whole future development of analytical psychology
both as a therapeutic technique and as a method of investigating
the unconscious. In these two seminal works and their subse
quent revisions, Jung progressively elaborates and clarifies his
basic concepts and carefully differentiates his position from that
of Freud. They deepen our understanding of Jung's relation to
psychoanalysis in that they set his concepts of the collective un
conscious, the archetypes, and the individuation process side by
side with his assessment of the theories of Freud and Adler. In
this respect, they amplify the papers published in Parts I, II, and
III of the present volume and form the link between them and
Jung's more critical approach to Freud in Part IV.
The combination of scientific with less technical essays illus
trates another aspect of editorial policy in this and other volumes.
Over the years Jung has responded again and again to the wide
spread interest which psychoanalysis, and later analytical psy
chology, aroused. The Editors, therefore, have not hesitated to
assemble in the same volume scientific articles with essays of a
more popular nature.
Freud's Theory of Hysteria: A Reply to
Aschaffenburg 3
Translated from "Die Hysterielehre Frauds: Eine Erwiderung
auf die Aschaffenburgsche Kritik," Munchener medizinische
Wochenschrift (Munich), LIII (1906).
The Freudian Theory of Hysteria 10
Translated from "Die Freud'sche Hysterietheorie," Monatsschrift
fur Psychiatrie und Neurologic (Berlin), XXIII (1908).
The Analysis of Dreams *5
Translated from "L/Analyse des rves," Annte psychologiquc
(Paris), XV (1909).
A Contribution to the Psychology of Rumour 35
Translated from "Ein Beitrag zur Psychologic des Geriichtes,"
Zentralblatt fur Psychoanalyse (Wiesbaden), I (1910/11).
On the Significance of Number Dreams 48
Translated from "Ein Beitrag zur Kenntnis des Zahlentraumes,"
Zentralblatt fur Psychoanalyse (Wiesbaden), I
Morton Prince, "The Mechanism and Interpretation
of Dreams": A Critical Review 56
Translated from a review in the Jahrbuch fur psychoanalytische
und psychopathologische Forschungen (Leipzig), III
On the Criticism of Psychoanalysis 74
Translated from "Zur Kritik iiber Psychoanalyse," Jahrbuch
fur psychoanalytische und psychopathologische Forschungen
(Leipzig), II (1910).
Concerning Psychoanalysis 78
Translated from "Zur Psychoanalyse," Wissen und Leben
(Zurich), V (1912).
The Theory of Psychoanalysis 83
Translated from Versuch einer Darstellung der psychoanalytischen
Theorie, 2nd edn. (Zurich: Rascher, 1955).
General Aspects of Psychoanalysis 229
Translated from "Allgemeine Aspekte der Psychoanalyse/'
the original ms,, which was published (in an anonymous
translation) in Transactions of the Psycho-Medical Society
(Cockermouth, England), 1913.
Psychoanalysis and Neurosis 243
Originally published in English as "On Psychoanalysis" in
Collected Papers on Analytical Psychology (London: Bailli&re,
Tindall and Cox, 1916).
Some Crucial Points in Psychoanalysis: A Corre
spondence between Dr. Jung and Dr. Loy 252
Translated from Psychotherapeutische Zeitfragen: Ein Briefwechsel
mil Dr. C. G. Jung, edited by Dr. R. Loy (Leipzig and
Vienna: Deuticke, 1914).
Prefaces to Collected Papers on Analytical Psychology 290
Originally published in the book, edited by Constance E.
Long (London: Baillire, Tindall and Cox, 1916; 2nd edn.,
The Significance of the Father in the Destiny of the
Individual 301
Translated from Die Bedeutung des Vaters fur das Schicksal
des Einzelnen (grd revised edn., Zurich: Rascher, 1949), in
cluding material from the ist edn. (1909).
Introduction to Kranefeldt's Secret Ways of the Mind 324
Translated from the introduction to W. M. Kranefeldt, Die
Psychoanalyse (Berlin and Leipzig: W. de Gruyter, 1930).
Freud and Jung: Contrasts 333
Translated from "Der Gegensatz Freud und Jung/' Seelenprobleme
der Gegenwart (Zurich: Rascher, 1931).
INDEX 35 1
If I try to answer Aschaffenburg's on the whole very mod
erate and cautious criticism of Freud's theory of hysteria,
2 I do
so in order to prevent the baby from being thrown out with the
bath-water. Aschaffenburg, of course, does not assert that
Freud's importance ends with his theory of hysteria. But the
medical public (psychiatrists included) know Freud mainly
from this side of his work, and for this reason adverse criticism
could easily throw a shadow on Freud's other scientific achieve
ments. I would like to remark at the start that my reply is not
directed to Aschaffenburg personally, but to the whole school
of thought whose views and aspirations have found eloquent
expression in Aschaffenburg's lecture.
His criticism is confined exclusively to the role which sex
uality, according to Freud, plays in the formation of the
psychoneuroses. What he says, therefore, does not affect the
wider range of Freud's psychology, that is, the psychology of
dreams, jokes, and disturbances of ordinary thinking caused by
feeling-toned constellations. It affects only the psychology of
sexuality, the determinants of hysterical symptoms, and the
methods of psychanalysis.
3 In all these fields Freud has to his
credit unique achievements, which can be contested only by one
[First published as "Die Hysterielehre Freuds: Eine Erwiderung auf die Aschaffenburgsche
Kritik," Munchener medizinische Wochenschrift (Munich), LIII : 47
(Nov. 1906). EDITORS.]
2 [Aschaffenburg, "Die Beziehungen des sexuellen Lebens zur Entstehung von
Nerven- und Geisteskrankheiten/' in the same organ, no. 37 (Sept. 1906). Origi
nally an address (to a congress of neurologists and psychiatrists, Baden-Baden, May
1906) criticizing Freud's "Bruchstvick einer Hysteric-analyse/' which had been first
published in 1905 (i.e., "Fragment of an Analysis of a Case of Hysteria"). See Jones,
Freud: Life and Work, II, p. 12. EDITORS.]
3 [The earlier form "psychanalysis" (Psychanalyse) is used throughout this and
the next paper. EDITORS.]
who has never taken the trouble to check Freud's thought-proc
esses experimentally. I say "achievements/' though this does
not mean that I subscribe unconditionally to all Freud's the
orems. But it is also an achievement, and often no small one, to
propound ingenious problems. This achievement cannot be
disputed even by Freud's most vigorous opponents.
3 To avoid being unnecessarily diffuse, I shall leave out of
account all those points which are not affected by Aschaffenburg's
criticism, and shall confine myself only to those it attacks.
4 Freud maintains that he has found the root of most psychoneuroses
to be a psychosexual trauma. Is this assertion nonsense?
5 Aschaffenburg takes his stand on the view, generally accepted
today, that hysteria is a psychogenic illness. It therefore has its
roots in the psyche. It would be a work of supererogation to
point out that an essential component of the psyche is sexuality,
a component of whose extent and importance we can form ab
solutely no conception in the present unsatisfactory state of em
pirical psychology. We know only that one meets sexuality
everywhere. Is there any other psychic factor, any other basic
drive except hunger and its derivates, that has a similar im
portance in human psychology? I could not name one. It stands
to reason that such a large and weighty component of the psyche
must give rise to a correspondingly large number of emotional
conflicts and affective disturbances, and a glance at real life
teaches us nothing to the contrary. Freud's view can therefore
claim a high degree of probability at the outset, in so far as he
derives hysteria primarily from psychosexual conflicts.
6 Now what about Freud's particular view that all hysteria is
reducible to sexuality?
1 Freud has not examined all the hysterias there are. His prop
osition is therefore subject to the general limitation which ap
plies to empirical axioms. He has simply found his view con
firmed in the cases observed by him, which constitute an
infinitely small fraction of all cases of hysteria. It is even con
ceivable that there are several forms of hysteria which Freud
has not yet observed at all. Finally, it is also possible that Freud's
material, under the constellation of his writings, has become
somewhat one-sided.
8 We may therefore modify his dictum, with the consent of
the author, as follows: An indefinitely large number of cases of
hysteria derive from sexual roots.
9 Has anyone proved that this is not so? By "prove*
1 naturally
mean applying Freud's psychanalytic methods and not just car
rying out a rigorous examination of the patient and then de
claring that nothing sexual can be found. All such "proofs" are
of course worthless from the start. Otherwise we would have to
admit that a person who examines a bacterial culture with a
magnifying-glass and asserts that there are no bacteria in it is
right. The application of psychanalytic methods is, logically, a
sine qua non.
Aschaffenburg's objection that an entirely traumatic hysteria
contains nothing sexual and goes back to other, very clear trau
mata seems to me very apt. But the limits of traumatic hysteria,
as Aschaffenburg's example shows (flower-pot falling followed
by aphonia), are very wide. At that rate countless cases of hys
teria could be put into the category of "traumatic" hysteria, for
how often does a mild fright produce a new symptom! Aschaffenburg
will surely not believe that anyone can be so naive as to
seek the cause of the symptom in that little affect alone. The
obvious inference is that the patient was hysterical long before.
When for instance a shot is fired and a passing girl gets abasia,
we can safely assume that the vessel, long since full, has merely
overflowed. No special feat of interpretation is needed to prove
this. So these and a legion of similar cases prove nothing against
1 It is rather different in the case of physical traumata and
hysterias about insurance money. Here, where the trauma and
the highly affective prospect of money coincide, an emotional
situation arises which makes the outbreak of a specific form of
hysteria appear at least very plausible. It is possible that Freud's
view is not valid in these cases. For lack of other experiences I
incline to this opinion. But if we want to be absolutely fair and
absolutely scientific, we would certainly have to show first that
a sexual constellation really never did pave the way for the hys
teria, i.e., that nothing of this sort comes out under analysis. At
any rate the allegation of traumatic hysteria proves, at best,
only that not all cases of hysteria have a sexual root. But this
does not controvert Freud's basic proposition, as modified
There is no other way to refute it than by the use of psych
analytic methods. Anyone who does not use them will never
refute Freud; for it must be proved by means of the methods
inaugurated by him that factors can be found in hysteria other
than sexual ones, or that these methods are totally unsuited to
bringing intimate psychic material to light.
*3 Under these conditions, can Aschaffenburg substantiate his
*4 We hear a great deal about "experiments" and ''experi
ences/' but there is nothing to show that our critic has used the
methods himself and what is more important handled them
with certainty. He cites a number of we must admit very star
tling examples of Freudian interpretation, which are bound to
nonplus the beginner. He himself points out the inadequacy of
quotations torn from their context; it should not be too much
if I emphasize still further that in psychology the context is
everything. These Freudian interpretations are the result of in
numerable experiences and inferences. If you present such re
sults naked, stripped of their psychological premises, naturally
no one can understand them.
*5 When Aschaffenburg says these interpretations are arbitrary
and asserts that other interpretations are just as possible, or that
there is absolutely nothing behind the facts in question, it is up
to him to prove, by his own analyses, that such things are suscep
tible of altogether different interpretations. Then the matter
would be quickly settled, and everyone would thank him for
clearing up this question. It is the same with the question of
"forgetting" and other symptomatic actions which Aschaffen
burg relegates to the realm of mysticism. These phenomena are
extraordinarily common; you meet them almost every day. It is
therefore not too much to ask a critic to show by means of prac
tical examples how these phenomena can be traced back to other
causes. The association experiment would provide him with
any amount of material. Again he would be doing constructive
work for which one could not thank him enough.
16 As soon as Aschaffenburg meets these requirements, that is
to say, publishes psychanalyses with totally different findings,
we will accept his criticism, and then the discussion of Freud's
theory can be reopened. Till then his criticism hangs in mid air.
*7 Aschaffenburg asserts that the psychanalytic method amounts
to auto-suggestion on the part of the doctor as well as the patient.
*8 Apart from the fact that it is incumbent on a critic to demon
strate his thorough knowledge of the method, we also lack the
proof that the method is auto-suggestion. In earlier writings
I have already pointed out that the association experiment de
vised by me gives the same results in principle, and that psychanalysis
is really no different from an association experiment,
as Aschaffenburg himself says in his criticism. His assertion that
the experiment was used by me in one case only is erroneous; it
was used for the purpose of analysis in a great number of cases,
as is evident from numerous statements in my own work and
from the recent work of Riklin. Aschaffenburg can check my
statements and those of Freud at any time, so far as the latter
coincide with my own, by experiment, and thereby acquire a
knowledge of the exact foundations of psychanalysis.
That my experiments have nothing to do with auto-sugges
tion can easily be seen from their use in the experimental diag
nosis of facts. The step from the association experiment, which
is already pretty complicated, to full psychanalysis is certainly a
big one. But, by thorough study of the association experiment
to the development of which Aschaffenburg himself has made
outstanding contributions one can acquire invaluable insights
which prove very useful during analysis. (At any rate this
has been so with me.) Only when he has gone through this
arduous and difficult training can he begin, with some justifi
cation, to examine Freud's theory for evidence of auto-sugges
tion. He will also have a more sympathetic insight into the
somewhat apodictic nature of Freud's style. He will learn to
understand how uncommonly difficult it is to describe these
delicate psychological matters. A written exposition will never
be able to reproduce the reality of psychanalysis even approxi
mately, let alone reproduce it in such a way that it has an im
mediately convincing effect on the reader. When I first read
Freud's writings it was the same with me as with everybody else:
I could only strew the pages with question-marks. And it will be
like that for everyone who reads the account of my association
4 Studies in Word Association, [Vol. I of Diagnostische Assoziationsstudien, which
the author actually cited here, was published in 1906, before the present paper. It
reprinted Jung's "Psychoanalyse und Assoziationsexperiment" ("Psychoanalysis
and Association Experiments," Vol. 2), originally published in the Journal fur
Psychologic und Neurologic (Leipzig), VII (1905). This paper, which discussed
Freud's theory of hysteria and commented on the "Fragment of an Analysis" (see
n. 2, supra), was Jung's first significant publication on the subject of psycho
analysis. EDITORS.]
experiments for the first time. Luckily, however, anyone who
wants to can repeat them, and so experience for himself what he
did not believe before. Unfortunately this is not true of psychanalysis,
since it presupposes an unusual combination of spe
cialized knowledge and psychological routine which not every
one possesses, but which can, to a certain extent, be learnt.
So long as we do not know whether Aschaffenburg has this
practical experience, the charge of auto-suggestion cannot be
taken any more seriously than that of arbitrary interpretation.
Aschaffenburg regards the exploration of the patient for sex
ual ideas as, in many cases, immoral.
This is a very delicate question, for whenever morals get
mixed up with science one can only pit one belief against an
other belief. If we look at it simply from the utilitarian point
of view, we have to ask ourselves whether sexual enlightenment
is under all circumstances harmful or not. This question cannot
be answered in general terms, because just as many cases can be
cited for as against. Everything depends on th individual. Many
people can stand certain truths, others not. Every skilled psy
chologist will surely take account of this fact. Any rigid formula
is particularly wrong here. Apart from the fact that there are
many patients who are not in the least harmed by sexual en
lightenment, there are not a few who, far from having to be
pushed towards this theme, guide the analysis to this point of
their own accord. Finally, there are cases (of which I have had
more than one) that cannot be got at at all until their sexual
circumstances are subjected to a thorough review, and in the
cases I have known this has led to very good results. It therefore
seems to me beyond doubt that there are at least a great many
cases where discussion of sexual matters not only does no harm
but is positively helpful. Conversely, I do not hesitate to admit
that there are cases where sexual enlightenment does more harm
than good. It must be left to the skill of the analyst to find out
which these cases are. This, it seems to me, disposes of the moral
problem. "Higher" moral considerations derive all too easily
from some obnoxious schematism, for which reason their appli
cation in practice would seem inopportune from the start.
So far as the therapeutic effect of psychanalysis is concerned,
it makes no difference to the scientific Tightness of the hysteria
theory or of the analytic method how the therapeutic result
turns out. My personal conviction at present is that Freud's
psychanalysis is one of several possible therapies and that in cer
tain cases it achieves more than the others.
24 As to the scientific findings of psychanalysis, nobody should
be put off by seeming enormities, and particularly not by sen
sational quotations. Freud is probably liable to many human
errors, but that does not by any means rule out the possibility
that a core of truth lies hidden in the crude husk, of whose sig
nificance we can form no adequate conception at present. Sel
dom has a great truth appeared without fantastic wrappings.
One has only to think of Kepler and Newton!
25 In conclusion, I would like to utter an urgent warning
against the standpoint of Spielmeyer,
5 which cannot be con
demned sharply enough. When a person reviles as unscientific
not only a theory whose experimental foundations he has not
even examined but also those who have taken the trouble to
test it for themselves, the freedom of scientific research is im
perilled. No matter whether Freud is mistaken or not, he has
the right to be heard before the forum of science. Justice de
mands that Freud's statements should be verified. But to strike
them dead and then consign them to oblivion, that is beneath
the dignity of an impartial and unprejudiced scientist.
26 To recapitulate:
(1) It has never yet been proved that Freud's theory of hys
teria is erroneous in all cases.
(2) This proof can, logically, be supplied only by one who
practises the psychanalytic method.
(3) It has not been proved that psychanalysis gives other
results than those obtained by Freud.
(4) It has not been proved that psychanalysis is based on
false principles and is altogether unsuitable for an understand
ing of hysterical symptoms.
5 Untitled note in the Zentralblatt fur Nervenheilkunde und Psychiatric, XXIX
(1906), 322. [The first review (pub. April) of Freud's "Fragment of an Analysis of
a Case of Hysteria"; see n. 2, supra. Jung's paper cited in n. 4, supra, is earlier,
however, and is probably the first discussion of the "Dora analysis." EDITORS.]
27 It is always a difficult and ungrateful task to discuss a theory
which the author himself has not formulated in any final way.
Freud has never propounded a cut-and-dried theory of hysteria;
he has simply tried, from time to time, to formulate his theoreti
cal conclusions in accordance with his experience at that mo
ment. His theoretical formulations can claim the status of a
working hypothesis that agrees with experience at all points. For
the present, therefore, there can be no talk of a firmly-established
Freudian theory of hysteria, but only of numerous experiences
which have certain features in common. As we are not dealing
with anything finished and conclusive, but rather with a process
of development, an historical survey will probably be the form
best suited to an account of Freud's teachings.
28 The theoretical presuppositions on which Freud bases his
investigations are to be found in the experiments of Pierre
Janet. Breuer and Freud, in their first formulation of the prob
lem of hysteria, start from the fact of psychic dissociation and
unconscious psychic automatisms. A further presupposition is
the aetiological significance of affects, stressed among others by
2 These two presuppositions, together with the find
ings reached by the theory of suggestion, culminate in the now
generally accepted view that hysteria is a psychogenic neurosis.
29 The aim of Freud's research is to discover how the mecha
nism producing hysterical symptoms works. Nothing less is at
tempted, therefore, than to supply the missing link in the long
chain between the initial cause and the ultimate symptom, a
1 [Translated from "Die Freud'sche Hysterietheorie," Monatsschrift fur Psychi
atric und Neurologic (Berlin), XXIII (1908), 310-22. Originally a report to the
First International Congress of Psychiatry and Neurology, Amsterdam, September
1907. Aschaffenburg also addressed the Congress, publishing his paper in the same
organ, XXII (1907), 564*1". For an account of this event, see Jones, Freud: Life
and Work, II, pp. 1 2 5ff. EDITORS.]
2 [Binswanger, "Freud'sche Mechanismen in der Symptomatologie von Psychosen"
(1906). Cf. Jones, II, pp. gGf. EDITORS.]
link which no one had yet been able to find. The fact, obvious
enough to any attentive observer, that affects play an aetiologically
decisive role in the formation of hysterical symptoms
makes the findings of the first Breuer-Freud report, in the year
1893, immediately intelligible. This is especially true of the
proposition advanced by both authors, that the hysteric suffers
most of all from reminiscences, i.e., from feeling-toned com
plexes of ideas which, in certain exceptional conditions, prevent
the initial affect from working itself out and finally disappearing.
3 This view, presented only in broad outline at first, was
reached by Breuer, who between the years 1880 and 1882 had
the opportunity to observe and treat an hysterical woman pa
tient of great intelligence. The clinical picture was characterized
chiefly by a profound splitting of consciousness, together with
numerous physical symptoms of secondary importance and con
stancy. Breuer, allowing himself to be guided by the patient,
observed that in her twilight states complexes of reminiscences
were reproduced which derived from the previous year. In these
states she hallucinated a great many episodes that had had a trau
matic significance for her. Further, he noticed that the reliving
and retelling of these traumatic events had a marked therapeutic
effect, bringing relief and an improvement in her condition. If
he broke off the treatment, a considerable deterioration set in
after a short time. In order to increase and accelerate the effect
of the treatment, Breuer induced, besides the spontaneous twi
light state, an artificially suggested one in which more material
was "abreacted." In this way he succeeded in effecting a sub
stantial improvement. Freud, who at once recognized the ex
traordinary importance of these observations, thereupon fur
nished a number of his own which agreed with them. This
material can be found in Studies on Hysteria, published in 1895
by Breuer and Freud.
3 1 On this foundation was raised the original theoretical edifice
constructed jointly by the two authors. They start with the
symptomatology of affects in normal individuals. The excitation
produced by affects is converted into a series of somatic innervations,
thus exhausting itself and so restoring the "tonus of the
nerve centres/' In this way the affect is "abreacted." It is differ
ent in hysteria. Here the traumatic experience is followed to
use a phrase of Oppenheim's by an "abnormal expression of
the emotional impulse."
3 The intracerebral excitation is not
discharged directly, in a natural way, but produces pathological
symptoms, either new ones or a recrudescence of old ones. The
excitation is converted into abnormal innervations, a phenom
enon which the authors call "conversion of the sum of excita
tion." The affect is deprived of its normal expression, of its
normal outlet in adequate innervations; it is not abreacted but
remains "blocked." The resulting hysterical symptoms can
therefore be regarded as manifestations of the retention.
32 This formulates the situation as we see it in the patient; but
the important question as to why the affect should be blocked
and converted still remains unanswered, and it was to this ques
tion that Freud devoted special attention. In "The Defence
Neuro-psychoses," published in 1894, he tried to analyse in
great detail the psychological repercussions of the affect. He
found two groups of psychogenic neuroses, different in princi
ple because in one group the pathogenic affect is converted into
somatic innervations, while in the other group it is displaced to
a different complex of ideas. The first group corresponds to clas
sic hysteria, the second to obsessional neurosis. He found the
reason for the blocking of affect, or for its conversion or dis
placement, to be the incompatibility of the traumatic complex
with the normal content of consciousness. In many cases he
could furnish direct proof that the incompatibility had reached
the consciousness of the patient, thus causing an active repres
sion of the incompatible content. The patient did not wish to
know anything about it and treated the critical complex as "non
arriv." The result was a systematic circumvention or "repres
sion" of the vulnerable spot, so that the affect could not be
S3 The blocking of affect is due, therefore, not to a vaguely con
ceived "special disposition" but to a recognizable motive.
34 To recapitulate what has been said: up to the year 1895 the
Breuer-Freud investigations yielded the following results. Psy
chogenic symptoms arise from feeling-toned complexes of ideas
that have the effect of a trauma, either
i. by conversion of the excitation into abnormal somatic
innervations, or
3 ["Thatsachliches und Hypothetisches iiber das Wesen der Hysteric" (1890). Cf.
Breuer and Freud, Studies on Hysteria, Standard Edn., p. 203 .EDITORS.]
2. by displacement of the affect to a less significant complex.
35 The reason why the traumatic affect is not abreacted in a
normal way, but is retained, is that its content is not compatible
with the rest of the personality and must be repressed.
36 The content of the traumatic affect provided the theme for
Freud's further researches. Already in the Studies on Hysteria
and particularly in "The Defence Neuro-psychoses," Freud had
pointed out the sexual nature of the initial affect, whereas the
first case history reported by Breuer skirts round the sexual ele
ment in a striking fashion, although the whole history not only
contains a wealth of sexual allusions but, even for the expert,
becomes intelligible and coherent only when the patient's sex
uality is taken into account. On the basis of thirteen careful
analyses Freud felt justified in asserting that the specific aetiol
ogy of hysteria is to be found in the sexual traumata of early
childhood, and that the trauma must have consisted in a "real
irritation of the genitals." The trauma works at first only pre
paratorily; it develops its real effect at puberty, when the old
memory-trace is reactivated by nascent sexual feelings. Thus
Freud tried to resolve the vague concept of a special dispo
sition into quite definite, concrete events in the pre-pubertal
period. At that time he did not attribute much significance to
a still earlier inborn disposition.
37 While the Breuer-Freud Studies enjoyed a certain amount
of recognition (although, despite Raimann's assurances,4
have not yet become the common property of science), this
theory of Freud's met with general opposition. Not that the
frequency of sexual traumata in childhood could be doubted,
but rather their exclusively pathogenic significance for normal
children. Freud certainly did not evolve this view out of noth
ing, he was merely formulating certain experiences which had
forced themselves on him during analysis. To begin with, he
found memory-traces of sexual scenes in infancy, which in many
cases were quite definitely related to real happenings. Further,
he found that though the traumata remained without specific
effect in childhood, after puberty they proved to be deter
minants of hysterical symptoms. Freud therefore felt compelled
to grant that the trauma was real. In my personal opinion he
4 [Emil Raimann, Vienna psychiatrist, critic of Freud. See Jones, I, pp. 395f-> and
II, p. 122. EDITORS.]
did this because at that time he was still under the spell of the
original view that the hysteric "suffers from reminiscences/'
for which reason the cause and motivation of the symptom must
be sought in the past. Obviously such a view of the aetiological
factors was bound to provoke opposition, especially among
those with experience of hysteria, for the practitioner is accus
tomed to look for the driving forces of hysterical neurosis not so
much in the past as in the present.
38 This formulation of the theoretical standpoint in 1896 was
no more than a transitional stage for Freud, which he has since
abandoned. The discovery of sexual determinants in hysteria
became the starting-point for extensive researches in the field of
sexual psychology in general. Similarly, the problem of the de
termination of associative processes led his inquiry into the field
of dream psychology. In 1900 he published his fundamental
work on dreams, which is of such vital importance for the de
velopment of his views and his technique. No one who is not
thoroughly acquainted with Freud's method of dream interpre
tation will be able to understand the conceptions he has de
veloped in recent years. The Interpretation of Dreams lays down
the principles of Freudian theory and at the same time its tech
nique. For an understanding of his present views and the verifi
cation of his results a knowledge of Freud's technique is indis
pensable. This fact makes it necessary for me to go rather more
closely into the nature of psychanalysis.
39 The original cathartic method started with the symptoms
and sought to discover the traumatic affect underlying them.
The affect was thus raised to consciousness and abreacted in the
normal manner; that is, it was divested of its traumatic potency.
The method relied to a certain extent on suggestion the analyst
took the lead, while the patient remained essentially passive.
Aside from this inconvenience, however, it was found that there
were more and more cases in which no real trauma was present,
and in which all the emotional conflicts seemed to derive ex
clusively from morbid fantasy activity. The cathartic method
was unable to do justice to these cases.
40 According to Freud's statements in 1904, much has altered
["Freud's Psycho-Analytic Procedure" and "On Psychotherapy" appear to be
the publications Jung referred to. Cf., however, "Fragment of an Analysis of a
Case of Hysteria" (1905), Standard Edn., p. 12.-EDITORS.]
in the method since those early days. All suggestion is now dis
carded. The patients are no longer guided by the analyst; the
freest rein is given to their associations, so that it is really the
patients who conduct the analysis. Freud contents himself with
registering, and from time to time pointing out, the connections
that result. If an interpretation is wrong, it cannot be forced on
the patient; if it is right, the result is immediately visible and
expresses itself very clearly in the patient's whole behaviour.
4 1 The present psychanalytic method of Freud is much more
complicated, and penetrates much more deeply, than the orig
inal cathartic method. Its aim is to bring to consciousness all the
false associative connections produced by the complex, and in
that way to resolve them. Thus the patient gradually gains com
plete insight into his illness, and also has an objective standpoint
from which to view his complexes. The method could be called
an educative one, since it changes the whole thinking and feel
ing of the patient in such a way that his personality gradually
breaks free from the compulsion of the complexes and can take
up an independent attitude towards them. In this respect Freud's
new method bears some resemblance to the educative method of
Dubois,6 the undeniable success of which is due mainly to the
fact that the instruction it imparts alters the patient's attitude
towards his complexes.
4* Since it has grown entirely out of empirical practice, the
theoretical foundations of the psychanalytic method are still
very obscure. By means of my association experiments I think I
have made at least a few points accessible to experimental in
vestigation, though not all the theoretical difficulties have been
overcome. It seems to me that the main difficulty is this. If, as
psychanalysis presupposes, free association leads to the complex,
Freud logically assumes that this complex is associated with the
starting-point or initial idea. Against this it can be argued that
it is not very difficult to establish the associative connection be
tween a cucumber and an elephant. But that is to forget, first,
that in analysis only the starting-point is given, and not the goal;
and second, that the conscious state is not one of directed think
ing but of relaxed attention. Here one might object that the
complex is the point being aimed at and that, because of its
6 [Paul Dubois, of Bern, treated neurosis by "persuasion." EDITORS.]
independent feeling-tone, it possesses a strong tendency to re
production, so that it "rises up" spontaneously and then, as
though purely by chance, appears associated with the startingpoint.
43 This is certainly conceivable in theory, but in practice things
generally look different. The complex, in fact, does not "rise
up" freely but is blocked by the most intense resistances. In
stead, what "rises up" often seems at first sight to be quite
incomprehensible intermediate associations, which neither the
analyst nor the patient recognizes as belonging in any way to
the complex. But once the chain leading to the complex has
been fully established, the meaning of each single link becomes
clear, often in the most startling way, so that no special work of
interpretation is needed. Anyone with enough practical experi
ence of analysis can convince himself over and over again that
under these conditions not just anything is reproduced, but
always something that is related to the complex, though the
relationship is, a priori, not always clear. One must accustom
oneself to the thought that even in these chains of association
chance is absolutely excluded. So if an associative connection is
discovered in a chain of associations which was not intended
if, that is to say, the complex we find is associatively con
nected with the initial idea then this connection has existed
from the start; in other words, the idea we took as the startingpoint
was already constellated by the complex. We are therefore
justified in regarding the initial idea as a sign or symbol of the
44 This view is in agreement with already known psychological
theories which maintain that the psychological situation at a
given moment is nothing but the resultant of all the psycholog
ical events preceding it. Of these the most predominant are the
affective experiences, that is, the complexes, which for that rea
son have the greatest constellating power. If you take any seg
ment of the psychological present, it will logically contain all
the antecedent individual events, the affective experiences occu
pying the foreground, according to the degree of their actuality.
This is true of every particle of the psyche. Hence it is theoreti
cally possible to reconstruct the constellations from every parti
cle, and that is what the Freudian method tries to do. During
this work the probability is that you will come upon just the
affective constellation lying closest to hand, and not merely on
one but on many, indeed very many, each according to the
degree of its constellating power. Freud has called this fact
45 Psychanalysis accordingly keeps within the bounds of known
psychological facts. The method is extraordinarily difficult to
apply, but it can be learnt; only, as Lowenfeld rightly empha
sizes, one needs some years of intensive practice before one can
handle it with any certainty. For this reason alone all over-hasty
criticism of Freud's findings is precluded. It also precludes the
method from ever being used for mass therapy in mental insti
tutions. Its achievements as a scientific instrument can be judged
only by one who uses it himself.
46 Freud applied his method first of all to the investigation of
dreams, refining and perfecting it in the process. Here he found,
it appears, all those surprising associative connections which
play such an important role in the neuroses. I would mention,
as the most important discovery, the significant role which feel
ing-toned complexes play in dreams and their symbolical mode
of expression. Freud attaches great significance to verbal expres
sionone of the most important components of our thinking
because the double meaning of words is a favourite channel for
the displacement and improper expression of affects. I mention
this point because it is of fundamental importance in the psy
chology of neurosis. For anyone who is familiar with these mat
ters, which are everyday occurrences with normal people too,
the interpretations given in the "Fragment of an Analysis of a
Case of Hysteria/' however strange they may sound, will con
tain nothing unexpected, but will fit smoothly into his general
experience. Unfortunately I must refrain from a detailed dis
cussion of Freud's findings and must limit myself to a few hints.
These latest investigations are required reading for Freud's pres
ent view of hysterical illnesses. Judging by my own experience,
it is impossible to understand the meaning of the Three Es
says and of the "Fragment" without a thorough knowledge of
The Interpretation of Dreams.
47 By "thorough knowledge" I naturally do not mean the cheap
philological criticism which many writers have levelled at this
book, but a patient application of Freud's principles to psychic
processes. Here lies the crux of the whole problem. Attack and
defence both miss the mark so long as the discussion proceeds
only on theoretical ground. Freud's discoveries do not, at pres
ent, lend themselves to the framing of general theories. For the
present the only question is: do the associative connections as
serted by Freud exist or not? Nothing is achieved by thought
less affirmation or negation; one should look at the facts without
prejudice, carefully observing the rules laid down by Freud.
Nor should one be put off by the obtrusion of sexuality, for as
a rule you come upon many other, exceedingly interesting things
which, at least to begin with, show no trace of sex. An altogether
harmless but most instructive exercise, for instance, is the anal
ysis of constellations indicating a complex in the association
experiment. With the help of this perfectly harmless material a
great many Freudian phenomena can be studied without undue
difficulty. The analysis of dreams and hysteria is considerably
more difficult and therefore less suitable for a beginner. With
out a knowledge of the ground-work Freud's more recent teach
ings are completely incomprehensible, and, as might be ex
pected, they have remained misunderstood.
48 It is with the greatest hesitation, therefore, that I make the
attempt to say something about the subsequent development of
Freud's views. My task is rendered especially difficult by the
fact that actually we have only two publications to go on: they
are the above-mentioned Three Essays on the Theory of Sex
uality and the "Fragment of an Analysis of a Case of Hysteria."
There is as yet no attempt at a systematic exposition and docu
mentation of Freud's more recent views. Let us first try to come
closer to the argument of the Three Essays.
49 These essays are extremely difficult to understand, not only
for one unaccustomed to Freud's way of thinking but also for
those who have already worked in this special field. The first
thing to be considered is that Freud's conception of sexuality is
uncommonly wide. It includes not only normal sexuality but
all the perversions, and extends far into the sphere of psychosexual
derivates. When Freud speaks of sexuality, it must not
be understood merely as the sexual instinct. 7 Another concept
which Freud uses in a very wide sense is "libido." This concept,
originally borrowed from "libido sexualis," denotes in the first
7 Freud's concept of sexuality includes roughly everything covered by the concept
of the instinct for the preservation of the species.
place the sexual components of psychic life so far as they are
volitional, and then any inordinate passion or desire.
50 Infantile sexuality, as Freud understands it, is a bundle of
possibilities for the application or "investment" of libido. A
normal sexual goal does not exist at that stage, because the
sexual organs are not yet fully developed. But the psychic mecha
nisms are probably already in being. The libido is distributed
among all the possible forms of sexual activity, and also among
all the perversionsthat is, among all the variants of sexuality
which, if they become fixed, later turn into real perversions.
The progressive development of the child gradually eliminates
the libidinal investment of perverse tendencies and concentrates
on the growth of normal sexuality. The investments set free
during this process are used as driving-forces for sublimations,
that is, for the higher mental functions. At or after puberty the
normal individual seizes on an objective sexual goal, and with
this his sexual development comes to an end.
5 1 In Freud's view, it is characteristic of hysteria that the in
fantile sexual development takes place under difficult condi
tions, since the perverse investments of libido are much less
easily discarded than with normal individuals and therefore last
longer. If the real sexual demands of later life impinge in any
form on a morbid personality, its inhibited development shows
itself in the fact that it is unable to satisfy the demand in the
proper way, because the demand comes up against an unpre
pared sexuality. As Freud says, the individual predisposed to
hysteria brings a "bit of sexual repression" with him from his
childhood. Instead of the sexual excitation, in the widest sense
of the word, being acted out in the sphere of normal sexuality,
it is repressed and causes a reactivation of the original infantile
sexual activity. This is expressed above all in the fantasy-activ
ity so characteristic of hysterics. The fantasies develop along the
line already traced by the special kind of infantile sexual activ
ity. The fantasies of hysterics are, as we know, boundless; hence,
if the psychic balance is in some measure to be preserved, equiv
alent inhibiting mechanisms are needed or, as Freud calls them,
resistances. If the fantasies are of a sexual nature, then the cor
responding resistances will be shame and disgust. As these affec
tive states are normally associated with physical manifestations,
the appearance of physical symptoms is assured.
52 I think a concrete example from my own experience will
illustrate the meaning of Freud's teachings better than any
theoretical formulations, which, because of the complexity of
the subject, are all apt to sound uncommonly ponderous.
53 The case is one of psychotic hysteria in an intelligent young
woman of twenty. The earliest symptoms occurred between the
third and fourth year. At that time the patient began to keep
back her stool until pain compelled her to defecate. Gradually
she began to employ the following auxiliary procedure: she
seated herself in a crouching position on the heel of one foot,
and in this position tried to defecate, pressing the heel against
the anus. The patient continued this perverse activity until her
seventh year. Freud calls this infantile perversion anal eroticism.
54 The perversion stopped with the seventh year and was re
placed by masturbation. Once, when her father smacked her on
the bare buttocks, she felt distinct sexual excitement. Later she
became sexually excited when she saw her younger brother
being disciplined in the same way. Gradually she developed a
markedly negative attitude towards her father.
55 Puberty started when she was thirteen. From then on fanta
sies developed of a thoroughly perverse nature which pursued
her obsessively. These fantasies had a compulsive character: she
could never sit at table without thinking of defecation while
she was eating, nor could she watch anyone else eating without
thinking of the same thing, and especially not her father. In
particular, she could not see her father's hands without feeling
sexual excitement; for the same reason she could no longer bear
to touch his right hand. Thus it gradually came about that she
could not eat at all in the presence of other people without con
tinual fits of compulsive laughter and cries of disgust, because
the defecation fantasies finally spread to all the persons in her
environment. If she was corrected or even reproached in any
way, she answered by sticking out her tongue, or with convul
sive laughter, cries of disgust, and gestures of horror, because
each time she had before her the vivid image of her father's
chastising hand, coupled with sexual excitement, which im
mediately passed over into ill-concealed masturbation.
5^ At the age of fifteen, she felt the normal urge to form a love
relationship with another person. But all attempts in this di
rection failed, because the morbid fantasies invariably thrust
themselves between her and the very person she most wanted to
love. At the same time, because of the disgust she felt, any dis
play of affection for her father had become impossible. Her
father had been the object of her infantile libido transference,
hence the resistances were directed especially against him,
whereas her mother was not affected by them. About this time
she felt a stirring of love for her teacher, but it quickly suc
cumbed to the same overpowering disgust. In a child so much
in need of affection this emotional isolation was bound to have
the gravest consequences, which were not long in coming.
57 At eighteen, her condition had got so bad that she really did
nothing else than alternate between deep depressions and fits
of laughing, crying, and screaming. She could no longer look
anyone in the face, kept her head bowed, and when anybody
touched her stuck her tongue out with every sign of loathing.
58 This short history demonstrates the essentials of Freud's
view. First we find a fragment of perverse infantile sexual activ
ityanal eroticism replaced in the seventh year by masturba
tion. At this period the administering of corporal punishment,
affecting the region of the anus, produced sexual excitement.
Here we have the determinants for the later psychosexual de
velopment. Puberty, with its physical and spiritual upheavals,
brought a marked increase in fantasy activity. This seized on the
sexual activity of childhood and modulated it in endless varia
tions. Perverse fantasies of this kind were bound to act as moral
foreign bodies, so to speak, in an otherwise sensitive person, and
had to be repressed by means of defence mechanisms, particu
larly shame and disgust. This readily accounts for all those fits
of disgust, loathing, exclamations of horror, sticking out the
tongue, etc.
59 At the time when the ordinary longings of puberty for the
love of other people were beginning to stir, the pathological
symptoms increased, because the fantasies were now directed
most intensively to the very people who seemed most worthy of
love. This naturally led to a violent psychic conflict, which fully
explains the deterioration that then set in, ending in hysterical
60 We now understand why Freud can say that hysterics bring
with them "a bit of sexual repression from childhood." For con
stitutional reasons they are probably ready for sexual or quasi-
sexual activities earlier than other people. In keeping with their
constitutional emotivity, the infantile impressions go deeper
and last longer, so that later, at puberty, they have a constellat
ing effect on the trend o the first really sexual fantasies. Again
in keeping with their constitutional emotivity, all affective im
pulses are much stronger than in normal persons. Hence, to
counteract the intensity of their abnormal fantasies, correspond
ingly strong feelings of shame and disgust are bound to appear.
When real sexual demands are made, requiring the transference
of libido to the love-object, all the perverse fantasies are trans
ferred to him, as we have seen. Hence the resistance against the
object of love. The patient could not transfer her libido to him
without inhibitions, and this precipitated the great emotional
conflict. Her libido exhausted itself in struggling against her
feelings of defence, which grew ever stronger, and which then
produced the symptoms. Thus Freud can say that the symptoms
represent nothing but the sexual activity of the patient.
61 Summing up, we can formulate Freud's present view of hys
teria as follows:
a. Certain precocious sexual activities of a more or less per
verse nature grow up on a constitutional basis.
b. These activities do not lead at first to real hysterical
c. At puberty (which psychologically sets in earlier than
physical maturity) the fantasies tend in a direction constellated
by the infantile sexual activity.
d. The fantasies, intensified for constitutional (affective)
reasons, lead to the formation of complexes of ideas that are
incompatible with the other contents of consciousness and are
therefore repressed, chiefly by shame and disgust.
e. This repression takes with it the transference of libido to
a love-object, thus precipitating the great emotional conflict
which then provides occasion for the outbreak of actual illness.
/. The symptoms of the illness owe their origin to the strug
gle of the libido against the repression; they therefore represent
nothing but an abnormal sexual activity.
62 How far does the validity of Freud's view go? This question
is exceedingly difficult to answer. Above all, it must be emphati
cally pointed out that cases which conform exactly to Freud's
schema really do exist. Anyone who has learnt the technique
knows this. But no one knows whether Freud's schema is ap
plicable to all forms of hysteria (in any case, hysteria in children
and the psychotraumatic neuroses form a group apart). For or
dinary cases of hysteria, such as the nerve-specialist meets by the
dozen, Freud asserts the validity of his views; my own experi
ence, which is considerably less than his, has yielded nothing
that would argue against this assertion. In the cases of hysteria
which I have analysed, the symptoms were extraordinarily
varied, but they all showed a surprising similarity in their psy
chological structure. The outward appearance of a case loses
much of its interest when it is analysed, because one then sees
how the same complex can produce apparently very far-fetched
and very remarkable symptoms. For this reason it is impossible
to say whether Freud's schema applies only to certain groups of
symptoms. At present we can only affirm that his findings are
true of an indefinitely large number of cases of hysteria which
till now could not be delimited as clinical groups.
As to the detailed results of Freud's analyses, the violent op
position they have met with is due simply to the fact that prac
tically no one has followed the development of Freud's theory
since 1896. Had his dream-analyses been tested and his rules
observed, Freud's latest publications, particularly the "Frag
ment of an Analysis of a Case of Hysteria," would not have been
so difficult to understand. The only disconcerting thing about
these reports is their frankness. The public can forgive Freud
least of all for his sexual symbolism. In my view he is really
easiest to follow here, because this is just where mythology, ex
pressing the fantasy-thinking of all races, has prepared the
ground in the most instructive way. I would only mention the
writings of Steinthal 8 in the i86o's, which prove the existence
of a widespread sexual symbolism in the mythological records
and the history of language. I also recall the eroticism of our
poets and their allegorical or symbolical expressions. No one
who considers this material will be able to conceal from himself
that there are uncommonly far-reaching and significant analo
gies between the Freudian symbolisms and the symbols of poetic
fantasy in individuals and in whole nations. The Freudian sym
bol and its interpretation is therefore nothing unheard of, it is
8 [Heymatm Steinthal (1825-99), German philologist and philosopher. Cf. Symbols
of Transformation, index, s.v. EDITORS.]
merely something unusual for us psychiatrists. But these diffi
culties should not deter us from going more deeply into the
problems raised by Freud, for they are of extraordinary im
portance for psychiatry no less than for neurology.
64 In 1900, Sigmund Freud published in Vienna a voluminous
work on the analysis of dreams. Here are the principal results
of his investigations.
65 The dream, far from being the confusion of haphazard and
meaningless associations it is commonly believed to be, or a
result merely of somatic sensations during sleep as many authors
suppose, is an autonomous and meaningful product of psychic
activity, susceptible, like all other psychic functions, of a sys
tematic analysis. The organic sensations felt during sleep are
not the cause of the dream; they play but a secondary role and
furnish only elements (the material) upon which the psyche
works. According to Freujljthejdr^^^
chic product, is a creation, a piece of worjc whxch.hasjts^ motives,
its trains of antecedent associations; and like any considered
action "it" is the outcome of a logical process, of the competition
between various tendencies and the victory of one tendency
over another.^Di^nungJaas-a-i^
66 It may be objected that all empirical reality is against this
Jjieory, since, the impression of incoherence and obscurity that
dreams make upon us is notorious. Freud calls this sequence of
contused ^images the manifest content of_the drearn; it is the
facade behind which helooks for what is essentialnamely, the
dream-thought or the latent content. One may ask what reason
Freud has for thinking that the dream itself is only the facade
of a vast edifice, or that it really has any meaning. His supposi
tion is not founded on a dogma, nor on an a priori idea, but on
empiricism alone namely, the common experience that no
psychic (or physical) fact is accidental. It must have, then, its
l [Written in French. Translated by Philip Mairet from "L'Analyse des rves,"
Annee psychologique (Paris), XV (1909), 160-67, and revised by R. F. C. Hull.
train o causes, being always the product of a complicated com
bination of phenomena; for every existing mental element is
the resultant of anterior psychic states and ought in theory to
be capable of analysis. Freud applies to the dream the same
principle that we always instinctively use when inquiring into
the causes of human actions.
67 He asks himself, quite simply: why does this particular per
son dream this particular thing? He must have his specific rea
sons, otherwise there would be a breakdown in the law of cau
sality. A child's dream is different from an adult's, just as the
dream of an educated man differs from that of an illiterate.
There is something individual in the dream: it is in agreement
with the psychological disposition of the subject. In what does
this psychological disposition consist? It is itself the result of
our psychic past. Our present mental state depends upon our
history. In each person's past there are elements of different
value which determine the psychic "constellation." The events
which do not awaken any strong emotions have little influence
on our thoughts or actions, whereas those which provoke strong
emotional reactions are of great importance for our subsequent
psychological development. These memories with a strong feel
ing-tone form complexes of associations which are not only long
enduring but are very powerful and closely interlinked. An ob
ject which I regard with little interest calls forth few associa
tions and soon vanishes from my intellectual horizon. An object
in which, on the contrary, I feel much interest will evoke
numerous associations and preoccupy me for a long while. Every
emotion produces a more or less extensive complex of associa
tions which I have called the "feeling-toned complex of ideas."
In studying an individual case history we always discover that
the complex exerts the strongest "constellating" force, from
which we conclude that in any analysis we shall meet with it
from the start. The complexes appear as the chief components
of the psychological disposition in every psychic structure. In
the dream, for example, we encounter the emotional compo
nents, for it is easy to understand that all the products of psychic
activity depend above all upon the strongest "constellating"
68 One does not have to look far to find the complex that sets
Gretchen, in Faust, singing:
There was a king in Thule,
True even to his grave
To him his dying mistress
A golden beaker gave.
69 The hidden thought is Gretchen's doubt about Faust's fidel
ity. The song, unconsciously chosen by Gretchen, is what we
have called the dream-material, which corresponds to the secret
thought. One might apply this example to the dream, and sup
pose that Gretchen had not sung but dreamed this romance.2
In that case the song, with its tragic story of the loves of a far-off
king of old, is the "manifest content" of the dream, its "facade."
Anyone who did not know of Gretchen's secret sorrow would
have no idea why she dreamt of this king. But we, who know the
dream-thought which is her tragic love for Faust, can under
stand why the dream makes use of this particular song, for it is
about the "rare faithfulness" of the king. Faust is not faithful,
and Gretchen would like his faithfulness to her to resemble that
of the king in the story. Her dream in reality her song ex
presses in a disguised form the ardent desire of her soul. Here
we touch upon the real nature of the feeling-toned complex; it
is always a question of a wish and resistance to it. Our life is
spent in struggles for the realization of our wishes: all our ac
tions proceed from the wish that something should or should
not come to pass.
7 It is for this that we work, for this we think. If we cannot
fulfil a wish in reality, we realize it at least in fantasy. The re
ligious and the philosophic systems of every people in every age
are the best proof of this. The thought of immortality, even in
philosophic guise, is no other than a wish, for which philosophy
is but the fagade, even as Gretchen's song is only the outward
form, a beneficent veil drawn over her grief. The dream repre
sents her wish as fulfilled. Freud says that every dream represents
the fulfilment of a repressed wish.
7 1 Carrying our illustration further, we see that in the dream
2 It might be objected that such a supposition is not permissible, as there is a
great deal of difference between a song and a dream. But thanks to the researches
of Freud we now know that all the products of any dreaming state have some
thing in common. First, they are all variations on the complex, and second, they
are only a kind of symbolic expression of the complex. That is why I think I am
justified in making this supposition.
Faust is replaced by the king. A transformation has taken place,
Faust has become the far-off old king; the personality of Faust,
which has a strong feeling-tone, is replaced by a neutral, leg
endary person. The king is an association by analogy, a symbol
for Faust, and the "mistress" for Gretchen. We may ask what is
the purpose of this arrangement, why Gretchen should dream,
so to speak, indirectly about this thought, why she cannot con
ceive it clearly and without equivocation. This question is
easily answered: Gretchen's sadness contains a thought that no
one likes to dwell upon; it would be too painful. Her doubt
about Faust's faithfulness is repressed and kept down. It makes
its reappearance in the form of a melancholy story which, al
though it realizes her wish, is not accompanied by pleasant feel
ings. Freud says that the wishes which form the dream-thought
are never desires which one openly admits to oneself, but desires
that are repressed because of their painful character; and it is
because they are excluded from conscious reflection in the wak
ing state that they float up, indirectly, in dreams.
72 This reasoning is not at all surprising if we look at the lives
of the saints. One can understand without difficulty the nature
of the feelings repressed by St. Catherine of Siena, which reap
peared indirectly in the vision of her celestial marriage, and see
what are the wishes that manifest themselves more or less sym
bolically in the visions and temptations of the saints. As we
know, there is as little difference between the somnambulistic
consciousness of the hysteric and the normal dream as there is
between the intellectual life of hysterics and that of normal
73 Naturally, if we ask someone why he had such and such a
dream, what are the secret thoughts expressed in it, he cannot
tell us. He will say that he had eaten too much in the evening,
that he was lying on his back; that he had seen or heard this or
that the day before in short, all the things we can read in the
numerous scientific books about dreams. As for the dreamthought,
he does not and he cannot know it for, according to
Freud, the thought is repressed because it is too disagreeable.
So, if anyone solemnly assures us that he has never found in his
own dreams any of the things Freud talks about, we can hardly
suppress a smile; he has been straining to see things it is impos
sible to see directly. The dream disguises the repressed complex
to prevent it from being recognized. By changing Faust into the
King of Thule, Gretchen renders the situation inoffensive.
Freud calls this mechanism, which prevents the repressed
thought from showing itself clearly, the censor. The censor is
nothing but the resistance which also prevents us, in the day
time, from following a line of reasoning right to the end. The
censor will not allow the thought to pass until it is so disguised
that the dreamer is unable to recognize it. If we try to acquaint
the dreamer with the thought behind his dream, he will always
oppose to us the same resistance that he opposes to his repressed
74 We can now ask ourselves a series of important questions.
Above all, what must we do to get behind the facade into the
inside of the house that is, beyond the manifest content of the
dream to the real, secret thought behind it?
75 Let us return to our example and suppose that Gretchen is
an hysterical patient who comes to consult me about a disagree
able dream. I will suppose, moreover, that I know nothing about
her. In this case I would not waste my time questioning her
directly, for as a rule these intimate sorrows cannot be uncov
ered without arousing the most intense resistance. I would try
rather to conduct what I have called an "association experi
ment," 3 which would reveal to me the whole of her love-affair
(her secret pregnancy, etc.). The conclusion would be easy to
draw, and I should be able to submit the dream-thought to her
without hesitation. But one may proceed more prudently.
76 I would ask her, for instance: Who is not so faithful as the
King of Thule, or who ought to be? This question would very
quickly illuminate the situation. In uncomplicated cases such
as this, the interpretation or analysis of a dream is limited to a
few simple questions.
77 Here is an example of such a case. It concerns a man of whom
I know nothing except that he lives in the colonies and happens
at present to be in Europe on leave. During one of our inter
views he related a dream which had made a profound impres
sion on him. Two years before, he had dreamt that he was in a
wild and desert place., and he saw, on a rock, a man dressed in
3 Cf. my Studies in Word Association.
black covering his face with both hands. Suddenly he set out
towards a precipice^ when a woman,, likewise clothed in black,
appeared and tried to restrain him. He flung himself into the
abyss, dragging her with him. The dreamer awoke with a cry of
78 The question, Who was that man who put himself in a dan
gerous situation and dragged a woman to her doom? moved the
dreamer deeply, for that man was the dreamer himself. Two
years before, he had been on a journey of exploration across a
rocky and desert land. His expedition was pursued relentlessly
by the savage inhabitants of that country, who at night made at
tacks in which several of its members perished. He had under
taken this extremely perilous journey because at that time life
had no value for him. The feeling he had when engaging in this
adventure was that he was tempting fate. And the reason for his
despair? For several years he had lived alone in a country with
a very dangerous climate. When on leave in Europe two and a
half years ago, he made the acquaintance of a young woman.
They fell in love and the young woman wanted to marry him.
He knew, however, that he would have to go back to the mur
derous climate of the tropics, and he had no wish to take a
woman there and condemn her to almost certain death. He
therefore broke off his engagement, after prolonged moral con
flicts which plunged him into profound despair. It was in such a
state of mind that he started on his perilous journey. The anal
ysis of the dream does not end with this statement, for the wishfulfilment
is not yet evident. But as I am only citing this dream
in order to demonstrate the discovery of the essential complex,
the sequel of the analysis is without interest for us.
79 In this case the dreamer was a frank and courageous man. A
little less frankness, or any feeling of unease or mistrust towards
me, and the complex would not have been admitted. There are
even some who would calmly have asseverated that the dream
had no meaning and that my question was completely beside the
point. In these cases the resistance is too great, and the complex
cannot be brought up from the depths directly into ordinary
consciousness. Generally the resistance is such that a direct in
quiry, unless it is conducted with great experience, leads to no
result. By creating the "psychoanalytic method" Freud has
given us a valuable instrument for resolving or overcoming the
most tenacious resistances.
80 This method is practised in the following manner. One
selects some specially striking portion of the dream, and then
questions the subject about the associations that attach them
selves to it. He is directed to say frankly whatever comes into his
mind concerning this part of the dream, eliminating as far as
possible any criticism. Criticism is nothing but the censor at
work; it is the resistance against the complex, and it tends to
suppress what is of the most importance.
8 * The subject should, therefore, say absolutely everything that
comes into his head without paying any attention to it. This is
always difficult at first, especially in an introspective examina
tion when his attention cannot be suppressed so far as to elimi
nate the inhibiting effect of the censor. For it is towards oneself
that one has the strongest resistances. The following case demon
strates the course of an analysis against strong resistances.
82 A gentleman of whose intimate life I was ignorant told me
the following dream: "/ found myself in a little room, seated at
a table beside Pope Pius X, whose features were far more hand
some than they are in reality, which surprised me. I saw on one
side of our room a great apartment with a table sumptuously
laid, and a crowd of ladies in evening-dress. Suddenly I felt a
need to urinate, and I went out. On my return the need was
repeated; I went out again, and this happened several times.
Finally I woke up, wanting to urinate."
83 The dreamer, a very intelligent and well-educated man,
naturally explained this to himself as a dream caused by irrita
tion of the bladder. Indeed, dreams of this class are always so
84 He argued vigorously against the existence of any compo
nents of great individual significance in this dream. It is true
that the facade of the dream was not very transparent, and I
could not know what was hidden behind it. My first deduction
was that the dreamer had a strong resistance because he put so
much energy into protesting that the dream was meaningless.
85 In consequence, I did not venture to put the indiscreet ques
tion: Why did you compare yourself to the Pope? I only asked
him what ideas he associated with "Pope." The analysis de
veloped as follows:
3 1
Pope. "The Pope lives royally . . ." (A well-known students'
song,) Note that this gentleman was thirty-one and unmarried.
Seated beside the Pope. "Just in the same way I was seated at the
side o a Sheikh of a Moslem sect, whose guest I was in Arabia. The
Sheikh is a sort of Pope/'
86 The Pope is a celibate, the Moslem a polygamist. The idea
behind the dream seems to be clear: "I am a celibate like the
Pope, but I would like to have many wives like the Moslem." I
kept silent about these conjectures.
The room, and the apartment with the table laid. "They are
apartments in my cousin's house, where I was present at a large din
ner-party he gave a fortnight ago."
The ladies in evening dress. "At this dinner there were also
ladies, my cousin's daughters, girls of marriageable age."
87 Here he stopped: he had no further associations. The ap
pearance of this phenomenon, known as a mental inhibition,
always justifies the conclusion that one has hit on an association
which arouses strong resistance. I asked:
And these young women? "Oh, nothing; recently one of them
was at F. She stayed with us for some time. When she went away I
went to the station with her, along with my sister."
88 Another inhibition: I helped him out by asking:
What happened then? "Oh! I was just thinking [this thought had
evidently been repressed by the censor] that I had said something to
my sister that made us laugh, but I have completely forgotten what
it was."
89 In spite of his sincere efforts to remember, it was at first im
possible for him to recall what this was. Here we have a very
common instance of forgetfulness caused by inhibition. All at
once he remembered:
"On the way to the station we met a gentleman who greeted us and
whom I seemed to recognize. Later, I asked my sister, Was that the
gentleman who is interested in [the cousin's daughter]?"
9 (She is now engaged to this gentleman, and I must add that
the cousin's family was very wealthy and that the dreamer was
interested too, but he was too late.)
The dinner at the cousin's house. "I shall shortly have to go to
the wedding of two friends of mine."
The Pope's features. "The nose was exceedingly well-formed and
slightly pointed."
Who has a nose like that? (Laughing.) "A young woman I'm tak
ing a great interest in just now."
Was there anything else noteworthy about the Pope's face? "Yes,
his mouth. It was a very shapely mouth. [Laughing.] Another young
woman, who also attracts me, has a mouth like that."
91 This material is sufficient to elucidate a large part of the
dream. The "Pope" is a good example of what Freud would call
a condensation. In the first place he symbolizes the dreamer
(celibate life), secondly he is a transformation of the polygamous
Sheikh. Then he is the person seated beside the dreamer during
a dinner, that is to say, one or rather two ladies in fact, the two
ladies who interest the dreamer.
92 But how comes it that this material is associated with the
need to urinate? To find the answer to this question I formu
lated the situation in this way:
You were taking part in a marriage ceremony and in the pres
ence of a young lady when you felt you wanted to pass water? "True,
that did happen to me once. It was very unpleasant. I had been in
vited to the marriage of a relative, when I was about eleven. In the
church I was sitting next to a girl of my own age. The ceremony
went on rather a long time, and I began to want to urinate. But I
restrained myself until it was too late. I wetted my trousers."
93 The association of marriage with the desire to urinate dates
from that event. I will not pursue this analysis, which does not
end here, lest this paper should become too long. But what has
been said is sufficient to show the technique, the procedure of
analysis. Obviously it is impossible to give the reader a compre
hensive survey of these new points of view. The illumination
that the psychoanalytic method brings to us is very great, not
only for the understanding of dreams but for that of hysteria
and the most important mental illnesses.
94 The psychoanalytic method, which is in use everywhere, has
already given rise to a considerable literature in German. I am
persuaded that the study of this method is extremely important,
not only for psychiatrists and neurologists but also for psychol
ogists. The following works are recommended. For normal
psychology: Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams, and "Jokes
and Their Relation to the Unconscious/' For the neuroses:
Breuer and Freud, Studies on Hysteria; Freud, "Fragment of an
Analysis of a Case of Hysteria." For the psychoses: Jung, The
Psychology of Dementia Praecox. The writings of Maeder in the
Archives de psychologie also give an excellent summary of
Freud's ideas.4
[See the bibliography for fuller data. EDITORS.]
95 About a year ago the school authorities in N. asked me to
furnish a report on the mental condition of Marie X., a thir
teen-year-old school-girl. Marie had recently been expelled from
the school because she was instrumental in originating an ugly
rumour, spreading gossip about her class-teacher. The punish
ment hit the child, and especially her parents, very hard, so
that the school authorities were inclined to readmit her under
the cover of a medical opinion.
96 The facts of the case were as follows. The teacher had heard
indirectly that the girls were telling an ambiguous sexual story
about him. On investigation, it was found that Marie had one
day related a dream to three girl-friends which ran somewhat
as follows:
The class was going to the bathing-place. I had to go with
the boys because there was no more room. Then we swam a
long way out in the lake. (Asked "Who?" Marie said: "Lina,2
the teacher, and me.") A steamer came along. The teacher asked
us: "Do you want a ride?" We came to K. A wedding was going
on. ("Whose?" "A friend of the teacher's.") We were allowed to
take part in it. Then we went on a journey. ("Who?" "Me, Lina,
and the teacher.") It was like a honeymoon trip. We came to
Andermatt, and there was no more room in the hotel so we had
to spend the night in a barn. There the woman got a child and
the teacher became the godfather.
97 This dream was told me by the child when I examined her.
The teacher had also got her to tell the dream in writing. In this
earlier version the obvious gap after "Do you want a ride?" was
1 [Originally published as "Em Beitrag zur Psychologic des Geriichtes," Zentralblatt
fur Psychoanalyse (Wiesbaden), I (1910/11): 3, 81-90. Previously translated
in Collected Papers on Analytical Psychology (London, 1916; and edn., London,
1917, and New York, 1922). EDITORS.]
J [Her sister. Cf. par. 119. EDITORS.]
filled in by the words: "We got on it. Soon we felt cold. An old
man gave us a blouse which the teacher put on." On the other
hand, there was an omission of the passage about finding no
room in the hotel and having to spend the night in the barn.
98 The child told the dream immediately not only to her three
friends but also to her mother. The mother repeated it to me
with only trifling differences from the two readings given above.
In his investigations, carried out with the deepest misgivings,
the teacher failed, like myself, to discover any other, more dan
gerous text. It is therefore very probable that the original story
could not have been very different. (The passage about the cold
and the blouse seems to be an early interpolation, as it tries to
establish a logical relationship. Coming out of the water one is
wet, has on only a bathing-dress, and therefore cannot take part
in a wedding before putting on some clothes.) The teacher
would not believe at first that it was simply a dream, he sus
pected it was an invention. But he had to admit that the inno
cent telling of the dream was apparently a fact, and that it would
be unnatural to credit the child with sufficient guile to make
sexual innuendoes in such a veiled form. For a time he wavered
between the view that it was a cunning invention and the view
that it was really a dream, harmless in itself, which had been
given a sexual twist by the other children. When his first in
dignation wore off he came to see that Marie's guilt could not
be so great, and that the fantasies of her friends had contributed
to the rumour. He then did something very praiseworthy: he
placed Marie's schoolmates under supervision and made them
all write out what they had heard of the dream.
99 Before turning our attention to these accounts, let us first
consider the dream analytically. To begin with, we must accept
the facts and agree with the teacher that it really was a dream
and not an invention the ambiguities are too great for that.
Conscious invention tries to create unbroken transitions; the
dream takes no account of this, but proceeds regardless of gaps,
which, as we have seen, give rise to interpolations during the
conscious revision. The gaps are very significant. In the bathingplace
there is no picture of undressing, being unclothed, nor
any detailed description of being together in the water. The
lack of clothes on the steamer is compensated by the abovementioned
interpolation, but only for the teacher, which shows
that his nakedness was most urgently in need of cover. There is
no detailed description of the wedding, and the transition from
the steamer to the wedding celebration is abrupt. The reason for
stopping overnight in the barn at Andermatt is undiscoverable
at first. The parallel, however, is the lack of room in the bathingplace,
which made it necessary for the girls to go to the men's
section; the lack of room at the hotel again prevents the segrega
tion of the sexes. The picture of the barn is very inadequately
filled out: the birth follows suddenly and disconnectedly. The
teacher as godfather is extremely ambiguous. Marie's role
throughout the whole story is of secondary importance; she is
no more than a spectator.
100 All this has the appearance of a genuine dream, and those
of my readers who have sufficient experience of dreams of girls
of this age will certainly confirm this view. The interpretation of
the dream is so simple that we can safely leave it to the chil
dren themselves, whose statements now follow.
Aural Witnesses
(i) Marie dreamt that she and Lina went swimming with our
teacher. When they had swum out pretty far in the lake, Marie said
she could not swim any further, her foot hurt her so. Our teacher
said, she could ride on my back. Marie got on and they swam out
together. After a while a steamer came along and they got on it. It
seems our teacher had a rope with him with which he tied Marie
and Lina together, and so pulled them out into the lake after him.
They went as far as Z., where they got out. But now they had no
clothes on. The teacher bought a jacket, and Marie and Lina got a
long thick veil, and all three walked up the street by the lake. This
was when the wedding was going on. Soon they met. The bride had
on a blue silk dress but no veil. She asked Marie and Lina if they
would be so kind as to give her their veil. Marie and Lina gave it
and in return were allowed to go to the wedding. They went to the
Sun Inn. Afterwards they made a honeymoon trip to Andermatt, I
don't know whether they went to the inn at Andermatt or at Z.
There they were given coffee, potatoes, honey, and butter. I must
not say any more, only that in the end the teacher became the god
i* Here the roundabout story of lack of room at the bathingplace
is missing; Marie goes swimming with the teacher right
away. Their being together in the water is given a more per
sonal relationship by the rope connecting the teacher and the
two girls. The ambiguity about the "ride" 3 in the original story
has already had consequences here, for the part about the
steamer now takes second place, and first place is given to the
teacher, who takes Marie on his back. (The delightful little slip
"she could ride on my back"instead of /zw shows the narrator's
inner participation in the scene.) This explains why she brings
the steamer into action somewhat abruptly, in order to give the
equivocal "ride" a familiar, harmless turn, like the anticlimax
in a music-hall song. The passage about the lack of clothes, the
ambiguity of which has already been noted, arouses her special
interest. The teacher buys a jacket, the girls get a long thick
veil, such as is worn only in case of death or at weddings. That
the wedding is meant here in a wider sense is shown by the re
mark that the bride had no veil: the one who has the veil is the
bride! The narrator, a good friend of Marie, helps her to dream
the dream further: the possession of the veil characterizes Marie
and Lina as brides. Anything offensive or immoral in this situa
tion is relieved by the girls' surrendering the veil; the narrator
thus gives the story an innocent turn. The same mechanism is
followed in the embellishment of the ambiguous situation at
Andermatt: there is nothing but nice things, coffee, potatoes,
honey, and butter, a reversion to the infantile on the well-known
pattern. The conclusion seems to be very abrupt: the teacher
becomes a godfather.
103 (3) Marie dreamt that she went bathing with Lina and the
teacher. Far out in the lake Marie told the teacher her leg was hurt
ing. The teacher said she could ride on his back. I don't know now
whether the last sentence was really told so, but I think it was. As
there was a ship on the lake just then, the teacher said she should
swim to the ship and then get in. I really don't remember any more
how she told it. Then the teacher or Marie, I don't know which,
said they would get out at Z. and run home. So the teacher called to
two gentlemen, who had just been bathing, to carry the children
ashore. Lina sat on one man's back and Marie on the other fat man,
&[Aufsitzen in the original. The word (usually intransitive) means both to 'sit on
a person's back' and to 'mount' a horse or vehicle. As applied to a steamer, its
use is quite exceptional. The ambiguity can be preserved in English only by
alternating between 'ride' and 'get on.'TRANS,]
and the teacher held on to the fat man's leg and swam after them.
When they landed they ran home.
On the way the teacher met his friend, who had a wedding.
Marie said, it was then the fashion to go on foot, not in a carriage.
Then the bride said they could come along too. Then the teacher
said it would be nice if the two girls gave the bride their black veil,
which they had got on the way, I don't know where. The girls gave
it to her, and the bride said they were nice generous children. Then
they went on further and stopped at the Sun Inn. There they had
something to eat, I don't know what. Then they went on the honey
moon trip to Andermatt. They went into a barn and danced. All
the men had taken off their coats except the teacher. The bride said
he should take off. his coat too. The teacher refused, but at last he
did. Then the teacher was . . . The teacher said he felt cold. I
mustn't tell any more, it is improper. That's all I heard of the dream.
104 The narrator pays special attention to the "ride," but is un
certain whether in the original story it referred to the teacher
or the steamer. This uncertainty is amply compensated by the
elaborate story of the two strange gentlemen who took the girls
on their backs. For her, the piggyback is too valuable a thought
to be relinquished, only she is embarrassed at the idea of the
teacher as its object. The lack of clothes likewise arouses strong
interest. The bridal veil has now become black, like a veil of
mourning (naturally in order to conceal anything indelicate).
Here the innocent turn has even been given a virtuous accent
("nice generous children"); the immoral wish has surreptitiously
changed into something virtuous on which special emphasis is
laid, suspect like every accentuated virtue. The narrator has
exuberantly filled in the blanks in the scene of the barn; the
men take off their coats, the teacher follows suit and is conse
quently . . . naked, and feels cold. Whereupon it becomes too
"improper." She has correctly recognized the parallels we con
jectured above when discussing the original story, and has
added the undressing scene which really belongs to the bathing
scene-here, for it had to come out in the end that the girls were
together with the naked teacher.
105 (3) Marie told me she had dreamt: Once I went bathing but
there was no more room. The teacher took me into his cabin. I un
dressed and went bathing. I swam until I reached the bank. There
I met the teacher. He said, wouldn't I like to swim across the lake
with him? I went, and Lina also. We swam out and were soon in the
middle of the lake. I did not want to swim any further. Now I can't
remember it exactly. Soon a ship came along and we got on the
ship. The teacher said, "I'm cold/' and a sailor gave us an old shirt.
Each of us tore a piece off. I tied it round my neck. Then we left
the ship and swam on to K.
Lina and I did not want to go any further and two fat men took
us on their backs. In K. we got a veil which we put on. In K. we went
into the street. The teacher met his friend who invited us to his
wedding. We went to the Sun Inn and played games. We also danced
the polonaise. Now I don't remember exactly. Afterwards we went
on the honeymoon trip to Andermatt. The teacher had no money
with him and stole some chestnuts. The teacher told us, "I am so
glad I can travel with my two pupils." Now comes something im
proper which I will not write. Now the dream is finished.
106 Here the undressing together takes place in the bathingcabin.
The lack of clothes on the ship gives rise to a new variant
(old shirt torn into three pieces). Because of its uncertainty, the
sitting on the teacher is not mentioned. Instead, the girls sit on
the backs of two fat men. As "fat" is stressed in this and the
previous version, it is worth mentioning that the teacher was
more than a little plump. The substitution is typical: each of the
girls has a teacher. Duplication or multiplication of person
alities expresses their significance, i.e., their investment with
libido. The same is true of the repetition of actions.4 The sig
nificance of this multiplication is especially clear in religion and
mythology. (Cf. the Trinity and the two mystic formulae of
confession: "Isis una quae es omnia," "Hermes omnia solus ct
ter unus.") Proverbially we say: "He eats, drinks, or sleeps 'for
Also, the multiplication of personality expresses an anal
ogy or comparison: my friend has the "same aetiological value"
as myself (Freud). In dementia praecox, or schizophrenia, to use
Bleuler's broader and better term, the multiplication of per
sonality is primarily the expression of libido investment, for it
is invariably the person to whom the patient has a transference
who is liable to multiplication. ("There are two Professor N's."
"Oh, so you are Dr. Jung too. This morning another person
came to see me who also called himself Dr. Jung.") It seems
4 Cf. the duplication of attributes in dementia praecox in my "The Psychology
of Dementia Praecox."
that, in keeping with the general tendency of schizophrenia, this
splitting is an analytical depotentiation for the purpose of pre
venting too powerful impressions. A further significance of the
multiplication of personality, though it does not come exactly
into this category, is the raising of some attribute to a living fig
ure. A simple example is Dionysus and his companion Phales,
Phales (phallos) being the personification of the penis of Diony
sus. The so-called Dionysian train (satyrs, tityrs, Sileni, maenads,
Mimallones, etc.) consists of personifications of Dionysian at
107 The scene in Andermatt is portrayed with a nice wit, or more
correctly, is dreamt further. "The teacher stole some chestnuts"
is equivalent to saying that he did something prohibited. By
chestnuts is meant roast chestnuts, which because of the split are
known to be female sexual symbols. Hence the teacher's remark
that he was "so glad to travel with his two pupils/' following di
rectly on the theft of the chestnuts, becomes understandable.
The theft of the chestnuts is certainly a personal interpolation,
for it occurs in no other account. It shows how intense was the
inner participation of her schoolmates in Marie's dream, i.e., it
had the "same aetiological value" for them.
108 This is the last of the aural witnesses. The story of the veil
and the pain in the foot or leg are items which may well have
been mentioned in the original narrative. Other interpolations
are altogether personal and are based on inner participation in
the meaning of the dream.
Hearsay Evidence
109 (i) The whole school went bathing with the teacher. Only Marie
had no room to undress in the bathing-place. So the teacher said,
"You can come into my room and undress with me." She must have
felt very uncomfortable. When both were undressed they went into
the lake. The teacher took a long cord and tied it round Marie.
Then they both swam far out. But Marie got tired, so the teacher
took her on his back. Then Marie saw Lina, she called out, "Come
with me," and Lina came. They all swam out still further. They met
a ship. Then the teacher asked, "May we get in? These girls are
tired." The ship stopped and they all got in. I don't know exactly
how they came ashore at K. Then the teacher got an old night-shirt.
He put it on. Then he met a friend who was having a wedding.
Teacher, Marie, and Lina were invited. The wedding was cele
brated at the Crown in K. They wanted to dance the polonaise. The
teacher said he would not do it. But the others said he might as
well. He did it with Marie. Teacher said, "I will not go home any
more to my wife and children. I love you best, Marie." She was very
pleased. After the wedding there was a honeymoon trip. Teacher,
Marie, and Lina were allowed to go with them. The trip was to
Milan. Afterwards they went to Andermatt, where they could find
no place to sleep. They went to a barn, where they could stop the
night all together. I must not tell any more because it becomes very
The undressing scene at the bathing-place is fully developed.
The swim undergoes a simplification for which the story of the
rope had paved the way: the teacher ties himself to Marie, but
Lina is not mentioned here, she comes only later when Marie
was already sitting on the teacher's back. Here the clothing is
a night-shirt. The wedding celebrations are given a very direct
interpretation: the teacher does not want to go home any more
to his wife and children, he loves Marie best. In the barn they
found a place "all together" and then it "became very indecent."
(2) They said she had gone with the school to the bathing-place
to bathe. But as the bathing-place was too full, the teacher called
her to come with him. Then we swam out in the lake and Lina fol
lowed us. Then the teacher took a cord and tied us together. I don't
know exactly how they got separated again. But after a long time
they suddenly arrived at Z. There a scene is said to have taken place
which I would rather not tell, for if it was true it would be too
shameful. Also I don't know exactly what is supposed to have hap
pened as I was very tired. Only I have heard that Marie said she
was always to remain with the teacher now, and that he hugged her
again and again as his best pupil. If I knew exactly I would also tell
the other thing, but my sister only said something about a little
child that was born there, and the teacher was said to be the god
Note that in this story the indecent scene is inserted at the
wedding festivities, where it is just as appropriate as at the end,
for the attentive reader will long ago have observed that it could
also have taken place in the bathing-cabin. Actually, things have
happened as they usually do in dreams: the final thought in a
long series of dream-images contains precisely what the first
image in the series was trying to represent. The censor pushes
the complex away as long as possible by means of ever-renewed
symbolical disguises, displacements, bowdlerizations, etc. Noth
ing happens in the bathing-cabin, there is no piggyback in the
water, on landing it is not on the teacher's back that the girls sit,
it is another pair who get married, another girl has a child in
the barn, and the teacher is only godfather. But all these situa
tions and images lend themselves to representing the wish for
coitus. Behind all these metamorphoses the action nevertheless
takes place, and the result is the birth staged at the end.
113 (3) Marie said: the teacher had a wedding with his wife, and
afterwards they went to the Crown and danced together. Marie said
all sorts of other wild things which I must not tell or write about,
it is too embarrassing.
114 Here pretty well everything is too improper to be told. Note
that the wedding takes place with the "wife/*
115 (4) The teacher and Marie went bathing, and he asked Marie if
she wanted to come along too. She said yes. When they had gone
out together they met Lina, and the teacher asked if she wanted to
come with them. And they went further out. Then I heard that she
said the teacher said that Lina and she were his favourite pupils.
She also told us that the teacher was in his bathing-dress. Then they
went to a wedding and the bride got a little child.
* l6 The personal relationship to the teacher is strongly empha
sized ("favourite pupils"), likewise the inadequate clothing
117 (5) Marie and Lina went bathing with the teacher. When Mari< and Lina and the teacher had swum a little way, Marie said "Teacher, I can't go any further, my foot hurts me." The teache told her to sit on his back and Marie did so. Then a little steame came along and the teacher got into the ship. The teacher had tw< ropes with him and tied the children to the ship. Then they all wen to Z. and got out there. The teacher bought himself a night-shir and put it on and the children put a towel over them. Teacher ha< a bride and they were in a barn. The two children were also wit the teacher and his bride in the barn and they danced. I must nc write the other thing for it is too awful. n8 Here Marie sits on the teacher's back. The teacher faster the two children to the ship with ropes, from which it can t 43 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS seen how easily "ship" is substituted for "teacher." The night shirt again emerges as the article of clothing. It was the teacher's own wedding, and what is improper comes after the dance. J1 9 (6: Lina.) The teacher went bathing with the whole school. Marie could not find any room, and she cried. The teacher then told Marie she could come into his cabin. "I must leave out something here and there," said my sister, "for it is a long story.'* But she told me something more which I must tell in order to speak the truth. When they were in the water the teacher asked Marie if she would like to swim across the lake with him. She answered that if I came she would come too. Then we swam about halfway. Marie got tired and the teacher pulled her by a cord. At K. they went on shore and from there to Z. All this time the teacher is supposed to have been dressed as for swimming. There we met a friend who was having a wedding. We were invited to it by this friend. After the feast there was a honeymoon trip, and we went to Milan. We had to sleep one night in a barn and there something happened which I must not tell. The teacher said we were his favourite pupils, and he also kissed Marie. 120 The excuse "I must leave out something here and there" re places the undressing scene. Special emphasis is laid on the teacher's inadequate clothing. The journey to Milan is a typical honeymoon trip. This passage likewise seems to be an independ ent fantasy due to inner participation. Marie clearly figures as the loved one. 121 (7) The whole school and teacher went bathing. They all went into a room. Teacher also. Only Marie could find no room, so the teacher said to her, "I still have room." She went. Then the teacher said, "Lie on my back, I will swim out into the lake with you." I must not write any more, for it is so improper that I can hardly even say it. Except for the improper part which followed I know nothing more of the dream. !22 This narrator is getting down to the facts. Already at the bathing-place Marie was to lie on the teacher's back. Logically enough the narrator does not know anything of the rest of the dream except the improper part. 123 (8) The whole school went bathing. Marie had no room and was invited into his cabin by the teacher. The teacher swam out with her and told her, straight, she was his darling or something like 44 A CONTRIBUTION TO THE PSYCHOLOGY OF RUMOUR that. When they came ashore at Z. a friend had just had a wedding and this friend invited them both in their bathing-costume. The teacher had found an old night-shirt and put it on over his swim ming-pants. He also kissed Marie a lot and said he would not go home to his wife any more. They were both invited on the honey moon trip. The journey went through Andermatt, where they could not find any place to sleep, and so had to sleep in the hay. A woman was there too, now cornes the dreadful part, and it is not at all right to laugh and joke about something so serious. This woman got a little child, but I will not say any more for it is too dreadful. 124 The narrator is very downright ("he told her, straight, she was his darling," "he kissed her a lot" etc.). Her obvious indigna tion over the silly tattling tells us something special about her character. Subsequent investigations showed that this girl was the only one of all the witnesses who had been sexually enlight ened by her mother. Summary !25 So far as the interpretation of the dream is concerned, there is nothing for me to add; the children themselves have done all that is necessary, leaving practically nothing over for psycho analytic interpretation. The rumour has analysed and inter preted the dream. So far as I know, rumour has not been investi gated in this capacity up to now. Our case certainly makes it appear worth while to fathom the psychology of rumour from the psychoanalytic side. In presenting the material I have pur posely restricted myself to the psychoanalytic point of view, though I do not deny that my material offers numerous open ings for the invaluable researches of the followers of Stern, Claparde, and others. 126 The material enables us to understand the structure of the rumour, but psychoanalysis cannot rest satisfied with that. We need to know more about the why and the wherefore of the whole phenomenon. As we have seen, the teacher was greatly affected by the rumour and was left puzzled by the problem of its cause and effect. How can a dream, which is notoriously harmless and never means anything (teachers, as we know, also have a training in psychology), produce such effects, such mali cious gossip? Faced with this question, the teacher seems to me to have hit instinctively on the right answer. The effect of the 45 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS dream can only be explained by its being "le vrai mot de la situation"; that is to say, it gave suitable expression to something that was already in the air. It was the spark which fell into the powder-barrel. Our material affords all the necessary proofs of this view. Throughout, I have drawn attention to the inner participation of Marie's schoolmates in her dream, and to the points of special interest where some of them have added their own fantasies or day-dreams. The class consisted of girls be tween the ages of twelve and thirteen, who were therefore in the midst of the prodromata of puberty. The dreamer herself was almost fully developed sexually and in this respect ahead of her class; she was the leader who gave the watchword for the unconscious and so detonated the sexual complexes lying dor mant in her companions. 2 7 As can easily be understood, the whole affair was most dis tressing for the teacher. The supposition that this, precisely, was what the girls secretly intended is justified by the psycho analytic axiom that actions are to be judged more by their re sults than by their conscious motives. 5 Accordingly, we would conjecture that Marie had been especially troublesome to her teacher. At first she liked this teacher most of all. In the course of the last six months, however, her position had changed. She had become dreamy and inattentive, she was afraid to go into the streets after dark because of bad men. On several occasions she talked about sex to her companions in a rather obscene way; her mother asked me anxiously how she was to explain the ap proaching menstruation to her daughter. Because of her be haviour she had forfeited the good opinion of her teacher, as was clearly evidenced for the first time by a bad report which she and some of her friends received a few days before the out break of the rumour. Their disappointment was so great that the girls indulged in all sorts of vengeful fantasies about the teacher; for instance, they might push him on to the rails so that the train would run over him. Marie was especially to the fore in these murderous fantasies. On the night following this great outburst of anger, when her former love for her teacher seemed quite forgotten, that repressed part of herself rose up in the dream, and fulfilled its wish for sexual union with the 5 Cf. my "Psychic Conflicts in a Child." A CONTRIBUTION TO THE PSYCHOLOGY OF RUMOUR teacher as compensation for the hate which had filled the day. 6 On waking, the dream became a subtle instrument of her hatred, because its wishful thinking was also that of her com panions, as it always is in rumours of this kind. Revenge cer tainly had its triumph, but the recoil upon Marie herself was even more severe. Such is the rule when our impulses are given over to the unconscious. Marie was expelled from school, but on my report was allowed to return. 128 I am well aware that this short report is inadequate and un satisfactory from the point of view of exact science. Had the original story been accurately verified we could have demon strated quite clearly what we have now only been able to sug gest. This case, therefore, merely poses a question, and it re mains for more fortunate observers to collect really convincing evidence in this field. 6 [It may be not without significance that, used transitively, the word aujsitzen literally, 'sit a person up' means 'to deceive/ 'to make a fool of/ someone, or, as we might say today in this context, 'to take him for a ride.' TRANS.] 47 ON THE SIGNIFICANCE OF NUMBER DREAMS 1 12 9 The symbolism of numbers, which greatly engaged the philo sophic fantasy of earlier centuries, has acquired a fresh interest from the analytical researches of Freud and his school. In the material of number dreams we no longer discover conscious speculations on the symbolic connections between numbers, but rather the unconscious roots of number symbolism. As there is nothing fundamentally new to be offered in this field since the researches of Freud, Adler, and Stekel, we must content our selves with corroborating their experience by citing parallel cases. I have under observation a few cases of this kind which may be worth reporting for their general interest. l $ The first three examples are from a middle-aged man whose conflict of the moment was an extramarital love-affair. The dream-fragment from which I take the symbolical number is: . . . the dreamer shows his season ticket to the conductor. The conductor protests at the high number on the ticket. It was 247*7. w The analysis of the dream brought out a rather ungentlemanly reckoning up of the expenses of this love-affair, which was foreign to the dreamer's generous nature. His unconscious made use of this in order to resist the affair. The most obvi ous interpretation would be that this number had a financial significance and origin. A rough estimate of the expenses so far involved led to a number which in fact approached 2477 francs; a more careful calculation gave 2387 francs, a number which could only arbitrarily be translated into 2477. I then lefr the number to the free association of the patient. It occurred to him that in the dream the number appeared divided: 24 77. Per haps it was a telephone number. This conjecture proved in correct. The next association was that it was the sum of various i [Originally published as "Ein Beitrag mr Kenntnis des Zahlentraumes," Zentralblatt fur Psychoanalyse (Wiesbaden), I (1910/11), 5^7-72. Previously trans lated by M. D. Eder in Collected Papers on Analytical Psychology (London, 1916; 2nd edn., London, 1917, and New York, 1922) .EDITORS.] ON THE SIGNIFICANCE OF NUMBER DREAMS other numbers. At this point the patient remembered telling me earlier that he had just celebrated the hundredth birthday of his mother and himself, since she was sixty-five and he was thirty-five. (Their birthdays fell on the same day.) In this way he arrived at the following series of associations: He was born on 26. II 2 His mistress 28. VIII His wife i.III His mother (his father was long dead) 26. II His two children 29. IV 13. VII He was born II. 75 8 His mistress VIII. 85 He was now 36 His mistress 25 132 If this series of associations is written down in the usual fig ures, we get the following sum: 262 288 13 262 294 137 275 885 36 2477 33 This series, which includes all the members of his family, thus gives the number 2477. I ts composition led to a deeper layer of the dream's meaning. The patient was greatly attached to his family but on the other hand very much in love with his mistress. This caused him severe conflicts. The details of the "conductor's" appearance (omitted here for the sake of brevity) pointed to the analyst, from whom the patient both feared and wished firm control as well as sharp censure of his dependent state. 2 [Bay and month.] & [Month and year.] 49 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS *34 The dream that followed shortly afterwards ran (much ab breviated): The analyst asked the patient what he actually did when he was with his mistress. The patient said he gambled, and always on a very high number: 152. The analyst remarked: "You are sadly cheated.'' *35 Analysis once more revealed a repressed tendency to reckon up the costs of the affair. The monthly expenses amounted to close on 152 francs (actually between 148 and 158). The remark that he was being cheated alluded to the point at issue between himself and his mistress. She asserted that he deflowered her, but he was quite convinced that she was not a virgin and had al ready been deflowered by someone else at a time when he was seeking her favours and she was refusing him. The word "num ber" led to the association "size in gloves," "size of calibre." From there it was but a short step to the fact that he had noted at the first coitus a remarkable width of the opening instead of the expected resistance of the hymen. This seemed to him proof of deception. The unconscious naturally used this discovery as a most effective means of resistance against the relationship. The number 152 proved refractory at first to further analysis. But on a later occasion it led to the not so distant idea of a "house number/' followed by these associations: when he first knew her the lady lived at 17 X Street, then at 129 Y Street, then at 48 Z Street. *36 Here the patient realized that he had already gone far be yond 152, for the total was 194. It then occurred to him that, for certain reasons, the lady had left 48 Z Street at his instigation, so the total must be 194 - 48 = 146. She was now living at 6 A Street, hence it was 146 + 6:= 152. 137 Later in the analysis he had the following dream: He re ceived a bill from the analyst charging him interest of i franc on a sum of 315 "francs for delay in payment from the jrd to the zpth September. is8 This reproach of meanness and avariciousness levelled at the analyst covered, as analysis proved, a strong unconscious envy. There were several things in the analyst's life that might arouse the envy of the patient. One thing in particular had made an impression on him: the analyst had lately had an addition to his family. The disturbed relations between the patient and his wife unfortunately permitted no such expectation in his case. 5 ON THE SIGNIFICANCE OF NUMBER DREAMS There was therefore ample ground for invidious comparisons. 139 As before, the analysis started by dividing the number 315 into 3 i 5. The patient associated 3 with the fact that the analyst had 3 children, with the recent addition of another i. He himself would have had 5 children if all were living, as it was he had 3 _ i = 2, for 3 children were stillborn. But these associations were far from exhausting the number symbolism of the dream. HO The patient remarked that the period from the 3rd to the 2gth September comprised 26 days. His next thought was to add this and the remaining numbers = together: 26 + 315+1 342- He then carried out the same operation on 342 as on 315, dividing it into 3 4 2. Whereas before it came out that the analyst had 3 children, with i in addition, and the patient would have had 5, now the meaning was: the analyst had 3 children, now has 4, but the patient only 2. He remarked that the second number sounded like a rectification of the wish-fulfilment of the first. *4* The patient, who had discovered this explanation for him self without my help, declared himself satisfied. His analyst, however, was not; to him it seemed that the above revelations did not exhaust the possibilities determining the unconscious products. In connection with the number 5, the patient had carefully noted that, of the 3 stillborn children, i was born in the gth and 2 in the 7th month. He also emphasized that his wife had had 2 miscarriages, i in the 5th week and i in the 7th. If we add these figures together we get the determination of the number 26: 1 child 7 months 7 9 " 2 miscarriages (5 + 7 weeks) =3 It seems as if 26 were determined by the number of lost periods of pregnancy. In the dream the period of 26 days de noted a delay for which the patient was charged i franc interest. Owing to the lost pregnancies he did in fact suffer a delay, for during the time in which the patient knew him the analyst got FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS ahead by i child, i franc may therefore mean i child. We have already noted the patient's tendency to add together all his chil dren, including the dead ones, in order to outdo his rival. The thought that his analyst had outdone him by i child might in fluence even more strongly the determination of the number i. We shall therefore follow up this tendency of the patient and continue his number game by adding to 26 the 2 successful pregnancies of 9 months each: 26 -f 18 = 44. H3 Dividing the numbers again into integers we get 2 + 6 and 4 + 4, two groups of figures which have only one thing in com mon, that each gives 8 by addition. It is to be noted that these figures are composed entirely of the months of pregnancy accru ing to the patient. If we compare them with the figures indi cating the progenitive capacity of the analyst, namely 315 and 342, we observe that the latter, added crosswise, each gives a total of 9. Now 9 8 = i. Again it seems as if the thought of the difference of i were asserting itself. The patient had remarked earlier that 315 seemed to him a wish-fulfilment and 342 a rec tification. Letting our fantasy play round them, we discover the following difference between the two numbers: 3 X i X 5 - 15 3X4X2 = 24 24 - 15 ~ 9 M4 Once more we come upon the significant figure 9, which fits very aptly into this calculus of pregnancies and births. 145 It is difficult to say where the borderline of play beginsnec essarily so, for an unconscious product is the creation of sportive fantasy, of that psychic impulse out of which play itself arises. It is repugnant to the scientific mind to indulge in this kind of playfulness, which tails off everywhere in inanity. But we should never forget that the human mind has for thousands of years amused itself with just this kind of game, so it would be no wonder if those tendencies from the distant past gained a hear ing in dreams. Even in his waking life the patient gave free rein to his number-fantasies, as the fact of celebrating the looth birthday shows. Their presence in his dreams is therefore be yond question. For a single example of unconscious determina tion exact proofs are lacking, only the sum of our experiences can corroborate the accuracy of the individual discoveries. In in vestigating the realm of free creative fantasy we have to rely, 5* ON THE SIGNIFICANCE OF NUMBER DREAMS more almost than anywhere else, on a broad empiricism; and though this enjoins on us a high degree of modesty with regard to the accuracy of individual results, it by no means obliges us to pass over in silence what has happened and been observed, simply from fear of being execrated as unscientific. There must be no parleying with the superstition-phobia of the modern mind, for this is one of the means by which the secrets of the unconscious are kept veiled. 146 It is particularly interesting to see how the problems of the patient were mirrored in the unconscious of his wife. His wife had the following dream: she dreamt and this is the whole dream Luke 137. Analysis of this number showed that she as sociated as follows: the analyst has got i more child. He had 3. If all her children (counting the miscarriages) were living, she would have 7; now she has only 3 1 = 2. But she wants i + 3 + 7 = l 1 ( a twin number, i and i), which expresses her wish that her two children had been pairs of twins, for then she would have had the same number of children as the analyst. Her mother once had twins. The hope of getting a child by her hus band was very precarious, and this had long since implanted in the unconscious the thought of a second marriage. *47 Other fantasies showed her as "finished" at 44, i.e., when she reached the climacteric. She was now 33, so there were only 11 more years to go till she was 44. This was a significant number, for her father died in his 44th year. Her fantasy of the 44th year thus contained the thought of her father's death. The emphasis on the death of her father corresponded to the repressed fantasy of the death of her husband, who was the obstacle to a second marriage. *48 At this point the material to "Luke 137" comes in to help solve the conflict. The dreamer, it must be emphatically re marked, was not at all well up in the Bible, she had not read it for an incredible time and was not in the least religious. It would therefore be quite hopeless to rely on associations here. Her ignorance of the Bible was so great that she did not even know that "Luke 137" could refer only to the Gospel according to St. Luke. When she turned up the New Testament she opened it instead at the Acts of the Apostles. 4 As Acts i has only 26 4 [Sometimes called in German Apostelgeschichte St Lucae. TRANS.] 53 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS verses, she took the 7th verse: "It is not for you to know the times or the seasons, which the Father hath put in his own power." But if we turn to Luke i : 37, we find the Annunciation of the Virgin: 35. The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the Highest shall overshadow thee: therefore also that holy thing which shall be born of thee shall be called the Son of God. 36. And, behold, thy cousin Elisabeth, she hath also conceived a son in her old age: and this is the sixth month with her, who was called barren. 37. For with God nothing shall be impossible. *49 The logical continuation of the analysis of "Luke 137" re quires us also to look up Luke 13:7. There we read: 6. A certain man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came and sought fruit thereon, and found none. 7. Then said he unto the dresser of his vineyard, Behold, these three years I come seeking fruit on this fig tree, and find none: cut it down; why cumbereth it the ground? !5o The fig-tree, since ancient times a symbol of the male geni tals, must be cut down on account of its unfruitfulness. This passage is in complete accord with the numerous sadistic fan tasies of the dreamer, which were concerned with cutting off or biting off the penis. The allusion to her husband's unfruitful organ is obvious. It was understandable that the dreamer with drew her libido from her husband, for with her he was impo tent, 5 and equally understandable that she made a regression to her father (". . . which the Father hath put in his own power") and identified with her mother, who had twins. By thus ad vancing her age she put her husband in the role of a son or boy, of an age when impotence is normal. We can also under stand her wish to get rid of her husband, as was moreover con firmed by her earlier analysis. It is therefore only a further confirmation of what has been said if, following up the material to "Luke 137," we turn to Luke 7 : 13: 12. Now when he came nigh to the gate of the city, behold, there was a dead man carried out, the only son of his mother, and she was a widow . . . 5 The husband's principal trouble was a pronounced mother complex. 54 ON THE SIGNIFICANCE OF NUMBER DREAMS 13. And when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her, and said unto her, Weep not. 14. And he came and touched the bier: and they that bare him stood still. And he said, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise. 15 1 In the particular psychological situation of the dreamer the allusion to the raising up of the dead man acquires a pretty significance as the curing of her husband's impotence. Then the whole problem would be solved. There is no need for me to point out in so many words the numerous wish-fulfilments con tained in this material; the reader can see them for himself. 152 Since the dreamer was totally ignorant of the Bible, "Luke 137" must be regarded as a cryptomnesia. Both Flournoy 6 and myself 7 have already drawn attention to the important effects of this phenomenon. So far as one can be humanly certain, any manipulation of the material with intent to deceive is out of the question in this case. Those familiar with psychoanalysis will know that the whole nature of the material rules out any such suspicion. 153 I am aware that these observations are floating in a sea of uncertainties, but I think it would be wrong to suppress them, for luckier investigators may come after us who will be able to put them in the right perspective, as we cannot do for lack of adequate knowledge. QFrom India to the Planet Mars (1900); "Nouvelles Observations sur un cas de somnambulisme avec glossolalie" (1901). 7 Cf. Psychiatric Studies, pp. 8iff. and 95*?. 55 MORTON PRINCE, "THE MECHANISM AND INTERPRETATION OF DREAMS": A CRITICAL REVIEW * 154 I hope that all colleagues and fellow workers who, following in Freud's footsteps, have investigated the problem of dreams, and have been able to confirm the basic principles of dreaminterpretation, will forgive me if I pass over their corroborative work and speak instead of another investigation which, though it has led to less positive results, is for that reason the more suited to public discussion. A fact especially worth noting is that Morton Prince, thanks to his previous work and his deep insight into psychopathological problems, is singularly well equipped to understand the psychology inaugurated by Freud. I do not know whether Morton Prince has sufficient command of Ger man to read Freud in the original, though this is almost a sine qua non for understanding him. But if he must rely only on writ ings in English, the very clear presentation of dream-analysis by Ernest Jones, in "Freud's Theory of Dreams/' 2 would have given him all the necessary knowledge. Apart from that, there are already a large number of articles and reports by Brill and Jones, and recently also by Putnam,8 Meyer, Hoch, Scripture, and others, which shed light on the various aspects of psycho- 1 [Originally published in the Jahrbuch fur psychoanalytische und psychopathologische Forschungenf III (1911), 309-28. The article by Prince (1854-1929) was published in the Journal of Abnormal Psychology (Boston), V (1910), 139-95. For Prince's relations with the early psychoanalytical movement, see Jones, Life and Work, II, passim. EDITORS.] 2 American Journal of Psychology, XXI (1910), sSsjff. 3 1 should not omit to mention that James J. Putnam, professor of neurology in Harvard Medical School, has tested and made medical use of psychoanalysis. (See Putnam, "PersSnliche Erfahrungen mit Freuds psychoanalytischer Methode," 1911.) [And Putnam's "Personal Impressions of Sigmund Freud and His "Work" (1909-10). Adolf Meyer, August Hoch, and Edward Wheeler Scripture also prac tised in America. EDITORS.] 56 A CRITICAL REVIEW OF MORTON PRINCE analysis (or "depth psychology," as Bleuler calls it). And, for full measure, there have been available for some time not only Freud's and my lectures at Clark University, 4 but several translations of our works as well, so that even those who have no knowledge of German would have had ample opportunity to familiarize themselves with the subject. 155 It was not through personal contact, of whose suggestive in fluence Professor Hoche 5 has an almost superstitious fear very flattering to us, but presumably through reading that Morton Prince acquired the necessary knowledge of analysis. As the Ger man-speaking reader may be aware, Morton Prince is the author of a valuable book, The Dissociation of a Personality, which takes a worthy place beside the similar studies of Binet, Janet, and Flournoy. 6 Prince is also, of course, the editor of the Journal of Abnormal Psychology, in almost every issue of which ques tions of psychoanalysis are discussed without bias. is 6 From this introduction the reader will see that I am not saying too much when I represent Morton Prince as an unpreju diced investigator with a firmly established scientific reputation and undisputed competence in judging psychopathological problems. Whereas Putnam is chiefly concerned with the thera peutic aspect of psychoanalysis and has discussed it with ad mirable frankness, Morton Prince is interested in a particularly controversial subject, namely, dream-analysis. It is here that every follower of Freud has lost his honourable name as a man of science in the eyes of German scientists. Freud's fundamental 4 [The lectures were first published (in English translation) in the American Jour nal of Psychology, XXI (1910). For Freud's, see "Five Lectures on Psycho-Analysis," Standard Edn., XI. The three lectures by Jung, entitled "The Association Method," were republished in Collected Papers on Analytical Psychology (1916). For the first two, "The Association Method" and "The Familial Constellations," see Vol. 2 in the Collected Works; the third, "Psychic Conflicts in a Child," ap pears in Vol. 17 in its later, revised form of 1946. EDITORS.] 5 As is well known, Professor Hoche, of Freiburg im Breisgau, described Freud and his school as afflicted with epidemic insanity. Participants in the congress ac cepted this diagnosis without rebuttal and with applause. [Alfred E. Hoche, "Eine psychische Epidemic unter Arzten," Versammlung Siid-West Deutscher Irrenarzte, Baden-Baden, May 1910. See Jones, Life and Work, II, 131 EDITORS.] 6 It is especially to be regretted that the learned men or to be more accurate, the men who today go in for learning all too often have an interest which is merely national and stops at the frontier. It would be a great relief to psycho analysts if more Binet, Janet, and Flournoy were read in Germany. 57 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS contribution, The Interpretation of Dreams, has been treated with irresponsible levity by the German critics. As usual, they were ready to hand with glib phrases like "brilliant mistake," "ingenious aberration/' etc. But that any of the psychologists, neurologists, and psychiatrists should really get down to it and try out his wit on Freud's dream-interpretation was too much to expect. 7 Perhaps they did not dare to. I almost believe they did not dare, because the subject is indeed very difficult less, I think, for intellectual reasons than on account of personal, sub jective resistances. For it is just here that psychoanalysis de mands a sacrifice which no other science demands of its adher ents: ruthless self-knowledge. It needs to be repeated again and again that practical and theoretical understanding of psycho analysis is a function of analytical self-knowledge. Where selfknowledge fails, psychoanalysis cannot flourish. This is a para dox only so long as people think that they know themselves. And who does not think that? In ringing tones of deepest con viction everyone assures us that he does. And yet it is simply not true, a childish illusion which is indispensable to one's selfesteem. There can be no doubt whatever that a doctor who covers up his lack of knowledge and ability with increased selfconfidence will never be able to analyse, for otherwise he would have to admit the truth to himself and would become impossible in his own eyes. 157 We must rate it all the higher, then, when a scientist of re pute, like Morton Prince, courageously tackles the problem and seeks to master it in his own way. We are ready to meet at any time the objections that spring from honest work of this kind. We have no answer only for those who are afraid of real work and are satisfied with making cheap academic speeches. But be fore taking up Prince's objections, we shall have a look at his field of inquiry and at hisin our sense positive results. Prince worked through six dreams of a woman patient who was capable of different states of consciousness and could be examined in several of these states. He used interrogation under hypnosis as well as "free association." We learn that he had already analysed 7 Those who did so were the ones who openly sided with Freud. Isserlin, on the other hand, contented himself with criticizing the method a priori, having no practical knowledge of the matter. Bleuler did what he could, under the circum stances, to answer him ("Die Psychoanalyse Freuds," 1910). 58 A CRITICAL REVIEW OF MORTON PRINCE several dozen dreams.8 Prince found that the method of free association "enables us by the examination of a large number of dreams in the same person to search the whole field of the un conscious, and by comparison of all the dreams to discover cer tain persistent, conserved ideas which run through and influence the psychical life of the individual/' 9 Using the "insane" psycho analytic method, therefore, the American investigator was able to discover, in the realm of the unconscious, something that perceptibly influences psychic life. For him the "method" is a method after all, he is convinced that there is an unconscious and all the rest of it, without being in any way hypnotized by Freud personally. 158 Prince admits, further, that we must consider as dream-ma terial "certain subconscious ideas of which the subject had not been aware" (p. 150), thus recognizing that the sources of dreams can lie in the unconscious. The following passage brings im portant and emphatic confirmation of this: It was a brilliant stroke of genius that led Freud to the discovery that dreams are not the meaningless vagaries that they were previ ously supposed to be, but when interpreted through the method of psychoanalysis may be found to have a logical and intelligible mean ing. This meaning, however, is generally hidden in a mass of sym bolism which can only be unraveled by a searching investigation into the previous mental experiences of the dreamer. Such an in vestigation requires, as I have already pointed out, the resurrection of all the associated memories pertaining to the elements of the dream. When this is done the conclusion is forced upon us, I believe, that even the most fantastic dream may express some intelligent idea, though that idea may be hidden in symbolism. My own ob servations confirm those of Freud, so far as to show that running through each dream there is an intelligent motive; so that the dream can be interpreted as expressing some idea or ideas which the dreamer previously has entertained. At least all the dreams I have subjected to analysis justify this interpretation. 8 In order to give the reader some idea of the experience the psychoanalyst pos sesses of dream analysis I would mention that, on average, I analyse eight dreams per working day. That makes about two thousand a year. Similar figures prob ably hold good for most psychoanalysts. Freud himself has immense experience in analysing dreams. 9 "The Mechanism and Interpretation of Dreams," p. 145. 59 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS *59 Prince is thus in a position to admit that dreams have a meaning, that the meaning is hidden in symbols, and that in order to find the meaning one needs the memory-material. All this confirms essential portions of Freud's dream interpretation, far more than the a priori critics have ever admitted. As a result of certain experiences Prince has also come to conceive hysteri cal symptoms "as possible symbolisms of hidden processes of thought." In spite of the views expressed in Binswanger's Die Hysteric, which might have prepared the ground, this has still not penetrated the heads of German psychiatrists. 160 I have, as I said, begun with Prince's affirmative statements. We now come to the deviations and objections (p. 151): I am unable to confirm [Freud's view] that every dream can be interpreted as "the imaginary fulfillment of a wish," which is the motive of the dream. That sometimes a dream can be recognized as the fulfillment of a wish there can be no question, but that every dream, or that the majority of dreams are such, I have been unable to verify, even after subjecting the individual to the most exhaustive analysis. On the contrary I find, if my interpretations are correct, that some dreams are rather the expression of the non-fulfillment of a wish; some seem to be that of the fulfillment of a fear or anxiety. 161 In this passage we have everything that Prince cannot accept. It should be added that the wish itself often seems to him not to be "repressed" and not to be so unconscious or important as Freud would lead us to expect. Hence Freud's theory that a re pressed wish is the real source of the dream, and that it fulfils itself in the dream, is not accepted by Prince, because he was unable to see these things in his material. But at least he tried to see them, and the theory seemed to him worth a careful check, which is definitely not the case with many of our critics. (I should have thought that this procedure would be an un written law of academic decency.) Fortunately, Prince has also presented us with the material from which he drew his conclu sions. We are thus in a position to measure our experience against his and at the same time to find the reasons for any mis understanding. He has had great courage in exposing himself in this commendable way, for we now have an opportunity to com pare our divergencies openly with his material, a procedure which will be instructive in every respect. 60 A CRITICAL REVIEW OF MORTON PRINCE 162 In order to show how it is that Prince was able to see only the formal and not the dynamic element of the dreams, we must examine his material in more detail. One gathers, from various indications in the material, that the dreamer was a lady in late middle age, with a grown-up son who was studying, and ap parently that she was unhappily married (or perhaps divorced or separated). For some years she had suffered from an hysterical dissociation of personality, and, we infer, had regressive fanta sies about two earlier love-affairs, which the author, perhaps owing to the prudery of the public, is obliged to hint at rather too delicately. He succeeded in curing the patient of her dis sociation for eighteen months, but now things seem to be going badly again, for she remained anxiously dependent on the analyst, and he found this so tiresome that he twice wanted to send her to a colleague. 163 Here we have the well-known picture of an unanalysed and unadmitted transference, which, as we know, consists in the anchoring of the patient's erotic fantasies to the analyst. The six dreams are an illustrative excerpt from the analyst's struggle against the clinging transference of the patient. 164 Dream i: C [the patient's dream-ego] was somewhere and saw an old woman who appeared to be a Jewess. She was holding a bottle and a glass and seemed to be drinking whiskey; then this woman changed into her own mother, who had the bottle and glass, and ap peared likewise to be drinking whiskey; then the door opened and her father appeared. He had on her husband's dressing-gown, and he was holding two sticks of wood in his hand. [Pp. 1472.] 165 Prince found, on the basis of copious and altogether con vincing material,10 that the patient regarded the temptation to drink, and also the temptations of "poor people" in general, as something very understandable. She herself sometimes took a little whiskey in the evening, and so did her mother. But there might be something wrong in it. "The dream scene is therefore the symbolical representation and justification of her own be lief and answers the doubts and scruples that beset her mind" (p. 154). The second part of the dream, about the sticks, is cer tainly, according to Prince, a kind of wish-fulfilment, but he says it tells us nothing, since the patient had ordered fire- 10 For the practised analyst the dream itself is so clear that it can be read directly. 6l FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS wood the evening before. Despite the trouble expended on it (eight pages of print) the dream has not been analysed thor oughly enough, for the two most important items the whiskeydrinking and the sticks remain unanalysed. If the author would follow up those "temptations," he would soon discover that the patient's scruples are at bottom of a far more serious nature than a spoonful of whiskey and two bundles of wood. Why is the father who comes in, condensed with the husband? How is the Jewess determined other than by a memory of the previous day? Why are the two sticks significant and why are they in the hand of the father? And so on. The dream has not been analysed. Unfortunately its meaning is only too clear to the psychoanalyst. It says very plainly: "If I were this poor Jewess, whom I saw on the previous day, I would not resist temptation (just as mother and father don't a typical infantile comparison!), and then a man would come into my room with firewood naturally to warm me up." This, briefly, would be the meaning. The dream contains all that, only the author's analysis has discreetly stopped too soon. I trust he will forgive me for indiscreetly breaking open the tactfully closed door, so that it may clearly be seen what kind of wish-fulfilments, which "one cannot see," hide behind conventional discretion and medical blindness to sex. 166 Dream 2: A hill-she was toiling up the hill; one could hardly get up; had the sensation of some one, or thing, following her. She said, "/ must not show that I am frightened, or this thing will catch me!' Then she came where it was lighter, and she could see two clouds or shadows, one black and one red, and she said, "My God, it is A and B\ If I don't have help I am lost." (She meant that she would change again i.e., relapse into dissociated personalities.) She began to call "Dr. Prince! Dr. Prince!" and you were there and laughed, and said, "Well, you will have to fight the damned thing yourself." Then she woke up paralysed with fright. [P. 156.] 167 As the dream is very simple, we can dispense with any further knowledge of the analytical material. But Prince cannot see the wish-fulfilment in this dream, on the contrary he sees in it the "fulfilment of a fear." He commits the fundamental mistake of once again confusing the manifest dream-content with the un conscious dream-thought. In fairness to the author it should be remarked that in this case the repetition of the mistake was the 62 A CRITICAL REVIEW OF MORTON PRINCE more excusable since the crucial sentence ("Well, you will have to fight the damned thing yourself") is really very ambiguous and misleading. Equally ambiguous is the sentence "I must not show that I am frightened," etc., which, as Prince shows from the material, refers to the thought of a relapse into the illness, since the patient was frightened of a relapse. 1 68 But what does "frightened" mean? We know that it is far more convenient for the patient to be ill, because recovery brings with it a great disadvantage: she would lose her analyst. The illness reserves him, as it were, for her needs. With her interesting illness, she has obviously offered the analyst a great deal, and has received from him a good deal of interest and pa tience in return. She certainly does not want to give up this stimulating relationship, and for this reason she is afraid of re maining well and secretly hopes that something weird and won derful will befall her so as to rekindle the analyst's interest. Naturally she would do anything rather than admit that she really had such wishes. But we must accustom ourselves to the thought that in psychology there are things which the patient simultaneously knows and does not know. Things which are ap parently quite unconscious can often be shown to be conscious in another connection, and actually to have been known. Only, they were not known in their true meaning. Thus, the true meaning of the wish which the patient could not admit was not directly accessible to her consciousness, which is why we call this true meaning not conscious, or "repressed." Put in the brutal form "I will have symptoms in order to re-arouse the interest of the analyst," it cannot be accepted, true though it is, for it is too hurtful; but she could well allow a few little associations and half-smothered wishes to be discerned in the background, such as reminiscences of the time when the analysis was so interest ing, etc. 169 The sentence "I must not show that I am frightened" there fore means in reality "I must not show that I would really like a relapse because keeping well is too much trouble." "If I don't have help, I am lost" means "I hope I won't be cured too quickly or I cannot have a relapse." Then, at the end, comes the wishfulfilment: "Well, you will have to fight the damned thing yourself." The patient keeps well only out of love for the analyst. If he leaves her in the lurch she will have a relapse, and it will 63 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS be his fault for not helping her. But if she has a relapse she will have a renewed and more intense claim on his attention, and this is the point of the whole manoeuvre. It is altogether typical of dreams that the wish-fulfilment is always found where it seems most impossible to the conscious mind. The fear of a relapse is a symbol that needs analysing, and this the author has forgotten, because he took the fear, like the whiskey-drinking and the sticks, at its face value, instead of examining it scepti cally for its genuineness. His colleague Ernest Jones's excellent work On the Nightmare n would have informed him of the wishful character of these fears. But, as I know from my own experience, it is difficult for a beginner to remain conscious of all the psychoanalytic rules all the time. 170 Dream 3: She was in the rocky path of Watts's,12 barefooted, stones hurt her feet, few clothes, cold, could hardly climb that path; she saw you there, and she called on you to help her, and you said, "I cannot help you, you must help yourself." She said, "I can't, I can't." "Well, you have got to. Let me see if I cannot hammer it into your head." You picked up a stone and hammered her head, and with every blow you said, "I can't be bothered, I can't be bothered." And every blow sent a weight down into her heart so she felt heavyhearted. She woke and I saw you pounding with a stone; you looked cross. [Pp. As Prince again takes the dream literally, he can see in it merely the "non-fulfillment of a wish." Once again it must be emphasized that Freud has expressly stated that the true dreamthoughts are not identical with the manifest dream-contents. Prince has not discovered the true dream-thought simply be cause he stuck to the wording of the dream. Now, it is always risky to intervene without knowing the material oneself; one can make enormous blunders. But it may be that the material brought out by the author's analysis will be sufficient to give us a glimpse of the latent dream-thought. (Anyone who has experi ence will naturally have guessed the meaning of the dream long ago, for it is perfectly clear.) The dream is built up on the following experience. On the previous morning the patient had begged the author for medi cal help and had received the answer by telephone: "I cannot 11 [Orig, 1910. EDITORS.] 12 See Dream 5. A CRITICAL REVIEW OF MORTON PRINCE possibly come to see you today. I have engagements all the day and into the evening. I will send Dr. W, you must not depend on me" (p. 160). An unmistakable hint, therefore, that the ana lyst's time belonged also to others. The patient remarked: "I didn't say anything about it, but it played ducks and drakes with me the other night." She therefore had a bitter morsel to swal low. The analyst had done something really painful, which she, as a reasonable woman, understood well enough but not with her heart. Before going to sleep she had thought: "I must not bother him; I should think I would get that into my head after a while" (p. 161). (In the dream it is actually hammered into her head.) "If my heart was not like a stone, I should weep." (She was hammered with a stone.) As in the previous dream, it is stated that the analyst will not help her any more, and he hammers this decision of his into her head so that at every blow her heart became heavier. The situa tion that evening, therefore, is taken up too clearly in the mani fest dream-content. In such cases we must always try to find where a new element has been added to the situation of the previous day; at this point we may penetrate into the real mean ing of the dream. The painful thing is that the analyst will not treat the patient any more, but in the dream she is treated, though in a new and remarkable way. When the analyst ham mers it into her head that he cannot let himself be tormented by her chatter, he does it so emphatically that his psychotherapy turns into an extremely intense form of physical treatment or torture. This fulfils a wish which is far too shocking to be recog nized in the decent light of day, although it is a very natural and simple thought. Popular humour and all the evil tongues that have dissected the secrets of the confessional and the con sulting-room know it. ia Mephistopheles, in his famous speech about Medicine,14 guessed it too. It is one of those imperishable thoughts which nobody knows and everybody has. is Analysis by rumour. Cf. supra, "A Contribution to the Psychology of Rumour." 14 ["Learn how to handle women, that make sure, Since all the aches and sighs that come to vex The tender sex The doctor knows one little place to cure. A bedside manner sets their hearts at ease, And then they're yours for treatment as you please." Faustf Part One, trans, by Wayne, p. 98.] 65 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS Z 74 When the patient awoke she saw the analyst still carrying out that movement: pounding 15 with a stone. To name an action for a second time is to give it special prominence. 16 As in the previous dream, the wish-fulfilment lies in the greatest dis appointment. *75 It will no doubt be objected that I am reading my own cor rupt fantasies into the dream, as is customary with the Freudian school. Perhaps my esteemed colleague, the author, will be indig nant at my attributing such impure thoughts to his patient, or at least will find it quite unjustified of me to draw such a farreaching conclusion from these scanty hints. I am well aware that this conclusion, seen from the standpoint of yesterday's science, looks almost frivolous. But hundreds of parallel experi ences have shown me that the above data are really quite suf ficient to warrant my conclusion, and with a certainty that meets the most rigorous requirements. Those who have no experience of psychoanalysis can have no idea how very probable is the presence of an erotic wish and how extremely improbable is its absence. The latter illusion is naturally due to moral sex-blind ness on the one hand, but on the other to the disastrous mistake of thinking that consciousness is the whole of the psyche. This does not, of course, apply to our esteemed author. I therefore beg the reader: no moral indignation, please, but calm verifica tion. This is what science is made with, and not with howls of indignation, mockery, abuse, and threats, the weapons which the spokesmen of German science use in arguing with us. *76 It would really be incumbent on the author to present all the interim material which would finally establish the erotic meaning of the dream. Though he has not done it for this dream, everything necessary is said indirectly in the following dreams, so that my above-mentioned conclusion emerges from its isolation and will prove to be a link in a consistent chain. 177 Dream 4: [Shortly before the last dream the subject] dreamt that she was in a great ballroom, where everything was very beautiful. She was walking about, and a man came up to her and asked, "Where is your escort?" She replied, "I am alone" He then said, "You cannot stay here, we do not want any lone women." In the 15 A pounder is a pestle or club. 16 Cf. "A Contribution to the Psychology of Rumour/' par. 106. 66 A CRITICAL REVIEW OF MORTON PRINCE next scene she was in a theater and was going to sit down, when someone came and said the same thing to her: "You can't stay here, we do not want any lone women here." Then she was in ever so many different places, but wherever she went she had to leave be cause she was alone; they would not let her stay. Then she was in the street; there was a great crowd, and she saw her husband a little way ahead, and struggled to get to him through the crowd. When she got quite near she saw . . . [what we may interpret as a sym bolical representation of happiness, says Prince.] Then sickness and nausea came over her and she thought there was no place for her there either. [P. 162.] The gap in the dream is a praiseworthy piece of discretion and will certainly please the prudish reader, but it is not science. Science admits no such considerations of decency. Here it is simply a question of whether Freud's maligned theory of dreams is right or not, and not whether dream-texts sound nice to im mature ears. Would a gynaecologist suppress the illustration of the female genitalia in a textbook of midwifery on grounds of decency? On p. 164 of this analysis we read: "The analysis of this scene would carry us too far into the intimacy of her life to justify our entering upon it.'* Does the author really believe that in these circumstances he has any scientific right to speak about the psychoanalytic dream-theory, when he withholds es sential material from the reader for reasons of discretion? By the very fact of reporting his patient's dream to the world he has violated discretion as thoroughly as possible, for every analyst will see its meaning at once: what the dreamer instinctively hides most deeply cries out loudest from the unconscious. For anyone who knows how to read dream-symbols all precautions are in vain, the truth will out. We would therefore request the author, if he doesn't want to strip his patient bare the next time, to choose a case about which he can say everything. Despite his medical discretion this dream too, which Prince denies is a wish-fulfilment, is accessible to understanding. The end of the dream betrays, despite the disguise, the patient's violent resistance to sexual relations with her husband. The rest is all wish-fulfilment: she becomes a "lone woman" who is so cially somewhat beyond the pale. The feeling of loneliness ("she feels that she cannot be alone any more, that she must have com pany") is fittingly resolved by this ambiguous situation: there FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS are "lone women" who are not so alone as all that, though cer tainly they are not tolerated everywhere. This wish-fulfilment naturally meets with the utmost resistance, until it is made clear that in case of necessity the devil, as the proverb says, eats even flies and this is in the highest degree true of the libido. This solution, so objectionable to the conscious mind, seems thor oughly acceptable to the unconscious. One has to know what the psychology of a neurosis is in a patient of this age; psychoanalysis requires us to take people as they really are and not as they pre tend to be. Since the great majority of people want to be what they are not, and therefore believe themselves identical with the conscious or unconscious ideal that floats before them, the indi vidual is blinded by mass suggestion from the start, quite apart from the fact that he himself feels different from what he really is. This rule has the peculiarity of being true of everybody else, but never of the person to whom it is being applied. 180 I have set forth the historical and general significance of this fact in a previous work,17 so I can spare myself the trouble of discussing it here. I would only remark that, to practise psycho analysis, one must subject one's ethical concepts to a total revi sion. It is a requirement which explains why psychoanalysis becomes intelligible to a really serious person only gradually and with great difficulty. It needs not only intellectual but, to an even greater extent, moral effort to understand the meaning of the method, for it is not just a medical method like vibromassage or hypnosis, but something of much wider scope, that modestly calls itself "psychoanalysis." 181 Dream 5: She dreamt that she was in a dark, gloomy, rocky place, and she was walking with difficulty, as she always does in her dreams, over this rocky path, and all at once the place was filled with cats. She turned in terror to go back, and there in her path was a frightful creature like a wild man of the woods. His hair was hanging down his face and neck; he had a sort of skin over him for covering; his legs and arms were bare and he had a club. A wild figure. Behind him were hundreds of men like him the whole place was filled with them, so that in front were cats and behind were wild men. The man said to her that she would have to go forward 17 Symbols of Transformation. [The first part of the original, Wandlungen und Symbole der Libido, appeared in the same issue of the Jahrbuch as the present article. EDITORS.] 68 A CRITICAL REVIEW OF MORTON PRINCE through those cats, and that if she made a sound they would all come down on her and smother her, but if she went through them without making a sound she would never again feel any regret about the past . . . [mentioning certain specific matters which in cluded two particular systems of ideas known as the Z and Y com plexes, all of which had troubled her, adds the author]. She realized that she must choose between death from the wild men and the journey over the cats, so she started forward. Now, in her dream of course she had to step on the cats [the subject here shivers and shud ders], and the horror of knowing that they would come on her if she screamed caused her to make such an effort to keep still that the muscles of her throat contracted in her dream [they actually did contract, I could feel them, says Prince]. She waded through the cats without making a sound, and then she saw her mother and tried to speak to her. She reached out her hands and tried to say "O mamma!" but she could not speak, and then she woke up feel ing nauseated, frightened, and fatigued, and wet with perspiration. Later, after waking, when she tried to speak, she could only whisper. [Pp. i64f. A footnote adds: "She awoke with complete aphonia, which persisted until relieved by appropriate suggestion/'] 182 Prince sees this dream partly as a wish-fulfilment, because the dreamer did after all walk over the cats. But he thinks: "The dream would rather seem to be principally a symbolical representation of her idea of life in general, and of the moral precepts with which she has endeavoured to inspire herself, and which she has endeavoured to live up to in order to obtain hap piness" (p. 168). 183 That is not the meaning of the dream, as anyone can see who knows anything of dreams. The dream has not been ana lysed at all. We are merely told that the patient had a phobia about cats. What that means is not analysed. The treading on the cats is not analysed. The wild man wearing the skin is not analysed, and there is no analysis of the skin and the club. The erotic reminiscences Z and Y are not described. The significance of the aphonia is not analysed. Only the rocky path at the be ginning is analysed a little: It comes from a painting by Watts, "Love and Life/' A female figure (Life) drags herself wearily along the rocky path, accompanied by the figure of Love. The initial image in the dream corresponds exactly to this picture, "minus the figure of Love/' as Prince remarks. Instead there are the cats, as the dream shows and as we remark. This means 69 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS that the cats symbolize love. Prince has not seen this; had he studied the literature he would have discovered from one of my earlier publications that I have dealt in detail with the question of cat phobia. 18 There he would have been informed of this conclusion and could have understood the dream and the cat phobia as well. 184 For the rest, the dream is a typical anxiety dream which, in consequence, must be regarded from the standpoint of the sex ual theory, unless Prince succeeds in proving to us that the sexual theory of anxiety is wrong. Owing to the complete lack of any analysis I refrain from further discussion of the dream, which is indeed very clear and pretty. I would only point out that the patient has succeeded in collecting a symptom (aphonia) which captured the interest of the analyst, as she reckoned it would. It is evident that one cannot criticize the dream-theory on the basis of analyses which are not made; this is merely the method of our German critics. 185 Dream 6: This dream occurred twice on succeeding nights. She dreamed she was in the same rocky, dark path she is always in Watts's pathbut with trees besides (there are always trees, or a hill side, or a canyon). The wind was blowing very hard, and she could hardly walk on account of something, as is always the case. Some one, a figure, came rushing past her with his hand over his (or her) eyes. This figure said, "Don't look, you will be blinded." She was at the entrance of a great cave; suddenly it flashed light in the cave like a flashlight picture, and there, down on the ground you were lying, and you were bound round and round with bonds of some kind, and your clothes were torn and dirty, and your face was cov ered with blood, and you looked terribly anguished; and all over you there were just hundreds of little gnomes or pigmies or brownies, and they were torturing you. Some of them had axes, and were chopping on your legs and arms, and some were sawing you. Hun dreds of them had little things like joss-sticks, but shorter, which were red hot at the ends, and they were jabbing them into you. It was something like Gulliver and the little creatures running over him. You saw C, and you said, "O Mrs. C, for heaven's sake get me out of this damned hole." (You always swear in C's dreams.) She was horrified, and said, "O Dr. Prince, I am coming/' but she could not move, she was rooted to the spot; and then it all went away, 18 ["Association, Dream, and Hysterical Symptoms" (orig. 1906) (1918 edn., pp. 378*:.) EDITORS.] A CRITICAL REVIEW OF MORTON PRINCE everything became black, as if she were blinded, and then it would flash again and illuminate the cave, and she would see again. This happened three or four times in the dream. She kept saying, "I am coming," and struggled to move, and she woke up saying it. In the same way she could not move when she woke up, and she could not see. [Pp. 186 The author does not report the details o the analysis of this dream, "in order not to weary the reader." He gives only the following rsum: The dream proved to be a symbolic representation of the sub ject's conception of life (the rocky path), of her dread of the future, which for years she has said she dared not face; of her feeling that the future was "blind," in that she could not "see anything ahead"; of the thought that she would be overwhelmed, "lost," "swept away" if she looked into and realized this future, and she must not look. And yet there are moments in life when she realizes vividly the fu ture; and so in the dream one of these moments is when she looks into the cave (the future), and in the flash of light the realization comes she sees her son (metamorphosed through substitution of another person) tortured, as she has thought of him tortured, and handicapped (bound) by the moral "pin pricks" of life. Then fol lows the symbolic representation (paralysis) of her utter "helpless ness" to aid either him or anyone else or alter the conditions of her own life. Finally follow the prophesied consequences of this realiza tion. She is overcome by blindness and to this extent the dream is a fulfillment of a fear. [P. 171.] 187 The author says in conclusion: "In this dream, as in the others, we find no 'unacceptable' and 'repressed wish/ no 'con flict* with 'censoring thoughts/ no 'compromise/ no 'resistance' and no 'disguise* in the dream-content to deceive the dreamer elements and processes fundamental in the Freud school of psychology" (p. 173). 188 From this devastating judgment we shall delete the words "as in the others," for the other dreams are analysed so inade quately that the author has no right to pronounce such a judg ment on the basis of the preceding "analyses." Only the last dream remains to substantiate this judgment, and we shall therefore look at it rather more closely. !8g We shall not linger over the constantly recurring symbol of FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS the painting by Watts, in which the figure of Love is missing and was replaced by the cats in dream 5. Here it is replaced by a figure who warns the patient not to look or she will be "blinded/* Now comes another very remarkable image: the an alyst bound round and round with bonds, his clothes torn and dirty, his face covered with blood the Gulliver situation. Prince remarks that it is the patient's son who is in this agonizing situ ation, but withholds further details. Where the bonds, the bloody face, the torn clothes come from, what the Gulliver situation means of all this we learn nothing. Because the pa tient "must not look into the future," the cave signifies the future, remarks Prince. But why is the future symbolized by a cave? The author is silent. How comes it that the analyst is sub stituted for the son? Prince mentions the patient's helplessness with regard to the situation of the son, and observes that she is just as helpless with regard to the analyst, for she does not know how to show her gratitude. But these are, if I may say so, two quite different kinds of helplessness, which do not sufficiently explain the condensation of the two persons. An essential and unequivocal tertium comparationis is lacking. All the details of the Gulliver situation, especially the red-hot joss-sticks, are left unanalysed. The highly significant fact that the analyst himself suffers hellish tortures is passed over in complete silence. *9<> In Dream 3 the analyst pounded the patient on the head
with a stone, and this torture seems to be answered here, but
swelled out into a hellish fantasy of revenge. Without doubt
these tortures were thought up by the patient and intended for
her analyst (and perhaps also for her son); that is what the dream
says. This fact needs analysing. If the son is really "tortured by
the moral pin pricks of life," we definitely require to know why
in the dream the patient multiplies this torture a hundred-fold,
brings the son (or the analyst) into the Gulliver situation and
then puts Gulliver in the "damned hole." Why must the analyst
swear in the dreams? Why does the patient step into the ana
lyst's shoes and say she is unable to bring help, when really the
situation is the other way round?
19* Here the way leads down into the wish-fulfilling situation.
But the author has not trodden this path; he has either omitted
to ask himself any of these questions or answered them much too
superficially, so that this analysis too must be disqualified as
192 With this the last prop for a criticism of the dream-theory
collapses. We must require of a critic that he carry out his in
vestigations just as thoroughly as the founder of the theory, and
that he should at least be able to explain the main points of the
dream. But in the author's analyses, as we have seen, the most
important items are brushed aside. You cannot produce psycho
analysis out of a hat, as everyone knows who has tried; unumquemque
movere lapidem is nearer the truth.
193 Only after the conclusion of this review did I see the criti
cism which Ernest Jones
20 lavished on Morton Prince's article.
We learn from Prince's reply that he does not claim to have
used the psychoanalytic method. In that case he might fairly
have refrained from criticizing the findings of psychoanalysis, it
seems to me. His analytical methods, as the above examples
show, are so lacking in scientific thoroughness that the conclu
sions he reaches offer no basis for a serious criticism of Freud's
dream-theory. The rest of his remarks, culminating in the ad
mission that he will never be able to see eye to eye with the
psychoanalytic school, do not encourage me to make further
efforts to explain the problems of dream-psychology to him or
to discuss his reply. I confine myself to expressing my regret
that he has even gone to the length of denying the scientific
training and scientific thinking of his opponents.
19 The dream is a typical fantasy of revenge for scorned love and contains in the
torture (as in the pounding) scene the boundless gratitude of the patient. Hence
the mysterious scene in the cave, which is so scandalous that she will be struck
blind at the sight of it. Proof of this can be found in the details of the cave scene.
20 "Remarks on Dr. Morton Prince's article, 'The Mechanism and Interpretation
of Dreams' "
J 94 It is a well-known fact to the psychoanalyst that laymen, even
those with relatively little education, are able to understand the
nature and rationale o psychoanalysis without undue intellec
tual difficulty. It is the same with educated people, be they
scholars, business-men, journalists, artists, or teachers. They can
all understand the truths o psychoanalysis. They also understand
very well why psychoanalysis cannot be expounded in the same
convincing way as a mathematical proposition. Everyone of
common sense knows that a psychological proof must necessarily
be different from a physical one, and that each branch of science
can only offer proofs that are suited to its material. It would be
interesting to know just what kind of empirical proof our critics
expect, if not proof on the evidence of the empirical facts. Do
these facts exist? We point to our observations. Our critics, how
ever, simply say No. What, then, are we to offer if our factual
observations are flatly denied? Under these circumstances we
would expect our critics to study the neuroses and psychoses as
thoroughly as we have done (quite independently of the method
of psychoanalysis), and to put forward facts of an essentially
different kind concerning their psychological determination. We
have waited for this for more than ten years. Fate has even
decreed that all investigators in this field who have worked inde
pendently of the discoverer of the new theory, but as thoroughly,
have arrived at the same results as Freud; and that those who
have taken the time and trouble to acquire the necessary knowl
edge under a psychoanalyst have also gained an understanding
of these results.
>95 In general, we must expect the most violent resistance from
medical men and psychologists, chiefly because of scientific
i [Translated from "Zur Kritik liber Psychoanalyse," Jahrbuch fur psychoanalytische
und psychopathologische Forschungen (Leipzig), II (1910), 743-46. EDITORS.]
prejudices based on a different way of thinking to which they
obstinately adhere. Our critics, unlike earlier ones, have pro
gressed inasmuch as they try to be more serious and to strike a
more moderate note. But they commit the mistake of criticizing
the psychoanalytic method as though it rested on a priori prin
ciples, whereas in reality it is purely empirical and totally lack
ing in any final theoretical framework. All we know is that it is
simply the quickest way to find facts which are of importance
for our psychology, but which, as the history of psychoanalysis
shows, can also be discovered in other more tedious and com
plicated ways. We would naturally be happy if we possessed an
analytical technique which led us to the goal even more quickly
and reliably than the present method. Our critics, however, will
scarcely be able to help us towards a more suitable technique,
and one that corresponds better to the assumptions of psychol
ogy up till now, merely by contesting our findings. So long as
the question of the facts is not settled, all criticism of the method
hangs in the air, for concerning the ultimate secrets of the as
sociation process our opponents know as little as we do. It
should be obvious to every thinking person that what matters
is simply and solely the empirical facts. If criticism confines it
self to the method, it may easily come one day to deny the
existence of facts merely because the method of finding them
betrays certain theoretical defects a standpoint that would car
ry us happily back to the depths of the Middle Ages. In this
respect our critics commit grave mistakes. It is the duty of in
telligent people to point them out, for to err is human.
Occasionally, however, the criticism assumes forms which
arouse the interest of the psychological worker in the highest
degree, since the scientific endeavour of the critic is thrust into
the background in the most surprising way by symptoms of per
sonal participation. Such critics make a valuable contribution
to the knowledge of the personal undercurrents beneath socalled
scientific criticism. We cannot deny ourselves the pleasure
of making such a document humain accessible to a wider
Review by Kurt Mendel 2
of an Exposition of
the Freudian Standpoint
The present reviewer, who has read many works of Freud and his
followers, and has himself had practical experience of psychoanal
ysis? must admit that he finds many things in this doctrine utterly
repugnant, especially the latest additions concerning anal eroticism
and the sexuality of children. After perusing the work under review,4
he stepped up to his youngest child, lying there innocently in his
cot, and spoke as follows: "Poor little boy! I fancied you were pure
and chaste, but now I know that you are depraved and full of sin!
'From the first day of your existence you have led a sexual life' (p.
184); now you are an exhibitionist, a fetishist, a sadist, a masochist,
an anal-erotic, an onanist in short, you are 'polymorphous-per
verse' (p. 185). 'There is scarcely a Don Juan among grown-ups
whose erotic fantasies could be compared with the products of your
infant brain' (p. 185). How, indeed, could it be otherwise? For you
are corrupt from birth. Your father has the reputation of being un
usually tidy and economical, and the Freudians say he is stubborn
because he won't give full acceptance to their teachings. Unusually
tidy, economical, and stubborn! A hopeless anal-erotic, therefore!
(Cf. Freud, "Charakter und Analerotik," Psych.-neur. Wochenschr.
IX: 51.) As for your mother, she cleans out the house every four
weeks. 'Cleaning, and particularly spring-cleaning, is the specific
female reaction to suppressed anal eroticism' (Sadger, "Analerotik
und Analcharakter," Die Heilkunde, Feb. 1910). You are a congenital
anal-erotic from your father's and your mother's side! And a little
while ago, before going to bed, you would not 'empty the bowels
when you were put on the pot, because you want to derive extra
pleasure from defecation and therefore enjoy holding back your
stool.' Previously your father simply told your mother on such occa
sions: 'The boy is constipated, give him a pill I' Pfuil How shame
lessly perverse I was then, a regular pimp and corrupter of youth!
You'll get no good-night kiss from me any more, for a caress like that
would only 'arouse your sexuality' (p. 191). And don't say your eve
ning prayer to me again: 'I am small, my heart is pure';
5 that would
be a lie; you are dissipated, an exhibitionist, fetishist, sadist, mas-
2 In Neurologisches Centralblatt (Leipzig), XXIX: 6 (March 16, 1910).
8 My italics.-C. G. J.
J. A. Haslcbacher, "Psychoneurosen und Psychoanalyse/' Correspondenzblatt ftir
Schweizer Irzte (Basel), XL:y (March i, 1910), 184-96.
5 "Ich bin klein, mein Herz ist rein."
ochist, anal-erotic, onanist, 'polymorphous-perverse' through me,
through your mother, and through yourself! Poor little boy!"
FreudiansI I have repeatedly asserted that your teachings have
opened up many new and valuable perspectives. But for heaven's
sake make an end of your boundless exaggerations and nonsen
sical fantasies! Instead of puns, give us proofs! Instead of books that
read like comics, give us serious works to be taken seriously! Prove
to me the truth of your squalid and slanderous statement (p. 187):
"There is but one form of love, and that is erotic love"! Do not
plunge our most sacred feelings, our love and respect for our parents
and our happy love for our children, into the mire of your fantasies
by the continual imputation of sordid sexual motives! Your whole
argument culminates in the axiom: "Freud has said it, therefore it
is so!" But I say with Goethe, the son of an anal-erotic (Sadger,
op. cit):
"A man who speculates
Is like a beast upon a barren heath
Led round in circles by an evil sprite,
While all around lie pastures green and bright."
Kusnacht, 28 January
To the Editor.
*97 Thank you for kindly inviting me to publish in your columns
an epilogue to the series of articles in the Neue lurcher Zeitung.
Such an epilogue could only be a defence either of the scientific
truth which we think we can discern in psychoanalysis, and
which has been so heavily attacked, or of our own scientific
qualities. The latter defence offends against good taste, and is
unworthy of anyone dedicated to the service of science. But a
defence of the first kind can be carried out only if the discussion
takes an objective form, and if the arguments used arise from
a careful study of the problem, practical as well as theoretical.
I am ready to argue with opponents like this, though I prefer
to do so in private; I have, however, also done it in public, in
a scientific journal.
'98 I shall not reply, either, to scientific criticism the essence of
which is: "The method is morally dangerous, therefore the
theory is wrong," or: "The facts asserted by the Freudians do
not exist but merely spring from the morbid fantasy of these
so-called researchers, and the method used for discovering these
facts is in itself logically at fault." No one can assert a priori
that certain facts do not exist. This is a scholastic argument, and
it is superfluous to discuss it.
1 [Translated from "Zur Psychoanalyse," Wissen und Leben (Zurich; former title
of the Neue Schweizer Rundschau), V (1912), 711-14. An introductory editorial
note stated; "A series of communications pro and con Freudian theories in the
Neue Zurcher Zeitung seems to prove that remarkable misunderstanding and
prejudice with respect to modern psychology are the rule with the general public.
Since all this impassioned wrangling was more likely to confuse than to enlighten,
we have asked Dr. Karl Jung (sic) for a few closing words, which should be the
more welcome for calming ruffled tempers." EDITORS.]
[See the preceding article. EDITORS.]
199 It is repugnant to me to make propaganda for the truth and
to defend it with slogans. Except in the Psychoanalytical Society
and in the Swiss Psychiatric Society I have never yet given
a public lecture without first having been asked to do so; simi
larly, my article in Rascher's Yearbook 3 was written only at the
request of the editor, Konrad Falke. I do not thrust myself upon
the public. I shall therefore not enter the arena now in order to
engage in barbarous polemics on behalf of a scientific truth.
Prejudice and the almost boundless misunderstanding we are
faced with can certainly prevent progress and the spread of
scientific knowledge for a long time, and this is perhaps a neces
sity of mass psychology to which one has to submit. If this truth
does not speak for itself, it is a poor truth and it is better for it
to perish. But if it is an inner necessity, it will make its way,
even without battle-cries and the martial blast of trumpets, into
the hearts of all straight-thinking and realistic persons and so
become an essential ingredient of our civilization.
200 The sexual indelicacies which unfortunately occupy a neces
sarily large place in many psychoanalytic writings are not to be
blamed on psychoanalysis itself. Our very exacting and respon
sible medical work merely brings these unlovely fantasies to
light, but the blame for the existence of these sometimes re
pulsive and evil things must surely lie with the mendaciousness
of our sexual morality. No intelligent person needs to be told
yet again that the psychoanalytic method of education does not
consist merely in psychological discussions of sex, but covers
every department of life. The goal of this education, as I have
expressly emphasized in Rascher's Yearbook, is not that a man
should be delivered over helplessly to his passions but that he
should attain the necessary self-control. In spite of Freud's and
my assurances, our opponents want us to countenance "licen
tiousness" and then assert that we do so, regardless of what we
ourselves say. It is the same with the theory of neurosis the
sexual or libido theory, as it is called. For years I have been
pointing out, both in my lectures and in my writings, that the
concept of libido is taken in a very general sense, rather like
the instinct of preservation of the species, and that in psycho-
S [Neue Bahnen der Psychologic, published in Raschers Jahrbuch fur Schweizer
Art und Kunst (Zurich), 1912. Trans, as "New Paths in Psychology/' Two Essays
on Analytical Psychology, pp. 243ff. EDITORS.]
analytic parlance it definitely does not mean "localized sexual
excitation" but all striving and willing that exceed the limits of
self-preservation, and that this is the sense in which it is used.
I have also recently expressed my views on these general ques
tions in a voluminous work,4 but our opponents wishfully
decree that our views are as "grossly sexual" as their own. Our
efforts to expound our psychological standpoint are quite use
less, as our opponents want this whole theory to resolve itself
into unspeakable banality. I feel powerless in the face of this
overwhelming demand. I can only express my sincere distress
that, through a misunderstanding which confuses day with
night, many people are preventing themselves from employing
the extraordinary insights afforded by psychoanalysis for the
benefit of their own ethical development. Equally I regret that,
by thoughtlessly ignoring psychoanalysis, many people are
blinding themselves to the profundity and beauty of the hu
man soul.
No sensible person would lay it at the door of scientific re
search and its results that there are clumsy and irresponsible
people who use it for purposes of hocus-pocus. Would anybody
of intelligence lay the blame for the faults and imperfections in
the execution of a method designed for the good of mankind
on the method itself? Where would surgery be if one blamed
its methods for every lethal outcome? Surgery is very dangerous
indeed, especially in the hands of a fool. No one would trust
himself to an unskilled surgeon or let his appendix be removed
by a barber. So it is with psychoanalysis. That there are not
only unskilled psychiatrists but also laymen who play about in
an irresponsible way with psychoanalysis cannot be denied, any
more than that there are, today as always, unsuitable doctors
and unscrupulous quacks. But this fact does not entitle anyone
to lump together science, method, researcher, and doctor in a
wholesale condemnation.
* I regret, Sir, having to bore you and the readers of your
paper with these self-evident truths, and I therefore hasten to
a conclusion. You mu$t forgive me if my manner of writing is
* [Presumably Wandlungen und Symbols der Libido, Part I of which appeared in
the Jahrbuch in 1911. Part II, the second chapter of which is devoted to the con
cept and the genetic theory of the libido, appeared early in 19 12. EDITORS.]
at times a little heated; but no one, perhaps, is so far above pub
lic opinion as not to be painfully affected by the frivolous dis
crediting of his honest scientific endeavours.
Yours, etc.,
[Written originally in German under the title Versuch einer Darstellung der
psychoanalytischen Theorie and translated (by Dr, and Mrs. M. D. Eder and Miss
Mary Moltzer) for delivery as a series of lectures under the present title at the
medical school of Fordham University, New York, in September 1912. The Ger
man text was published in the Jahrbuch fur psychoanalytische und psychopathologische
Forschungen (Vienna and Leipzig), V (1913; reprinted as a book
the same year); the English, in five issues of the Psychoanalytic Review (New
York): I (1913/14) : 1-4 and II (1915) : i. The latter was then republished in the
Nervous and Mental Disease Monograph Series, No. 19 (New York, 1915). The
analysis of a child in the last chapter had been previously presented as "t}ber
Psychoanalyse beim Kinde" at the First International Congress of Pedagogy,
Brussels, August 1911, and printed in the proceedings of the Congress (Brussels,
1912), II, 332-43-
[A second edition of the German text, with no essential alterations, was pub
lished in 1955 (Zurich). The present translation is made from this edition in
consultation with the previous English version.
[The text of the 1913 and 1955 editions in German is uninterrupted by head
ings, but at the author's request the original division into nine lectures (ascer
tained from an examination of the manuscript) has here been preserved. This
arrangement differs from that of the previous English version, which is divided
into ten lectures; the chapter and section headings there introduced have in
general been retained, with some modifications. A number of critical passages
inserted at a later stage into the original manuscript and included in the German
editions were omitted from the previous English version, together with the foot
notes. In the present version these passages are given in pointed brackets <>.
In these lectures I have attempted to reconcile my practical ex
periences in psychoanalysis with the existing theory, or rather,
with the approaches to such a theory. It is really an attempt to
outline my attitude to the guiding principles which my hon
oured teacher Sigmund Freud has evolved from the experience
of many decades. Since my name is associated with psychoanal
ysis, and for some time I too have been the victim of the whole
sale condemnation of this movement, it will perhaps be asked
with astonishment how it is that I am now for the first time
defining my theoretical position. When, some ten years ago, it
came home to me what a vast distance Freud had already trav
elled beyond the bounds of contemporary knowledge of psychopathological
phenomena, especially the psychology of complex
mental processes, I did not feel in a position to exercise any
real criticism. I did not possess the courage of those pundits
who, by reason o their ignorance and incompetence, consider
themselves justified in making "critical" refutations. I thought
one must first work modestly for years in this field before one
might dare to criticize. The unfortunate results of premature
and superficial criticism have certainly not been lacking. Yet the
great majority of the critics missed the mark as much with their
indignation as with their technical ignorance. Psychoanalysis
continued to flourish undisturbed and did not trouble itself
about the unscientific chatter that buzzed around it. As every
one knows, this tree has waxed mightily, and not in one hemi
sphere only, but alike in Europe and America. Official critics
meet with no better success than the Proktophantasmist in
Faust, who laments in the Walpurgisnacht:
Preposterous! You still intend to stay?
Vanish at oncel You've been explained away.
The critics have omitted to take it to heart that everything
that exists has sufficient right to its own existence, and that this
holds for psychoanalysis as well. We will not fall into the error
of our opponents, neither ignoring their existence nor denying
their right to exist. But this enjoins upon us the duty of apply
ing a just criticism ourselves, based on a proper knowledge of
the facts. To me it seems that psychoanalysis stands in need of
this weighing-up from inside.
It has been wrongly suggested that my attitude signifies a
"split'* in the psychoanalytic movement. Such schisms can only
exist in matters of faith. But psychoanalysis is concerned with
knowledge and its ever-changing formulations. I have taken as
my guiding principle William James's pragmatic rule: "You
must bring out of each word its practical cash-value, set it at
work within the stream of your experience. It appears less as a
solution, then, than as a program for more work, and more par
ticularly as an indication of the ways in which existing realities
may be changed. Theories thus become instruments, not an
swers to enigmas., in which we can rest. We don't lie back upon
them, we move forward, and, on occasion, make nature over
again by their aid." x
In the same way, my criticism does not proceed from aca
demic arguments, but from experiences which have forced
themselves on me during ten years of serious work in this field.
I know that my own experience in no wise approaches Freud's
quite extraordinary experience and insight, but nonetheless it
seems to me that certain of my formulations do express the ob
served facts more suitably than Freud's version of them. At any
rate I have found, in my teaching work, that the conceptions I
have put forward in these lectures were of particular help to me
in my endeavours to give my pupils an understanding of psycho
analysis. I am far indeed from regarding a modest and tem
perate criticism as a "falling away" or a schism; on the contrary,
I hope thereby to promote the continued flowering and fructifi
cation of the psychoanalytic movement, and to open the way to
the treasures of psychoanalytic knowledge for those who, lacking
practical experience or handicapped by certain theoretical pre
conceptions, have so far been unable to master the method.
For the opportunity to deliver these lectures I have to thank
my friend Dr. Smith Ely Jelliffe, of New York, who kindly ini
[Pragmatism (1907), p. 53.]
vited me to take part in the Extension Course at Fordham Uni
versity, in New York. The nine lectures were given in Sep
tember 1912. 1 must also express my best thanks to Dr. Gregory,
of Bellevue Hospital, for his ready assistance at my clinical
Only after the preparation of these lectures, in the spring of
1912, did Alfred Adler's book Uber den nervosen Charakter
[The Nervous Constitution] become known to me, in the sum
mer of that year. I recognize that he and I have have reached
similar conclusions on various points, but here is not the place
to discuss the matter more thoroughly. This should be done
C. G. J.
Zurich, autumn
Since the appearance of the first edition in 1913 so much time
has elapsed, and so many things have happened, that it is quite
impossible to rework a book of this kind, coming from a longpast
epoch and from one particular phase in the development
of knowledge, and bring it up to date. It is a milestone on the
long road of scientific endeavour, and so it shall remain. It may
serve to call back to memory the constantly changing stages of
the search in a newly discovered territory, whose boundaries
are not marked out with any certainty even today, and thus to
make its contribution to the story of an evolving science. I am
therefore letting this book go to press again in its original form
and with no essential alterations.
C. G. J.
October 1954
It is no easy task to lecture on psychoanalysis at the present
time. I am not thinking so much of the fact that this whole
field of research raises I am fully convinced some of the most
difficult problems facing present-day science. Even if we put
this cardinal fact aside, there remain other serious difficulties
which interfere considerably with the presentation of the ma
terial. I cannot offer you a well-established, neatly rounded doc
trine elaborated from the practical and the theoretical side.
Psychoanalysis has not yet reached that point of development,
despite all the labour that has been expended upon it. Nor can
I give you a description of its growth ab ovo, for you already
have in your country, dedicated as always to the cause of prog
ress, a number of excellent interpreters and teachers who have
spread a more general knowledge of psychoanalysis among the
scientifically-minded public. Besides this, Freud, the true dis
coverer and founder of the movement, has lectured in your
country and given an authentic account of his views. I, too, have
already had the great honour of lecturing in America, on the
experimental foundation of the theory of complexes and the
application of psychoanalysis to education.1
In these circumstances you will readily appreciate that I am
afraid of repeating what has already been said or already been
published in scientific journals. Another difficulty to be con
sidered is the fact that quite extraordinary misconceptions pre
vail in many quarters concerning the nature of psychoanalysis.
At times it is almost impossible to imagine what exactly these
erroneous conceptions might be. But sometimes they are so pre
posterous that one is astonished that anyone with a scientific
background could ever arrive at ideas so remote from reality.
Obviously it would not be worth while to cite examples of these
curiosities. It will be better to devote time and energy to discuss
ing those problems of psychoanalysis which by their very nature
give rise to misunderstandings.
i [The Clark Lectures. See par. 154, n. 4, supra. EDITORS.]
205 Although it has been pointed out on any number of occa
sions before, many people still do not seem to know that the
theory of psychoanalysis has changed considerably in the course
of the years. Those, for instance, who have read only the first
book, Studies on Hysteria,
by Breuer and Freud, still believe
that, according to psychoanalysis, hysteria and the neuroses in
general are derived from a so-called trauma in early childhood.
They continue senselessly to attack this theory, not realizing
that it is more than fifteen years since it was abandoned and re
placed by a totally different one. This change is of such great
importance for the whole development of the technique and
theory of psychoanalysis that we are obliged to examine it in
rather more detail. So as not to weary you with case histories
that by now are well known, I shall content myself with refer
ring to those mentioned in Breuer and Freud's book, which I
may assume is known to you in its English translation. You will
there have read that case of Breuer's to which Freud referred in
his lectures at Clark University,
a and will have discovered that
the hysterical symptom did not derive from some unknown
anatomical source, as was formerly supposed, but from certain
psychic experiences of a highly emotional nature, called trau
mata or psychic wounds. Nowadays, I am sure, every careful
and attentive observer of hysteria will be able to confirm from
his own experience that these especially painful and distressing
occurrences do in fact often lie at the root of the illness. This
truth was already known to the older physicians.
206 So far as I know, however, it was really Charcot who, prob
ably influenced by Page's theory of "nervous shock," 4 first made
theoretical use of this observation. Charcot knew, from his ex
perience of the new technique of hypnotism, that hysterical
symptoms can be produced and also be made to disappear by
[First published 1895; partially trans, by A. A. Brill in Selected Papers on Hys
teria and Other Neuroses (New York, 1909; later edns.); trans, in Standard Edn.
of Freud, II (1955). EDITORS.]
["Five Lectures on Psycho-Analysis"; see par. 154, n. 4, supra. EDITORS.]
4 [Probably Herbert W. Page, British psychiatrist, who published on this subject;
see Bibliography. EDITORS.]
suggestion. He believed something of the kind could be ob
served in those increasingly common cases of hysteria caused by
accidents. The traumatic shock would be comparable, in a sense,
to the moment of hypnosis, since the emotion it produced would
cause, temporarily, a complete paralysis of the will during
which the trauma could become fixed as an auto-suggestion.
207 This conception laid the foundations for a theory of psychogenesis.
It was left for later aetiological researches to find out
whether the same mechanism, or a similar one, existed in cases
of hysteria which could not be called traumatic. This gap in our
knowledge of the aetiology of hysteria was filled by the discov
eries of Breuer and Freud. They showed that even in cases of
ordinary hysteria which had not been regarded as traumatically
conditioned the same traumatic element could be found, and
that it seemed to have an aetiological significance. So it was
very natural for Freud, himself a pupil of Charcot, to see in
this discovery a confirmation of Charcot's views. Consequently,
the theory elaborated out of the experience of that period,
mainly by Freud, bore the imprint of a traumatic aetiology. It
was therefore fittingly called the trauma theory.
208 The new thing about this theory, apart from the truly ad
mirable thoroughness of Freud's analysis of hysterical symp
toms, is the abandonment of the concept of auto-suggestion,
which was the dynamic element in the original theory. It was
replaced by a more detailed conception of the psychological and
psychophysical effects produced by the shock. The shock or
trauma causes an excitation which, under normal conditions,
is got rid of by being expressed ("abreacted"). In hysteria, how
ever, the trauma is incompletely abreacted, and this results in
a "retention of the excitation," or a "blocking of affect/' The
energy of the excitation, always lying ready in potentia, is
transmuted into the physical symptoms by the mechanism of
conversion. According to this view, the task of therapy was to
release the accumulated excitation, thereby discharging the re
pressed and converted affects from the symptoms. Hence it was
aptly called the "cleansing" or "cathartic" method, and its aim
was to "abreact" the blocked affects. That stage of the analysis
was therefore bound up fairly closely with the symptoms one
analysed the symptoms, or began the work of analysis with the
symptoms, very much in contrast to the psychoanalytical tech-
nique employed today. The cathartic method and the theory
on which it is based have, as you know, been taken over by
other professional people, so far as they are interested in psycho
analysis at all, and have also found appreciative mention in the
209 Although the discoveries of Breuer and Freud are undoubt
edly correct in point of fact, as can easily be proved by any case
of hysteria, several objections can nevertheless be raised against
the trauma theory. The Breuer-Freud method shows with won
derful clearness the retrospective connection between the actual
symptom and the traumatic experience, as well as the psycho
logical consequences which apparently follow of necessity from
the original traumatic situation. All the same, some doubt
arises as to the aetiological significance of the trauma. For one
thing, the hypothesis that a neurosis, with all its complications,
can be related to events in the pastthat is, to some factor in
the patient's predisposition must seem doubtful to anyone who
knows hysteria. It is the fashion nowadays to regard all mental
abnormalities not of exogenous origin as consequences of he
reditary degeneration, and not as essentially conditioned by the
psychology of the patient and his environment. But this is an
extreme view which fails to do justice to the facts. We know
very well how to find the middle course in dealing with the
aetiology of tuberculosis. There are undoubtedly cases of tu
berculosis where the germ of the disease proliferates from early
childhood in soil predisposed by heredity, so that even under
the most favourable conditions the patient cannot escape his
fate. But there are also cases where there is no hereditary taint
and no predisposition, and yet a fatal infection occurs. This is
equally true of the neuroses, where things will not be radically
different from what they are in general pathology. An extreme
theory about predisposition will be just as wrong as an extreme
theory about environment.
210 Although the trauma theory gave distinct prominence to
the predisposition, even insisting that some past trauma is the
conditio sine qua non of neurosis, Freud with his brilliant emFREUD
piricism had already discovered, and described in the Breuer-
Freud Studies, certain elements which bear more resemblance
to an "environment theory" than to a "predisposition theory,"
though their theoretical importance was not sufficiently appre
ciated at the time. Freud had synthesized these observations in
a concept that was to lead far beyond the limits of the trauma
theory. This concept he called "repression." As you know, by
"repression" we mean the mechanism by which a conscious con
tent is displaced into a sphere outside consciousness. We call
this sphere the unconscious, and we define it as the psychic ele
ment of which we are not conscious. The concept of repression
is based on the repeated observation that neurotics seem to have
the capacity for forgetting significant experiences or thoughts
so thoroughly that one might easily believe they had never ex
isted. Such observations are very common and are well known
to anyone who enters at all deeply into the psychology of his
As a result of the Breuer-Freud Studies, it was found that
special procedures were needed to call back into consciousness
traumatic experiences that had long been forgotten. This fact,
I would mention in passing, is astonishing in itself, inasmuch as
we are disinclined from the start to suppose that things of such
importance could ever be forgotten. For this reason it has often
been objected that the reminiscences brought back by hypnotic
procedures are merely "suggested" and bear no relation to real
ity. Even if this doubt were justified, there would certainly be
no justification for denying repression in principle on that ac
count, for there are plenty of cases where the actual existence
of repressed memories has been verified objectively. Quite
apart from numerous proofs of this kind, it is possible to demon
strate this phenomenon experimentally, by the association test.
Here we discover the remarkable fact that associations relating
to feeling-toned complexes are much less easily remembered and
are very frequently forgotten. As my experiments were never
checked, this finding was rejected along with the rest. It was
only recently that Wilhelm Peters, of the Kraepelin school, was
able to confirm my earlier observations, proving that "painful
experiences are very rarely reproduced correctly."
("Gefiihl und Erinnerung," in Kraepelin, Psychologische Arbeiten, VI, pt. 2,
P- 2 37->
212 As you see, then, the concept of repression rests on a firm
empirical basis. But there is another side of the question that
needs discussing. We might ask if the repression is due to a
conscious decision of the individual, or whether the reminis
cences disappear passively, without his conscious knowledge? In
Freud's writings you will find excellent proofs of the existence
of a conscious tendency to repress anything painful. Every psy
choanalyst knows dozens of cases showing clearly that at some
particular moment in the past the patient definitely did not
want to think any longer of the content to be repressed. One
patient told me, very significantly: "Je 1'ai mis de cot." On the
other hand, we must not forget that there are any number of
cases where it is impossible to show, even with the most careful
examination, the slightest trace of "putting aside" or of con
scious repression, and where it seems as if the process of repres
sion were more in the nature of a passive disappearance, or even
as if the impressions were dragged beneath the surface by some
force operating from below. Patients of the first type give us
the impression of being mentally well-developed individuals
who seem to suffer only from a peculiar cowardice in regard to
their own feelings. But among the second you may find cases
showing a more serious retardation of development, since here
the process of repression could be compared rather to an auto
matic mechanism. This difference may be connected with the
question discussed above, concerning the relative importance
of predisposition and environment. Many factors in cases of the
first type appear to depend on the influence of environment and
education, whereas in the latter type the factor of predisposition
seems to predominate. It is pretty clear where the treatment will
be more effective.
213 As I have indicated, the concept of repression contains an
element which is in intrinsic contradiction with the trauma
theory. We saw, for instance, in the case of Miss Lucy R., ana
lysed by Freud,6 that the aetiologically significant factor was not
to be found in the traumatic scenes but in the insufficient readi
ness of the patient to accept the insights that forced themselves
upon her. And when we think of the later formulation in the
[Studies on Hysteria* pp. io6ff.]
Schriften zur Neurosenlehre? where Freud's experience obliged
him to recognize certain traumatic events in early childhood as
the source of the neurosis, we get a forcible impression of the
incongruity between the concept of repression and that of the
trauma. The concept of repression contains the elements of an
aetiological theory of environment, while the trauma concept is
a theory of predisposition.
At first the theory of neurosis developed entirely along the
lines of the trauma concept. In his later investigations Freud
came to the conclusion that no positive validity could be at
tributed to the traumatic experiences of later life, as their effects
were conceivable only on the basis of a specific predisposition. It
was evidently there that the riddle had to be solved. In pursuing
the roots of hysterical symptoms, Freud found that the analyt
ical work led back into childhood; the links reached backwards
from the present into the distant past. The end of the chain
threatened to get lost in the mists of earliest infancy. But it was
just at that point that reminiscences appeared of certain sexual
scenes active or passivewhich were unmistakably connected
with the subsequent events leading to the neurosis. For the na
ture of these scenes you must consult the works of Freud and
the numerous analyses that have already been published.
Hence arose the theory of sexual trauma in childhood, which
provoked bitter opposition not because of theoretical objections
against the trauma theory in general, but against the element
of sexuality in particular. In the first place, the very idea that
children might be sexual, and that sexual thoughts might play
any part in their lives, aroused great indignation. In the second
place, the possibility that hysteria had a sexual basis was most
unwelcome, for the sterile position that hysteria either was a
uterine reflex-neurosis or arose from lack of sexual satisfaction
7 [By 1912, two volumes of Freud's Sammlungen kleiner Schriften zur Neurosenlehre
had appeared, in 1906 and 1909 (another in 1913). The various contents of
these volumes were trans., regrouped, in the Collected Papers (1924 ff.)> and,
further rearranged, in the Standard Edn. The precise reference here is unavail
able. EDITORS.]
had just been given up. Naturally, therefore, the validity of
Freud's observations was contested. Had the critics confined
themselves to that question, and not embellished their opposi
tion with moral indignation, a calm discussion might have been
possible. In Germany, for example, this method of attack made
it impossible to gain any credit at all for Freud's theory. As soon
as the question of sexuality was touched, it aroused universal
resistance and the most arrogant contempt. But in reality there
was only one question at issue: were Freud's observations true
or not? That alone could be of importance to a truly scientific
mind. I daresay his observations may seem improbable at first
sight, but it is impossible to condemn them a priori as false.
Wherever a really honest and thorough check has been carried
out, the existence of the psychological connections established
by Freud has been absolutely confirmed, but not the original
hypothesis that it is always a question of real traumatic scenes.
216 Freud himself had to abandon that first formulation of his
sexual theory of neurosis as a result of increasing experience.
He could no longer retain his original view as to the absolute
reality of the sexual trauma. Those scenes of a decidedly sexual
character, the sexual abuse of children, and premature sexual
activity in childhood were later on found to be to a large extent
unreal. You may perhaps be inclined to share the suspicion of
the critics that the results of Freud's analytical researches were
therefore based on suggestion. There might be some justifica
tion for such an assumption if these assertions had been publi
cized by some charlatan or other unqualified person. But anyone
who has read Freud's works of that period with attention, and
has tried to penetrate into the psychology of his patients as
Freud has done, will know how unjust it would be to attribute
to an intellect like Freud's the crude mistakes of a beginner.
Such insinuations only redound to the discredit of those who
make them. Ever since then patients have been examined under
conditions in which every possible precaution was taken to ex
clude suggestion, and still the psychological connections de
scribed by Freud have been proved true in principle. We are
thus obliged to assume that many traumata in early infancy are
of a purely fantastic nature, mere fantasies in fact, while others
do have objective reality.
217 With this discovery, somewhat bewildering at first sight, the
aetiological significance of the sexual trauma in childhood falls
to the ground, as it now appears totally irrelevant whether the
trauma really occurred or not. Experience shows us that fan
tasies can be just as traumatic in their effects as real traumata.
As against this, every doctor who treats hysteria will be able to
recall cases where violent traumatic impressions have in fact
precipitated a neurosis. This observation is only in apparent
contradiction with the unreality, already discussed, of the in
fantile trauma. We know very well that there are a great many
more people who experience traumata in childhood or adult life
without getting a neurosis. Therefore the trauma, other things
being equal, has no absolute aetiological significance and will
pass off without having any lasting effect. From this simple re
flection it is perfectly clear that the individual must meet the
trauma with a quite definite inner predisposition in order to
make it really effective. This inner predisposition is not to be
understood as that obscure, hereditary disposition of which we
know so little, but as a psychological development which reaches
its climax, and becomes manifest, at the traumatic moment.
i win now show you, by means of a concrete example, the
nature of the trauma and its psychological preparation. It con
cerns the case of a young woman who suffered from acute hys
teria following a sudden fright.
8 She had been to an evening
party and was on her way home about midnight in the company
of several acquaintances, when a cab came up behind them at
full trot. The others got out of the way, but she, as though spell
bound with terror, kept to the middle of the road and ran along
in front of the horses. The cabman cracked his whip and swore;
it was no good, she ran down the whole length of the road, which
led across a bridge. There her strength deserted her, and to
avoid being trampled on by the horses she would, in her despera
tion, have leapt into the river had not the passers-by restrained
her. Now, this same lady had happened to be in St. Petersburg
on the bloody 22nd of January [1905], in the very street which
8 [This case is fully reported in Two Essays on Analytical Psychology, pars. 8ff.,
was being cleared by the volleys of the soldiers. All round her
people were falling to the ground dead or wounded; she, how
ever, quite calm and clear-headed, espied a gate leading into a
yard, through which she made her escape into another street.
These dreadful moments caused her no further agitation. She
felt perfectly well afterwards-indeed, rather better than usual.
219 This failure to react to an apparent shock is often observed.
Hence it necessarily follows that the intensity of a trauma has
very little pathogenic significance in itself; everything depends
on the particular circumstances. Here we have a key to the
'predisposition/' We have therefore to ask ourselves: what are
the particular circumstances of the scene with the cab? The pa
tient's fear began with the sound of the trotting horses; for an
instant it seemed to her that this portended some terrible doom
her death, or something as dreadful; the next moment she
lost all sense of what she was doing.
220 The real shock evidently came from the horses. The pa
tient's predisposition to react in so unaccountable a way to this
unremarkable incident might therefore be due to the fact that
horses have some special significance for her. We might con
jecture, for instance, that she once had a dangerous accident
with horses. This was actually found to be the case. As a child
of about seven she was out for a drive with the coachman, when
suddenly the horses took fright and at a wild gallop made for
the precipitous bank of a deep river-gorge. The coachman
jumped off and shouted to her to do likewise, but she was in
such deadly fear that she could hardly make up her mind.
Nevertheless she managed to jump in the nick of time, while
the horses crashed with the carriage into the depths below. That
such an event would leave a very deep impression hardly needs
proof. Yet it does not explain why at a later date such an insen
sate reaction should follow a perfectly harmless stimulus. So
far we know only that the later symptom had a prelude in child
hood. The pathological aspect of it still remains in the dark.
221 This anamnesis, whose continuation we shall find out later,
shows very clearly the discrepancy between the so-called trauma
and the part played by fantasy. In this case fantasy must pre
dominate to a quite extraordinary degree in order to produce
[See infra, pars. 297!! and 3558:. EDITORS.]
such a great effect from so insignificant a stimulus. At first one
is inclined to adduce that early childhood trauma as an expla
nationnot very successfully, it seems to me, because we still do
not understand why the effects of that trauma remained latent
so long, and why they manifested themselves precisely on this
occasion and on no other. The patient must surely have had
opportunities enough during her lifetime of getting out of the
way of a carriage going at full speed. The moment of deadly
peril she experienced earlier in St. Petersburg did not leave be
hind the slightest trace of neurosis, despite her being predis
posed by the impressive event in her childhood. Everything
about this traumatic scene has still to be explained, for, from
the standpoint of the trauma theory, we are left completely in
the dark.
YOU must forgive me if I return so persistently to this ques
tion of the trauma theory. I do not think it superfluous to do
so, because nowadays so many people, even those closely con
nected with psychoanalysis, still cling to the old standpoint, and
this gives our opponents, who mostly never read our writings or
do so only very superficially, the impression that psychoanalysis
still revolves round the trauma theory.
The question now arises: what are we to understand by this
"predisposition/' through which an impression, insignificant
in itself, can produce such a pathological effect? This is a ques
tion of fundamental importance, and, as we shall see later, it
plays a very important role in the whole theory of neurosis. We
have to understand why apparently irrelevant events of the past
still have so much significance that they can interfere in a dae
monic and capricious way with our reactions in actual life.
The early school of psychoanalysis, and its later disciples,
did all they could to find in the special quality of those original
traumatic experiences the reason for their later effectiveness.
Freud went deepest: he was the first and only one to see that
some kind of sexual element was mingled with the traumatic
event, and that this admixture, of which the patient was gen
erally unconscious, was chiefly responsible for the effect of the
trauma. The unconsciousness of sexuality in childhood seemed
to throw a significant light on the problem of the long-lasting
constellation caused by the original traumatic experience. The
real emotional significance of that experience remains hidden
all along from the patient, so that, not reaching consciousness,
the emotion never wears itself out, it is never used up. We might
explain the long-lasting constellative effect of the experience as
a kind of suggestion a tcheance, for this, too, is unconscious and
develops its effect only at the appointed time.
225 It is hardly necessary to give detailed examples showing that
the real character of sexual activities in infancy is not recog
nized. Doctors are aware, for instance, that open masturbation
right up to adult life is not understood as such, especially by
women. From this it is easy to deduce that a child would be even
less conscious of the character of certain actions; hence the real
meaning of these experiences remains hidden from conscious
ness even in adult life. In some cases the experiences themselves
are completely forgotten, either because their sexual signifi
cance is quite unknown to the patient, or because their sexual
character, being too painful, is not admitted, in other words, is
226 As already mentioned, Freud's observation that the admix
ture of a sexual element in the trauma is a characteristic con
comitant having a pathological effect led to the theory of the
infantile sexual trauma. This hypothesis means that the patho
genic experience is a sexual one.
227 At first this hypothesis was countered by the widespread
opinion that children have no sexuality at all in early life, thus
making such an aetiology unthinkable. The modification of the
trauma theory already discussed, that the trauma is generally
not real at all but essentially just fantasy, does not make things
any better. On the contrary, it obliges us to see in the patho
genic experience a positive sexual manifestation of infantile
fantasy. It is no longer some brutal accidental impression com
ing from outside, but a sexual manifestation of unmistakable
clearness actually created by the child. Even real traumatic
experiences of a definitely sexual character do not happen to
the child entirely without his co-operation; it was found that
very often he himself prepares the way for them and brings
them to pass. Abraham has furnished valuable proofs of great
interest in support of this, which in conjunction with many
other experiences of the same kind make it seem very probable
that even real traumata are frequently aided and abetted by the
psychological attitude of the child. Medical jurisprudence, quite
independently of psychoanalysis, can offer striking parallels in
support of this psychoanalytic assertion.
228 The precocious manifestations of sexual fantasy, and their
traumatic effect, now seemed to be the source of the neurosis.
One was therefore obliged to attribute to children a much more
developed sexuality than was admitted before. Cases of pre
cocious sexuality had long been recorded in the literature, for
instance of a two-year-old girl who was menstruating regularly,
or of boys between three and five years old having erections and
therefore being capable of cohabitation. But these cases were
curiosities. Great was the astonishment, therefore, when Freud
began to credit children not only with ordinary sexuality but
even with a so-called "polymorphous-perverse" sexuality, and
moreover on the basis of the most exhaustive investigations.
People were far too ready with the facile assumption that all
this had merely been suggested to the patients and was accord
ingly a highly debatable artificial product.
229 In these circumstances, Freud's Three Essays on the Theory
of Sexuality
provoked not only opposition but violent in
dignation. I need hardly point out that the progress of science
is not furthered by indignation and that arguments based on
the sense of moral outrage may suit the moralist for that is his
business but not the scientist, who must be guided by truth
and not by moral sentiments. If matters really are as Freud de
scribes them, all indignation is absurd; if they are not, indigna
tion will avail nothing. The decision as to what is the truth
must be left solely to observation and research. In consequence
of this misplaced indignation the opponents of psychoanalysis,
with a few honourable exceptions, present a slightly comic pic
ture of pitiful backwardness. Although the psychoanalytic school
[First published in 1905,]
was unfortunately unable to learn anything from its critics, as
the critics did not trouble to examine our actual conclusions,
and although it could not get any useful hints, because the psy
choanalytic method of investigation was and still is unknown to
them, it nevertheless remains the duty of our school to discuss
very thoroughly the discrepancies between the existing views.
It is not our endeavour to put forward a paradoxical theory con
tradicting all previous theories, but rather to introduce a certain
category of new observations into science. We therefore con
sider it our duty to do whatever we can from our side to promote
agreement. True, we must give up trying to reach an under
standing with all those who blindly oppose us, which would be
a waste of effort, but we do hope to make our peace with men
of science. This will now be my endeavour in attempting to
sketch the further conceptual development of psychoanalysis,
up to the point where it reached the sexual theory of neurosis.11
[See Ch. 4. EDITORS.]
23 As you have heard in the last lecture, the discovery of pre
cocious sexual fantasies, which seemed to be the source of the
neurosis, forced Freud to assume the existence of a richly de
veloped infantile sexuality. As you know, the validity of this
observation has been roundly contested by many, who argue
that crude error and bigoted delusion have misled Freud and his
whole school, alike in Europe and in America, into seeing things
that never existed. We are therefore regarded as people in the
grip of an intellectual epidemic. I must confess that I have no
way of defending myself against this sort of "criticism/' For the
rest, I must remark that science has no right to start off with
the idea that certain facts do not exist. The most one can say is
that they appear to be very improbable, and that more confirma
tion and more exact study are needed. This is also our reply to
the objection that nothing reliable can be learnt from the psy
choanalytic method, as the method itself is absurd. No one be
lieved in Galileo's telescope, and Columbus discovered America
on a false hypothesis. The method may for all I know be full of
errors, but that should not prevent its use. Chronological and
geographical observations were made in the past with quite in
adequate instruments. The objections to the method must be
regarded as so many subterfuges until our opponents come to
grips with the facts. It is there that the issue should be decided
not by a war of words.
23* Even our opponents call hysteria a psychogenic illness. We
believe we have discovered its psychological determinants and
we present, undaunted, the results of our researches for public
criticism. Anyone who does not agree with our conclusions is at
liberty to publish his own analyses of cases. So far as I know,
this has never yet been done, at least in the European literature.
Under these circumstances, critics have no right to deny our
discoveries a priori. Our opponents have cases of hysteria just
as we have, and these are just as psychogenic as ours, so there is
nothing to prevent them from finding the psychological deter-
minants. It does not depend on the method. Our opponents
content themselves with attacking and vilifying our researches,
but they do not know how to find a better way.
232 Many of our critics are more careful and more just, and ad
mit that we have made many valuable observations and that the
psychic connections revealed by the psychoanalytic method very
probably hold good, but they maintain that our conception of
them is all wrong. The alleged sexual fantasies of children, with
which we are here chiefly concerned, must not be taken, they
say, as real sexual functions, being obviously something quite
different, since the specific character of sexuality is acquired only
at the onset of puberty.
233 This objection, whose calm and reasonable tone makes a
trustworthy impression, deserves to be taken seriously. It is an
objection that has given every thoughtful analyst plenty of
cause for reflection.
234 The first thing to be said about this problem is that the main
difficulty resides in the concept of sexuality. If we understand
sexuality as a fully developed function, then we must restrict
this phenomenon to the period of maturity and are not justified
in speaking of infantile sexuality. But if we limit our concep
tion in this way, we are faced with a new and much greater diffi
culty. What name are we then to give to all those biological
phenomena correlated with the sexual function in the strict
sense, such as pregnancy, birth, natural selection, protection of
offspring, and so on? It seems to me that all this belongs to the
concept of sexuality, although a distinguished colleague did
once say that childbirth is not a sexual act. But if these things
do pertain to the concept of sexuality, then countless psycholog
ical phenomena must come into it too, for we know that an
incredible number of purely psychological functions are con
nected with this sphere. I need only mention the extraordinary
importance of fantasy in preparing and perfecting the sexual
function. Thus we arrive at a highly biological conception of
sexuality, which includes within it a series of psychological func
tions as well as a series of physiological phenomena. Availing
ourselves of an old but practical classification, we might identify
sexuality with the instinct for the preservation of the species,
which in a certain sense may be contrasted with the instinct of
*35 Looking at sexuality from this point of view, we shall no
longer find it so astonishing that the roots of the preservation
of the species, on which nature sets such store, go much deeper
than the limited conception of sexuality would ever allow. Only
the more or less grown-up cat catches mice, but even the very
young kitten at least plays at catching them. The puppy's play
ful attempts at copulation begin long before sexual maturity. We have a right to suppose that man is no exception to this rule.
Even though we do not find such things on the surface in our
well-brought-up children, observation of children of primitive
peoples proves that they are no exceptions to the biological
norm. It is really far more probable that the vital instinct for
preservation of the species begins to unfold in early infancy than
that it should descend at one fell swoop from heaven, fullyfledged,
at puberty. Also, the organs of reproduction develop
long before the slightest sign of their future function can be
236 So when the psychoanalytic school speaks of "sexuality," this
wider concept of the preservation of the species should be associ
ated with it, and it should not be thought that we mean merely
the physical sensations and functions which are ordinarily con
noted by that word. It might be said that in order to avoid mis
understandings one should not call the preliminary phenomena
of early infancy "sexual." But this demand is surely not justified,
since anatomical nomenclature is taken from the fully-developed
system and it is not usual to give special names to the more or
less rudimentary stages.
237 Now although no fault can be found with Freud's sexual
terminology as such, since he logically gives all the stages of
sexual development the general name of sexuality, it has never
theless led to certain conclusions which in my view are unten
able. For if we ask ourselves how far the first traces of sexuality
go back into childhood, we have to admit that though sexual
ity exists implicity ab ovo it only manifests itself after a long
period of extra-uterine life. Freud is inclined to see even in the
infant's sucking at its mother's breast a kind of sexual act. He
was bitterly attacked for this view, yet we must admit that it is
sensible enough if we assume with Freud that the instinct for
the preservation of the species, i.e., sexuality, exists as it were
separately from the instinct of self-preservation, i.e., the nutri
tive function, and accordingly undergoes a special development
ab ovo. But this way of thinking seems to me inadmissible bio
logically. It is not possible to separate the two modes of mani
festation or functioning of the hypothetical life-instinct and
assign each of them a special path of development. If we judge
by what we see, we must take into consideration the fact that in
the whole realm of organic nature the life-process consists for a
long time only in the functions of nutrition and growth. We
can observe this very clearly indeed in many organisms, for in
stance in butterflies, which as caterpillars first pass through an
asexual stage of nutrition and growth only. The intra-uterine
period of human beings, as well as the extra-uterine period of
infancy, belong to this stage of the life process.
This period is characterized by the absence of any sexual
function, so that to speak of manifest sexuality in infancy would
be a contradiction in terms. The most we can ask is whether,
among the vital functions of the infantile period, there are some
that do not have the character of nutrition and growth and
hence could be termed sexual. Freud points to the unmistakable
excitement and satisfaction of the infant while sucking, and he
compares these emotional mechanisms with those of the sexual
act. This comparison leads him to assume that the act of sucking
has a sexual quality. Such an assumption would be justifiable
only if it were proved that the tension of a physical need, and
its release by gratification, is a sexual process. But the fact that
sucking has this emotional mechanism proves just the contrary.
Consequently we can only say that this emotional mechanism is
found both in the nutritive function and in the sexual function.
If Freud derives the sexual quality of the act of sucking from
the analogy of the emotional mechanism, biological experience
would also justify a terminology qualifying the sexual act as a
function of nutrition. This is exceeding the bounds in both
directions. What is quite evident is that the act of sucking can
not be qualified as sexual.
239 We know, however, of other functions at the infantile stage
which apparently have nothing to do with the function of nutri
tion, such as sucking the finger and its numerous variants. Here
is rather the place to ask whether such things belong to the
sexual sphere. They do not serve nutrition, but produce pleas
ure. Of that there can be no doubt, but it nevertheless remains
disputable whether the pleasure obtained by sucking should be
called by analogy a sexual pleasure. It could equally well be
called a nutritive pleasure. This latter qualification is the more
apt in that the form of pleasure and the place where it is ob
tained belong entirely to the sphere of nutrition. The hand
which is used for sucking is being prepared in this way for the
independent act of feeding in the future. That being so, surely
no one will beg the question by asserting that the first expres
sions of human life are sexual.
24 Yet the formula we hit on just now, that pleasure is sought
in sucking the finger without serving any nutritive purpose,
leaves us feeling doubtful whether it does belong entirely to
the sphere of nutrition. We notice that the so-called bad habits
of a child as it grows up are closely connected with early infan
tile sucking, like putting the finger in the mouth, biting the
nails, picking the nose, ears, etc. We see, too, how easily these
habits pass over into masturbation later on. The conclusion that
these infantile habits are the first stages of masturbation or of
similar activities, and therefore have a distinctly sexual charac
ter, cannot be denied: it is perfectly legitimate. I have seen many
cases in which an indubitable correlation existed between these
childish habits and masturbation, and if masturbation occurs in
late childhood, before puberty, it is nothing but a continuation
of the infantile bad habits. The inference from masturbation
that other infantile habits have a sexual character appears natu
ral and understandable from this point of view, in so far as they
are acts for obtaining pleasure from one's own body.
241 From here it is but a short step to qualifying the infant's
sucking as sexual. Freud, as you know, took that step and you
have just heard me reject it. For here we come upon a contra
diction which is very hard to resolve. It would be fairly easy if
we could assume two separate instincts existing side by side.
Then the act of sucking the breast would be a nutritive act and
at the same time a sexual act, a sort of combination of the two
instincts. This seems to be Freud's conception. The obvious co
existence of the two instincts, or rather their manifestation in
the form of hunger and the sexual drive, is found in the life of
adults. But at the infantile stage we find only the function of
nutrition, which sets a premium on pleasure and satisfaction.
Its sexual character can be argued only by a petitio principii,
for the facts show that the act of sucking is the first to give pleas
ure, not the sexual function. Obtaining pleasure is by no means
identical with sexuality. We deceive ourselves if we think that
the two instincts exist side by side in the infant, for then we
project into the psyche of the child an observation taken over
from the psychology of adults. The co-existence or separate
manifestation of the two instincts is not found in the infant, for
one of the instinctual systems is not developed at all, or is quite
rudimentary. If we take the attitude that the striving for pleas
ure is something sexual, we might just as well say, paradoxically,
that hunger is a sexual striving, since it seeks pleasure by satis
faction. But if we juggle with concepts like that, we should have
to allow our opponents to apply the terminology of hunger to
sexuality. This kind of one-sidedness appears over and over
again in the history of science. I am not saying this as a reproach:
on the contrary, we must be glad that there are people who are
courageous enough to be immoderate and one-sided. It is to
them that we owe our discoveries. What is regrettable is that
each should defend his one-sidedness so passionately. Scientific
theories are merely suggestions as to how things might be
242 The co-existence of two instinctual systems is an hypothesis
that would certainly facilitate matters, but unfortunately it is
impossible because it contradicts the observed facts and, if pur
sued, leads to untenable conclusions.
243 Before I try to resolve this contradiction, I must say some
thing more about Freud's sexual theory and the changes it has
undergone. As I explained earlier, the discovery of a sexual
fantasy-activity in childhood, which apparently had the effect of
a trauma, led to the assumption that the child must have, in
contradiction to all previous views, an almost fully developed
sexuality, and even a polymorphous-perverse sexuality. Its sexu
ality does not seem to be centred on the genital function and on
the other sex, but is occupied with the child's own body, whence
it is said to be autoerotic. If its sexual interest is directed out
wards to another person, it makes but little difference to the
child what that person's sex is. Hence the child may very easily
be "homosexual." Instead of the non-existent, localized sexual
function there are a number of so-called bad habits, which from
this point of view appear as perverse actions since they have
close analogies with subsequent perversions.
244 As a result of this conception sexuality, ordinarily thought
of as a unity, was decomposed into a plurality of separate drives;
and since it was tacitly assumed that sexuality originates in the
genitals, Freud arrived at the conception of "erogenous zones/'
by which he meant the mouth, skin, anus, etc.
245 The term "erogenous zone" reminds us of "spasmogenic
zone." At all events the underlying idea is the same: just as the
spasmogenic zone is the place where a spasm originates, the
erogenous zone is the place from which comes an afflux of sexu
ality. On the underlying model of the genitals as the anatomical
source of sexuality, the erogenous zones would have to be con
ceived as so many genital organs out of which sexuality flows.
This state is the polymorphous-perverse sexuality of children.
The term "perverse" appeared justified by the close analogy
with later perversions which are, so to speak, simply a new edi
tion of certain "perverse" interests in early infancy. They are
frequently connected with one or other of the erogenous zones
and cause those sexual anomalies which are so characteristic of
246 From this point of view the later, normal, "monomorphic"
sexuality is made up of several components. First it falls into a
homo- and a heterosexual component, then comes the autoerotic
component, and then the various erogenous zones. This concep-
tion can be compared with the position of physics before Robert
Mayer, when only separate fields of phenomena existed, each
credited with elementary qualities whose correlation was not
properly understood. The law of the conservation of energy
brought order into the relationship of forces to one another, at
the same time abolishing the conception of those forces as hav
ing an absolute, elementary character and making them mani
festations of the same energy. The same thing will have to
happen with this splitting of sexuality into the polymorphousperverse
sexuality of childhood.
247 Experience compels us to postulate a constant interchange
of individual components. It was recognized more and more
that perversions, for instance, exist at the expense of normal
sexuality, and that increased application of one form of sexual
ity follows a decrease in the application of another form. To
make the matter clearer I will give an example. A young man
had a homosexual phase lasting for some years, during which
time he had no interest in girls. This abnormal condition gradu
ally changed towards his twentieth year, and his erotic interests
became more and more normal. He began to take an interest in
girls, and soon he had overcome the last traces of homosexuality.
This lasted for several years, and he had a number of successful
love-affairs. Then he wanted to marry. But here he suffered a
severe disappointment, as the girl he adored threw him over.
During the ensuing phase he gave up all idea of marriage. After
that he experienced a dislike of all women, and one day he dis
covered that he had become homosexual again, for young men
once more had a peculiarly irritating effect upon him.
248 If we regard sexuality as consisting of a fixed heterosexual
and a fixed homosexual component we shall never explain this
case, since the assumption of fixed components precludes any
kind of transformation. In order to do justice to it, we must
assume a great mobility of the sexual components, which even
goes so far that one component disappears almost completely
while the other occupies the foreground. If nothing but a change
of position took place, so that the homosexual component lapsed
in full force into the unconscious, leaving the field of conscious
ness to the heterosexual component, modern scientific knowl
edge would lead us to infer that equivalent effects would then
arise from the unconscious sphere. These effects would have to
be regarded as resistances to the activity o the heterosexual
component, that is, as resistances against women. But in our
case there is no evidence of this. Though faint traces of such
influences existed, they were of such slight intensity that they
could not be compared with the previous intensity of the homo
sexual component.
249 On the existing theory, it remains incomprehensible how
the homosexual component, regarded as so firmly fixed, could
disappear without leaving any active traces behind it. (Further,
it would be very difficult to conceive how these transformations
come about. One could, at a pinch, understand the development
passing through a homosexual stage in the pubertal period in
order to lay the foundation for normal heterosexuality later, in
a fixed, definite form. But how are we then to explain that the
product of a gradual development, to all appearances bound up
very closely with organic processes of maturation, is suddenly
abolished under the impact of an impression, so as to make
room for an earlier stage? Or, if two active components are pos
tulated as existing simultaneously side by side, why is only one
of them active and not the other as well? One might object that
the homosexual component in men does in fact show itself most
readily in a peculiar irritability, a special sensitiveness in regard
to other men. According to my experience the apparent reason
for this characteristic behaviour, of which we find so many ex
amples in society today, is an invariable disturbance in the rela
tionship with women, a special form of dependence on them.
This would constitute the "plus" that is counterbalanced by the
"minus" in the homosexual relationship. (Naturally this is not
the real reason. The real reason is the infantile state of the man's
25 It was, therefore, urgently necessary to give an adequate ex
planation of such a change of scene. For this we need a dynamic
hypothesis, since these permutations of sex can only be thought
of as dynamic or energic processes. Without an alteration in the
dynamic relationships, I cannot conceive how a mode of func
tioning can disappear like this. Freud's theory took account of
this necessity. His conception of components, of separate modes
of functioning, began to be weakened, at first more in practice
than in theory, and was eventually replaced by a conception of
energy. The term chosen for this was libido.
251 Freud had already introduced the concept of libido in his
Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality,, where he says:
The fact of the existence of sexual needs in human beings and ani
mals is expressed in biology by the assumption of a "sexual instinct,"
on the analogy of the instinct of nutrition, that is of hunger. Every
day language possesses no counterpart to the word "hunger/* but
science makes use of the word "libido" for that purpose.
252 In Freud's definition the term libido connotes an exclusively
sexual need, hence everything that Freud means by libido must
be understood as sexual need or sexual desire. In medicine the
term libido is certainly used for sexual desire, and specifically
for sexual lust. But the classical use of the word as found in
Cicero, Sallust, and others was not so exclusive; there it is used
in the more general sense of passionate desire.2 I mention this
fact now, because further on it will play an important part in
our argument, and because it is important to know that the term
libido really has a much wider range of meaning than it has in
53 The concept of libidowhose sexual meaning in the Freud
ian sense we shall try to retain as long as possible represents
that dynamic factor which we were seeking in order to explain
the shifting of the psychological scenery. This concept makes it
much easier to formulate the phenomena in question. Instead of
the incomprehensible exchanging of the homosexual compo
nent for the heterosexual component, we can now say that the
libido was gradually withdrawn from its homosexual applica
tion and that it passed over in the same measure to a hetero
sexual application. In the process the homosexual component
disappeared almost completely. It remained only an empty pos
sibility, signifying nothing in itself. Its very existence is quite
1 [Standard Edn., VII, p. 135.]
[Cf. the definition of libido in Symbols of Transformation, pars.
rightly denied by the layman, just as he would deny the pos
sibility that he is a murderer. The libido concept also helps to
explain the reciprocal relationships between the various modes
of sexual functioning. At the same time, it does away with the
original idea of a plurality of sexual components, which sa
voured too much of the old philosophical notion of psychic
faculties. Their place is taken by libido, which is capable of the
most varied applications. The earlier "components" represent
only possible modes of action. The libido concept puts in the
place of a divided sexuality split into many roots a dynamic
unity, lacking which these once-significant components remain
nothing but potential activities. This conceptual development
is of the greatest importance; it accomplishes for psychology the
same advance that the concept of energy introduced into physics.
Just as the theory of the conservation of energy deprived the
various forces of their elementary character and made them
manifestations of a single energy, so the theory of libido deprives
the sexual components of their elementary significance as psychic
"faculties" and gives them a merely phenomenological value.
254 This view is a far better reflection of reality than the theory
of components. With the libido theory we can easily explain
the case of the young man cited earlier. The disappointment he
met with at the moment he wanted to marry drove his libido
away from its heterosexual mode of application, with the result
that it assumed a homosexual form again and thus reinduced the
earlier homosexuality. Here I cannot refrain from remarking
that the analogy with the law of the conservation of energy is
very close. In both cases one has to ask, when one sees that a
quantum of energy has disappeared, where this energy has reemerged
in the meantime? If we apply this point of view as an
explanatory principle to the psychology of human conduct, we
shall make the most surprising discoveries. We can then see that
the most heterogeneous phases in an individual's psychological
development are connected with one another in an energic
relationship. Every time we come across a person who has a
"bee in his bonnet," or a morbid conviction, or some extreme
attitude, we know that there is too much libido, and that the
excess must have been taken from somewhere else where, con
sequently, there is too little. From this point of view psycho
analysis is a method which helps us to discover those places or
functions where there is too little libido, and to restore the bal
ance. Thus the symptoms of a neurosis must be regarded as ex
aggerated functions over-invested with libido. 3 The energy used
for this purpose has been taken from somewhere else, and it is
the task of the psychoanalyst to discover the place it was taken
from or where it was never applied.
255 The question has to be reversed in the case of those syn
dromes characterized mainly by lack of libido, for instance apa
thetic states. Here we have to ask, where did the libido go? The
patient gives us the impression of having no libido, and there
are many doctors who take him at his face value. Such doctors
have a primitive way of thinking, like a savage who, seeing an
eclipse of the sun, believes that the sun has been swallowed and
killed. But the sun is only hidden, and so it is with these pa
tients. The libido is there, but it is not visible and is inaccessible
to the patient himself. Superficially, we have here a lack of
libido. It is the task of psychoanalysis to search out that hidden
place where the libido dwells and where the patient himself
cannot get at it. The hidden place is the "non-conscious/' which
we may also call the "unconscious" without attributing to it any
mystical significance.
256 Psychoanalysis has taught us that there are non-conscious
psychological systems which, by analogy with conscious fanta
sies, can be described as unconscious fantasy systems. In states of
neurotic apathy these unconscious fantasy systems are the ob
jects of libido. We are fully aware that when we speak of uncon
scious fantasy-systems we are speaking only figuratively. By this
we mean no more than that we accept as a necessary postulate
the conception of psychic entities outside consciousness. Experi
ence teaches us, we might say daily, that there are non-conscious
3 We meet with a similar view in Janet.
psychic processes which perceptibly influence the libido econ
omy. Those cases known to every psychiatrist, in which a
complicated system of delusions breaks out with comparative
suddenness, prove that there must be unconscious psychic de
velopments that have prepared the ground, for we can hardly
suppose that such things come into being just as suddenly as
they enter consciousness.
257 I have allowed myself to make this digression concerning the
unconscious in order to point out that, with regard to the chang
ing localization of libidinal investments, we have to reckon not
merely with the conscious but with another factor, the uncon
scious, into which the libido sometimes disappears. We can now
resume our discussion of the further consequences resulting
from the adoption of the libido theory.
*58 Freud has taught us, and we see it in the everyday practice
of psychoanalysis, that there exist in early childhood, instead of
the later normal sexuality, the beginnings of many tendencies
which in later life are called "perversions." We have had to ad
mit Freud's right to apply a sexual terminology to these tenden
cies. Through the introduction of the libido concept, we see
that in adults those elementary components which seemed to be
the origin and source of normal sexuality lose their importance
and are reduced to mere potentialities. Their operative princi
ple, their vital force, so to speak, is the libido. Without libido
these components mean practically nothing. Freud, as we saw,
gives the libido an unquestionably sexual connotation, some
thing like "sexual need." It is generally assumed that libido in
this sense comes into existence only at puberty. How, then, are
we to explain the fact that children have a polymorphous-per
verse sexuality, and that the libido activates not merely one
perversion but several? If the libido, in Freud's sense, comes
into existence only at puberty, it cannot be held accountable
for earlier infantile perversions unless we regard them as "psy
chic faculties," in accordance with the theory of components.
Quite apart from the hopeless theoretical confusion this would
lead to, we would be sinning against the methodological axiom
that "explanatory principles are not to be multiplied beyond the
259 There is no alternative but to assume that before and after
puberty it is the same libido. Hence the infantile perversions
arise in exactly the same way as in adults. Common sense will
object to this, as obviously the sexual needs of children cannot
possibly be the same as those of sexually mature persons. We
might, however, compromise on this point and say with Freud
that though the libido before and after puberty is the same it is
different in its intensity. Instead of the intense sexual need after
puberty there would be only a slight sexual need in childhood,
gradually diminishing in intensity until, at about the first year,
it is nothing but a trace. We could declare ourselves in agree
ment with this from the biological point of view. But we should
also have to assume that everything that comes within the realm
of the wider concept of sexuality discussed in the previous lec
ture is already present in miniature, including all those emo
tional manifestations of psychosexuality, such as need for affec
tion, jealousy, and many other affective phenomena, and by no
means least the neuroses of childhood. It must be admitted,
however, that these affective phenomena in children do not at
all give the impression of being "in miniature"; on the contrary,
they can rival in intensity those of an adult. Nor should we for
get that, as experience has shown, the perverse manifestations of
sexuality in childhood are often more glaring, and even seem to
be more richly developed, than in adults. In an adult showing
a similar state of richly developed perversion we could rightly
expect a total extinction of normal sexuality and of many other
important forms of biological adaptation, as is normally the case
with children. An adult is rightly called perverse when his libido
is not used for normal functions, and the same can reasonably
be said of a child: he is polymorphous-perverse because he does
not yet know the normal sexual function.
*6 These considerations suggest that perhaps the amount of
libido is always the same and that no enormous increase occurs
at sexual maturity. This somewhat audacious hypothesis leans
heavily, it is clear, on the law of the conservation of energy, ac
cording to which the amount of energy remains constant. It is
conceivable that the peak of maturity is reached only when the
infantile, subsidiary applications of libido gradually discharge
themselves into one definite channel of sexuality and are extin
guished in it. For the moment we must content ourselves with
these suggestions, for we must next pay attention to one point
of criticism concerning the nature of the infantile libido,
261 Many of our critics do not concede that the infantile libido
is simply less intense but of essentially the same nature as the
libido of adults. The libidinal impulses of adults are correlated
with the genital function, those of children are not, or only
in exceptional cases, and this gives rise to a distinction whose
importance must not be underestimated. It seems to me that this
objection is justified. There is indeed a considerable difference
between immature and fully developed functions, just as there
is between play and seriousness, between shooting with blank
and with loaded cartridges. This would give the infantile libido
that undeniably harmless character which is demanded by com
mon sense. But neither can one deny that blank-shooting is
shooting. We must get accustomed to the idea that sexuality
really exists, even before puberty, right back into early child
hood, and we have no grounds for not calling the manifestations
of this immature sexuality sexual.
262 This naturally does not invalidate the objection which,
while admitting the existence of infantile sexuality in the form
we have described, nevertheless contests Freud's right to desig
nate as "sexual" early infantile phenomena such as sucking. We
have already discussed the reasons which may have induced
Freud to stretch his sexual terminology so far. We mentioned,
too, how this very act of sucking could be conceived just as well
from the standpoint of the nutritive function and that, on bi
ological grounds, there was actually more justification for this
derivation than for Freud's view. It might be objected that these
and similar activities of the oral zone reappear in later life in
an undoubtedly sexual guise. This only means that these activi
ties can be used later for sexual purposes, but proves nothing
about their originally sexual character. I must, therefore, admit
that I can find no ground for regarding the pleasure-producing
activities of the infantile period from the standpoint of sexual
ity, but rather grounds to the contrary, It seems to me, so far as
I am capable of judging these difficult problems correctly, that
from the standpoint of sexuality it is necessary to divide human
life into three phases.
263 The first phase embraces the first years of life; I call this
period the presexual stage* It corresponds to the caterpillar
stage of butterflies, and is characterized almost exclusively by
the functions of nutrition and growth.
264 The second phase embraces the later years of childhood up
to puberty, and might be called the prepubertal stage. Ger
mination of sexuality takes place at this period.
265 The third phase is the adult period from puberty on, and
may be called thq period of maturity.
266 it wili not have escaped you that the greatest difficulty lies
in assigning limits to the presexual stage. I am ready to confess
my great uncertainty in regard to this problem. When I look
back on my own psychoanalytic experiences with children in
sufficiently numerous as yet, unfortunately at the same time
bearing in mind the observations made by Freud, it seems to me
that the limits of this phase lie between the third and fifth year,
subject, of course, to individual variation. This age is an im
portant one in many respects. The child has already outgrown
the helplessness of a baby, and a number of important psycho
logical functions have acquired a reliable hold. From this period
on, the profound darkness of the early infantile amnesia, or dis
continuity of consciousness, begins to be illuminated by the
sporadic continuity of memory. It seems as if, at this stage, an
essential step forward is taken in the emancipation and cen
tring of the new personality. So far as we know, the first signs
of interests and activities which may fairly be called sexual also
fall into this period, even though these indications still have the
infantile characteristics of harmlessness and na'ivet.
I think I have sufficiently explained why a sexual terminol
ogy cannot be applied to the presexual stage, so we may now
consider the other problems from the standpoint we have just
[Cf. Symbols of Transformation, par. 206.]
reached. You will remember that we dropped the problem of
decreased libido in childhood because it was impossible in that
way to reach any clear conclusion. We now take up this ques
tion once again, if only to see whether the energic conception
fits in with our present formulations.
268 We saw that the difference between infantile and mature
sexuality can be explained, according to Freud, by the diminish
ing intensity of sexuality in childhood. But we have just ad
vanced reasons why it seems doubtful that the life-processes of
a child, with the exception of sexuality, are any less intense than
those of adults. We could say that, sexuality excepted, the affec
tive phenomena, and the nervous symptoms if there are any, are
quite as intense as in adults. Yet, on the energic view, they are
all manifestations of libido. It is therefore difficult to believe
that the intensity of libido can make the difference between ma
ture and immature sexuality. Rather the difference seems to be
conditioned by a change in the localization of libido (if such an
expression be permitted). In contradistinction to its medical
definition, the libido of a child is occupied far more with sub
sidiary functions of a mental and physical nature than with
local sexual functions. This being so, one is tempted to with
draw the predicate "sexualis" from the term "libido" and to
strike out the sexual definition of libido given in Freud's Three
Essays on the Theory of Sexuality. The necessity for this be
comes really urgent when we ask ourselves whether the intense
joys and sorrows of a child in the first years of his life, that is,
at the presexual stage, are conditioned solely by his sexual
*69 Freud has pronounced himself in favour of this supposition.
There is no need for me to repeat here the reasons which com
pelled me to postulate a presexual stage. The caterpillar stage
possesses an alimentary libido but no sexual libido; we have to
put it like that if we want to retain the energic view which the
libido theory offers us. I think there is nothing for it but to
abandon the sexual definition of libido, or we shall lose what
is valuable in the libido theory, namely the energic point of
view. For a long time now the need to give the concept of libido
breathing-space and to remove it from the narrow confines of
the sexual definition has forced itself on the psychoanalytical
school. One never wearied of insisting that sexuality was not to
be taken too literally but in a wider sense; yet exactly how re
mained obscure and so could not satisfy the serious critics.
I do not think I am going astray if I see the real value of the
concept of libido not in its sexual definition but in its energic
view, thanks to which we are in possession of an extremely valu
able heuristic principle. We are also indebted to the energic
view for dynamic images and correlations which are of inestima
ble value to us in the chaos of the psychic world. Freudians
would be wrong not to listen to those critics who accuse our
libido theory of mysticism and unintelligibility. We were de
ceiving ourselves when we believed that we could make the
libido sexualis the vehicle of an energic conception of psychic
life, and if many of Freud's school still believe that they are
in possession of a well-defined and, so to speak, concrete concep
tion of libido, they are not aware that this concept has been put
to uses which far exceed the bounds of any sexual definition.
Consequently the critics are right when they object that the
libido theory purports to explain things which do not properly
belong to its sphere. This really does evoke the impression that
we are operating with a mystical entity.
2? 1 In my book Wandlungen und Symbole der Libido I tried
to furnish proof of these transgressions and at the same time to
show the need for a new conception of libido which took ac
count only of the energic view. Freud himself was forced to ad
mit that his original conception of libido might possibly be too
narrow when he tried to apply the energic view consistently to
a famous case of dementia praecox the so-called Schreber case. 5
This case is concerned among other things with that well-known
problem in the psychology of dementia praecox, the loss of
adaptation to reality, a peculiar phenomenon consisting in the
special tendency of these patients to construct an inner fantasy
world of their own, surrendering for this purpose their adapta
tion to reality.
272 One aspect of this phenomenon, the absence of emotional
6 ["Psycho-Analytic Notes on an Autobiographical Account of a Case of Paranoia
(Dementia Paranoides)."]
rapport, will be well known to you, as this is a striking disturb
ance of the reality function. By dint of much psychoanalytic
work with these patients we established that this lack of adapta
tion to reality is compensated by a progressive increase in the
creation of fantasies, which goes so far that the dream world
becomes more real for the patient than external reality. Schreber
found an excellent figurative description for this phenomenon
in his delusion about the "end of the world." He thus depicts
the loss of reality in a very concrete way. The dynamic explana
tion is simple: we say that libido has withdrawn more and more
from the external world into the inner world of fantasy, and
there had to create, as a substitute for the lost world, a so-called
reality equivalent. This substitute is built up piece by piece, so
to speak, and it is most interesting to see out of what psycholog
ical material this inner world is constructed.
273 This way of looking at the displacement of libido is based on
the everyday use of the term, its original, purely sexual connota
tion being very rarely remembered. In actual practice we speak
simply of libido, and this is understood in so innocuous a sense
that Clapar&de once remarked to me that one could just as well
use the word "interest." The customary use of the term has de
veloped, quite naturally and spontaneously, into a usage which
makes it possible to explain Schreber's end of the world simply
as a withdrawal of libido. On this occasion Freud remembered
his original sexual definition of libido and tried to come to
terms with the change of meaning that had quietly taken place
in the meantime. In his paper on Schreber he asks himself
whether what the psychoanalytic school calls libido and con
ceives as "interest from erotic sources'' coincides with interest
in general. You see that, putting the problem in this way, Freud
asks himself the question which Claparde had already answered
in practice.
274 Freud thus broaches the question of whether the loss of real
ity in schizophrenia, to which I drew attention in my "Psychol
ogy of Dementia Praecox/' 6
is due entirely to the withdrawal
of erotic interest, or whether this coincides with objective inter
est in general. We can hardly suppose that the normal "fonction
du r6el" (Janet) is maintained solely by erotic interest. The fact
6 [The first paper in The Psychogenesis of Mental Disease, Collected Works,
Vol. 3.]
is that in very many cases reality disappears altogether, so that
not a trace of psychological adaptation can be found in these
patients. (In these states reality is replaced by complex contents.)
We are therefore compelled to admit that not only the erotic
interest, but all interest whatsoever, has got lost, and with it the
whole adaptation to reality.
275 Earlier, in my "Psychology of Dementia Praecox," I tried to
get round this difficulty by using the expression "psychic en
ergy," because I could not base the theory of dementia praecox
on the theory of displacements of libido sexually defined. My
experience at that time chiefly psychiatric did not permit me
to understand this latter theory: only later did I come to realize
its partial correctness as regards the neuroses, thanks to increased
experiences in the field of hysteria and obsessional neurosis.
Abnormal displacements of libido, quite definitely sexual, do in
fact play a great role in these illnesses. But although very char
acteristic repressions of sexual libido do take place in the neu
roses, the loss of reality so typical of dementia praecox never
occurs. In dementia praecox the loss of the reality function is so
extreme that it must involve the loss of other instinctual forces
whose sexual character must be denied absolutely, for no one is
likely to maintain that reality is a function of sex, Moreover, i
it were, the withdrawal of erotic interest in the neuroses would
necessarily entail a loss of reality comparable to that which oc
curs in dementia praecox. But, as I said before, this is not the
s? 6 (Another thing to be considered as Freud also pointed out
in his work on the Schreber case is that the introversion of
sexual libido leads to an investment of the ego which might con
ceivably produce that effect of loss of reality. It is indeed tempt
ing to explain the psychology of the loss in this way. But when
we examine more closely the various things that can arise from
the withdrawal and introversion of sexual libido, we come to see
that though it can produce the psychology of an ascetic an
chorite, it cannot produce dementia praecox. The anchorite's
whole endeavour is to exterminate every trace of sexual interest,
and this is something that cannot be asserted of dementia
(It might be objected that dementia praecox is characterized not only by the
introversion ot sexual libido but also by a regression to the infantile level, and
*77 These facts have made it impossible for me to apply Freud's
libido theory to dementia praecox. I am also of the opinion that
Abraham's essay on this subject
is theoretically untenable from
the standpoint of Freud's conception of libido. Abraham's be
lief that the paranoid system, or the schizophrenic symptomatol
ogy, is produced by the withdrawal of sexual libido from the
outside world cannot be justified in terms of our present knowl
edge. For, as Freud has clearly shown, a mere introversion or
regression of libido invariably leads to a neurosis and not to
dementia praecox. It seems to me impossible simply to transfer
the libido theory to dementia praecox, because this disease
shows a loss of reality which cannot be explained solely by the
loss of erotic interest.
The attitude of reserve which I adopted towards the ubiq
uity of sexuality in my foreword to "The Psychology of De
mentia Praecox," despite the fact that I recognized the psycho
logical mechanisms pointed out by Freud, was dictated by the
position of the libido theory at that time. Its sexual definition
did not permit me to explain functional disturbances which
affect the indefinite sphere of the hunger drive just as much as
that of sex solely in the light of a sexual libido theory. Freud's
libido theory had long seemed to me inapplicable to dementia
praecox. In my analytical work I noticed that, with growing
experience, a slow change in my conception of libido had taken
place. Instead of the descriptive definition set forth in Freud's
Three Essays, there gradually took shape a genetic definition of
libido, which enabled me to replace the expression "psychic
energy" by "libido." I had to tell myself: if the reality function
consists nowadays to only a very small extent of sexual libido
that this constitutes the difference between the anchorite and the schizophrenic.
This is certainly correct, but it would still have to be proved that in dementia
praecox it is regularly and exclusively the erotic interest which goes into a regression.
It seems to me rather difficult to prove this, because erotic interest would
then have to be understood as the "Eros" of the old philosophers. But that can
hardly be meant. I know cases of dementia praecox where all regard for selfpreservation
disappears, but not the very lively erotic interests.)
8 ["The Psycho-Sexual Differences between Hysteria and Dementia Praecox."]
and to a far greater extent of other instinctual forces, then it is
very important to consider whether, phylogenetically speaking,
the reality function is not, at least very largely, of sexual origin.
It is impossible to answer this question directly, but we can seek
to approach it by a circuitous route.
*79 A cursory glance at the history of evolution suffices to show
that numerous complicated functions, which today must be de
nied all trace of sexuality, were originally nothing but offshoots
of the reproductive instinct. As we know, an important change
occurred in the principles of reproduction during the ascent
through the animal kingdom: the vast numbers of gametes
which chance fertilization made necessary were progressively
reduced in favour of assured fertilization and effective protec
tion of the young. The decreased production of ova and sperma
tozoa set free considerable quantities of energy for conversion
into the mechanisms of attraction and protection of offspring,
etc. Thus we find the first stirrings of the artistic impulse in ani
mals, but subservient to the reproductive instinct and limited
to the breeding season. The original sexual character of these
biological phenomena gradually disappears as they become or
ganically fixed and achieve functional independence. Although
there can be no doubt that music originally belonged to the
reproductive sphere, it would be an unjustified and fantastic
generalization to put music in the same category as sex. Such a
terminology would be tantamount to treating of Cologne cathe
dral in a text-book of mineralogy, on the ground that it consisted
very largely of stones.
*8o Up to now we have spoken of libido as the instinct for propa
gation or for the preservation of the species, and have kept with
in the confines of a view which contrasts libido with hunger in
the same way as the instinct for the preservation of the species
is contrasted with the instinct for self-preservation. In nature,
of course, this artificial distinction does not exist. There we see
only a continuous life-urge, a will to live, which seeks to en
sure the continuance of the whole species through the preserva
tion of the individual. Thus far our conception of libido coin
cides with Schopenhauer's Will, inasmuch as a movement
perceived from the outside can only be grasped as the manifesta
tion of an inner will or desire. Once we have arrived at the bold
conjecture that the libido which was originally employed in the
production of ova and spermatozoa is now firmly organized in
the function of nest-building, for instance, and can no longer
be employed otherwise, we are compelled to include every striv
ing and every desire, as well as hunger, in this conception. There
is no longer any justification for differentiating in principle be
tween the desire to build nests and the desire to eat.9
281 I think you will already see where our argument is leading
us. We are in the process of carrying through the energic point
of view consistently, putting the energic mode of action in the
place of the purely formal functioning. Just as the older sciences
were always talking of reciprocal actions in nature, and this oldfashioned
point of view was replaced by the law of the conserva
tion of energy, so here too, in the realm of psychology, we are
seeking to replace the reciprocal action of co-ordinated psychic
faculties by an energy conceived to be homogeneous. We thus
take cognizance of the justified criticism that the psychoanalytic
school is operating with a mystical conception of libido.
282 For this reason I must dispel the illusion that the whole
psychoanalytic school has a clearly understood and concrete con
ception of libido. I maintain that the libido with which we
operate is not only not concrete or known, but is a complete X,
a pure hypothesis, a model or counter, and is no more concretely
conceivable than the energy known to the world of physics. Only
in this way can we escape those violent transgressions of the
proper boundaries, which happen time and again when we try
to reduce co-ordinated forces to one another. (We shall never be
able to explain the mechanics of solid bodies or of electromag
netic phenomena in terms of a theory of light, for mechanics
and electromagnetism are not light. Moreover, strictly speaking,
it is not physical forces that change into one another, but the
energy that changes its outward form. Forces are phenomenal
manifestations; what underlies their relations with one another
is the hypothetical idea of energy, which is, of course, entirely
psychological and has nothing to do with so-called objective
reality.) This same conceptual achievement that has taken place
in physics we seek to accomplish for the libido theory. We want
to give the concept of libido the position that really belongs to
it, which is a purely energic one, so that we can conceive the
[Pars. 278-80 and 274-75 reappear with certain modifications and additions in
Symbols of Transformation, pars. 1 92 ff. EDITORS.]
life-process in terms of energy and replace the old idea of recip
rocal action by relations of absolute equivalence. We shall not
be disturbed if we are met with the cry of vitalism. We are as
far removed from any belief in a specific life-force as from any
other metaphysical assertion. Libido is intended simply as a
name for the energy which manifests itself in the life-process and
is perceived subjectively as conation and desire. It is hardly nec
essary to defend this view. It brings us into line with a powerful
current of ideas that seeks to comprehend the world of appear
ances energically. Suffice it to say that everything we perceive
can only be understood as an effect of force.
283 In the diversity of natural phenomena we see desire libido
taking the most variegated forms. In early childhood it appears
at first wholly in the form of the nutritive instinct which builds
up the body. As the body develops, new spheres of activity are
opened up successively for the libido. A definitive and extremely
important sphere of activity is sexuality, which to begin with
appears closely bound up with the function of nutrition (one
has only to think of the influence of nutritional factors on propa
gation in the lower animals and plants). In the sphere of sexu
ality the libido acquires a form whose tremendous importance
gives us the justification for using the ambiguous term "libido"
at all. Here it appears at first in the form of an undifferentiated,
primary libido, as the energy of growth that causes cell-division,
budding, etc. in individuals.
284 Out of this primary, sexual libido, which produces from one
small organism millions of ova and spermatozoa, there devel
oped, by a tremendous restriction of fertility, offshoots whose
function is maintained by a specifically differentiated libido.
This differentiated libido is now "desexualized" by being di
vested of its original function of producing eggs and sperm, nor
is there any possibility of restoring it to its original function.
Thus the whole process of development consists in a progressive
absorption of the primary libido, which produced nothing but
gametes, into the secondary functions of attraction and protec
tion of offspring. This development presupposes a quite differ
ent and much more complicated relation to reality, a genuine
reality function which is inseparably connected with the needs
of reproduction. In other words, the altered mode of reproduc
tion brings with it, as a correlate, a correspondingly enhanced
adaptation to reality. This, of course, does not imply that the
reality function owes its existence exclusively to the differentia
tion in reproduction. I am fully aware of the indefinitely large
role played by the nutritive function.
285 In this way we gain some insight into the factors originally
conditioning the reality function. It would be a fundamental
error to say that its driving force is a sexual one. It was in large
measure a sexual one originally, but even then not exclusively
286 The process of absorption of primary libido into secondary
functions probably always occurred in the form of "libidinal
affluxes," that is to say sexuality was diverted from its original
destination and part of it used for the mechanisms of attraction
and protection of the young functions which gradually increase
the higher you go in the phylogenetic scale. This transfer of
sexual libido from the sexual sphere to subsidiary functions is
still taking place. (Malthusianism, for instance, is an artificial
continuation of the natural tendency.) Wherever this operation
occurs without detriment to the adaptation of the individual
we call it "sublimation," and "repression" when the attempt
287 The descriptive standpoint of psychoanalysis views the mul
tiplicity of instincts, among them the sexual instinct, as partial
phenomena, and, in addition, recognizes certain affluxes of li
bido to nonsexual instincts.
*88 The genetic standpoint is different. It regards the multiplic
ity of instincts as issuing from a relative unity, the libido; it see
how portions of libido continually split off from the reproduc
tive function, add themselves as libidinal affluxes to the newly
formed functions, and finally merge into them.
289 From this point of view we can rightly say that the schizo
phrenic withdraws his libido from the outside world and in
consequence suffers a loss of reality compensated by an increase
in fantasy activity.
29 We shall now try to fit this new conception of libido into the
theory of infantile sexuality, which is so very important for the
theory of neurosis. In infants we find that libido as energy, as a
vital activity, first manifests itself in the nutritional zone, where,
in the act of sucking, food is taken in with a rhythmic movement
and with every sign of satisfaction. With the growth of the in
dividual and development of his organs the libido creates for
itself new avenues of activity. The primary model of rhythmic
movement, producing pleasure and satisfaction, is now trans
ferred to the zone of the other functions, with sexuality as its
ultimate goal. A considerable portion of the "alimentary li
bido" has to convert itself into "sexual libido/' This transition
does not take place quite suddenly at puberty, but only very
gradually during the course of childhood. The libido can free
itself only with difficulty and quite slowly from the modality of
the nutritive function in order to pass over into the sexual
29 1 In this transitional stage there are, so far as I am able to
judge, two distinct phases: the phase of sucking, and the phase
of displaced rhythmic activity. Sucking belongs by its very na
ture to the sphere of the nutritive function, but outgrows it by
ceasing to be a function of nutrition and becoming a rhythmic
activity aiming at pleasure and satisfaction without intake of
nourishment. At this point the hand comes in as an auxiliary
organ. It appears even more clearly as an auxiliary organ in the
phase of displaced rhythmic activity for pleasure, which then
leaves the oral zone and turns to other regions. As a rule, it is
the other body-openings that become the first objects of libidinal
interest; then the skin, or special parts of it. The activities
carried out in these places, taking the form of rubbing, boring,
picking, pulling, and so forth, follow a certain rhythm and serve
to produce pleasure. After lingering for a while at these stations,
the libido continues its wanderings until it reaches the sexual
zone, where it may provide occasion for the first attempts at
masturbation. In the course of its migrations the libido carries
traces of the nutritional phase into its new field of operations,
which readily accounts for the many intimate connections be
tween the nutritive and the sexual function.10 This migration of
libido takes place during the presexual stage, whose special dis
tinguishing-mark is that the libido gradually sloughs off the
[Pars. 290-91 likewise recur with small changes in Symbols of Transformation,
par. 206. EDITORS.]
character of the nutritive instinct and assumes that of the sexual
instinct.11 At the stage of nutrition, therefore, we cannot yet
speak of a true sexual libido.
292 In consequence, we are obliged to qualify the so-called poly
morphous-perverse sexuality of early infancy. The polymor
phism of libidinal strivings at this period can be explained as
the gradual migration of libido, stage by stage, away from the
sphere of the nutritive function into that of the sexual function.
Thus the term "perverse," so bitterly attacked by our critics,
can be dropped, since it creates a false impression.
293 When a chemical substance breaks up into its elements, these
elements are, under those conditions, products of disintegration.
But it is not permissible to describe all elements whatsoever as
products of disintegration. Perversions are disturbed products
of a developed sexuality. They are never the initial stages of
sexuality, although there is an undoubted similarity between
the initial stage and the product of disintegration. As sexuality
develops, its infantile stages, which should no longer be re
garded as "perverse" but as rudimentary and provisional, re
solve themselves into normal sexuality. The more smoothly the
libido withdraws from its provisional positions, the more quickly
and completely does the formation of normal sexuality take
place. It is of the essence of normal sexuality that all those early
infantile tendencies which are not yet sexual should be sloughed
off as much as possible. The less this is so, the more perverse
will sexuality become. Here the expression "perverse" is alto
gether appropriate. The basic conditioning factor in perversion,
therefore, is an infantile, insufficiently developed state of sexu
ality. The expression "polymorphous-perverse" has been bor
rowed from the psychology of neurosis and projected backwards
into the psychology of the child, where of course it is quite out
of place.
(I must ask the reader not to misunderstand my figurative way of speaking. It
is, of course, not libido as energy that gradually frees itself from the function of
nutrition, but libido as a function, which is bound up with the slow changes of
organic growth.)
294 Now that we have ascertained what is to be understood by
infantile sexuality, we can follow up the discussion of the theory
of neurosis, which we began in the first lecture and then
dropped. We followed the theory of neurosis up to the point
where we ran up against Freud's statement that the predisposi
tion which makes traumatic experiences pathogenically effec
tive is a sexual one. Helped by our reflections since then, we
can now understand how that sexual predisposition is to be con
ceived: it is a retardation, a check in the process of freeing the
libido from the activities of the presexual stage. The disturb
ance must be regarded in the first place as a temporary fixation:
the libido lingers too long at certain stations in the course of its
migration from the nutritive function to the sexual function.
This produces a state of disharmony because provisional and,
as it were, outworn activities still persist at a period when they
should have been given up. This formula can be applied to all
those infantile features which are so prevalent in neurotics that
no attentive observer can have failed to notice them. In de
mentia praecox the infantilism is so striking that it has even
given a telltale name to one particular syndrome hebephrenia
(literally, 'adolescent mind').
295 The matter is not ended, however, by saying that the libido
lingers too long in the preliminary stages. For while the libido
is lingering, time does not stand still, and the development of
the individual is proceeding apace. Physical maturation height
ens the discrepancy between the perseverating infantile activity
and the demands of later years with their changed conditions
of life. In this way the foundation is laid for a dissociation of the
personality, and hence for a conflict, which is the real basis of a
neurosis. The more the libido is engaged in retarded activities,
the more intense will the conflict be. The particular experience
best suited to make this conflict manifest is a traumatic or patho
genic one.
296 As Freud has shown in his early writings, one can easily
imagine a neurosis arising in this way. It was a conception that
fitted in quite well with the views of Janet, who attributed a
neurosis to some kind of defect. From this standpoint one could
regard neurosis as a product of retarded affective development,
and I can easily imagine that this conception must seem selfevident
to anyone who is inclined to derive the neuroses more
or less directly from a hereditary taint or congenital degeneracy.
Unfortunately the real state of affairs is much more compli
cated. In order to give you some idea of these complications, I
shall cite a very ordinary example of hysteria, which I hope will
show you how characteristic and how extremely important they
are theoretically.
297 You will probably remember the case of the young hysteric
I mentioned earlier, who, surprisingly enough, did not react to
a situation which might have been expected to make a profound
impression on her, and yet displayed an unexpected and patho
logically violent reaction to a quite ordinary occurrence. We
took this occasion to express our doubt as to the aetiological
significance of the trauma, and to investigate more closely the
so-called predisposition which rendered the trauma effective.
The result of that investigation led to the conclusion just men
tioned, that it is by no means improbable that the origin of a
neurosis is due to a retardation of affective development.
98 You will now ask in what way the patient's affective develop
ment was retarded. The answer is that she lived in a world of
fantasy which can only be described as infantile. It is unneces
sary for me to give you a description of these fantasies, for, as
neurologists or psychiatrists, you undoubtedly have a daily op
portunity to listen to the childish prejudices, illusions, and emo
tional demands of neurotics. The disinclination to face stern
reality is the distinguishing feature of these fantasies; there is a
lack of seriousness, a playfulness in them, which sometimes
frivolously disguises real difficulties, at other times makes moun
tains out of molehills, always thinking up fantastic ways of
evading the demands of real life. We immediately recognize in
them the intemperate psychic attitude of the child to reality, his
precarious judgment, his lack of orientation, his dislike of un-
pleasant duties. With such an infantile mentality all manner of
wishful fantasies and illusions can grow luxuriantly, and this is
where the danger comes in. By means of these fantasies people
can easily slip into an unreal and completely unadapted atti
tude to the world, which sooner or later must lead to catastrophe.
299 If we follow the patient's infantile fantasy-life back into
earliest childhood, we find, it is true, many obviously outstand
ing scenes which might well serve to provide fresh food for this
or that fantastic variation, but it would be vain to search for the
so-called traumatic elements from which something patholog
ical, for instance her abnormal fantasy activity, might have orig
inated. There were plenty of "traumatic" scenes, but they did
not lie in early childhood; and the few scenes of early childhood
which were remembered did not appear to be traumatic, being
more like accidental experiences which passed by without hav
ing any effect worth mentioning on her fantasies. The earliest
fantasies consisted of all sorts of vague and half-understood im
pressions she had received of her parents. All sorts of special
feelings clustered round the father, fluctuating between fear,
horror, aversion, disgust, love, and ecstasy. The case was like so
many other cases of hysteria for which no traumatic aetiology
can be found; they are rooted instead in a peculiar, premature
fantasy activity which permanently retains its infantile char
300 You will object that it is just that scene with the bolting
horses that represents the trauma, and that this was obviously
the model for that nocturnal scene eighteen years later, when
the patient could not get out of the way of the horses trotting
along behind her and wanted to throw herself into the river,
following the model of the horses and carriage plunging down
the ravine. From this moment on she also suffered from hys
terical twilight states. But, as I tried to show you in my earlier
lecture, we find no trace of any such aetiological connection in
the development of her fantasy system. It is as though the dan
ger of losing her life, that first time with the bolting horses,
passed by without noticeable effect. In all the years following
that experience there was no discernible trace of that fright,
It was as though it had never happened. In parenthesis let me
add that perhaps it never happened at all. There is nothing to
prevent it from being sheer fantasy, for here I have only the
statements of the patient to rely on.1
301 Suddenly, after eighteen years, this experience becomes sig
nificant, is reproduced and acted out in all its details. The old
theory says: the previously blocked affect has suddenly forced
its way to the surface. This assumption is extremely unlikely
and becomes still more inconceivable when we consider that the
story of the bolting horses may not even be true. Be that as it
may, it is almost inconceivable that an affect should remain
buried for years and then suddenly explode at an unsuitable
302 It is very suspicious, too, that patients often have a pro
nounced tendency to account for their ailments by some longpast
experience, ingeniously drawing the analyst's attention
away from the present to some false track in the past. This false
track was the one pursued by the first psychoanalytical theory.
But to this false hypothesis we owe an insight into the deter
mination of neurotic symptoms which we should never have
reached if the investigators had not trodden this path, guided
into it, really, by the tendency of the patient to mislead. I think
that only those who regard the happenings in this world as a
concatenation of errors and accidents, and who therefore be
lieve that the pedagogic hand of the rationalist is constantly
needed to guide us, can ever imagine that this path was an aber
ration from which we should have been warned off with a sign
board. Besides the deeper insight into psychological determina
tion, we owe to this "error" a method of inquiry of incalculable
importance. It is for us to rejoice and be thankful that Freud
had the courage to let himself be guided along this path. Not
thus is the progress of science hindered, but rather by blind
adherence to insights once gained, by the typical conservatism
of authority, by the childish vanity of the savant and his fear of
making mistakes. This lack of courage is considerably more
injurious to the name of science than an honest error. When
(It may not be superfluous to remark that there are still people who believe that
psychologists swallow the lies of their patients. That is quite impossible. Lies are
fantasies, and we deal in fantasies.)
will there be an end to the incessant squabbling about who is
right? One has only to look at the history of science: how many
have been right, and how few have remained right1
303 But to return to our case. The question that now arises is
this: if the old trauma is not of aetiological significance, then
the cause of the manifest neurosis is obviously to be sought in
the retardation of affective development. We must therefore re
gard the patient's statement that her hysterical twilight states
were caused by the fright she got with the horses as null and
void, although that fright was the starting-point for her mani
fest illness. This experience merely seems to be important with
out being so in reality, a formulation which is true of most
other traumata. They merely seem to be important because they
provide occasion for the manifestation of a condition that has
long been abnormal. The abnormal condition, as we have al
ready explained, consists in the anachronistic persistence of an
infantile stage of libido development. The patients continue to
hang on to forms of libido activity which they should have aban
doned long ago. It is almost impossible to catalogue these forms,
so extraordinarily varied are they. The commonest, which is
scarcely ever absent, is an excessive fantasy activity charac
terized by a thoughtless overvaluation of subjective wishes. Ex
cessive fantasy activity is always a sign of faulty application of
libido to reality. Instead of being used for the best possible
adaptation to the actual circumstances, it gets stuck in fantastic
applications. We call this state one of partial introversion when
libido is used for the maintenance of fantasies and illusions in
stead of being adapted to the actual conditions of life.
304 A regular concomitant of this retardation of affective de
velopment is the parental complex. When the libido is not used
for purposes of real adaptation it is always more or less intro
verted.2 The material content of the psychic world consists of
(Introversion does not mean that libido simply accumulates inactively. But it is
used for the creation of fantasies and illusions when the introversion results in
regression to an infantile mode of adaptation. Introversion can also lead to action
on a rational plane.)
memories, that is, of material from the individual's past (aside
from actual perceptions). If the libido is partially or totally
introverted, it invests to a greater or lesser degree large areas of
memory, with the result that these reminiscences acquire a
vitality that no longer properly belongs to them. The patients
then live more or less entirely in the world of the past. They
battle with difficulties which once played a role in their lives
but which ought to have faded out long ago. They still worry,
or rather are forced to worry, about things which should long
since have ceased to be important. They amuse or torment them
selves with fancies which, in the normal course of events, were
once significant but no longer have any significance for adults.
35 Among the things that were of the utmost significance at
the infantile period the most influential are the personalities
of the parents. Even when the parents have long been dead and
have lost, or should have lost, all significance, the situation of
the patient having perhaps completely changed since then, they
are still somehow present and as important as if they were still
alive. The patient's love, admiration, resistance, hatred, and
rebelliousness still cling to their effigies, transfigured by affec
tion or distorted by envy, and often bearing little resemblance
to the erstwhile reality. It was this fact that compelled me to
speak no longer of "father" and "mother" but to employ instead
the term "imago," because these fantasies are not concerned any
more with the real father and mother but with subjective and
often very much distorted images of them which lead a shadowy
but nonetheless potent existence in the mind of the patient.
3 6 The complex of the parental imagos, that is, the whole tissue
of ideas relating to the parents, provides an important field of
activity for the introverted libido. I should mention in passing
that the complex in itself leads but a shadowy existence if it is
not invested with libido. In accordance with the earlier usage
worked out in my Studies in Word Association, the word "com
plex" denoted a system of ideas already invested with libido and
activated by it. But this system also exists in potentia, ready for
possible action, even when not temporarily or permanently in
vested with libido.
37 At the time when psychoanalytic theory was still dominated
by the trauma concept and, in conformity with that view, was
inclined to look for the causa efficient of the neurosis in the past,
it seemed to us that the parental complex was, as Freud called
it, the "nuclear complex" of neurosis. The role of the parents
seemed to be so powerful a factor that we were apt to blame
them for all the subsequent complications in the life of the pa
tient. Some years ago I discussed this in my paper, "The Signifi
cance of the Father in the Destiny of the Individual." a Once
again we had allowed ourselves to be guided by the tendency of
the patient to revert to the past, following the direction of his
introverted libido. This time, certainly, it was no longer an ex
ternal, accidental experience or event which seemed to produce
the pathogenic effect; it was rather a psychological effect appar
ently arising out of the individual's difficulties in adapting to
the conditions of the family milieu. The disharmony between
the parents on the one hand and between the parents and the
child on the other seemed especially liable to produce psychic
currents in the child which were incompatible with his indi
vidual way of life.
S 8 In the paper just alluded to I cited a number of instances,
taken from a wealth of material on this subject, which show
these effects particularly clearly. The effects apparently ema
nating from the parents are not limited to the endless recrimi
nations of their neurotic offspring, who constantly lay the
blame for their illness on their family circumstances or bad
upbringing, but extend even to actual events in the life of the
patients, where no such determining influence could have been
expected. The lively imitativeness which we find in primitives
as well as in children can give rise, in particularly sensitive chil
dren, to a peculiar inner identification with the parents, to a
mental attitude so similar to theirs that effects in real life are
sometimes produced which, even in detail, resemble the per
sonal experiences of the parents.
[See infra, pars. 67off.]
(I am discounting the inherited organic similarity which is naturally responsible
for many things but by no means all.)
39 For the empirical material on this subject, I must refer you
to the literature, but should just like to remind you that one of
my pupils, Dr. Emma Fiirst, has adduced valuable experimental
proofs in regard to this problem. I have already referred to her
researches in my lectures at Clark University.
5 By applying the
association test to whole families, Dr. Fiirst established the great
conformity of reaction type among all members of one family.
These experiments show that very often there exists an uncon
scious concordance of association between parents and children,
which can only be explained as an intensive imitation or identi
fication. The results of these researches indicate a far-reaching
parallelism of biological tendencies that readily explains the
sometimes astonishing similarity in the destinies of parents and
children. Our destinies are as a rule the outcome of our psy
chological tendencies.
3*0 These facts enable us to understand why not only the pa
tients themselves, but the theories that have been built on these
researches, tend to assume that neurosis is the result of the characterological
influence of the parents on the children. This as
sumption is, moreover, supported by the experience which lies
at the base of all education, namely, the plasticity of the child's
mind, which is commonly compared with soft wax, taking up
and preserving all impressions. We know that the first impres
sions of childhood accompany us inalienably throughout life,
and that, just as indestructibly, certain educational influences
can keep people all their lives within those limits. In these cir
cumstances it is not surprising that conflicts break out between
the personality moulded by educational and other influences of
the infantile milieu and one's own individual style of life. It is a
conflict which all those must face who are called upon to live a
life that is independent and creative.
3 11 Owing to the enormous influence which childhood has on
the later development of character, you will readily understand
why one would like to attribute the cause of a neurosis directly
to the influences of the infantile environment. I must confess
[Fiirst, "Statistical Investigations on Word-Associations and on Familial Agree
ment in Reaction Type among Uneducated Persons" (orig. 1905). Jung's discus
sion of her work occurred in the second of the Clark Lectures under the title
"Familial Constellations," and it appears as the latter part of "The Association
Method" in Vol. 2. EDITORS.]
that I have known cases in which any other explanation seemed
to me less plausible. There are indeed parents whose own con
tradictory nature causes them to treat their children in so un
reasonable a fashion that the children's illness would appear to
be unavoidable. Hence it is almost a rule among nerve special
ists to remove neurotic children, whenever possible, from the
dangerous family atmosphere and place them among more
healthy influences, where, even without any medical treatment,
they thrive much better than at home. There are many neurotic
patients who were clearly neurotic as children and so have never
been free from illness since childhood. In such cases the view
outlined above seems generally valid.
312 This knowledge, which for the time being seemed to us defin
itive, was considerably deepened by the researches of Freud
and the psychoanalytic school. The parent-child relationship
was studied in all its details, since it was just this relationship
which was considered aetiologically important. It was soon no
ticed that these patients really did live partly or entirely in their
childhood world, although themselves quite unconscious of this
fact. On the contrary, it was the arduous task of psychoanalysis
to investigate the psychological mode of adaptation so thor
oughly that one could put one's finger on the infantile misun
derstandings. As you know, a striking number of neurotics were
spoiled as children. Such cases offer the best and clearest exam
ples of the infantilism of their psychological mode of adaptation.
They start out in life expecting the same friendly reception,
tenderness, and easy success to which they were accustomed by
their parents in their youth. Even very intelligent patients are
incapable of seeing that from the very beginning they owe the
complications of their lives as well as their neurosis to dragging
their infantile emotional attitude along with them. The small
world of the child, the family milieu, is the model for the big
world. The more intensely the family sets its stamp on the child,
the more he will be emotionally inclined, as an adult, to see in
the great world his former small world. Of course this must not
be taken as a conscious intellectual process. On the contrary,
the patient feels and sees the difference between now and then,
and tries as well as he can to adapt himself. Perhaps he will even
believe himself perfectly adapted, since he may be able to grasp
the situation intellectually, but that does not prevent his emo
tions from lagging far behind his intellectual insight.
5*3 It is scarcely necessary to give you examples of this phenom
enon, for it is an everyday experience that our emotions never
come up to the level of our insight. It is exactly the same with
the neurotic, but greatly intensified. He may perhaps believe
that, except for his neurosis, he is a normal person, fully adapted
to the conditions of life. It never crosses his mind that he has
still not given up certain infantile demands, that he still carries
with him, in the background, expectations and illusions of
which he has never made himself conscious. He indulges in all
sorts of pet fantasies, of which he is seldom, if ever, so conscious
that he knows that he has them. Very often they exist only as
emotional expectations, hopes, prejudices, and so forth. In this
case we call them unconscious fantasies. Sometimes they appear
on the fringe of consciousness as fleeting thoughts, only to vanish
again the next moment, so that the patient is unable to say
whether he had such fantasies or not. It is only during psycho
analytic treatment that most patients learn to retain and observe
these fugitive thoughts. Although most fantasies were once con
scious, for a moment, as fleeting thoughts, it would not do to
call them conscious, because most of the time they are practically
unconscious. It is therefore right to call them unconscious fan
tasies, Of course there are also infantile fantasies which are
perfectly conscious and can be reproduced at any time.
3*4 The realm of unconscious infantile fantasies has become the
real object of psychoanalytic research, for it seems to offer the
key to the aetiology of neurosis. Here, quite otherwise than with
the trauma theory, we are forced by all the reasons we have
mentioned to assume that the roots of the psychological present
are to be found in the family history of 'the patient.
3*5 The fantasy systems which patients present on being ques
tioned are mostly of a composite nature and are elaborated like
a novel or a drama. But, despite their elaboration, they are of
relatively little value in investigating the unconscious. Just be
cause they are conscious, they defer too much to the demands
of etiquette and social morality. They have been purged of all
painful personal details, and also of everything ugly, thereby
becoming socially presentable and revealing very little. The
more valuable and evidently more influential fantasies are not
conscious, in the sense previously defined, and so have to be dug
out by the psychoanalytic technique.
316 Without wishing to enter fully into the question of tech
nique, I must here meet an objection that is constantly heard.
It is that the so-called unconscious fantasies are merely sug
gested to the patient and exist only in the mind of the analyst.
This objection is on the same vulgar level as those which impute
to us the crude mistakes of beginners. Only people with no psy
chological experience and no knowledge of the history of psy
chology are capable of making such accusations. No one with
the faintest glimmering of mythology could possibly fail to see
the startling parallels between the unconscious fantasies brought
to light by the psychoanalytic school and mythological ideas.
The objection that our knowledge of mythology has been sug
gested to the patient is without foundation, because the psycho
analytic school discovered the fantasies first and only then be
came acquainted with their mythology. Mythology, as we know,
is something quite outside the ken of the medical man.
3*7 As these fantasies are unconscious, the patient is naturally
unaware of their existence, and to question him about them di
rectly would be quite pointless. Nevertheless it is said over and
over again, not only by patients but by so-called normal per
sons: "But if I had such fantasies, surely I would know it!" But
what is unconscious is in truth something that we do not know.
Our opponents, too, are firmly convinced that such things do
not exist. This a priori judgment is pure scholasticism and has
no grounds to support it. We cannot possibly rest on the dogma
that consciousness alone is the psyche, for we have daily proof
that our consciousness is only a part of the psychic function.
When the contents of our consciousness appear they are already
in a highly complex state; the constellation of our thoughts
from the material contained in our memory is a predominantly
unconscious process. We are therefore obliged to assume,
whether we like it or not, the existence of a non-conscious psy
chic sphere, even if only as a "negative borderline concept,"
like Kant's Ding an sich. Since we perceive effects whose origin
cannot be found in consciousness, we are compelled to allow
hypothetical contents to the sphere of the non-conscious, which
means presupposing that the origin of those effects lies in the
unconscious precisely because it is not conscious. This con
ception of the unconscious can hardly be accused of "mysti
cism." We do not pretend to know or to assert anything positive
about the state of psychic elements in the unconscious. Instead,
we have formulated symbolical concepts in a manner analogous
to our formulation of conscious concepts, and this terminology
has proved its value in practice.
This way of thinking is the only possible one if we accept
the axiom that "principles are not to be multiplied beyond the
necessary." We therefore speak about the effects of the uncon
scious just as we do about the phenomena of consciousness.
Great objection was taken to Freud's statement: "The uncon
scious can only wish." This was regarded as an unheard-of
metaphysical assertion, something like a tenet from von Hartmann's
Philosophy of the Unconscious. The indignation was
due simply to the fact that these critics, unknown to themselves,
evidently started from a metaphysical conception of the uncon
scious as an ens per se, and naively projected their epistemologically
unclarified ideas on to us. For us the unconscious is not an
entity in this sense but a mere term, about whose metaphysical
essence we do not permit ourselves to form any idea. In this we
are unlike those arm-chair psychologists who are not only per
fectly informed about the localization of the psyche in the brain
and the physiological correlates of mental processes, but can as
sert positively that beyond consciousness there are nothing but
"physiological processes in the cortex."
319 Such naivetes should not be imputed to us. When Freud
says that the unconscious can only wish, he is describing in sym
bolical terms effects whose source is not conscious, but which
from the standpoint of conscious thinking can only be regarded
as analogous to wishes. The psychoanalytic school is, moreover,
aware that the discussion as to whether "wishing" is a suitable
analogy or not can be reopened at any time. Anybody who
knows a better one will be welcome. Instead of which, our op
ponents content themselves with denying the existence of these
phenomena or else, if certain phenomena have to be admitted,
they abstain from all theoretical formulations. This last point is
understandable enough, since it is not everyone's business to
think theoretically.
320 Once one has succeeded in freeing oneself from the dogma
of the psyche's identity with consciousness, thus admitting the
possible existence of extra-conscious psychic processes, one can
not, a priori, either assert or deny anything about the potentiali
ties of the unconscious. The psychoanalytic school has been ac
cused of making assertions without sufficient grounds. It seems
to us that the abundant, perhaps too abundant case-material
contained in the literature offers enough and more than enough
grounds, yet it does not seem sufficient for our opponents. There
must be a good deal of difference as to the meaning of the word
"sufficient" in regard to the validity of these grounds. So we
must ask: Why does the psychoanalytic school apparently de
mand far less exacting proofs of its formulations than its oppo
321 The reason is simple. An engineer who has built a bridge
and calculated its load needs no further proof of its holding
capacity. But a sceptical layman, who has no notion how a
bridge is built, or what is the strength of the material used, will
demand quite different proofs of its holding capacity, since he
can have no confidence in it. It is chiefly the profound ignorance
of our opponents about what we are doing that screws their de
mands up to such a pitch. In the second place, there are the
countless theoretical misunderstandings: it is impossible for us
to know them all and to clear them up. Just as we find in our
patients new and ever more astounding misconceptions about
the ways and aims of psychoanalysis, so our critics display an
inexhaustible ingenuity in misunderstanding. You can see from
our discussion of the concept of the unconscious just what
kind of false philosophical assumptions can vitiate understand
ing of our terminology. Obviously a person who thinks of the
unconscious as an absolute entity is bound to require proofs of
a totally different kind, utterly beyond our power to give, as our
opponents in fact do. Had we to offer proof of immortality,
mountains of proofs of the weightiest nature would have to be
furnished, very different from what would be required to dem
onstrate the existence of plasmodia in a malaria patient. Meta
physical expectations still bedevil scientific thinking far too
much for the problems of psychoanalysis to be seen in their own
frame of reference.
322 But, in fairness to our critics, I must admit that the psycho
analytic school has itself given rise to plenty of misunderstand
ings, even though in all innocence. One of the principal sources
is the confusion that reigns in the theoretical sphere. Regretta
ble though it is, we have no presentable theory. You would
understand this if you could see in concrete instances the enor
mous difficulties we have to wrestle with. Contrary to the
opinion of nearly all the critics, Freud is anything rather than
a theorist. He is an empiricist, as anyone must admit who is
willing to go at all deeply into Freud's writings and to try to see
his cases as he sees them. Unfortunately, our critics are not
willing. As we have repeatedly been told, it is "repulsive and
disgusting" to see them as Freud does. But how can anyone learn
the nature of Freud's method if he allows himself to be put off
by disgust? Just because people make no effort to accommodate
themselves to Freud's point of view, adopted perhaps as a neces
sary working hypothesis, they come to the absurd conclusion
that he is a theorist. They readily assume that Three Essays on
the Theory of Sexuality is simply a theory, invented by a specu
lative brain, and that everything is put into the patient's head
by suggestion. But that is turning things upside down. This
makes it easy for the critics, which is just what they want. They
pay no attention at all to the "couple of case-histories" with
which the psychoanalyst conscientiously documents his theoreti
cal statements, but only to the theory and the formulation of
technique. The weak spots of psychoanalysis are not to be found
herefor psychoanalysis is essentially empirical though here,
undoubtedly, is a large and insufficiently cultivated field where
the critics can romp to their heart's content. In the field of
theory there are many uncertainties and not a few contradic
tions. We were conscious of this long before our learned critics
began to honour us with their attentions.
323 After this digression we will return to the question of uncon
scious fantasies which occupied us before. Nobody, as we have
seen, has the right to assert their existence or define their quali
ties unless effects of unconscious origin are observed which can
be expressed in terms of conscious symbolism. The only ques
tion is whether effects can in fact be found that comply with this
expectation. The psychoanalytic school believes it has discov
ered such effects. I will mention the principal phenomenon at
once: the dream.
324 Of this it may be said that it enters consciousness as a com
plex structure compounded of elements whose connection with
each other is not conscious. Only afterwards, by adding a series
of associations to the individual images in the dream, can we
show that these images had their origin in certain memories of
the recent past. We ask ourselves: Where have I seen or heard
that? And then, by the ordinary process of association, comes
the memory that certain parts of the dream have been con
sciously experienced, some the day before, some earlier. So far
there will be general agreement, for these things have been
known for a long time. To that extent the dream presents itself
to us as a more or less unintelligible jumble of elements not at
first conscious and only recognized afterwards through their
associations.1 It should be added that not all parts of the dream
have a recognizable quality from which their conscious char
acter can be deduced; they are often, and indeed mostly, un
recognizable at first. Only afterwards does it occur to us that we
have consciously experienced this or that part of the dream.
From this standpoint alone we may regard the dream as a prod
uct of unconscious origin.
325 The technique for exploring the unconscious origin is the
one I have just mentioned, used as a matter of course long before
Freud by every dream-investigator. We simply try to remember
where the parts of the dream came from. The psychoanalytic
technique of dream elucidation is based on this very simple
principle. It is a fact that certain parts of the dream are derived
from our waking life, from events which, on account of their
obvious unimportance, would have fallen into oblivion and
were already on the way to becoming definitely unconscious. It
is just these parts that are the effects of "unconscious ideas."
Exception has been taken to this expression too. Naturally we
do not take things nearly so concretely, not to say ponderously,
as our critics. Certainly this expression is nothing more than
conscious symbolismwe were never in any doubt on that point.
But it is perfectly clear and serves very well as a sign for an un
known psychic fact. As I have said before, we have no alterna
tive but to conceive the unconscious by analogy with the con
scious. We do not pretend that we understand a thing merely
because we have invented a sonorous and all-but-incomprehen
sible name for it.
3*6 The principle of psychoanalytic elucidation is, therefore,
extraordinarily simple and has actually been known for a long
time. The subsequent procedure follows logically along the
i (This might be disputed on the ground that it is an a priori assertion. I must
remark, however, that this view conforms to the one generally accepted working
hypothesis concerning the origin of dreams: that they are derived from the ex
periences and thoughts of the recent past. We are, therefore, moving on known
same lines. If we get really absorbed in a dream which naturally
never happens outside analysis we shall succeed in discovering
still more reminiscences about the individual dream-parts. But
we are not always successful in finding reminiscences about
some of them. These must be put aside for the time being.
(When I say "reminiscences" I do not mean only memories of
actual experiences; I also mean the reproduction of meaningful
associations and connections.) The reminiscences so gathered
are called the "dream-material." We treat this material in ac
cordance with a generally accepted scientific principle. If you
have any experimental material to work up, you compare its
individual parts and classify them according to their similarities.
You proceed in exactly the same way with dream-material; you
look for the common features, whether of form or content.
327 In doing this one has to get rid, so far as possible, of certain
prejudices. I have observed that the beginner is always looking
for some special feature and then tries to force his material to
conform to his expectations. I have noticed this particularly
with colleagues who, because of the well-known prejudices and
misunderstandings, were once passionate opponents of psycho
analysis. If it was my fate to analyse them, and they at last
obtained real insight into the method, the first mistake they
generally made in their psychoanalytic work was to do violence
to the material by their own preconceived opinions. That is,
they now vented their previous attitude to psychoanalysis on
their material, which they could not assess objectively but only
in terms of their subjective fantasies.
328 Once embarked on the task of examining the dream-ma
terial, you must not shrink from any comparison. The material
usually consists of very disparate images, from which it is some
times very difficult to extract the tertium comparationis. I must
refrain from giving detailed examples, as it is quite impossible
to discuss such voluminous material in a lecture. I would, how
ever, like to call your attention to a paper by Rank on "a dream
which interprets itself." 2 There you will see how extensive is
the material that must be taken into account for purposes of
329 Hence, in exploring the unconscious, we proceed in the
2 "Ein Traum, der sich selbst deutet" (1910).
usual way when conclusions are to be drawn by the comparative
method. It has often been objected: Why should a dream have
any unconscious content at all? This objection is in my view
about as unscientific as it could possibly be. Every psychological
element has its special history. Every sentence I utter has, be
sides the meaning consciously intended by me, its historical
meaning, which may turn out to be quite different from its con
scious meaning. I am expressing myself somewhat paradoxically
on purpose: I do not mean that I could explain the historical
meaning of every individual sentence. That is easier in the case
of larger and more complex structures. Thus, it will be clear to
everyone that, apart from the manifest content of a poem, the
poem itself is especially characteristic of the poet in regard to
its form, content, and manner of origin. While the poet merely
gave expression in his poem to the mood of the moment, the
literary historian will see things in it and behind it which the
poet would never have suspected. The analysis which the liter
ary historian makes of the poet's material is exactly comparable
with the method of psychoanalysis, not excluding the mistakes
that may creep in.
33 The psychoanalytic method can be compared with historical
analysis and synthesis in general. Suppose, for instance, we did
not understand the meaning of the baptismal rite practised in
our churches today. The priest tells us: baptism means the ad
mission of the child into the Christian community. But this does
not satisfy us. Why is the child sprinkled with water? In order
to understand this ceremony, we must gather together from the
whole history of ritual, that is, from mankind's memories of the
relevant traditions, a body of comparative material culled from
the most varied sources:
1. Baptism is clearly a rite of initiation, a consecration.
Therefore we have to collect all memories in which any initia
tion rites are preserved.
2. The act of baptism is performed with water. Foi this
special form another series of memories must be collected,
namely, of rites in which water is used.
3. The person to be baptized is sprinkled with water. Here
we have to collect all those rites in which the neophyte is sprin
kled, immersed, etc.
4. All reminiscences from mythology, folklore, as well as
superstitious practices, etc., have to be recalled, in so far as they
run in any way parallel to the symbolism of the baptismal act.
33 * In this way we build up a comparative study of the act of
baptism. We discover the elements out of which the baptismal
act is formed; we ascertain, further, its original meaning, and at
the same time become acquainted with the rich world, of myths
that have laid the foundation of religions and help us to under
stand the manifold and profound meanings of baptism. The
analyst proceeds in the same way with a dream. He collects the
historical parallels to every part of the dream, even the remotest,
and tries to reconstruct the psychological history of the dream
and its underlying meanings. Through this monographic elab
oration we obtain, just as in the analysis of baptism, a profound
insight into the marvellously delicate and meaningful network
of unconscious determination an insight that may legitimately
be compared with the historical understanding of an act which
we had hitherto regarded in a very superficial and one-sided
33 2 This excursus seemed to me unavoidable. In view of the nu
merous misunderstandings of all those who constantly seek to
discredit the psychoanalytic method, I felt obliged to give you a
very general account of the method and its position within the
methodology of science. I do not doubt that there are superficial
and improper applications of this method. But an intelligent
critic should not allow this to detract from the method itself,
any more than a bad surgeon should be used to discredit the
value of surgery in general. I do not doubt, either, that not all
the expositions of dream-psychology by psychoanalysts are en
tirely free from misunderstandings and distortions. But much
of this is due to the fact that, precisely because of his training
in the natural sciences, it is difficult for the medical man to get
an intellectual grasp of a very subtle psychological method, even
though he instinctively handles it correctly.
S33 The method I have described is the one I adopt and the one
to which I hold myself scientifically responsible. To give advice
about dreams and to make direct attempts at interpretation is,
in my opinion, absolutely wrong and scientifically inadmissible.
It is not a methodological but a quite arbitrary proceeding
which defeats itself by the sterility of its results, like every false
334 If I have made the attempt to illustrate the principles of the
psychoanalytic method by means of dream-analysis it is because
the dream is one of the clearest examples of psychic contents
whose composition eludes direct understanding. When someone
knocks in a nail with a hammer in order to hang something up,
we can understand every detail of the action; it is immediately
evident. It is otherwise with the act of baptism, where every
phase is problematic. We call these actions, whose meaning and
purpose are not immediately evident, symbolic actions, or sym
bols. On the basis of this reasoning we call a dream symbolic,
because it is a psychological product whose origin, meaning, and
purpose are obscure, and is therefore one of the purest products
of unconscious constellation. As Freud aptly says, the dream is
the via regia to the unconscious.
835 There are many products of unconscious constellation be
sides dreams. In the association experiment we have a means of
determining exactly the influence of the unconscious. We see
these effects in the disturbances which I have called "complex
indicators/' The task which the association test sets the subject
of the experiment is so extraordinarily simple that even children
can accomplish it without difficulty. It is all the more surprising
that, despite this, so many disturbances of the intended action
should be registered. The only things that can regularly be
shown to be causes of these disturbances are the partly con
scious, partly unconscious constellations caused by complexes.
In the majority of cases the connection of these disturbances
with feeling-toned complexes can be demonstrated without diffi
culty. But very often we must have recourse to the psychoan
alytic method in order to explain the connection; that is, we
must ask the patient what associations he can give to the dis
turbed reactions.
336 In this way we obtain the historical material on which to
base our judgment. It has been objected that the patient could
then say whatever he liked in other words, any old nonsense.
This objection is made, I believe, on the unconscious assump
tion that the historian who gathers material for his monograph
is an imbecile, incapable of distinguishing real parallels from
apparent ones and authentic reports from crude falsifications.
The professional has means at his disposal for avoiding clumsy
mistakes with certainty and more subtle ones with some prob
ability. For anyone who understands psychoanalytic work it is
a well-known fact that it is not so very difficult to see where
there is coherence and where there is none. In addition, fraudu
lent statements are in the first place very significant of the per
son who makes them, and secondly they are easily recognized as
337 (There is, however, another objection to be considered,
which is more worth mentioning. One can ask oneself whether
the reminiscences subsequently produced were really the basis
of a dream. If, in the evening, I read an interesting account of
a battle, and at night dream of the Balkan War, and then during
analysis remember by association certain details in the account
of the battle, even the most rigorous critic will fairly assume
that my retrospective association is right and true. As I men
tioned earlier, this is one of the most firmly entrenched hypoth
eses regarding the origin of dreams. All we have done is to apply
this working hypothesis consistently to all the remaining associ
ations relating to all other parts of the dream. Ultimately, we
are saying no more than that this dream-element is linked with
this association, that it therefore has something to do with it,
that there is a connection between the two things. When a dis
tinguished critic once remarked that, by means of psychoanalytic
interpretations, one could even connect a cucumber with an
elephant, this worthy showed us, by the very fact of associating
"cucumber" with "elephant," that these two things somehow
have an associative connection in his mind. One must have a lot
of nerve and a magisterial judgment to declare that the human
mind produces entirely meaningless associations. In this in
stance, only a little reflection is needed to understand the mean
ing of the association.)
338 In the association experiment we can ascertain the extraor
dinarily intense effects emanating from the unconscious precisely
through the interference of complexes. The slips and faults in
the experiment are nothing but prototypes of the mistakes we
make in everyday life, the majority of which must be regarded
as due to the interference of complexes. Freud has gathered
this material together in his book The Psychopathology of
Everyday Life. It includes the so-called symptomatic actions
which from another point of view might equally well be called
"symbolic actions''and real slips like lapses of memory, slips
of the tongue, and so on. All these phenomena are effects of un
conscious constellations and are therefore so many gateways to
the realm of the unconscious. When they are cumulative, we
have to call them a neurosis, which from this point of view looks
like a dysfunction and must be understood as the effect of an
unconscious constellation.
339 Thus the association experiment is, not infrequently, a
means of unlocking the unconscious directly, although mostly
it is simply a technique for obtaining a wide selection of faulty
reactions which can then be used for exploring the unconscious
by psychoanalysis. At least, this is its most reliable form of appli
cation at present. However, it is possible that it will furnish
other, especially valuable facts which would give us direct
glimpses of the unconscious, but I do not consider this question
sufficiently ripe to speak about yet.
34 After what I have told you about our method you may have
gained rather more confidence in its scientific character, and
will be inclined to agree that the fantasies which have been
brought to light by psychoanalytic research are not just the
arbitrary suppositions and illusions of psychoanalysts. Perhaps
you will even be willing to listen patiently to what these prod
ucts of unconscious fantasy can tell us.
341 The fantasies of adults are, in so far as they are conscious,
immensely varied and take the most strongly individual forms.
It is therefore impossible to give a general description of them.
But it is very different when we enter by means of analysis into
the world of unconscious fantasies. The diversity of the fantasymaterial
is indeed very great, but we do not find nearly so many
individual peculiarities as in the conscious realm. We meet here
with more typical material which is not infrequently repeated
in similar form in different individuals. Constantly recurring in
these fantasies are ideas which are variations of those found in
religion and mythology. This fact is so striking that we may say
we have discovered in these fantasies the forerunners of religious
and mythological ideas.
342 I should have to enter into very much more detail to give
you any adequate examples. For these problems I must refer you
to my book Symbols of Transformation. Here I will only men
tion that the central symbol of Christianity sacrifice plays an
important part in the fantasies of the unconscious. The Viennese
school knows this phenomenon under the ambiguous name of
"castration complex." This paradoxical use of the term follows
from the special attitude of the Viennese school towards the
question of sexuality, which I discussed earlier. I have devoted
special attention to the problem of sacrifice in the above-men
tioned book. I must content myself with this passing reference
and will now proceed to say something about the origin of
unconscious fantasies.
343 In a child's unconscious the fantasies are very much simpler,
as if scaled to the childish milieu. Thanks to the concerted
efforts of the psychoanalytic school, we have discovered that the
most frequent fantasy of childhood is the so-called Oedipus
complex. This term, too, seems the most unsuitable one possible.
We all know that the tragic fate of Oedipus consisted in his
marrying his mother and slaying his father. This tragic conflict
of adult life appears far removed from the psyche of a child,
and to the layman it seems quite inconceivable that a child
should suffer from this conflict. But, with a little reflection, it
will become clear that the tertium comparationis lies precisely
in the narrow restriction of the fate of Oedipus to his two
parents. This restriction is characteristic of the child, for the
fate of the adult is not limited to the parents. To that extent
Oedipus is the exponent of an infantile conflict magnified to
adult proportions. The term "Oedipus complex
5 *
naturally does
not mean conceiving this conflict in its adult form, but rather
on a reduced scale suitable to childhood. All it means, in effect,
is that the childish demands for love are directed to mother and
father, and to the extent that these demands have already at
tained a certain degree of intensity, so that the chosen object is
jealously defended, we can speak of an "Oedipus complex."
344 This weakening and reduction in scale of the Oedipus com
plex should not be understood as a diminution of the total sum
of affect, but as indicating the smaller share of sexual affect char
acteristic of a child. To make up for this, childish affects have
that peculiar intensity which is characteristic of the sexual affect
in adults. The little son would like to have his mother all to
himself and to be rid of his father. As you know, small children
can sometimes force themselves between the parents in the most
jealous way. In the unconscious these wishes and intentions as
sume a more concrete and more drastic form. Children are small
primitive creatures and are therefore quickly ready to kill a
thought which is all the easier in the unconscious, because the
unconscious is wont to express itself very dramatically. But as
a child is, in general, harmless, this seemingly dangerous wish is
as a rule harmless too. I say "as a rule/
7 for we know that children
can occasionally give way to their murderous impulses, not only
indirectly, but in quite direct fashion. But just as the child is
incapable of making systematic plans, so his intention to murder
is not all that dangerous. The same is true of his Oedipal in
tention towards the mother. The faint hints of this fantasy in
the child's consciousness can easily be overlooked; all parents
are therefore convinced that their children have no Oedipus
complex. Parents, like lovers, are mostly blind. If I now say
that the Oedipus complex is in the first place only a formula for
childish desires in regard to the parents and for the conflict
which these desires evoke as every selfish desire must the mat
ter may seem more acceptable.
345 The history of the Oedipus fantasy is of special interest be
cause it teaches us a great deal about the development of
unconscious fantasies in general. People naturally think that
the Oedipus problem is the problem of the son. But this, re
markably enough, is an illusion. Under certain conditions, the
sexual libido reaches its final differentiation, corresponding to
the sex of the individual, only relatively late in puberty. Before
this time it has a sexually undifferentiated character, which
could also be termed bisexual. It is therefore not surprising if
little girls have an Oedipus complex too. So far as we know,
the first love of a child, regardless of sex, belongs to the mother.
If the love for the mother is intense at this stage, the father is
jealously kept away as a rival. Of course, for the child itself, the
mother at this early stage of childhood has no sexual significance
worth mentioning, and to that extent the term "Oedipus com
plex" is not really suitable. At this period the mother still has
the significance of a protecting, enfolding, nourishing being,
who for this reason is a source of pleasure.
(It is characteristic, too, that the babyish word for mother,
"mamma," is the name for the maternal breast. As Dr. Bea
trice Hinkle has informed me, interrogation of small children
elicited the fact that they defined "mother" as the person who
gives food, chocolate, etc. One could hardly assert that for chil
dren of this age food is only a symbol for sex, though this is
sometimes true of adults. A superficial glance at the history of
civilization will show just how enormous the nutritive source
of pleasure is. The colossal feasts of Rome in its decadence were
an expression of anything you like, only not of repressed sexu
ality, for that is the last thing one could accuse the Romans of
in those days. There is no doubt that these excesses were some
kind of substitute, but not for sexuality; they were far more a
substitute for neglected moral functions, which we are too prone
to regard as laws forced on man from outside. Men have the
laws which they make for themselves.)
347 As I explained earlier, I do not identify the feeling of pleas
ure eo ipso with sexuality. Sexuality has an increasingly small
share in pleasure-sensations the further back we go in child
hood. Nevertheless, jealousy can play a large role, for it too is
something that does not belong entirely to the sexual sphere,
since the desire for food has itself much to do with the first stir
rings of jealousy one has only to think of animals! Certainly
it is reinforced by a budding eroticism relatively early. This
element gains in strength as the years go on, so that the Oedipus
complex soon assumes its classical form. The conflict takes on
a more masculine and therefore more typical form in a son,
whereas a daughter develops a specific liking for the father, with
a correspondingly jealous attitude towards the mother. We could
call this the Electra complex. As everyone knows, Electra took
vengeance on her mother Clytemnestra for murdering her hus
band Agamemnon and thus robbing her Electra of her be
loved father.
348 Both these fantasy complexes become more pronounced with
increasing maturity, and reach a new stage only in the postpubertal
period, when the problem arises of detachment from
the parents. This stage is characterized by the symbol we have
already mentioned: the symbol of sacrifice. The more sexuality
develops, the more it drives the individual away from his family
and forces him to achieve independence. But the child has be
come closely attached to the family by his whole previous his
tory, and especially to the parents, so that it is often only with
the greatest difficulty that the growing individual can free him
self inwardly from his infantile milieu. If he does not succeed
in this, the Oedipus (or Electra) complex will precipitate a
conflict, and then there is the possibility of neurotic disturb
ances. The libido, already sexually developed, pours into the
Oedipal "mould" and gives rise to feelings and fantasies which
prove beyond doubt the effectiveness of the complex, which
till then had been unconscious and more or less inoperative.
349 The first consequence is the formation of intense resistances
against the "immoral" impulses stemming from the now active
complex. This affects the conscious behaviour in two ways.
Either the consequences are direct, in which case the son dis
plays violent resistances against his father and a particularly
affectionate and dependent attitude towards his mother; or they
are indirect, that is to say compensated: instead of resistance to
the father there is marked submissiveness coupled with an irri
tated, antagonistic attitude towards the mother. Direct and com
pensated consequences can sometimes alternate. All this is true
also of the Electra complex. If the sexual libido were to get
stuck in this form, the Oedipus and Electra conflict would lead
to murder and incest. This naturally does not happen with
normal people, nor in so-called "amoral" primitive communi
ties, otherwise the human race would have perished long ago.
On the contrary, it is in the natural order of things that familiar
objects lose their compelling charm and force the libido to seek
new objects; and this acts as an important regulative factor
which prevents parricide and incest. The continuous develop
ment of libido towards objects outside the family is perfectly
normal and natural, and it is an abnormal and pathological
phenomenon if the libido remains, as it were, glued to the
family. Nevertheless, it is a phenomenon that can sometimes be
observed in normal people.
35<> (The unconscious fantasy of sacrifice, occurring some time
after puberty, is a direct outcome of the infantile complexes.
Of this I have given a circumstantial example in my book
Symbols of Transformation. The fantasy of sacrifice means the
giving up of infantile wishes. I have shown this in my book and
at the same time have pointed out the parallels in the history
of religion. It is not surprising that this problem plays an im
portant role in religion, for religion is one of the greatest helps
in the psychological process of adaptation. The chief obstacle
to new modes of psychological adaptation is conservative ad
herence to the earlier attitude. But man cannot leave his previ
ous personality and his previous objects of interest simply as
they are, otherwise his libido would stagnate in the past, and
this would be an impoverishment for him. Here religion is a
great help because, by the bridge of the symbol, it leads his
libido away from the infantile objects (parents) towards the
symbolic representatives of the past, i.e., the gods, thus facili
tating the transition from the infantile world to the adult world.
In this way the libido is set free for social purposes.)
35* Freud has a special conception of the incest complex which
has given rise to heated controversy. He starts from the fact that
the Oedipus complex is usually unconscious, and he conceives
this to be the consequence of a moral repression. It is possible
that I am not expressing myself quite correctly if I give you
Freud's view in these words. At any rate, according to him the
Oedipus complex seems to be repressed, that is, displaced into
the unconscious through the reactive effect of conscious tenden
cies. It almost looks as if the Oedipus complex would rise to
consciousness if the child's development were uninhibited and
were not affected by cultural influences.1
352 Freud calls the barrier that prevents this acting out of the
Oedipus complex the "incest barrier." He seems to believe, so
far as one can gather from his writings, that the incest barrier is
formed by the backwash of experience, that it is a correction by
reality, since the unconscious strives for boundless and imme
diate satisfaction without regard for others. In this he agrees
with Schopenhauer, who says of the egoism of the blind World-
Will that it is so strong that a man could slay his brother merely
to grease his boots with his brother's fat. Freud considers that
the psychological incest barrier can be compared with the incest
prohibitions found even among primitives. He further con
siders that these prohibitions are a proof that men really do
desire incest, for which reason laws were framed against it even
on the primitive level. He therefore takes the tendency towards
incest to be an absolutely concrete sexual wish, for he calls this
complex the root-complex, or nucleus, of the neuroses and is in
clined, viewing this as the original one, to reduce practically
the whole psychology of the neuroses, as well as many other phe
nomena in the realm of the mind, to this one complex.
J A view expressed most strongly by Stekd.
353 With this new conception of Freud's we come back to the
question of the aetiology of neurosis. We have seen that psycho
analytic theory started from a traumatic experience in child
hood, which later on was found to be partly or wholly unreal.
In consequence, the theory made a change of front and sought
the aetiologically significant factor in the development of ab
normal fantasies. The investigation of the unconscious, con
tinued over a period of ten years with the help of an increasing
number of workers, gradually brought to light a mass of em
pirical material which showed that the incest complex was a
highly important and never-failing element in pathological
fantasy. But it was found that the incest complex was not a spe
cial complex of neurotic people; it proved to be a component
of the normal infantile psyche. We cannot tell from its mere
existence whether this complex will give rise to a neurosis or
not. To become pathogenic, it must precipitate a conflict; the
complex, which in itself is inactive, must be activated and in
tensified to the point where a conflict breaks out.
354 This brings us to a new and important question. If the in
fantile "nuclear complex" is only a general form, not in itself
pathogenic but requiring special activation, then the whole
aetiological problem is altered. In that case we would dig in
vain among the reminiscences of earliest childhood, since they
give us only the general forms of later conflicts but not the
actual conflict. (It makes no difference that there were already
conflicts in childhood, for the conflicts of childhood are dif
ferent from the conflicts of adults. Those who have suffered
ever since childhood from a chronic neurosis do not suffer now
from the same conflict they suffered from then. Maybe the
neurosis broke out when they first had to go to school as chil
dren. Then it was the conflict between indulgence and duty,
between love for their parents and the necessity of going to
school. But now it is the conflict between, say, the joys of a
comfortable bourgeois existence and the strenuous demands of
professional life. It only seems to be the same conflict. It is just
as if the "Teutschen" of the Napoleonic wars were to compare
themselves with the old Germans who rebelled against the
Roman yoke.)
355 I think I can best make my meaning clear if I describe the
subsequent development of the theory by using the example
of the young lady whose story you have heard in the earlier
lectures. As you will probably remember, we found in the
anamnesis that the fright with the horses led to the reminis
cence of a similar scene in childhood, in which connection we
discussed the trauma theory. We found that we had to look for
the real pathological element in her exaggerated fantasies, which
arose from her retarded psychosexual development. We now
have to apply the theoretical insight we have thus gained to the
genesis of this particular illness if we want to understand how,
just at that moment, that childhood experience was constel
lated so effectively.
356 The simplest way to find an explanation for that nocturnal
occurrence would be to make an exact inquiry into the circum
stances of the moment. The first thing I did, therefore, was to
question the patient about the company she had been keeping
at the time. From this I learnt that she knew a young man to
whom she thought of getting engaged; she loved him and hoped
to be happy with him. At first nothing more could be dis
covered. But it would never do to be deterred from investiga
tion by the negative results of the preliminary questioning.
There are indirect ways of reaching the goal when the direct
way fails. We therefore return to that singular moment when
the lady ran headlong in front of the horses. We inquire about
her companions and the sort of festive occasion she had just
taken part in. It had been a farewell party for her best friend,
who was going abroad to a health-resort on account of her
nerves. This friend was married and, we are told, happily; she
was also the mother of a child. We may take leave to doubt the
statement that she was happy; for, were she really so, she would
presumably have no reason to be "nervous" and in need of a
357 Shifting my angle of approach, I learnt that after her
friends had caught up with her they took the patient back to
the house of her host, as this was the nearest shelter. There
she was hospitably received in her exhausted state. At this point
the patient broke off her narrative, became embarrassed, fidg
eted, and tried to change the subject. Evidently some disagree
able recollection had suddenly bobbed up. After the most
obstinate resistance had been overcome, it appeared that yet
another very remarkable incident had occurred that night: the
amiable host had made her a fiery declaration of love, thus pre
cipitating a situation which, in the absence of the lady of the
house, might well be considered both difficult and distressing.
Ostensibly this declaration of love came to her like a bolt from
the blue. A modicum of criticism teaches us, however, that these
things never drop from the skies but always have their history.
It was now the task of the next few weeks to dig out bit by bit
a long love-story, until at last a complete picture emerged which
I attempt to outline as follows:
358 As a child the patient had been a regular tomboy, caring
only for wild boys' games, scorning her own sex and avoiding
all feminine ways and occupations. After puberty, when the
erotic problem might have come too close, she began to shun
all society, hated and despised everything that even remotely
reminded her of the biological destiny of woman, and lived in
a world of fantasy which had nothing in common with rude
reality. Thus, until about her twenty-fourth year, she evaded
all those little adventures, hopes, and expectations which ordi
narily move a girl's heart at this age. Then she got to know
two men who were destined to break through the thorny hedge
that had grown up around her. Mr. A was her best friend's
husband, and Mr. B was his bachelor friend. She liked them
both. Nevertheless it soon began to look as though she liked
Mr. B a vast deal better. An intimacy quickly sprang up be
tween them and before long there was talk of a possible engage
ment. Through her relations with Mr. B and through her friend
she often came into contact with Mr. A, whose presence some
times disturbed her in the most unaccountable way and made
her nervous.
359 About this time the patient went to a large party. Her friends
were also there. She became lost in thought and was dreamily
playing with her ring when it suddenly slipped off her finger
and rolled under the table. Both gentlemen looked for it and
Mr. B succeeded in finding it. He placed the ring on her finger
with an arch smile and said, "You know what that means!"
Overcome by a strange and irresistible feeling, she tore the ring
from her finger and flung it through the open window. A pain
ful moment ensued, as may be imagined, and soon she left the
party in deep dejection.
360 Not long after this, so-called chance brought it about that
she should spend her summer holidays at a health resort where
Mr. and Mrs. A were also staying. Mrs. A then began to grow
visibly nervous, and frequently stayed indoors because she felt
out of sorts. The patient was thus in a position to go out for
walks alone with Mr. A. On one occasion they went boating.
So boisterous was she in her merriment that she suddenly fell
overboard. She could not swim, and it was only with great diffi
culty that Mr. A pulled her half-unconscious into the boat. And
then it was that he kissed her. With this romantic episode the
bonds were tied fast. To excuse herself in her own eyes she
tried all the more energetically to get herself engaged to Mr. B,
telling herself every day that it was Mr. B whom she really
loved. Naturally this curious little game had not escaped the
keen glances of wifely jealousy. Mrs. A, her friend, had guessed
the secret and fretted accordingly, so that her nerves only got
worse. Hence it became necessary for Mrs. A to go abroad for
a cure.1
36* The farewell party presented a dangerous opportunity. The
patient knew that her friend and rival was going off the same
evening, and that Mr. A would be alone in the house. Of course
she did not think this out logically and clearly, for some women
have a remarkable capacity for thinking purely with their feel
ings, and not with their intellects, so that it seems to them as if
they had never thought certain things at all. At any rate she
had a very queer feeling all the evening. She felt extraordinarily
nervous, and when Mrs. A had been accompanied to the station
and had gone, the hysterical twilight state came over her on the
[Of. Two Essays, pars. nf. and 420. For the first two instalments of the story
see supra, pars. 2i8ff. and 2973. EDITORS.]
way back, I asked her what she had been thinking or feeling
at the actual moment when she heard the horses coming along
behind her. Her answer was that she had only a feeling of panic,
the feeling that something dreadful was approaching which she
could no longer escape. The consequence was, as you know,
that she was brought back exhausted to the house of her host,
Mr. A.
36* To the simple mind this denouement seems perfectly obvi
ous. Every layman will say, "Well, that is clear enough, she only
intended to return by one way or another to Mr. AJ
s house."
But the psychologist would reproach the layman for his incor
rect way of expressing himself, and would tell him that the
patient was not conscious of the motives of her behaviour, and
that we cannot therefore speak of her intention to return to
Mr. A's house. There are, of course, learned psychologists who
could find any number of theoretical reasons for disputing the
purposiveness of her action reasons based on the dogma of the
identity of consciousness and psyche. But the psychology in
augurated by Freud recognized long ago that the purposive sig
nificance of psychological acts cannot be judged by conscious
motives but only by the objective criterion of their psychological
result. Today it can no longer be contested that there are un
conscious tendencies which have a great influence on a person's
reactions and on the effect he has on others.
363 What happened at Mr. A's house bears out this observation.
Our patient made a sentimental scene, and Mr. A felt obliged
to react to it with a declaration of love. Looked at in the light
of these concluding events, the whole previous history seems to
be very ingeniously directed towards precisely this end, though
consciously the patient was struggling against it all the time.
364 The theoretical gain from this story is the clear recognition
that an unconscious "intention" or tendency stage-managed the
fright with the horses, very probably using for this purpose
the infantile reminiscence of the horses galloping irresistibly
towards disaster. Seen in the light of the whole material, the
nocturnal scene with the horses the starting point of the illness
seems to be only the keystone of a planned edifice. The fright
and the apparently traumatic effect of the childhood experience
are merely staged, but staged in the peculiar way characteristic
of hysteria, so that the mise en scene appears almost exactly
like a reality. We know from hundreds of experiences that
hysterical pains are staged in order to reap certain advantages
from the environment. Nevertheless these pains are entirely
real. The patients do not merely think they have pains; from
the psychological point of view the pains are just as real as those
due to organic causes, and yet they are stage-managed.
365 This utilization of reminiscences for staging an illness or an
ostensible aetiology is called a regression of libido. The libido
goes back to these reminiscences and activates them, with the
result that an apparent aetiology is simulated. In this instance,
according to the old theory, it might seem as if the fright with
the horses were due to the old trauma. The resemblance be
tween the two scenes is unmistakable, and in both cases the
patient's fright was very real. At all events, we have no reason
to doubt her assertions in this respect, as they fully accord with
our experiences of other patients. The nervous asthma, the
hysterical anxiety-attacks, the psychogenic depressions and exal
tations, the pains, the cramps, etc. are all quite real, and any
doctor who has himself suffered from a psychogenic symptom
will know how absolutely real it feels. Regressively reactivated
reminiscences, however fantastic they may be, are as real as
recollections of events which have actually happened.
366 As the term "regression of libido' '
indicates, we understand
by this retrograde mode of application a reversion to earlier
stages. From our example we can see very clearly how the proc
ess of regression takes place. At that farewell party, which pre
sented a good opportunity for her to be alone with her host, the
patient shrank from the idea of turning this opportunity to her
advantage, but let herself be overpowered by desires which
hitherto she had never admitted. The libido was not used con
sciously for that purpose, nor was this purpose ever acknowl
edged. In consequence, the libido had to carry it out by means
of the unconscious, under the cover of panic in face of over
whelming danger. Her feelings at the moment when the horses
approached illustrate our formulation very clearly: she felt as
if something inescapable now had to happen.
367 The process of regression is beautifully illustrated in an
image used by Freud. The libido can be compared with a river
which, when it meets with an obstruction, gets dammed up and
causes an inundation. If this river has previously, in its upper
reaches, dug out other channels, these channels will be filled up
again by reason of the damming below. They appear to be real
river-beds, filled with water as before, but at the same time they
have only a provisional existence. The river has not perma
nently flowed back into the old channels, but only for as long
as the obstruction lasts in the main stream. The subsidiary
streams carry the water not because they were independent
streams from the beginning, but because they were once stages
or stations in the development of the main river-bed, passing
possibilities, traces of which still exist and can therefore be used
again in times of flood.
368 This image can be applied directly to the development of
the uses of libido. The final direction, the main river-bed, has
not yet been found at the time of the infantile development of
sexuality. Instead, the libido branches out into all sorts of sub
sidiary streams, and only gradually does the final form appear.
But when the river has dug out its main bed, all the subsidiary
streams dry up and lose their importance, leaving only traces of
their former activity. Similarly, the importance of the child's
preliminary exercises at sexuality disappears almost com
pletely as a rule, except for a few traces. If later an obstruction
occurs, so that the damming up of libido reactivates the old
channels, this state is properly speaking a new and at the same
time an abnormal one. The earlier, infantile state represents a
normal application of libido, whereas the reversion of libido to
infantile ways is something abnormal. I am therefore of the
opinion that Freud is not justified in calling the infantile sex
ual manifestations "perverse," since a normal manifestation
should not be designated by a pathological term. This incorrect
usage has had pernicious consequences in confusing the scien
tific public. Such a terminology is a misapplication to normal
people of insights gained from neurotic psychology, on the
assumption that the abnormal by-path taken by the libido in
neurotics is still the same phenomenon as in children.
369 The so-called "amnesia of childhood/' which I would like to
mention in passing, is a similar illegitimate "retrograde" appli-
cation of terms from pathology. Amnesia is a pathological con
dition, consisting in the repression of certain conscious contents,
and this cannot possibly be the same as the anterograde amnesia
of children, which consists in an incapacity for intentional
memory-reproduction, such as is also found among primitives.
This incapacity for memory-reproduction dates from birth and
can be understood on quite obvious biological grounds. It
would be a remarkable hypothesis if we were to assume that this
totally different quality of infantile consciousness could be re
duced to sexual repressions on the analogy of a neurosis. A neu
rotic amnesia is punched out, as it were, from the continuity of
memory, whereas memory in early childhood consists of single
islands in the continuum of non-memory. This condition is in
every sense the opposite of the condition found in neurosis, so
that the expression "amnesia" is absolutely incorrect. The "am
nesia of childhood" is an inference from the psychology of neu
rosis, just as is the "polymorphous-perverse" disposition of the
37 This error in theoretical formulation comes to light in the
peculiar doctrine of the so-called "period of sexual latency" in
childhood. Freud observed that the early infantile sexual mani
festations, which I call phenomena of the presexual stage, dis
appear after a time and reappear only much later. What Freud
calls "infantile masturbation" that is, all those quasi-sexual
activities which we spoke about before is said to return later as
real masturbation. Such a process of development would be
biologically unique. In conformity with this theory we would
have to assume, for instance, that when a plant forms a bud from
which a blossom begins to unfold, the blossom is taken back
again before it is fully developed, and is again hidden within
the bud, to reappear later on in a similar form. This impossible
supposition is a consequence of the assertion that the early in
fantile activities of the presexual stage are sexual phenomena,
and that the quasi-masturbational acts of that period are genu
ine acts of masturbation. Here the incorrect terminology and
the boundless extension of the concept of sexuality take their
revenge. Thus it was that Freud was compelled to assume that
there is a disappearance of sexuality, in other words, a period of
sexual latency. What he calls a disappearance is nothing other
than the real beginning of sexuality, everything preceding it
being but a preliminary stage to which no real sexual character
can be attributed. The impossible phenomenon of sexual la
tency is thus explained in a very simple way.
371 The theory of the latency period is an excellent example of
the incorrectness of the conception of infantile sexuality. But
there has been no error of observation. On the contrary, the
hypothesis of the latency period proves how exactly Freud ob
served the apparent recommencement of sexuality. The error
lies in the conception. As we have already seen, the prime error
consists in a somewhat old-fashioned conception of a plurality
of instincts. As soon as we accept the idea of two or more in
stincts existing side by side, we must necessarily conclude that,
if one instinct is not yet manifest, it is still present in nuce, in
accordance with the old theory of encasement.2 Or, in physics,
we should have to say that when a piece of iron passes from the
condition of heat to the condition of light, the light was already
present in nuce (latently) in the heat. Such assumptions are arbi
trary projections of human ideas into transcendental regions,
contravening the requirements of the theory of cognition. We
have therefore no right to speak of a sexual instinct existing in
nuce, as we would then be giving an arbitrary interpretation of
phenomena which can be explained otherwise, in a much more
suitable manner. We can only speak of the manifestation of the
nutritive function, of the sexual function, and so on, and then
only when that function has come to the surface with unmis
takable clarity. We speak of light only when the iron is visibly
glowing, but not when the iron is merely hot.
372 Freud as an observer sees quite clearly that the sexuality of
neurotics cannot really be compared with infantile sexuality,
just as there is a great difference, for instance, between the uncleanliness
of a two-year-old child and the uncleanliness of a
forty-year-old catatonic. The one is normal, the other exceedingly
[Einschachtelung: "An old theory of reproduction which assumed that when the
first animal of each species was created, the germs of all other individuals of the
same species which were to come from it were encased in its ova/' Century Dic
tionary (1890). TRANS.]
pathological. Freud inserted a short passage in his Three
Essays? stating that the infantile form of neurotic sexuality is
either wholly, or at any rate partly, due to regression. That is,
even in those cases where we can say that it is still the same old
infantile by-path, the function of this by-path is intensified by
the regression. Freud thus admits that the infantile sexuality of
neurotics is for the greater part a regressive phenomenon. That
this must be so is evidenced by the researches of recent years,
showing that the observations concerning the childhood psy
chology of neurotics hold equally true of normal people. At any
rate we can say that the historical development of infantile
sexuality in a neurotic is distinguished from that of normal
people only by minimal differences which completely elude sci
entific evaluation. Striking differences are exceptional.
373 The more deeply we penetrate into the heart of the infantile
development, the more we get the impression that as little of
aetiological significance can be found there as in the infantile
trauma. Even with the acutest ferreting into their respective his
tories we shall never discover why people living on German soil
had just such a fate, and why the Gauls another. The further we
get away, in analytical investigations, from the epoch of the
manifest neurosis, the less can we expect to find the real causa
efficient, since the dynamics of the maladjustment grow fainter
and fainter the further we go back into the past. In constructing
a theory which derives the neurosis from causes in the distant
past, we are first and foremost following the tendency of our
patients to lure us as far away as possible from the critical pres
ent. For the cause of the pathogenic conflict lies mainly in the
present moment. It is just as if a nation were to blame its miser
able political conditions on the past; as if the Germany of the
nineteenth century had attributed her political dismemberment
and incapacity to her oppression by the Romans, instead of seek
ing the causes of her difficulties in the actual present. It is
mainly in the present that the effective causes lie, and here alone
are the possibilities of removing them.
a Standard Edn., p. 232.
374 The greater part of the psychoanalytic school is still under
the spell of the conception that infantile sexuality is the sine qua
non of neurosis. It is not only the theorist, delving into child
hood simply from scientific interest, but the practising analyst
also, who believes that he has to turn the history of infancy in
side out in order to find the fantasies conditioning the neurosis.
A fruitless enterprise! In the meantime the most important
factor escapes him, namely, the conflict and its demands in the
present. In the case we have been describing, we should not
understand any of the motives which produced the hysterical
attacks if we looked for them in earliest childhood. Those remi
niscences determine only the form, but the dynamic element
springs from the present, and insight into the significance of the
actual moment alone gives real understanding.
375 It may not be out of place to remark here that it would never
occur to me to blame Freud personally for the innumerable mis
understandings. I know very well that Freud, being an empiri
cist, always publishes only provisional formulations to which
he certainly does not attribute any eternal value. But it is
equally certain that the scientific public is inclined to make a
creed out of them, a system which is asserted as blindly on the
one hand as it is attacked on the other. I can only say that from
the sum total of Freud's writings certain average conceptions
have crystallized out, which both sides treat far too dogmatically.
These views have led to a number of undoubtedly incorrect
technical axioms the existence of which cannot be postulated
with any certainty in Freud's own work. We know that in the
mind of a creator of new ideas things are much more fluid and
flexible than they are in the minds of his followers. They do
not possess his vital creativity, and they make up for this de
ficiency by a dogmatic allegiance, in exactly the same way as
their opponents, who, like them, cling to the dead letter because
they cannot grasp its living content. My words are thus addressed
less to Freud, who I know recognizes to some extent the final
orientation of the neuroses, than to his public, who continue to
argue about his views.
376 From what has been said it should be clear that we gain in
sight into the history of a neurosis only when we understand
that each separate element in it serves a purpose. We can now
understand why that particular element in the previous history
of our case was pathogenic, and we also understand why it
was chosen as a symbol. Through the concept of regression, the
theory is freed from the narrow formula of the importance of
childhood experiences, and the actual conflict acquires the sig
nificance which, on the empirical evidence, implicitly belongs
to it. Freud himself introduced the concept of regression, as I
have said, in his Three Essays, rightly acknowledging that ex
perience does not permit us to seek the cause of a neurosis ex
clusively in the past. If it is true, then, that reminiscences be
come effective again chiefly because of regressive activation, we
have to consider whether the apparently determining effects of
the reminiscences can be traced back solely to the regression of
377 As you have heard already, Freud himself in the Three Es
says gives us to understand that the infantilism of neurotic
sexuality is for the most part due to regression. This statement
deserves considerably more emphasis than it received there.
(Actually Freud did give it due emphasis in his later works.)
The point is that the regression of libido abolishes to a very
large extent the aetiological significance of childhood expe
riences. It had seemed to us very peculiar anyway that the
Oedipus or Electra complex should have a determining influ
ence in the formation of a neurosis, since these complexes are
actually present in everyone, even in people who have never
known their father and mother and were brought up by fosterparents.
I have analysed cases of this kind, and found that the
incest complex was as well developed in them as in other pa
tients. This seems to me a good proof that the incest complex is
much less a reality than a purely regressive fantasy formation,
and that the conflicts resulting from it must be reduced rather
to an anachronistic clinging to the infantile attitude than to
real incestuous wishes, which are merely a cover for regressive
fantasies. Looked at from this point of view, childhood experi
ences have a significance for neurosis only when they are made
significant by a regression of libido. That this must be so to a
very large extent is shown by the fact that neither the infantile
sexual trauma nor the incest complex present in everyone
causes hysteria. Neurosis occurs only when the incest complex
is activated by regression.
378 This brings us to the question: why does the libido become
regressive? In order to answer this, we must examine more
closely the conditions under which a regression arises. In dis
cussing this problem with my patients I generally give the fol
lowing example: A mountain-climber, attempting the ascent of
a certain peak, happens to meet with an insurmountable ob
stacle, for instance a precipitous rock-face whose ascent is a
sheer impossibility. After vainly seeking another route, he will
turn back and regretfully abandon the idea of climbing that
peak. He will say to himself: "It is not in my power to get over
this difficulty, so I will climb an easier mountain."
379 Here we see a normal utilization of libido: the man turns
back when he meets an insurmountable difficulty, and uses his
libido, which could not attain its original goal, for the ascent
of another mountain.
380 Now let us imagine that the rock-face was not really unclimbable
so far as the man's physical abilities were concerned,
but that he shrank back from this difficult undertaking from
sheer funk. In this case two possibilities are open:
1. The man will be annoyed by his own cowardice and will
set out to prove himself less timid on another occasion, or per
haps he will admit that with his timidity he ought never to
undertake such daring ascents. At any rate, he will acknowledge
that his moral capacity is not sufficient to overcome the difficul
ties. He therefore uses the libido which did not attain its orig
inal aim for the useful purpose of self-criticism, and for evolving
a plan by which he may yet be able, with due regard to his
moral capacity, to realize his wish to climb a mountain.
2. The second possibility is that the man does not admit his
cowardice, and flatly asserts that the rock face is physically unclimbable,
although he can very well see that, with sufficient
courage, the obstacle could be overcome. But he prefers to de
ceive himself. This creates the psychological situation which is
of significance for our problem.
3Sl At bottom the man knows perfectly well that it would be
physically possible to overcome the difficulty, and that he is
simply morally incapable of doing so. But he pushes this thought
aside because of its disagreeable character. He is so conceited
that he cannot admit his cowardice. He brags about his courage
and prefers to declare that things are impossible rather than
that his own courage is inadequate. In this way he falls into
contradiction with himself: on the one hand he has a correct
appreciation of the situation, on the other he hides this knowl
edge from himself, behind the illusion of his bravery. He
represses his correct insight and tries to force his subjective illu
sions on reality. The result of this contradiction is that his libido
is split and the two halves fight one another. He pits his wish to
climb the mountain against the opinion, invented by himself
and supported by artificial arguments, that the mountain is unclimbable.
He draws back not because of any real impossibility
but because of an artificial barrier invented by himself. He has
fallen into disunion with himself. From this moment on he
suffers from an internal conflict. Now the realization of his
cowardice gains the upper hand, now defiance and pride. In
either case his libido is engaged in a useless civil war, and the
man becomes incapable of any new enterprise. He will never
realize his wish to climb a mountain, because he has gone thor
oughly astray in the estimation of his moral qualities. His effi
ciency is reduced, he is not fully adapted, he has become in a
word neurotic. The libido that retreated in face of the diffi
culty has led neither to honest self-criticism nor to a desperate
struggle to overcome the difficulty at any price; it has been used
merely to maintain the cheap pretence that the ascent was abso
lutely impossible and that even heroic courage would have
availed nothing.
38* This kind of reaction is called infantile. It is characteristic
of children, and of naive minds generally, not to find the mis
take in themselves but in things outside them, and forcibly to
impose on things their own subjective judgment.
383 This man, therefore, solves the problem in an infantile way;
he substitutes for the adapted attitude of the first climber a
mode of adaptation characteristic of the child's mind. That is
what we mean by regression. His libido retreats before the ob-
stacle it cannot surmount and substitutes a childish illusion for
real action.
384 Such cases are a daily occurrence in the treatment o neu
rosis. I would only remind you of all those young girls who sud
denly become hysterically ill the moment they have to decide
whether to get engaged or not. As an example, I will present
the case of two sisters. The two girls were separated by only a
year in age. In talents and also in character they were very much
alike. They had the same education and grew up in the same
surroundings under the same parental influences. Both were
ostensibly healthy, neither showed any noticeable nervous
symptoms. An attentive observer might have discovered that
the elder daughter was rather more the darling of her parents
than the younger. Her parents* esteem was due to the special
kind of sensitiveness which this daughter displayed. She de
manded more affection than the younger one, was somewhat
more precocious and forthcoming than she. Besides, she showed
some delightfully childish traits just those things which, be
cause of their contradictory and slightly unbalanced character,
make a person specially charming. No wonder father and mother
had great joy in their elder daughter.
385 When the two sisters became of marriageable age, they both
made the acquaintance of two young men, and the possibility of
their marriages soon drew near. As is generally the case, there
were certain difficulties in the way. Both girls were quite young
and had very little experience of the world. The men were fairly
young too, and in positions which might have been better; they
were only at the beginning of their careers, nevertheless both
were capable young men. The two girls lived in social surround
ings which gave them the right to certain expectations. It was a
situation in which doubts as to the suitability of either marriage
were permissible. Moreover, both girls were Insufficiently ac
quainted with their prospective husbands, and were not quite
sure of their love. Hence there were many hesitations and
doubts. It was noticed that the elder sister always showed greater
waverings in all her decisions. On account of these hesitations
there were some painful moments with the two young men, who
naturally pressed for a definite answer. At such moments the
elder sister showed herself much more agitated than the younger
one. Several times she went weeping to her mother, bemoaning
her own uncertainty. The younger one was more decided, and
put an end to the unsettled situation by accepting her suitor.
She thus got over her difficulty and thereafter events ran
386 As soon as the admirer of the elder sister heard that the
younger one had given her word, he rushed to his lady and
begged passionately for her final acceptance. His tempestuous
behaviour irritated and rather frightened her, although she was
really inclined to follow her sister's example. She answered in a
haughty and rather offhand way. He replied with sharp re
proaches, causing her to answer still more tartly. At the end
there was a tearful scene, and he went away in a huff. At home,
he told the story to his mother, who expressed the opinion that
the girl was obviously not the right one for him and that he had
better choose someone else. The quarrel had made the girl pro
foundly doubtful whether she really loved him. It suddenly
seemed to her impossible to leave her beloved parents and fol
low this man to an unknown destiny. Matters finally went so far
that the relationship was broken off altogether. From then on
the girl became moody; she showed unmistakable signs of the
greatest jealousy towards her sister, but would neither see nor
admit that she was jealous. The former happy relationship with
her parents went to pieces too. Instead of her earlier child-like
affection she put on a sulky manner, which sometimes amounted
to violent irritability; weeks of depression followed. While the
younger sister was celebrating her wedding, the elder went to a
distant health-resort for nervous intestinal catarrh. I shall not
continue the history of the illness; it developed into an ordinary
387 In the analysis of this case great resistance was found to the
sexual problem. The resistance was due to numerous perverse
fantasies whose existence the patient would not admit. The
question as to where these perverse fantasies, so unexpected in
a young girl, could come from led to the discovery that once, as a
child of eight years old, she had found herself suddenly con
fronted in the street by an exhibitionist. She was rooted to the
spot by fright, and for a long time afterwards the ugly image
pursued her in her dreams. Her younger sister had been with
her at the time. The night after the patient told me about this,
she dreamt of a man in a grey suit, who started to do in front of
her what the exhibitionist had done. She awoke with a cry of
388 Her first association to the grey suit was a suit of her father's,
which he had been wearing on an excursion she had made with
him when she was about six years old. This dream, without any
doubt, connects the father with the exhibitionist. There must
be some reason for this. Did something happen with the father
that might possibly call forth such an association? This question
met with violent resistance from the patient, but it would not
let her alone. At the next interview she reproduced some very
early reminiscences, in which she had watched her father un
dressing; arid one day she came, terribly embarrassed and
shaken, to tell me that she had had an abominable vision, abso
lutely distinct. In bed at night, she suddenly felt herself once
again a child of two or three years old, and she saw her father
standing by her bed in an obscene attitude. The story was gasped
out bit by bit, obviously with the greatest internal struggle.
Then followed wild lamentations about how dreadful it was
that a father should do such a terrible thing to his child.
389 Nothing is less probable than that the father really did this.
It is only a fantasy, presumably constructed in the course of the
analysis from that same need for causality which once misled
the analysts into supposing that hysteria was caused merely by
such impressions.
39 This case seems to me perfectly designed to demonstrate the
importance of the regression theory, and to show at the same
time the sources of the previous theoretical errors. Originally,
as we saw, there was only a slight difference between the two
sisters, but from the moment of their engagement their ways
became totally divided. They now seemed to have two entirely
different characters. The one, vigorous in health, and enjoying
life, was a fine courageous girl, willing to submit to the natural
demands of womanhood; the other was gloomy, ill-tempered,
full of bitterness and malice, unwilling to make any effort to
lead a reasonable life, egotistical, quarrelsome, and a nuisance
to all around her. This striking difference was brought out only
when one of the sisters successfully got over the difficulties of
the engagement period, while the other did not. For both, it
hung by a hair whether the affair would be broken off. The
younger, somewhat more placid, was the more decided, and she
was able to find the right word at the right moment. The elder
was more spoiled and more sensitive, consequently more influ
enced by her emotions, so that she could not find the right word,
nor had she the courage to sacrifice her pride to put things
straight afterwards. This little cause had a great effect, as we
shall see. Originally the conditions were exactly the same for
both sisters. It was the greater sensitiveness of the elder that
made all the difference.
39 1 The question now is, whence came this sensitiveness which
had such unfortunate results? Analysis demonstrated the exist
ence of an extraordinarily well-developed sexuality with an in
fantile, fantastic character; further, of an incestuous fantasy
about the father. Assuming that these fantasies had long been
alive and active in the patient, we have here a quick and very
simple solution of the problem of sensitiveness. We can easily
understand why the girl was so sensitive: she was completely
shut up in her fantasies and had a secret attachment to her
father. In these circumstances it would have been a miracle if
she had been willing to love and marry another man.
392 The further we pursue the development of these fantasies
back to their source, following our need for causality, the greater
become the difficulties of analysis, that is, the greater become
the "resistances," as we called them. Finally we reach that im
pressive scene, that obscene act, whose improbability has al
ready been established. This scene has exactly the character of
a later fantasy-formation, Therefore, we have to conceive these
difficulties, these "resistances/* not at least in this stage of the
analysisas defences against the conscious realization of a pain
ful memory, but as a struggle against the construction of this
393 You will ask in astonishment: But what is it that compels
the patient to weave such a fantasy? You will even be inclined
to suggest that the analyst forced the patient to invent it, other
wise she would never have produced such an absurd idea. I do
not venture to doubt that there have been cases where the ana
lyst's need to find a cause, especially under the influence of the
trauma theory, forced the patient to invent a fantasy of this
kind. But the analyst, in his turn, would never have arrived at
this theory had he not followed the patient's line of thought,
thus taking part in that retrograde movement of libido which
we call regression. He is simply carrying out to its logical con
clusion what the patient is afraid to carry out, that is, a regres
sion, a retreat of libido with all the consequences that this
$94 Hence, in tracing the libido regression, the analysis does not
always follow the exact path marked out by the historical de
velopment, but often that of a subsequently formed fantasy,
based only in part on former realities. In our case, too, the
events were only partly real, and they got their enormous signifi
cance only afterwards, when the libido regressed. Whenever the
libido seizes upon a certain reminiscence, we may expect it to
be elaborated and transformed, for everything that is touched
by the libido revives, takes on dramatic form, and becomes sys
tematized. We have to admit that by far the greater part of the
material became significant only later, when the regressing
libido, seizing hold of anything suitable that lay in its path, had
turned all this into a fantasy. Then that fantasy, keeping pace
with the regressive movement of libido, came back at last to the
father and put upon him all the infantile sexual wishes. Even so
has it ever been thought that the golden age of Paradise lay in
the past!
595 As we know that the fantasy material brought out by analysis
became significant only afterwards, we are not in a position to
use this material to explain the onset of the neurosis; we should
be constantly moving in a circle. The critical moment for the
neurosis was the one when the girl and the man were both ready
to be reconciled, but when the inopportune sensitiveness of the
patient, and perhaps also of her partner, allowed the opportu
nity to slip by.
It might be saidand the psychoanalytic school inclines to
this viewthat the critical sensitiveness arose from a special psy
chological history which made this outcome a foregone concluFREUD
sion. We know that in psychogenic neuroses sensitiveness is
always a symptom of disunion with oneself, a symptom of the
struggle between two divergent tendencies. Each of these tend
encies has its psychological prehistory, and in our case it can
clearly be shown that the peculiar resistance at the bottom of
the patient's critical sensitiveness was in fact bound up histori
cally with certain infantile sexual activities, and also with that
so-called traumatic experience things which may very well cast
a shadow on sexuality. This would be plausible enough, were it
not that the patient's sister had experienced pretty much the
same things including the exhibitionist without suffering the
same consequences, and without becoming neurotic.
397 We would therefore have to assume that the patient experi
enced these things in a special way, perhaps more intensely and
enduringly than her sister, and that the events of early child
hood would have been more significant to her in the long
run. If that had been true in so marked a degree, some violent
effect would surely have been noticed even at the time. But in
later youth the events of early childhood were as much over and
done with for the patient as they were for her sister. Therefore,
yet another conjecture is conceivable with regard to that critical
sensitiveness, namely, that it did not come from her peculiar
prehistory but had existed all along. An attentive observer of
small children can detect, even in early infancy, any unusual
sensitiveness. I once analysed a hysterical patient who showed
me a letter written by her mother when the patient was two
years old. Her mother wrote about her and her sister: she the
patient was always a friendly and enterprising child, but her
sister had difficulties in getting along with people and things.
The first one in later life became hysterical, the other catatonic.
These far-reaching differences, which go back into earliest child
hood, cannot be due to accidental events but must be regarded
as innate. From this standpoint we cannot assert that our pa
tient's peculiar prehistory was to blame for her sensitiveness at
the critical moment; it would be more correct to say that this
sensitiveness was inborn and naturally manifested itself most
strongly in any unusual situation.
39*1 This excessive sensitiveness very often brings an enrichment
of the personality and contributes more to its charm than to the
undoing of a person's character. Only, when difficult and un-
usual situations arise, the advantage frequently turns into a
very great disadvantage, since calm consideration is then dis
turbed by untimely affects. Nothing could be more mistaken,
though, than to regard this excessive sensitiveness as in itself a
pathological character component. If that were really so, we
should have to rate about one quarter of humanity as patho
logical. Yet if this sensitiveness has such destructive conse
quences for the individual, we must admit that it can no longer
be considered quite normal.
399 We are driven to this contradiction when we contrast the
two views concerning the significance of the psychological pre
history as sharply as we have done here. In reality, it is not a
question of either one or the other. A certain innate sensitive
ness produces a special prehistory, a special way of experiencing
infantile events, which in their turn are not without influence
on the development of the child's view of the world. Events
bound up with powerful impressions can never pass off without
leaving some trace on sensitive people. Some of them remain
effective throughout life, and such events can have a determin
ing influence on a person's whole mental development. Dirty
and disillusioning experiences in the realm of sexuality are
especially apt to frighten off a sensitive person for years after
wards, so that the mere thought of sex arouses the greatest
4 As the trauma theory shows, we are too much inclined, know
ing of such cases, to attribute the emotional development of a
person wholly, or at least very largely, to accidents. The old
trauma theory went too far in this respect. We must never forget
that the world is, in the first place, a subjective phenomenon.
The impressions we receive from these accidental happenings
are also our own doing. It is not true that the impressions are
forced on us unconditionally; our own predisposition conditions
the impression. A man whose libido is blocked will have, as a
rule, quite different and very much more vivid impressions than
one whose libido is organized in a wealth of activities. A person
who is sensitive in one way or another will receive a deep im
pression from an event which would leave a less sensitive per
son cold.
401 Therefore, in addition to the accidental impression, we have
to consider the subjective conditions seriously. Our previous
reflections, and in particular our discussion of an actual case,
have shown that the most important subjective condition is
regression. The effect of regression, as practical experience
shows, is so great and so impressive that one might be inclined
to attribute the effect of accidental occurrences solely to the
mechanism of regression. Without any doubt, there are many
cases where everything is dramatized, where even the traumatic
experiences are pure figments of the imagination, and the few
real events among them are afterwards completely distorted by
fantastic elaboration. We can safely say that there is not a single
case of neurosis in which the emotional value of the antecedent
experience is not intensified by libido regression, and even when
large tracts of infantile development seem to be extraordinarily
significant (as for instance the relationship to the parents), it is
almost always a regression that gives them this value.
402 The truth, as always, lies in the middle. The previous his
tory certainly has a determining value, and this is intensified by
regression. Sometimes the traumatic significance of the previous
history comes more to the forefront, sometimes only its regres
sive meaning. These considerations naturally have to be applied
to infantile sexual experiences as well. Obviously there are cases
where brutal sexual experiences justify the shadow thrown on
sexuality and make the later resistance to sex thoroughly com
prehensible. (I would mention, by the way, that frightful im
pressions other than sexual can leave behind a permanent feel
ing of insecurity which may give the individual a hesitating
attitude to reality.) Where real events of undoubted traumatic
potency are absent as is the case in most neuroses the mecha
nism of regression predominates.
403 It might be objected that we have no criterion by which to
judge the potential effect of a trauma, since this is an extremely
relative concept. That is not altogether true; we have such a
criterion in the average normal person. Something that is likely
to make a strong and abiding impression on a normal person
must be considered as having a determining influence for neu
rotics also. But we cannot attribute determining importance, in
neurosis either, to impressions which normally would disap
pear and be forgotten. In most cases where some event has had
an unexpected traumatic effect, we shall in all probability find a
regression, that is to say, a secondary fantastic dramatization.
The earlier in childhood an impression is said to have arisen,
the more suspect is its reality. Primitive people and animals
have nothing like that capacity for reviving memories of unique
impressions which we find among civilized people. Very young
children are not nearly as impressionable as older children. The
higher development of the mental faculties is an indispensable
prerequisite for impressionability. We can therefore safely as
sume that the earlier a patient places some impressive experi
ence in his childhood, the more likely it is to be a fantastic and
regressive one. Deeper impressions are to be expected only from
experiences in late childhood. At any rate, we generally have to
attribute only regressive significance to the events of early in
fancy, that is, from the fifth year back. In later years, too, regres
sion can sometimes play an overwhelming role, but even so one
must not attribute too little importance to accidental events. In
the later course of a neurosis, accidental events and regression
together form a vicious circle: retreat from life leads to regres
sion, and regression heightens resistance to life.
404 (Before pursuing our argument further, we must turn to the
question of what teleological significance should be attributed
to regressive fantasies. We might be satisfied with the hypothe
sis that these fantasies are simply a substitute for real action and
therefore have no further significance. That can hardly be so.
Psychoanalytic theory inclines to see the reason for the neurosis
in the fantasies (illusions, prejudices, etc.), as their character
betrays a tendency which is often directly opposed to reasonable
action. Indeed, it often looks as if the patient were really using
his previous history only to prove that he cannot act reasonably,
whereupon the analyst, who, like everyone else, is easily in
clined to sympathize with the patient (i.e., to identify with him
unconsciously), gets the impression that the patient's arguments
constitute a real aetiology. In other cases the fantasies have more
the character of wonderful ideals which put beautiful and airy
phantasms in the place of crude reality. Here a more or less
obvious megalomania is always present, aptly compensating for
the patient's indolence and deliberate incompetence. But the
decidedly sexual fantasies often reveal their purpose quite
clearly, which is to accustom the patient to the thought of his
sexual destiny, and so help him to overcome his resistance.
45 If we agree with Freud that neurosis is an unsuccessful at
tempt at self-cure, we must allow the fantasies, too, a double
character: on one hand a pathological tendency to resist, on
the other a helpful and preparatory tendency. With a normal
person the libido, when it is blocked by an obstacle, forces him
into a state of introversion and makes him reflect. So, too, with
a neurotic under the same conditions: an introversion ensues,
with increased fantasy activity. But he gets stuck there, because
he prefers the infantile mode of adaptation as being the easier
one. He does not see that he is exchanging his momentary
advantage for a permanent disadvantage and has thus done
himself a bad turn. In the same way, it is much easier and more
convenient for the civic authorities to neglect all those trouble
some sanitary precautions, but when an epidemic comes the sin
of omission takes bitter revenge. If, therefore, the neurotic
claims all manner of infantile alleviations, he must also accept
the consequences. And if he is not willing to do so, then the
consequences will overtake him.
4<>6 It would, in general, be a great mistake to deny any teleological
value to the apparently pathological fantasies of a neurotic.
They are, as a matter of fact, the first beginnings of spiritualization,
the first groping attempts to find new ways of adapting.
His retreat to the infantile level does not mean only regression
and stagnation, but also the possibility of discovering a new lifeplan.
Regression is thus in very truth the basic condition for
the act of creation. Once again I must refer you to my oft-cited
book Symbols of Transformation.)
407 With the concept o regression, psychoanalysis made prob
ably one of the most important discoveries in this field. Not
only were the earlier formulations of the genesis of neurosis
overthrown or at least considerably modified, but the actual
conflict received, for the first time, its proper valuation.
4<>8 In our earlier case of the lady and the horses, we saw that the
symptomatological dramatization could only be understood
when it was seen as an expression of the actual conflict. Here
psychoanalytic theory joins hands with the results of the asso
ciation experiments, of which I spoke in my lectures at Clark
University. The association experiment, when conducted on a
neurotic person, gives us a number of pointers to definite con
flicts in his actual life, which we call complexes. These com
plexes contain just those problems and difficulties which have
brought the patient into disharmony with himself. Generally
we find a love-conflict of a quite obvious character. From the
standpoint of the association experiment, neurosis appears as
something quite different from what it seemed to be from the
standpoint of earlier psychoanalytic theory. From that stand
point, neurosis seemed to be a formation having its roots in
earliest infancy and overgrowing the normal psychic structure;
considered from the standpoint of the association experiment,
neurosis appears as a reaction to an actual conflict, which nat
urally is found just as often among normal people but is solved
by them without too much difficulty. The neurotic, however,
remains in the grip of the conflict, and his neurosis seems to be
more or less the consequence of his having got stuck. We can
say, therefore, that the results of the association experiment
argue strongly in favour of the regression theory.
409 With the help of the earlier,
'historical" conception of neu
rosis, we thought we could understand why a neurotic with a
powerful parental complex has such great difficulties in adapt
ing himself to life. But now that we know that normal persons
have exactly the same complexes and, in principle, go through
the same psychological development as a neurotic, we can no
longer explain neurosis by the development of certain fantasy
systems. The really explanatory approach now is a prospective
one. We no longer ask whether the patient has a father or
mother complex, or unconscious incest fantasies which tie him
to his parents, for we know today that everybody has them. It
was a mistake to believe that only neurotics have such things. We ask rather: What is the task which the patient does not
want to fulfil? What difficulty is he trying to avoid?
41 If a person tried always to adapt himself fully to the condi
tions of life, his libido would always be employed correctly and
adequately. When that does not happen, it gets blocked and
produces regressive symptoms. The non-fulfilment of the de
mands of adaptation, or the shrinking of the neurotic from diffi
culties, is, at bottom, the hesitation of every organism in the
face of a new effort to adapt. (The training of animals provides
instructive examples in this respect, and in many cases such an
explanation is, in principle, sufficient. From this standpoint
the earlier mode of explanation, which maintained that the
resistance of the neurotic was due to his bondage to fantasies,
appears incorrect. But it would be very one-sided to take our
stand solely on a point of principle. There is also a bondage to
fantasies, even though the fantasies are, as a rule, secondary.
The neurotic's bondage to fantasies (illusions, prejudices, etc.)
develops gradually, as a habit, out of innumerable regressions
from obstacles since earliest childhood. All this grows into a
regular habit familiar to every student of neurosis; we all know
those patients who use their neurosis as an excuse for running
away from difficulties and shirking their duty. Their habitual
evasion produces a habit of mind which makes them take it for
granted that they should live out their fantasies instead of ful
filling disagreeable obligations. And this bondage to fantasy
makes reality seem less real to the neurotic, less valuable and
less interesting, than it does to the normal person. As I ex
plained earlier, the fantastic prejudices and resistances may
also arise, sometimes, from experiences that were not intended
at all; in other words, were not deliberately sought disappoint
ments and suchlike.)
The ultimate and deepest root of neurosis appears to be the
innate sensitiveness, 1 which causes difficulties even to the infant
at the mother's breast, in the form of unnecessary excitement
and resistance. The apparent aetiology of neurosis elicited by
psychoanalysis is actually, in very many cases, only an inventory
of carefully selected fantasies, reminiscences, etc., aiming in a
definite direction and created by the patient out of the libido
he did not use for biological adaptation. Those allegedly aetiological
fantasies thus appear to be nothing but substitute for
mations, disguises, artificial explanations for the failure to
adapt to reality. The aforementioned vicious circle of flight
from reality and regression into fantasy is naturally very apt to
give the illusion of seemingly decisive causal relationships,
which the analyst as well as the patient believes in. Accidental
occurrences intervene in this mechanism only as "mitigating
circumstances." Their real and effective existence must, how
ever, be acknowledged.
I must admit that those critics are partly right who get the
impression, from their reading of psychoanalytic case histories,
that it is all fantastic and artificial. Only, they make the mistake
of attributing the fantastic artefacts and lurid, far-fetched sym
bolisms to the suggestion and fertile imagination of the analyst,
and not to the incomparably more fertile fantasy of his patients.
In the fantasy material of a psychoanalytic case history there is,
indeed, very much that is artificial. But the most striking thing
is the active inventiveness of the patient. And the critics are not
so wrong, either, when they say that their neurotic patients have
no such fantasies. I do not doubt that most of their patients are
totally unconscious of having any fantasies at all. When it is in
the unconscious, a fantasy is "real" only when it has some de
monstrable effect on consciousness, for instance in the form of
a dream. Otherwise we can say with a clear conscience that it is
(Sensitiveness is naturally only one word for it. We could also say "reactivity" or
"lability." As we know, there are many other words hi circulation.)
not real. So anyone who overlooks the almost imperceptible ef
fects of unconscious fantasies on consciousness, or dispenses with
a thorough and technically irreproachable analysis of dreams,
can easily overlook the fantasies of his patients altogether. We
are therefore inclined to smile when we hear this oft-repeated
4*3 Nevertheless, we must admit that there is some truth in it.
The regressive tendency of the patient, reinforced by the atten
tions of the psychoanalyst in his examination of the unconscious
fantasy activity, goes on inventing and creating even during the
analysis. One could even say that this activity is greatly increased
in the analytical situation, since the patient feels his regressive
tendency strengthened by the interest of the analyst and pro
duces even more fantasies than before. For this reason our critics
have often remarked that a conscientious therapy of the neu
rosis should go in exactly the opposite direction to that taken by
psychoanalysis; in other words, that it is the first task of therapy
to extricate the patient from his unhealthy fantasies and bring
him back again to real life.
414 The psychoanalyst, of course, is well aware of this, but he
knows just how far one can go with this extricating of neurotics
from their fantasies. As medical men, we should naturally never
dream of preferring a difficult and complicated method, assailed
by all the authorities, to a simple, clear, and easy one unless
for a very good reason. I am perfectly well acquainted with
hypnotic suggestion and Dubois' method of persuasion, but I
do not use them because they are comparatively ineffective. For
the same reason, I do not use "reeducation de la volont<" di rectly, as psychoanalysis gives me better results. ACTIVE PARTICIPATION IN THE FANTASY 415 But, if we do use psychoanalysis, we must go along with the regressive fantasies of our patients. Psychoanalysis has a much broader outlook as regards the evaluation of symptoms than have the usual psychotherapeutic procedures. These all start from the assumption that neurosis is an entirely pathological formation. In the whole of neurology hitherto, no one has ever thought of seeing in the neurosis an attempt at healing, or, con- 184 THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS sequently, of attributing to the neurotic formations a quite special teleological significance. But, like every illness, neurosis is only a compromise between the pathogenic causes and the normal function. Modern medicine no longer considers fever as the illness itself but as a purposive reaction of the organism. Similarly, psychoanalysis does not conceive the neurosis as antinatural and in itself pathological, but as having a meaning and a purpose. 4 l6 From this follows the inquiring and expectant attitude of psychoanalysis towards neurosis. In all cases it refrains from judging the value of a symptom, and tries instead to understand what tendencies lie beneath that symptom. If we were able to destroy a neurosis in the same way, for instance, as a cancer is destroyed, we would be destroying at the same time a large amount of useful energy. We save this energy, that is, we make it serve the purposes of the drive for recuperation, by pursuing the meaning of the symptoms and going along with the regres sive movement of the patient. Those unfamiliar with the essen tials of psychoanalysis will certainly have some difficulty in understanding how a therapeutic effect can be achieved when the analyst enters into the "harmful" fantasies of his patients. Not only the opponents of psychoanalysis but the patients them selves doubt the therapeutic value of such a method, which concentrates attention on the very things that the patient con demns as worthless and reprehensible, namely his fantasies. Patients will often tell you that their former doctors forbade them to have any concern with their fantasies, explaining that they could only consider themselves well when they were free, if only temporarily, from this terrible scourge. Naturally they wonder what good it will do when the treatment leads them back to the very place from which they consistently tried to escape. 4 1 ? This objection can be answered as follows: it all depends on the attitude the patient takes towards his fantasies. Hitherto, the patient's fantasying was a completely passive and involun tary activity. He was lost in his dreams, as we say. Even his socalled "brooding" was nothing but an involuntary fantasy. What psychoanalysis demands of the patient is apparently the same thing, but only a person with a very superficial knowledge of psychoanalysis could confuse this passive dreaming with the 185 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS attitude now required. What psychoanalysis asks of the patient is the exact opposite of what the patient has always done. He is like a man who has unintentionally fallen into the water and sunk, whereas psychoanalysis wants him to act like a diver. It was no mere chance which led him to fall in just at that spot. There lies the sunken treasure, but only a diver can bring it to the surface. 418 That is to say, when the patient judges them from a rational standpoint, he regards his fantasies as worthless and meaning less. In reality, however, they exert their great influence just because they are of such great importance. They are sunken treasures which can only be recovered by a diver; in other words the patient, contrary to his wont, must now deliberately turn his attention to his inner life. Where formerly he dreamed, he must now think, consciously and intentionally. This new way of thinking about himself has about as much resemblance to his former state of mind as a diver has to a drowning man. His former compulsion now has a meaning and a purpose, it has become work. The patient, assisted by the analyst, immerses himself in his fantasies, not in order to lose himself in them, but to salvage them, piece by piece, and bring them into the light of day. He thus acquires an objective vantage-point from which to view his inner life, and can now tackle the very thing he feared and hated. Here we have the basic principle of all psychoanalytic treatment. THE TASK OF ADAPTATION 419 Previously, because of his illness, the patient stood partly or wholly outside life. Consequently he neglected many of his duties, either in regard to social achievement or in regard to his purely human tasks. He must get back to fulfilling these duties if he wants to become well again. By way of caution, I would remark that "duties" are not to be understood here as general ethical postulates, but as duties to himself, by which again I do not mean egocentric interests for a human being is also a social being, a fact too easily forgotten by individualists. A normal person feels very much more comfortable sharing a common virtue than possessing an individual vice, no matter how seduc- 186 THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS tive it may be. He must already be a neurotic, or an otherwise unusual person, if he lets himself be deluded by special interests of this kind. 420 The neurotic shrank from his duties and his libido turned away, at least partly, from the tasks imposed by reality. Conse quently it became introverted, directed towards his inner life. Because no attempt was made to master any real difficulties, his libido followed the path of regression, so that fantasy largely took the place of reality. Unconsciouslyand very often con sciouslythe neurotic prefers to live in his dreams and fantasies. In order to bring him back to reality and to the fulfilment of his necessary tasks, psychoanalysis proceeds along the same "false" track of regression which was taken by the libido of the patient, so that at the beginning the analysis looks as if it were supporting his morbid proclivities. But psychoanalysis follows the false tracks of fantasy in order to restore the libido, the valuable part of the fantasies, to consciousness and apply it to the duties of the present. This can only be done by bringing up the unconscious fantasies, together with the libido attached to them. Were there no libido attached, we could safely leave these unconscious fantasies to their own shadowy existence. Unavoid ably the patient, feeling confirmed in his regressive tendency by the mere fact of having started the analysis, will, amid in creasing resistances, lead the analyst's interest down to the depths of his unconscious shadow-world. 421 It will readily be understood that every analyst, as a normal person, will feel in himself the greatest resistances to the re gressive tendency of the patient, as he is quite convinced that this tendency is pathological. As a doctor, he believes he is act ing quite rightly not to enter into his patient's fantasies. He is understandably repelled by this tendency, for it is indeed re pulsive to see somebody completely given up to such fantasies, finding only himself important and admiring himself unceas ingly. Moreover, for the aesthetic sensibilities of the normal per son, the average run of neurotic fantasies is exceedingly dis agreeable, if not downright disgusting. The psychoanalyst, of course, must put aside all aesthetic value-judgments, just like every other doctor who really wants to help his patient. He must not shudder at dirty work. Naturally there are a great many patients who are physically ill and who do recover through 187 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS the application of ordinary physical methods, dietetic or sug gestive, without closer exploration and radical treatment. But severe cases can be helped only by a therapy based on an exact investigation and thorough knowledge of the illness. Our psychotherapeutic methods hitherto were general measures of this kind; in mild cases they do no harm, on the contrary they are often of real use* But a great many patients prove inaccessible to these methods. If anything helps here, it is psychoanalysis, which is not to say that psychoanalysis is a cure-all. This is a sneer that comes only from ill-natured criticism. We know very well that psychoanalysis fails in certain cases. As everybody knows, we shall never be able to cure all illnesses. 422 The "diving" work of analysis brings up dirty material, piece by piece, out of the slime, but it must first be cleaned be fore we can recognize its value. The dirty fantasies are value less and are thrown aside, but the libido attached to them is of value and this, after the work of cleaning, becomes serviceable again. To the professional psychoanalyst, as to every specialist, it will sometimes seem that the fantasies have a value of their own, and not just the libido. But their value is no concern of the patient's. For the analyst these fantasies have only a scien tific value, just as it may be of special interest to the surgeon to know whether the pus contains staphylococci or streptococci. To the patient it is all the same, and so far as he is concerned it is better for the analyst to conceal his scientific interest, lest the patient be tempted to take more pleasure than necessary in his fantasies. The aetiological significance which is attributed to these fantasies incorrectly, to my mind explains why so much space is given up to the extensive discussion of all forms of fan tasy in the psychoanalytic literature. Once one knows that in this sphere absolutely nothing is impossible, the initial estima tion of fantasies will gradually wear itself out, and with it the attempt to discover in them an aetiological significance. Nor will the most exhaustive discussion of case histories ever succeed in emptying this ocean. Theoretically the fantasies in each case are inexhaustible. 423 In most cases, however, the production of fantasies ceases after a time, from which one must not conclude that the pos sibilities of fantasy are exhausted; the cessation only means that no more libido is regressing. The end of the regressive move- 188 THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS ment is reached when the libido seizes hold of the actualities of life and is used for the solution of necessary tasks. There are cases, and not a few of them, where the patient continues to produce endless fantasies, whether for his own pleasure or be cause of the mistaken expectations of the analyst. Such a mistake is especially easy for beginners, since, blinded by psychoanalytic case histories, they keep their interest fixed on the alleged aetiological significance of the fantasies, and are constantly en deavouring to fish up more fantasies from the infantile past, vainly hoping to find there the solution of the neurotic diffi culties. They do not see that the solution lies in action, in the fulfilment of certain necessary obligations to life. It will be ob jected that the neurosis is entirely due to the incapacity of the patient to carry out these tasks, and that, by analysing the un conscious, the therapist ought to enable him to do so, or at least give him the means of doing so. 424 Put in this way, the objection is perfectly true, but we have to add that it is valid only when the patient is really conscious of the task he has to fulfil conscious of it not only academically, in general theoretical outline, but also in detail. It is charac teristic of neurotics to be wanting in this knowledge, although, because of their intelligence, they are well aware of the general duties of life, and struggle perhaps only too hard to fulfil the precepts of current morality. But for that very reason they know all the less, sometimes nothing at all, about the incomparably more important duties to themselves. It is not enough, there fore, to follow the patient blindfold on the path of regression, and to push him back into his infantile fantasies by an untimely aetiological interest. I often hear from patients who have got stuck in a psychoanalytic treatment: "My analyst thinks I must have an infantile trauma somewhere, or a fantasy I am still re pressing." Apart from cases where this conjecture happened to be true, I have seen others in which the stoppage was caused by the fact that the libido, hauled up by the analysis, sank back again into the depths for want of employment. This was due to the analyst directing his attention entirely to the infantile fantasies and his failure to see what task of adaptation the pa tient had to fulfil. The consequence was that the libido always sank back again, as it was given no opportunity for further activity. 189 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS 425 There are many patients who, quite on their own account, discover their life-tasks and stop the production of regressive fantasies fairly soon, because they prefer to live in reality rather than in fantasy. It is a pity that this cannot be said of all pa tients. A good many of them postpone the fulfilment of their life-tasks indefinitely, perhaps for ever, and prefer their idle neurotic dreaming. I must emphasize yet again that by ''dream ing" we do not mean a conscious phenomenon. 426 In consequence of these facts and insights, the character of psychoanalysis has changed in the course of the years. If in its first stage psychoanalysis was a kind of surgery, which removed the foreign body, the blocked affect, from the psyche, in its later form it was a kind of historical method, which tried to investi gate the genesis of the neurosis in all its details and to trace it back to its earliest beginnings. THE TRANSFERENCE 427 There is no doubt that this method owed its existence not only to a strong scientific interest but also to the personal "empathy" of the analyst, traces of which can clearly be seen in the psychoanalytic case material. Thanks to this personal feel ing, Freud was able to discover wherein lay the therapeutic effect of psychoanalysis. While this was formerly sought in the discharge of the traumatic affect, it was now found that the fan tasies brought out by analysis were all associated with the person of the analyst. Freud called this process the transference^ be cause the patient transferred to the analyst the fantasies that were formerly attached to the memory-images of the parents. The transference is not limited to the purely intellectual sphere; rather, the libido that is invested in the fantasies precipitates itself, together with the fantasies, upon the analyst. All those sexual fantasies which cluster round the imago of the parents now cluster round him, and the less the patient realizes this, the stronger will be his unconscious tie to the analyst. 428 This discovery is of fundamental importance in several ways. Above all, the transference is of great biological value to the patient. The less libido he gives to reality, the more exaggerated will be his fantasies and the more he will be cut off from the 190 THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS world. Typical of neurotics is their disturbed relationship to reality that is to say, their reduced adaptation. The trans ference to the analyst builds a bridge across which the patient can get away from his family into reality. He can now emerge from his infantile milieu into the world of adults, since the analyst represents for him a part of the world outside the family. 429 On the other hand, the transference is a powerful hindrance to the progress of the treatment, because the patient assimilates the analyst, who should stand for a part of the extrafamilial world, to his father and mother, so that the whole advantage of his new acquisition is jeopardized. The more he is able to see the analyst objectively, to regard him as he does any other in dividual, the greater becomes the advantage of the transference. The less he is able to see the analyst in this way, and the more he assimilates him to the father imago, the less advantageous the transference will be and the greater the harm it will do. The patient has merely widened the scope of his family by the addi tion of a quasi-parental personality. He himself is, as before, still in the infantile milieu and therefore maintains his infan tile constellation. In this manner all the advantages of the trans ference can be lost. 430 There are patients who follow the analysis with the greatest interest without making the slightest improvement, remaining extraordinarily productive in their fantasies although the whole previous history of their neurosis, even its darkest corners, seems to have been brought to light. An analyst under the influence of the historical view might easily be thrown into confusion, and would have to ask himself: What is there in this case still to be analysed? These are just the cases I had in mind before, when I said it is no longer a matter of analysing the historical material, but of action, of overcoming the infantile attitude. The historical analysis would show over and over again that the patient has an infantile attitude to the analyst, but it would not tell us how to alter it. Up to a certain point, this serious disad vantage of the transference applies to every case. It has gradually proved, even, that the part of psychoanalysis so far discussed, extraordinarily interesting and valuable though it may be from a scientific point of view, is in practice far less important than what now has to follow, namely, the analysis of the transference itself. FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS CONFESSION AND PSYCHOANALYSIS 43 1 Before I discuss in detail this especially important part of the analysis, I should like to draw attention to a parallel be tween the first stage of psychoanalysis and a certain cultural institution. By this I mean the religious institution of confes sion. 432 Nothing makes people more lonely, and more cut off from the fellowship of others, than the possession of an anxiously hidden and jealously guarded personal secret. Very often it is "sinful" thoughts and deeds that keep them apart and estrange them from one another. Here confession sometimes has a truly redeeming effect. The tremendous feeling of relief which usu ally follows a confession can be ascribed to the readmission of the lost sheep into the human community. His moral isolation and seclusion, which were so difficult to bear, cease. Herein lies the chief psychological value of confession. 433 Besides that, however, it has other consequences: through the transference of his secret and all the unconscious fantasies underlying it, a moral bond is formed between the patient and his father confessor. We call this a "transference relationship." Anyone with psychoanalytic experience knows how much the personal significance of the analyst is enhanced when the patient is able to confess his secrets to him. The change this induces in the patient's behaviour is often amazing. This, too, is an effect probably intended by the Church. The fact that by far the greater part of humanity not only needs guidance, but wishes for nothing better than to be guided and held in tutelage, justi fies, in a sense, the moral value which the Church sets on con fession. The priest, equipped with all the insignia of paternal authority, becomes the responsible leader and shepherd of his flock. He is the father confessor and the members of his parish are his penitent children. 434 Thus priest and Church replace the parents, and to that ex tent they free the individual from the bonds of the family. In so far as the priest is a morally elevated personality with a nat ural nobility of soul and a mental culture to match, the institu tion of confession may be commended as a brilliant method of social guidance and education, which did in fact perform a tre- 192 THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS mendous educative task for more than fifteen hundred years. So long as the medieval Church knew how to be the guardian of art and science a role in which her success was due, in part, to her wide tolerance of worldly interests confession was an ad mirable instrument of education. But it lost its educative value, at least for more highly developed people, as soon as the Church proved incapable of maintaining her leadership in the intellec tual sphere the inevitable consequence of spiritual rigidity. The more highly developed men of our time do not want to be guided by a creed or a dogma; they want to understand. So it is not surprising if they throw aside everything they do not under stand; and religious symbols, being the least intelligible of all, are generally the first to go overboard. The sacrifice of the in tellect demanded by a positive belief is a violation against which the conscience of the more highly developed individual rebels. 435 So far as analysis is concerned, in perhaps the majority of cases the transference to and dependence on the analyst could be regarded as a sufficient end with a definite therapeutic effect, provided that the analyst was a commanding personality and in every way capable of guiding his patients responsibly and being a "father to his people." But a modern, mentally de veloped person strives, consciously or unconsciously, to govern himself and stand morally on his own feet. He wants to take the helm in his own hands; the steering has too long been done by others. He wants to understand; in other words, he wants to be an adult. It is much easier to be guided, but this no longer suits intelligent people today, for they feel that the spirit of the age requires them to exercise moral autonomy. Psychoanalysis has to reckon with this requirement, and has therefore to reject the demand of the patient for constant guidance and instruction. The analyst knows his own shortcomings too well to believe that he could play the role of father and guide. His highest ambition must consist only in educating his patients to become inde pendent personalities, and in freeing them from their uncon scious bondage to infantile limitations. He must therefore an alyse the transference, a task left untouched by the priest. Through the analysis the unconsciousand sometimes con scioustie to the analyst is cut, and the patient is set upon his own feet. That, at least, is the aim of the treatment.2 2 [Cf. the "Psychology of the Transference" for a more detailed study.] 193 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS ANALYSIS OF THE TRANSFERENCE 436 The transference introduces all sorts of difficulties into the relationship between analyst and patient because, as we have seen, the analyst is always more or less assimilated to the family. The first part of the analysis, the discovery of complexes, is fairly easy, thanks to the fact that everyone likes to unburden himself of his painful secrets. Also, he experiences a particular satisfaction in at last finding someone who has an understand ing ear for all those things to which nobody would listen before. For the patient it is a singularly agreeable sensation to be un derstood and to have a doctor who is determined to understand him at all costs, and is willing to follow him, apparently, through all his devious ways. There are patients who even have a special "test" for this, a special question which the analyst has to go into; if he cannot or will not do this, or if he overlooks it, then he is no good. The feeling of being understood is especially sweet to all those lonely souls who are insatiable in their demand for "understanding." 437 For patients with such an obliging disposition, the beginning of the analysis is, as a rule, fairly simple. The therapeutic effects, often considerable, which may appear about this time are easy to obtain, and for that reason they may seduce the beginner into a therapeutic optimism and analytical superficiality which bear no relation to the seriousness and peculiar difficulties of his task. The trumpeting of therapeutic successes is nowhere more con temptible than in psychoanalysis, for no one should know bet ter than the psychoanalyst that the therapeutic result ultimately depends far more on the co-operation of nature and of the pa tient himself. The psychoanalyst may legitimately pride himself on his increased insight into the essence and structure of neu rosis, an insight that greatly exceeds all previous knowledge in this field. But psychoanalytic publications to date cannot be acquitted of the charge of sometimes showing psychoanalysis in a false light. There are technical publications which give the uninitiated person the impression that psychoanalysis is a more or less clever trick, productive of astonishing results. 438 The first stage of the analysis, when we try to understand, and in this way often relieve, the patient's feelings, is responsi- 194 THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS ble for these therapeutic illusions. The improvements that may appear at the beginning of an analysis are naturally not really results of the treatment, but are generally only passing allevia tions which greatly assist the process of transference. After the initial resistances to the transference have been overcome, it turns out to be an ideal situation for a neurotic. He does not need to make any effort himself, and yet someone comes to meet him more than halfway, someone with an unwonted and pe culiar wish to understand, who does not allow himself to get bored and is not put off by anything, although the patient some times does his utmost to rile him with his wilfulness and child ish defiance. This forbearance is enough to melt the strongest resistances, so that the patient no longer hesitates to set the analyst among his family gods, i.e., to assimilate him to the in fantile milieu. 439 At the same time, the patient satisfies another need, that is, he achieves a relationship outside the family and thus fulfils a biological demand. Hence the patient obtains a double ad vantage from the transference relationship: a personality who on the one hand is expected to bestow on him a loving atten tion in all his concerns, and to that extent is equated with father and mother, but who, on the other hand, is outside the family and thus helps him to fulfil a vitally important and difficult duty without the least danger to himself. When, on top of that, this acquisition is coupled with a marked therapeutic effect, as not infrequently happens, the patient is fortified in his belief that his new-found situation is an excellent one. We can readily ap preciate that he is not in the least inclined to give up all these advantages. If it were left to him, he would prefer to remain united with the analyst for ever. Accordingly, he now starts to produce numerous fantasies showing how this goal might be attained. Eroticism plays a large role here, and is exploited and exaggerated in order to demonstrate the impossibility of sep aration. The patient, understandably enough, puts up the most obstinate resistance when the analyst tries to break the trans ference relationship. 44 We must not forget, however, that for a neurotic the acquisi tion of an extrafamilial relationship is one of life's duties, as it is for everyone, and a duty which till then he has either not fulfilled at all or fulfilled in a very limited way. At this point I 195 must energetically oppose the view one so often hears that an extrafamilial relationship always means a sexual relationship. (In many cases one would like to say: it is precisely not that. It is a favourite neurotic misunderstanding that the right attitude to the world is found by indulgence in sex. In this respect, too, the literature of psychoanalysis is not free from misrepresenta tions; indeed there are publications from which no other con clusions can be drawn. This misunderstanding is far older than psychoanalysis, however, and so cannot be laid altogether at its door. The experienced medical man knows this advice very well, and I have had more than one patient who has acted according to this prescription. But when a psychoanalyst recommends it, he is making the same mistake as his patient, who believes that his sexual fantasies come from pent-up ("repressed") sexuality. If that were so, this recipe would naturally be a salutary one. It is not a question of that at all, but of regressive libido which ex aggerates the fantasies because it evades the real task and strives back to the infantile level.) If we support this regressive tend ency at all points we simply reinforce the infantile attitude from which the neurotic is suffering. He has to learn the higher adaptation which life demands from mature and civilized peo ple. Those who have a decided tendency to sink lower will pro ceed to do so; they need no psychoanalysis for that. 441 At the same time, we must be careful that we do not fall in to the opposite extreme of thinking that psychoanalysis creates nothing but quite exceptional personalities. Psychoanalysis stands outside traditional morality; for the present it should adhere to no general moral standard. It is, and should be, only a means for giving the individual trends breathing-space, for developing them and bringing them into harmony with the rest of the personality. It should be a biological method, whose aim is to combine the highest subjective well-being with the most valuable biological performance. As man is not only an indi vidual but also a member of society, these two tendencies in herent in human nature can never be separated, or the one subordinated to the other, without doing him serious injury. 442 The best result for a person who undergoes an analysis is that he shall become in the end what he really is, in harmony with himself, neither good nor bad, just as he is in his natural state. Psychoanalysis cannot be considered a method of educa- 196 THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS tion, if by education we mean the topiary art of clipping a tree into a beautiful artificial shape. But those who have a higher conception of education will prize most the method of culti vating a tree so that it fulfils to perfection its own natural con ditions of growth. We yield too much to the ridiculous fear that we are at bottom quite impossible beings, that if everyone were to appear as he really is a frightful social catastrophe would ensue. Many people today take "man as he really is" to mean merely the eternally discontented, anarchic, rapacious element in human beings, quite forgetting that these same human beings have also erected those firmly established forms of civilization which possess greater strength and stability than all the anarchic undercurrents. (The strengthening of his social personality is one of the essential conditions for man's existence. Were it not so, humanity would cease to be. The selfishness and rebellious ness we meet in the neurotic's psychology are not "man as he really is" but an infantile distortion. In reality the normal man is "civic-minded and moral"; he created his laws and observes them, not because they are imposed on him from without that is a childish delusion but because he loves law and order more than he loves disorder and lawlessness.) RESOLUTION OF THE TRANSFERENCE 443 In order to resolve the transference, we have to fight against forces which are not merely neurotic but have a general signifi cance for normal human beings. In trying to get the patient to break the transference relationship, we are asking of him some thing that is seldom, or never, demanded of the average person, namely, that he should conquer himself completely. Only cer tain religions demanded this of the individual, and it is this that makes the second stage of analysis so very difficult. 444 {As you know, it is an habitual prejudice of children to think that love gives them the right to make demands. The infantile conception of loving is getting presents from others. Patients make demands in accordance with this definition, and thus be have no differently from most normal people, whose infantile cupidity is only prevented from reaching too high a pitch by their fulfilling their duties to life and by the satisfaction this 197 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS affords the libido, and also because a certain lack o tempera ment does not incline them from the start to passionate be haviour. The basic trouble with the neurotic is that, instead of adapting himself to life in his own special way, which would require a high degree of self-discipline, he makes infantile de mands and then begins to bargain. The analyst will hardly be disposed to comply with the demands the patient makes on him personally, but circumstances may arise in which he will seek to buy his freedom with compromises. For instance, he might throw out hints of moral liberties which, if turned into a maxim, would bring about a general lowering of the cultural level. But in that way the patient merely sinks to the lower level and be comes inferior. Nor is it, in the end, a question of culture at all, but simply of the analyst buying his way out of the constricting transference situation by offering other, alleged advantages. It goes against the real interests of the patient to hold out these compensating advantages so enticingly; at that rate he will never be freed from his infantile cupidity and indolence. Only selfconquest can free him from these. 445 The neurotic has to prove that he, just as much as a normal person, can live reasonably. Indeed, he must do more than a normal person, he must give up a large slice of his infantilism, which nobody asks a normal person to do. 446 Patients often try to convince themselves, by seeking out special adventures, that it is possible to go on living in an in fantile way. It would be a great mistake if the analyst tried to stop them. There are experiences which one must go through and for which reason is no substitute. Such experiences are often of inestimable value to the patient. 447 Nowhere more clearly than at this stage of the analysis will everything depend on how far the analyst has been analysed himself. If he himself has an infantile type of desire of which he is still unconscious, he will never be able to open his patient's eyes to this danger. It is an open secret that all through the anal ysis intelligent patients are looking beyond it into the soul of the analyst, in order to find there the confirmation of the heal ing formulae or its opposite. It is quite impossible, even by the subtlest analysis, to prevent the patient from taking over instinctively the way in which his analyst deals with the prob lems of life. Nothing can stop this, for personality teaches more 198 THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS than thick tomes full of wisdom. All the disguises in which he wraps himself in order to conceal his own personality avail him nothing; sooner or later he will come across a patient who calls his bluff. An analyst who from the first takes his profession seriously is faced with the inexorable necessity of testing out the principles of psychoanalysis on himself as well. He will be aston ished to see how many apparently technical difficulties vanish in this way. Note that I am not speaking of the initial stage of analysis, which might be called the stage of unearthing the com plexes, but of this final, extraordinarily tricky stage which is concerned with the resolution of the transference. 448 I have frequently found that beginners look upon the trans ference as an entirely abnormal phenomenon that has to be "fought against." Nothing could be more mistaken. To begin with we have to regard the transference merely as a falsification, a sexualized caricature, of the social bond which holds human society together and which also produces close ties between peo ple of like mind. This bond is one of the most valuable social factors imaginable, and it would be a cruel mistake to reject absolutely these social overtures on the part of the patient. It is only necessary to purge them of their regressive components, their infantile sexualism. If that is done, the transference be comes a most convenient instrument of adaptation. 449 The only danger and it is a great oneis that the unac knowledged infantile demands of the analyst may identify them selves with the parallel demands of the patient. The analyst can avoid this only by submitting to a rigorous analysis at the hands of another. He then learns to understand what analysis really means and how it feels to experience it on your own psyche. Every intelligent analyst will at once see how much this must redound to the benefit of his patients. There are analysts who believe that they can get along with a self-analysis. This is Munchausen psychology, and they will certainly remain stuck. They forget that one of the most important therapeutically ef fective factors is subjecting yourself to the objective judgment of another. As regards ourselves we remain blind, despite every thing and everybody. The analyst, of all people, must give up all isolationist tactics and autoerotic mystification if he wants to help his patients to become socially mature and independent personalities. 199 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS 45 I know that I am also at one with Freud when I set it up as a self-evident requirement that a psychoanalyst must discharge his own duties to life in the proper way. If he does not, nothing can stop his unutilized libido from automatically descending on his patients and in the end falsifying the whole analysis. Imma ture and incompetent persons who are themselves neurotic and stand with only one foot in reality generally make nothing but nonsense out of analysis. Exempla sunt odiosa! Medicine in the hand of a fool was ever poison and death. Just as we demand from a surgeon, besides his technical knowledge, a skilled hand, courage, presence of mind, and power of decision, so we must expect from an analyst a very serious and thorough psycho analytic training of his own personality before we are willing to entrust a patient to him. I would even go so far as to say that the acquisition and practice of the psychoanalytic technique presuppose not only a specific psychological gift but in the very first place a serious concern with the moulding of one's own character.) 45 1 The technique for resolving the transference is the same as the one we have already described. The problem of what the patient is to do with the libido he has withdrawn from the per son of the analyst naturally occupies a large place. Here too the danger for the beginner is great, as he will be inclined to sug gest or to give advice. For the patient the analyst's efforts in this respect are extremely convenient, and therefore fatal. At this important juncture, as everywhere in psychoanalysis, we have to let the patient and his impulses take the lead, even if the path seems a wrong one. Error is just as important a condition of life's progress as truth. THE PROSPECTIVE FUNCTION OF DREAMS 45* In this second stage of analysis, with its hidden reefs and shoals, we owe an enormous amount to dreams. At the begin ning of the analysis, dreams helped us chiefly to discover the fantasies; but here they are often extremely valuable guides to the use of libido. Freud's work laid the foundation for an im mense increase in our knowledge in regard to the determination of the manifest dream content by historical material and wish- 200 THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS ful tendencies. He showed how dreams give access to a mass of subliminal material, mostly memories that have sunk below the threshold. In keeping with his genius for the purely histori cal method, Freud's procedure is predominantly analytical. Al though this method is incontestably of great value we ought not to adopt this standpoint exclusively, as a one-sided historical view does not take sufficient account of the teleological signifi cance of dreams (stressed in particular by Maeder 3 ). Uncon scious thinking would be quite inadequately characterized if we considered it only from the standpoint of its historical deter minants. For a complete evaluation we have unquestionably to consider its teleological or prospective significance as well. If we pursued the history of the English Parliament back to its earli est beginnings, we should undoubtedly arrive at an excellent understanding of its development and the way its present form was determined. But that would tell us nothing about its pro spective function, that is, about the tasks it has to accomplish now and in the future. 453 The same is true of dreams, whose prospective function alone was valued in the superstitions of all times and races. There may well be a good deal of truth in this view. Without presuming to say that dreams have prophetic foresight, it is nevertheless possible that we might find, in this subliminal ma terial, combinations of future events which are subliminal sim ply because they have not yet attained the degree of clarity necessary for them to become conscious. Here I am thinking of those dim presentiments we sometimes have of the future, which are nothing but very faint, subliminal combinations of events whose objective value we are not yet able to apperceive. 454 The future tendencies of the patient are elaborated with the help of these teleological components of the dream. If this work is successful, the patient passes out of the treatment and out of the semi-infantile transference relationship into a life which has been carefully prepared within him, which he has chosen him self, and to which, after mature deliberation, he can declare himself committed. ["Die Symbolik in den Legenden, Marchen, Gebr^uchen und TrSumen" (1908). EDITORS.] 201 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS FUTURE USES OF PSYCHOANALYSIS 455 As will readily be understood, psychoanalysis can never be used for polyclinical work. It must always remain in the hands of the few who, because of their innate educative and psy chological capacities, have a particular aptitude and a special liking for this profession. Just as not every doctor makes a good surgeon, not everyone is fitted to be a psychoanalyst. The pre dominantly psychological nature of the work will make it diffi cult for the medical profession to monopolize it. Sooner or later other branches of science will master the method, either for practical reasons or out of theoretical interest. So long as ortho dox science excludes psychoanalysis from general discussion as sheer nonsense, we cannot be surprised if other departments learn to master the material before the medical profession does. This is all the more likely as psychoanalysis is a general method of psychological research and a heuristic principle of the first rank in the domain of the humane sciences. 456 It is chiefly the work of the Zurich school that has demon strated the applicability of psychoanalysis as a method of in vestigation in mental disease. Psychoanalytic investigation of dementia praecox, for instance, has given us most valuable in sights into the psychological structure of this remarkable disease. It would lead me too far afield to go at all deeply into the results of these investigations. The theory of the psychological deter minants of this disease is a sufficiently vast territory in itself, and if I were to discuss the symbolistic problems of dementia prae cox I would have to put before you a mass of material which I could not hope to deploy within the framework of these lec tures, whose purpose is to provide a general survey. 457 The question of dementia praecox has become so extraor dinarily complicated because the recent incursion of psycho analysis into the domains of mythology and comparative religion has afforded us deep insight into ethnological symbolism. Those who were familiar with the symbolism of dreams and of de mentia praecox were astounded by the parallelism between the symbols found in modern individuals and those found in the history of the human race. Most startling of all is the parallelism between ethnic and schizophrenic symbols. The complicated 202 THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS relations between psychology and mythology make it impossible for me to discuss in detail rny views on dementia praecox. For the same reason I must refrain from discussing the results of the psychoanalytic investigation of mythology and comparative re ligion. The principal result of these investigations at present is the discovery of far-reaching parallels between ethnic and indi vidual symbolisms. We cannot yet see what vast perspectives this ethnopsychology may open out. But, from all we know at present, we may expect that psychoanalytic research into the na ture of subliminal processes will be enormously enriched and deepened by a study of mythology. 203 g. A CASE OF NEUROSIS IN A CHILD 458 In these lectures I have had to confine myself to giving you a general account of the nature of psychoanalysis. Detailed dis cussion of the method and theory would have required a mass of case material, exposition of which would have detracted from a comprehensive view of the whole. But, in order to give you some idea of the actual process of psychoanalytic treatment, I have decided to present a fairly short analysis of an elevenyear- old girl. The case was analysed by my assistant, Miss Mary Moltzer. I must preface my remarks by saying that this case is no more typical of the length or course of an ordinary psycho analysis than one individual is typical of all others. Nowhere is the abstraction of generally valid rules so difficult as in psycho analysis, for which reason it is better not to make too many formulations. We must not forget that, notwithstanding the great uniformity of conflicts and complexes, every case is unique, because every individual is unique. Every case demands the analyst's individual interest, and in every case the course of analysis is different. 459 In presenting this case, therefore, I am offering but a small section of the infinitely varied world of the psyche, showing all those apparently bizarre and arbitrary peculiarities which the whim of so-called chance scatters into a human life. It is not my intention to withhold any of the more interesting psychoan alytic details, as I do not want to evoke the impression that psychoanalysis is a rigidly formalistic method. The scientific needs of the investigator prompt him always to look for rules and categories in which the most alive of all living things can be captured. The analyst and observer, on the other hand, must eschew formulas and let the living reality work upon him in all its lawless profusion. Thus I shall try to present this case in its natural setting, and I hope I shall succeed in showing you how differently an analysis develops from what might have been ex pected on purely theoretical grounds. 204 THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS The case in question is that of an intelligent eleven-year-old girl of good family. ANAMNESIS 4g i The clinical history is as follows: She had to leave school several times on account of sudden nausea and headaches, and was obliged to go to bed. In the morning she sometimes refused to get up and go to school. She suffered from bad dreams, was moody and unreliable. I informed the mother, who came to consult me, that these might be the signs of a neurosis, and that something special might be hidden behind them about which one would have to ask the child. This conjecture was not an arbitrary one, for every attentive observer knows that if children are so restless and bad-tempered something is worrying them. 462 The child now confessed to her mother the following story. She had a favourite teacher, on whom she had a crush. During this last term she had fallen behind with her work, and she thought she had sunk in her teacher's estimation. She then be gan to feel sick during his lessons. She felt not only estranged from her teacher, but even rather hostile to him. She directed all her friendly feelings to a poor boy with whom she usually shared the bread she took to school. She now gave him money as well, so that he could buy bread for himself. Once, in conversa tion with this boy, she made fun of her teacher and called him a goat. The boy attached himself to her more and more, and considered that he had the right to levy an occasional tribute from her in the form of a little present of money. Then she be came afraid that the boy would tell the teacher she had called him a goat, and she promised him two francs if he would give her his solemn word never to say anything to the teacher. From that moment the boy began to blackmail her; he demanded money with threats, and persecuted her with his demands on the way to school. She was in despair. Her attacks of sickness were closely connected with this story; yet, after the affair had been settled as a result of this confession, her peace of mind was not restored as we would have expected. 463 Very often, as I mentioned in the previous lecture, the mere relation of a painful episode has a favourable therapeutic effect. 205 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS Generally this does not last very long, although on occasion it may be maintained for a long time. Such a confession is natu rally a long way from being an analysis, despite the fact that there are many nerve specialists nowadays who believe that an analysis is only a somewhat more extensive anamnesis or con fession. 464 Not long afterwards, the child had a violent attack of cough ing and missed school for one day. After that she went back to school for one day and felt perfectly well. On the third day a renewed attack of coughing came on, with pains on the left side, fever and vomiting. She had a temperature of 103 F. The doctor feared pneumonia. But the next day everything had disappeared again. She felt quite well, and there was no trace of fever or nausea. 4^5 But still our little patient wept the whole time and did not wish to get up. From this strange course of events I suspected a serious neurosis, and I therefore advised analytical treatment. FIRST INTERVIEW 466 The little girl seemed nervous and constrained, now and then giving a disagreeable forced laugh. She was first of all given an opportunity to talk about what it felt like to be allowed to stay in bed. We learn that it was especially nice then, as she always had company. Everybody came to see her; best of all, she could get herself read to by Mama, from a book with the story in it of a prince who was ill and only got well again when his wish was fulfilled, the wish being that his little friend, a poor boy, might be allowed to stay with him. i67 The obvious relation between this story and her own little love-story, as well as its connection with her sickness, was pointed out to her, whereupon she began to weep, saying that she would rather go with the other children and play with them, or they would run away. This was at once allowed, and away she ran, but came back again in no time, somewhat crestfallen. It was explained to her that she had not run away because she was afraid her playmates would run away, but that she herself wanted to run away because of resistances. 206 THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS SECOND INTERVIEW 468 At the second interview she was less anxious and inhibited. The conversation was led round to the teacher, but she was too embarrassed to speak about him. Finally came the shamefaced admission that she liked him very much. It was explained to her that she need not be ashamed of that; on the contrary, her love was a guarantee that she would do her very best in his les sons. "So then I may like him?" asked the little patient with a happier face. 469 This explanation justified the child in her choice of a loveobject. She had, it seemed, been afraid to admit to herself her feelings for the teacher. It is not easy to explain why this should be so. It was previously assumed that the libido has great diffi culty in seizing upon a person outside the family because it still finds itself caught in the incestuous bond a very plausible view indeed, from which it is difficult to withdraw. On the other hand, it must be emphasized that her libido had taken vehement possession of the poor boy, and he too was someone outside the family, so that the difficulty cannot lie in transferring libido to an extra-familial object, but in some other circumstance. Her love for the teacher was for her a more difficult task, it demanded much more from her than her love for the boy, which did not require any moral effort on her part. The hint dropped in the analysis that love would enable her to do her best brought the child back to her real task, which was to adapt to the teacher. 470 Now if the libido draws back from a necessary task, it does so for the very human reason of indolence, which is particularly marked not only in children but also in primitives and animals. Primitive inertia and laziness are the primary reason for not making the effort to adapt. The libido which is not used for this purpose stagnates, and will then make the inevitable regression to former objects or modes of adaptation. The result is a strik ing activation of the incest complex. The libido withdraws from the object which is so difficult to attain and which demands such great efforts, and turns instead to the easier ones, and finally to the easiest of all, the infantile fantasies, which are then elab orated into real incest fantasies. The fact that, whenever there is a disturbance of psychological adaptation, we always find an 207 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS excessive development of these fantasies must likewise be con ceived, as I pointed out before, as a regressive phenomenon. That is to say, the incest fantasy is of secondary and not of causal significance, while the primary cause is the resistance of human nature to any kind of exertion. Accordingly, drawing back from certain tasks cannot be explained by saying that man prefers the incestuous relationship, rather he falls back into it because he shuns exertion. Otherwise we would have to say that re sistance to conscious effort is identical with preference for the incestuous relationship. This would be obvious nonsense, since not only primitive man but animals too have a mighty dislike of all intentional effort, and are addicted to absolute laziness until circumstances prod them into action. Neither of primi tive people nor of animals can it be asserted that preference for incestuous relationships is the cause of their aversion to efforts at adaptation, for, especially in the case of animals, there can be absolutely no question of an incestuous relationship. 47 1 Characteristically, the child expressed joy not at the prospect of doing her best for the teacher but at being allowed to love him. That was the thing she heard first, because it suited her best. Her relief came from the confirmation that she was justi fied in loving him even without making any special effort first. 472 The conversation then went on to the story of the blackmail, which she told again in detail. We learn, furthermore, that she tried to force open her money-box, and when she did not suc ceed she tried to steal the key from her mother. She also made a clean breast of the other matter: she had made fun of the teacher because he was much nicer to the other girls than to her. But it was true that she had got worse at his lessons, especially in arithmetic. Once she did not understand something, but had not dared to ask for fear of losing the teacher's esteem. Conse quently she made mistakes, fell behind, and really did lose it. As a result, she got into a very unsatisfactory position with her teacher. 473 About this time it happened that a girl in her class was sent home because she felt sick. Soon after, the same thing happened to her. In this way, she tried to get away from school, which she no longer liked. The loss of her teacher's esteem led her, on the one hand, to insult him and, on the other, into the affair with the little boy, obviously as a compensation for her lost relation- 208 THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS ship with the teacher. The explanation she was now given was a simple hint: she would be doing her teacher a good turn if she took pains to understand his lessons by asking questions in time. I may add that this hint had good results; from that mo ment the little girl became the best pupil and missed no more arithmetic lessons. A point worth stressing in the story of the blackmail is its compulsive character and the lack of freedom it shows in the girl. This is a quite regular phenomenon. As soon as anyone permits his libido to draw back from a necessary task, it be comes autonomous and, regardless of the protests of the subject, chooses its own goals and pursues them obstinately. It is there fore quite common for a person leading a lazy and inactive life to be peculiarly prone to the compulsion of libido, that is, to all kinds of fears and involuntary constraints. The fears and super stitions of primitives furnish the best proof of this, but the his tory of our own civilization, especially the civilization of an tiquity, provides ample confirmation as well. Non-employment of the libido makes it ungovernable. But we must not believe that we can save ourselves permanently from the compulsion of libido by forced efforts. Only to a very limited extent can we consciously set tasks for the libido; other natural tasks are chosen by the libido itself because it is destined for them. If these tasks are avoided, even the most industrious life avails nothing, for we have to consider all the conditions of human nature. Innumerable neurasthenias from overwork can be traced back to this cause, for work done amid internal conflicts creates nervous exhaustion. THIRD INTERVIEW 175 The girl related a dream she had had when she was five years old, which made an unforgettable impression on her. "I'll never forget the dream as long as I live," she said. I would like to add here that such dreams are of quite special interest. The longer a dream remains spontaneously in the memory, the greater is the importance to be attributed to it. This is the dream: "I was in a wood with my little brother, looking for strawberries. Then a wolf came and jumped at me. I fled up a staircase^ the wolf 209 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS after me. I fell down and the wolf bit me in the leg. I awoke in deadly fear/' 476 Before we take up the associations given us by the little girl, I will try to form an arbitrary opinion as to the possible con tent of the dream, and then see how our results compare with the associations given by the child. The beginning of the dream reminds us of the well-known fairytale of Little Red Ridinghood, which is, of course, known to every child. The wolf ate the grandmother first, then took her shape, and afterwards ate Little Red Ridinghood. But the hunter killed the wolf, cut open the belly, and Little Red Ridinghood sprang out safe and sound. 477 This motif is found in countless myths all over the world, and is the motif of the Bible story of Jonah. The meaning im mediately lying behind it is astro-mythological: the sun is swal lowed by the sea monster and is born again in the morning. Of course, the whole of astro-mythology is at bottom nothing but psychology unconscious psychology projected into the heav ens; for myths never were and never are made consciously, they arise from man's unconscious. This is the reason for the some times miraculous similarity or identity of myth-forms among races that have been separated from each other in space ever since time began. It explains, for instance, the extraordinary distribution of the cross symbol, quite independently of Chris tianity, of which America offers specially remarkable examples. It is not possible to suppose that myths were created merely in order to explain meteorological or astronomical processes; they are, in the first instance, manifestations of unconscious im pulses, comparable to dreams. These impulses were actuated by the regressive libido in the unconscious. The material which comes to light is naturally infantile material fantasies con nected with the incest complex. Thus, in all these so-called solar myths, we can easily recognize infantile theories about procreation, birth, and incestuous relations. In the fairytale of Little Red Ridinghood it is the fantasy that the mother has to eat something which is like a child, and that the child is born by cutting open the mother's body. This fantasy is one of the commonest and can be found everywhere. 478 From these general psychological considerations we can con clude that the child, in this dream, was elaborating the problem 210 THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS of procreation and birth. As to the wolf, we must probably put him in the father's place, for the child unconsciously attributed to the father any act of violence towards the mother. This motif, too, is based on countless myths dealing with the violation of the mother. With regard to the mythological parallels, I would like to call your attention to the work of Boas,1 which includes a magnificent collection of American Indian sagas; then the book by Frobenius, Das Zeitalter des Sonnengottes; and finally the works of Abraham, Rank, Riklin, Jones, Freud, Maeder, Silberer, and Spielrein, 2 and my own investigations in Symbols of Transformation. 479 After these general reflections, which I give here for theo retical reasons but which naturally formed no part of the treat ment, we will go on to see what the child has to tell us about her dream. Needless to say, she was allowed to speak about her dream just as she liked, without being influenced in any way. She picked first on the bite in the leg, and explained that she had once been told by a woman who had had a baby that she could still show the place where the stork had bitten her. This expression is, in Switzerland, a variant of the widespread sym bolism of copulation and birth. Here we have a perfect paral lelism between our interpretation and the association process of the child. For the first association she produced, quite uninflu enced, goes back to the problem we conjectured above on theo retical grounds. I know that the innumerable cases published in the psychoanalytic literature, which were definitely not influ enced, have not been able to quash our critics' contention that we suggest our interpretations to the patients. This case, too, will convince no one who is determined to impute to us the crude mistakes of beginners or, what is worse, falsification. 480 After this first association the little patient was asked what the wolf made her think of. She answered, "I think of my father when he is angry." This, too, coincides absolutely with our theoretical considerations. It might be objected that these con siderations were made expressly for this purpose and therefore lack general validity. I think this objection vanishes of itself as soon as one has the requisite psychoanalytic and mythological i [The anthropologist Franz Boas (1858-1942); see especially his Indianische Sagen (1895). EDITORS.] 2 [See Bibliography.] FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS knowledge. The validity of a hypothesis can be seen only on the basis of the right knowledge, otherwise not at all. 4Sl The first association put the stork in the place of the wolf; the association to the wolf now brings us to the father. In the popular myth the stork stands for the father, for he brings the children. The apparent contradiction between the fairytale, where the wolf is the mother, and the dream, where the wolf is the father, is of no importance for the dream or the dreamer. We can therefore dispense with a detailed explanation. I have dealt with this problem of bisexual symbols in my book.3 As you know, in the legend of Romulus and Remus both animals, the bird Picus and the wolf, were raised to the rank of parents. 482 Her fear of the wolf in the dream is therefore her fear of the father. The dreamer explained that she was afraid of her father because he was very strict with her. He had also told her that we have bad dreams only when we have done something wrong. She then asked her father, "But what does Mama do wrong? She always has bad dreams/' 483 Once her father slapped her because she was sucking her finger. She kept on doing this despite his prohibition. Was this, perhaps, the wrong she had done? Hardly, because sucking the finger was simply a rather anachronistic infantile habit, of little real interest at her age, and serving more to irritate her father so that he would punish her by slapping. In this way she re lieved her conscience of an unconfessed and much more serious "sin": it came out that she had induced a number of girls of her own age to perform mutual masturbation. 484 It was because of these sexual interests that she was afraid of her father. But we must not forget that she had the wolf dream in her fifth year. At that time these sexual acts had not been committed. Hence we must regard the affair with the other girls at most as a reason for her present fear of her father, but that does not explain her earlier fear. Nevertheless, we may ex pect that it was something similar, some unconscious sexual wish in keeping with the psychology of the forbidden act just mentioned. The character and moral evaluation of this act are naturally far more unconscious to a child than to an adult. In order to understand what could have made an impression on 3 [Cf. Symbols of Transformation, particularly par. 547.] 212 THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS the child so early, we have to ask what happened in her fifth year. That was the year in which her younger brother was born. So even then she was afraid of her father. The associations al ready discussed show us the unmistakable connection between her sexual interests and her fear. 485 The problem of sex, which nature connects with positive feelings of pleasure, appears in the wolf dream in the form of fear, apparently on account of the bad father, who stands for moral education. The dream was therefore the first impressive manifestation of the sexual problem, obviously stimulated by the recent birth of a younger brother, when as we know all these questions become aired. But because the sexual problem was con nected at all points with the history of certain pleasurable phys ical sensations which education devalues as "bad habits," it could apparently manifest itself only in the guise of moral guilt and fear. 486 This explanation, plausible though it is, seems to me super ficial and inadequate. We then attribute the whole difficulty to moral education, on the unproven assumption that education can cause a neurosis. This is to disregard the fact that even peo ple with no trace of moral education become neurotic and suffer from morbid fears. Furthermore, moral law is not just an evil that has to be resisted, but a necessity born from the innermost needs of man. Moral law is nothing other than an outward manifestation of man's innate urge to dominate and control himself. This impulse to domestication and civilization is lost in the dim, unfathomable depths of man's evolutionary history and can never be conceived as the consequence of laws imposed from without. Man himself, obeying his instincts, created his laws. We shall never understand the reasons for the fear and suppression of the sexual problem in a child if we take into ac count only the moral influences of education. The real reasons lie much deeper, in human nature itself, perhaps in that tragic conflict between nature and culture, or between individual consciousness and collective feeling. 487 Naturally, it would have been pointless to give the child a notion of the higher philosophical aspects of the problem; it would certainly have had not the slightest effect. It was sufficient to remove the idea that she was doing something wrong in being interested in the procreation of life. So it was made clear to her 213 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS how much pleasure and curiosity she was bringing to bear on the problem of generation, and how her groundless fear was only pleasure turned into its opposite. The affair of her mas turbation met with tolerant understanding, and the discussion was limited to drawing the child's attention to the aimlessness of her action. At the same time, it was explained to her that her sexual actions were mainly an outlet for her curiosity, which she might satisfy in a better way. Her great fear of her father ex pressed an equally great expectation, which because of the birth of her little brother was closely connected with the problem of generation. These explanations justified the child in her curi osity. With that, a large part of the moral conflict was removed. FOURTH INTERVIEW 488 The little girl was now much nicer and much more confid ing. Her former constrained and unnatural manner had quite disappeared. She brought a dream which she dreamt after the last interview. It ran: "I am as tall as a church-spire and can see into every house. At my feet are very small children, as small as flowers are. A policeman comes. I say to him, 'If you dare to make any remark, I shall take your sword and cut off your head: " 489 In the analysis of the dream she made the following remark: "I would like to be taller than my father, because then he would have to obey me." She at once associated the policeman with her father, who was a military man and had, of course, a sword. The dream clearly fulfils her wish. As a church-spire, she is much bigger than her father, and if he dares to make a remark he will be decapitated. The dream also fulfils the natural wish of the child to be "big," i.e., grown-up, and to have children playing at her feet. In this dream she got over her fear of her father, and from this we may expect a significant increase in her personal freedom and feeling of security. 49 On the theoretical side, we may regard this dream as a clear example of the compensatory significance and teleological func tion of dreams. Such a dream must leave the dreamer with a heightened sense of the value of her own personality, and this is of great importance for her personal well-being. It does not 214 THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS matter that the symbolism was not clear to the consciousness of the child, for the emotional effect of symbols does not depend on conscious understanding. It is more a matter of intuitive knowledge, the source from which all religious symbols derive their efficacy. Here no conscious understanding is needed; they influence the psyche of the believer through intuition. FIFTH AND SIXTH INTERVIEWS 491 The child related the following dream which she had dreamt in the meantime: "I was standing with my whole family on the roof. The windows of the houses on the other side of the valley shone like fire. The rising sun was reflected in them. Suddenly I saw that the house at the corner of our street was really on fire. The fire came nearer and nearer and took hold of our house. I ran into the street, and my mother threw all sorts of things after me. I held out my apron, and among other things she threw me a doll. I saw that the stones of our house were burning, but the wood remained untouched/' 492 The analysis of this dream presented peculiar difficulties and had to be extended over two sittings. It would lead me too far to describe the whole of the material this dream brought forth; I shall have to limit myself to what is most essential. The salient associations began with the peculiar image of the stones of the house burning but not the wood. It is sometimes worth while, especially with longer dreams, to take the most striking images and analyse them first. This is not the general rule but it may be excused here by the practical need for abbreviation. 493 "It is queer, like in a fairytale/' said the little patient about this image. She was shown, with the help of examples, that fairy tales always have a meaning. "But not all fairytales," she objected. "For instance, the tale of Sleeping Beauty. What could that mean?" It was explained to her that Sleeping Beauty had to wait for a hundred years in an enchanted sleep until she could be set free. Only the hero whose love overcame all diffi culties and who boldly broke through the thorny hedge could rescue her. Thus one often has to wait for a long time before one obtains one's heart's desire. 494 This explanation was suited to the child's understanding, 215 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS and on the other hand was perfectly in accord with the history of this fairytale motif. The tale of Sleeping Beauty has obvious connections with an ancient spring and fertility myth, and at the same time contains a problem which has a remarkably close affinity with the psychological situation of a rather precocious little girl of eleven. It belongs to a whole cycle of legends in which a virgin, guarded by a dragon, is rescued by a hero. With out wishing to embark on an interpretation of this myth, I would like to emphasize its astronomical or meteorological com ponents, clearly brought out in the Edda. The earth, in the form of a maiden, is held prisoner by the winter, and is covered with ice and snow. The young spring sun, the fiery hero, melts her out of her frosty prison, where she had long awaited her deliverer. 495 The association given by the little girl was chosen by her simply as an example of a fairytale without a meaning, and not as a direct association to the dream-image of the burning house. About this she only made the remark, "It is queer, like in a fairytale/ 1 by which she meant impossible; for to say that stones burn is something completely impossible, nonsensical, and like a fairytale. The explanation she was given showed her that "impossible" and "like a fairytale" are only partly identical, since fairytales do have a great deal of meaning. Although this particular fairytale, from the casual way it was mentioned, seems to have nothing to do with the dream, it deserves special atten tion because it appeared, as though by chance, while the dream was being analysed. The unconscious came out with just this example, and this cannot be mere chance but is somehow char acteristic of the situation at that moment. In analysing dreams we have to look out for these seeming accidents, for in psychol ogy there are no blind accidents, much as we are inclined to assume that these things are pure chance. You can hear this objection as often as you like from our critics, but for a really scientific mind there are only causal relationships and no acci dents. From the fact that the little girl chose Sleeping Beauty as an example we must conclude that there was some fundamental reason for this in the psychology of the child. This reason was the comparison or partial identification of herself with Sleeping Beauty; in other words, in the psyche of the child there was a complex which found expression in the Sleeping Beauty motif. 216 THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS The explanation given to the child took account of this infer ence. 496 Nevertheless, she was not quite satisfied, and still doubted that fairytales have a meaning. As a further example of an in comprehensible fairytale she cited Snow White, who lay en closed in a glass coffin, in the sleep of death. It is not difficult to see that Snow White belongs to the same cycle of myths as Sleeping Beauty. It contains even clearer indications of the myth of the seasons. The myth material chosen by the child points to an intuitive comparison with the earth, held fast by the win ter's cold, awaiting the liberating sun of spring. 497 This second example confirms the first one and the explana tion we have given. It would be difficult to maintain that the second example, accentuating as it does the meaning of the first, was suggested by the explanation. The fact that the little girl gave Snow White as another example of a meaningless fairytale proves that she did not realize the identity of Snow White and Sleeping Beauty. We may therefore conjecture that Snow White arose from the same unconscious source as Sleeping Beauty, namely, from a complex concerned with the expectation of com ing events. These events may be compared exactly with the deliverance of the earth from the prison of winter and its fer tilization by the rays of the spring sun. As you know, from ancient times the fertilizing spring sun was associated with the symbol of the bull, the animal embodying the mightiest procreative power. Although we cannot yet see the connection be tween these insights and the dream, we will hold fast to what we have gained and proceed with our analysis. 498 The next dream-image shows the little girl catching the doll in her apron. Her first association tells us that her attitude and the whole situation in the dream reminded her of a picture she knew, showing a stork flying over a village} with little girls stand ing in the street holding out their aprons and shouting to the stork to bring them a baby. She added that she herself had long wanted a baby brother or sister. This material, given spontane ously, is clearly related to the myth-motifs already discussed. It is evident that the dream was in fact concerned with the same problem of the awakening reproductive instinct. Of course, nothing of these connections was mentioned to the child. 499 Then, abruptly, after a pause, came the next association: 217 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS "Once, when I was five years old, I lay down in the street and a bicycle passed over my stomach." This highly improbable story proved to be, as might be expected, a fantasy, which had be come a paramnesia. Nothing of the kind had ever happened, but on the other hand we learn that at school the little girls used to lie crosswise over each other's bodies and trample with their legs. 500 Anyone who has read the analyses of children published by Freud and myself 4 will recognize in this childish game the same basic motif of trampling, which we considered must have a sex ual undercurrent. This view, demonstrated by our earlier work, was borne out by the next association of our little patient: "I would much rather have a real baby than a doll." 5i All this highly remarkable material brought out by the stork fantasy suggests the typical beginnings of an infantile sexual theory, and at the same time shows us the point round which the little girl's fantasies were revolving. 52 It may be of interest to know that the motif of treading or trampling can be found in mythology. I have documented this in my book on libido. 5 The use of these infantile fantasies in the dream, the paramnesia about the bicyclist, and the tense expectation expressed in the Sleeping Beauty motif all show that the child's inner interest was dwelling on certain problems that had to be solved. Probably the fact that her libido was at tracted by the problem of generation was the reason why her interest flagged at school, so that she fell behind in her work. How very much this problem fascinates girls of twelve and thir teen I was able to show in a special case, published in "A Con tribution to the Psychology of Rumour." 6 It is the cause of all that smutty talk among children, and of mutual attempts at enlightenment which naturally turn out to be very nasty and often ruin the child's imagination for good. Even the most care ful protection cannot prevent them from one day discovering the great secret, and then probably in the dirtiest way. It would be far better for children to learn the facts of life cleanly and in good time, so that they would not need to be enlightened in ugly ways by their playmates. 4 [Cf. "Psychic Conflicts in a Child/' pars, tfft.] 5 [Sy?nbols of Transformation, pars. 370, 480.] 6 [Cf. supra, pars, THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS 53 These and other indications showed that the moment had come for a certain amount of sexual enlightenment. The little girl listened attentively to the talk that followed, and then asked very seriously: "So then I really can't have a child?" This ques tion led to an explanation about sexual maturity. SEVENTH INTERVIEW 54 The little girl began by remarking that she perfectly under stood why it was not yet possible for her to have a child; she had therefore renounced all idea of it. But this time she did not make a good impression. It turned out that she had lied to her teacher. She had been late to school, and told the teacher that she had had to go somewhere with her father and had therefore arrived late. In reality, she had been too lazy to get up in time. She told a lie because she was afraid of losing the teacher's favour by confessing the truth. This sudden moral defeat re quires an explanation. According to the principles of psycho analysis, a sudden and striking weakness can only come about when the analysand does not draw from the analysis the con clusions that are necessary at the moment, but still keeps the door open to other possibilities. This means, in our case, that though the analysis had apparently brought the libido to the surface, so that an improvement of personality could occur, for some reason or other the adaptation was not made, and the li bido slipped back along its old regressive path. EIGHTH INTERVIEW 55 The eighth interview proved that this was indeed the case. Our patient had withheld an important piece of evidence in regard to her ideas of sex, and one which contradicted the ana lyst's explanation of sexual maturity. She had not mentioned a rumour current in the school that a girl of eleven had got a baby from a boy of the same age. This rumour was proved to be groundless; it was a fantasy, fulfilling the secret wishes of girls of this age. Rumours often start in this way, as I have tried to show in my paper on the psychology of rumour. They air the 219 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS unconscious fantasies, and in this function they correspond to dreams and myths. This rumour kept another way open: she need not wait, she could have a child already at eleven. The contradiction between the accepted rumour and the analyst's explanation created resistances against the latter, as a result of which it was immediately devalued. All the other information and instruction fell to the ground at the same time, giving rise to momentary doubt and uncertainty. The libido then took to its former path and became regressive. This moment was the moment of the relapse. NINTH INTERVIEW 506 This interview contributed some important details to the history of her sexual problem. First came a significant dream fragment: "I was with other children in a clearing in a wood, surrounded by beautiful fir-trees. It began to rain, there was thunder and lightning, and it grew dark. Then I suddenly saw a stork in the air/' 57 Before we start analysing this dream, I must mention its parallels with certain mythological ideas. To anyone familiar with the works of Adalbert Kuhn and Steinthal, to which Abra ham 7 has recently drawn attention, the curious combination of thunderstorm and stork is not at all surprising. Since ancient times the thunderstorm has had the meaning of an earth-fecun dating act, it is the cohabitation of Father Heaven and Mother Earth, where the lightning takes over the role of the winged phallus. The stork in flight is just the same thing, a winged phallus, and its psychosexual meaning is known to every child. But the psychosexual meaning of the thunderstorm is not known to everyone, and certainly not to our little patient. In view of the whole psychological constellation previously described, the stork must unquestionably be given a psychosexual interpreta tion. The fact that the thunderstorm is connected with the stork and, like it, has a psychosexual meaning seems difficult to ac cept at first. But when we remember that psychoanalytic re search has already discovered a vast number of purely mytholog- 7 [See Symbols of Transformation^ index, s.w. EDITORS.] 220 THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS ical connections in the unconscious psychic products, we may conclude that the psychosexual link between the two images is present also in this case. We know from other experiences that those unconscious strata which once produced mythological formations are still active in modern individuals and are un ceasingly productive. Only, the production is limited to dreams and to the symptomatology of the neuroses and psychoses, as the correction by reality is so strong in the modern mind that it prevents them from being projected upon the real world. 508 To return to the analysis of the dream: the associations that led to the heart of this image began with the idea of rain during a thunderstorm. Her actual words were: "I think of water my uncle was drowned in the water it must be awful to be stuck in the water like that, in the dark but wouldn't the baby drown in the water, too? Does it drink the water that is in the stomach? Queer, when I was ill Mama sent my water to the doctor. I thought he was going to mix something with it like syrup, which babies grow from, and Mama would have to drink it." 59 We see with unquestionable clearness from this string of as sociations that the child connected psychosexual ideas specifi cally relating to fertilization with the rain during the thunder storm. 5 10 Here again we see that remarkable parallelism between my thology and the individual fantasies of our own day. This series of associations is so rich in symbolical connections that a whole dissertation could be written about them. The symbolism of drowning was brilliantly interpreted by the child herself as a pregnancy fantasy, an explanation given in the psychoanalytic literature long ago. TENTH INTERVIEW 5 11 The tenth interview was taken up with the child's spon taneous description of infantile theories about fertilization and birth, which could now be dismissed as settled. The child had always thought that the urine of the man went into the body of the woman, and that from this the embryo would grow. Hence the child was in the water, i.e., urine, from the begin ning. Another version was that the urine was drunk with the 221 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS doctor's syrup, the child grew in the head, the head was then split open to help the child grow, and one wore hats to cover this up. She illustrated this by a little drawing, showing a child birth through the head. This idea is archaic and highly myth ological. I need only remind you of the birth of Pallas Athene, who came out of her father's head. The fertilizing significance of urine is also mythological; we find excellent proofs of this in the Rudra songs of the Rig-veda. 8 I should also mention some thing which the mother corroborated, that once the little girl, long before the analysis, declared that she saw a jack-in-a-box dancing on her younger brother's head a fantasy which may well be the origin of this birth-theory. 512 The drawing had a remarkable affinity with certain artefacts found among the Bataks of Sumatra. They are called magic wands or ancestor-columns, and consist of a number of figures standing one on top of another. The explanation given by the Bataks themselves of these columns, and generally regarded as nonsense, is in remarkable agreement with the mentality of a child, still caught in the infantile bonds. They assert that these superimposed figures are members of a family who, because they committed incest, were entwined by a snake while being bitten to death by another snake. This explanation runs parallel with the assumptions of our little patient, for her sexual fantasies, too, as we saw from the first dream, revolved round her father. Here, as with the Bataks, the primary condition is the incest relationship. 5*3 A third version was the theory that the child grew in the intestinal canal. This version had its own symptomatic phe nomenology thoroughly in accord with Freudian theory. The girl, acting on her fantasy that children were "sicked up/' fre quently tried to induce nausea and vomiting. She also per formed regular pushing-exercises in the water-closet, in order to push the child out. In this situation it was not surprising that the first and most important symptoms in the manifest neurosis were those of nausea. 5*4 We have now got so far with our analysis that we can cast a glance back at the case as a whole. We found, behind the neu rotic symptoms, complicated emotional processes that were un- 8 [Cf. Symbols of Transformation, par. 322 .] 222 THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS doubtedly connected with these symptoms. If we may venture to draw general conclusions from such limited material, we can reconstruct the course of the neurosis somewhat as follows. $15 At the gradual approach of puberty, the libido of the child produced in her an emotional rather than an objective attitude to reality. She developed a crush on her teacher, and this senti mental indulgence in starry-eyed fantasies obviously played a greater role than the thought of the increased efforts which such a love really demanded. Consequently, her attention fell off, and her work suffered. This upset her former good relationship with the teacher. He became impatient, and the girl, who had been made over-demanding by conditions at home, grew resent ful instead of trying to improve her work. As a result, her libido turned away from the teacher as well as from her work and fell into that characteristically compulsive dependence on the poor young boy, who exploited the situation as much as he could. For when an individual consciously or unconsciously lets his libido draw back from a necessary task, the unutilized (so-called "repressed") libido provokes all sorts of accidents, within and without symptoms of every description which force themselves on him in a disagreeable way. Under these conditions the girl's resistance to going to school seized on the first available oppor tunity, which soon presented itself in the form of the other girl who was sent home because she felt sick. Our patient duly copied this. 5 l6 Once out of school, the way was open to her fantasies. Owing to the libido regression, the symptom-creating fantasies were aroused in real earnest and acquired an influence which they never had before, for previously they had never played such an important role. But now they took on a highly significant con tent and seemed themselves to be the real reason why the libido regressed to them. It might be said that the child, with her fantasy-spinning nature, saw her father too much in the teacher, and consequently developed incestuous resistances against him. As I explained earlier, I think it is simpler and more probable to assume that it was temporarily convenient for her to see her teacher as the father. Since she preferred to follow the secret promptings of puberty rather than her obligations to the school and her teacher, she allowed her libido to pick on the little boy, from whom, as we saw in the analysis, she promised herself 223 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS certain secret advantages. Even if the analysis had proved she really did have incestuous resistances against her teacher owing to the transference of the father-imago, these resistances would only have been secondarily blown-up fantasies. The prime mover would in any case be laziness or convenience, or, to put it in more scientific language, the principle of least resistance. 5*7 (I think there are cogent reasons for assuming I mention this only in passing that it is not always a perfectly legitimate interest in sexual processes and their unknown nature that ac counts for the regression to infantile fantasies. For we find the same regressive fantasies even in adults who have long known all about sex, and here there is no legitimate reason. It is also my impression that young people in analysis often try to keep up their alleged ignorance, despite enlightenment, in order to direct attention there rather than to the task of adaptation. Al though there is no doubt in my mind that children do exploit their real or pretended ignorance, it must on the other hand be stressed that young people have a right to be sexually en lightened. As I said before, for many children it would be a distinct advantage if this were decently done at home. 518 Through the analysis it became clear that independently of the progressive development of the child's life a regressive move ment had set in, which caused the neurosis, the disunion with herself.) By following this regressive tendency, the analysis dis covered a keen sexual curiosity, circling round quite certain definite problems. The libido, caught in this labyrinth of fan tasies, was made serviceable again as soon as the child was freed from the burden of mistaken infantile fantasies by being en lightened. This also opened her eyes to her own attitude to reality and gave her an insight into her true potentialities. The result was that she was able to look at her immature, adolescent fantasies in an objective and critical way, and to give up these and all other impossible desires, using her libido instead for a positive purpose, in her work and in obtaining the goodwill of her teacher. The analysis brought her great peace of mind, as well as marked intellectual improvement in school; for the teacher himself confirmed that the little girl soon became the best pupil in his class. 5*9 (In principle, this analysis is no different from that of an adult. Only the sexual enlightenment would be dropped, but its 224 THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS place would be taken by something very similar, namely, en lightenment concerning the infantilism of his previous attitude to reality and how to acquire a more reasonable one. Analysis is a refined technique of Socratic maieutics, and it is not afraid to tread the darkest paths of neurotic fantasy.) 520 I hope that with the help of this very condensed example I may have succeeded in giving you some insight not only into the actual course of treatment, and into the difficulties of tech nique, but no less into the beauty of the human psyche and its endless problems. I have deliberately stressed certain parallels with mythology in order to indicate some of the uses to which psychoanalytic insights may be put. At the same time, I would like to point out the implications of this discovery. The marked predominance of mythological elements in the psyche of the child gives us a clear hint of the way the individual mind gradually develops out of the "collective mind" of early child hood, thus giving rise to the old theory of a state of perfect knowledge before and after individual existence. 5* 1 (These mythological references which we find in children are also met with in dementia praecox and in dreams. They offer a broad and fertile field of work for comparative psycho logical research. The distant goal to which these investigations lead is a phylogeny of the mind, which, like the body, has at tained its present form through endless transformations. The rudimentary organs, as it were, which the mind still possesses can be found in full activity in other mental variants and in certain pathological conditions.) 522 With these hints I have now reached the present position of our research, and have sketched out at least those insights and working hypotheses which define the nature of my present and future work. (I have endeavoured to propound certain views, which deviate from the hypotheses of Freud, not as contrary assertions but as illustrations of the organic development of the basic ideas Freud has introduced into science. It would not be fitting to disturb the progress of science by adopting the most contradictory standpoint possible and by making use of an en tirely different nomenclature that is the privilege of the very few; but even they find themselves obliged to descend from their lonely eminence after a time and once more take part in the slow progress of average experience by which ideas are 225 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS evaluated. I hope, also, that my critics will not again accuse me of having contrived my hypotheses out of thin air. I would never have ventured to override the existing ones had not hundreds of experiences shown me that my views fully stand the test in practice. No great hopes should be set on the results of any scien tific work; yet if it should find a circle of readers, I hope it will serve to clear up various misunderstandings and remove a num ber of obstacles which bar the way to a better comprehension of psychoanalysis. Naturally my work is no substitute for lack of psychoanalytic experience. Anyone who wishes to have his say in these matters will have, now as then, to investigate his cases as thoroughly as was done by the psychoanalytic school.) 226 Ill GENERAL ASPECTS OF PSYCHOANALYSIS PSYCHOANALYSIS AND NEUROSIS SOME CRUCIAL POINTS IN PSYCHOANALYSIS PREFACES TO "COLLECTED PAPERS ON ANALYTICAL PSYCHOLOGY" GENERAL ASPECTS OF PSYCHOANALYSIS 1 52 3 Psychoanalysis today is as much a science as a technique. From the results of the technique there has grown up, in the course of the years, a new psychological science which could be called "analytical psychology/' I would willingly use Bleuler's expression "depth psychology" instead, if this kind of psychol ogy were concerned only with the unconscious. 524 Psychologists and doctors in general are by no means con versant with this particular branch of psychology, owing to the fact that its technical foundations are as yet comparatively un known to them. The main reason for this is that the new method is of an essentially psychological nature, and therefore belongs neither to the realm of medicine nor to that of philosophy. The medical man has, as a rule, but little knowledge of psychology, and the philosopher has no medical knowledge. Consequently, there is a lack of suitable soil in which to plant the spirit of this new method. Furthermore, the method itself appears to many persons so arbitrary that they cannot reconcile its use with their scientific conscience. The formulations of Freud, the founder of the method, laid great stress on the sexual factors; this aroused strong prejudice and repelled many scientific men. I need hardly remark that such an antipathy is not a logical reason for reject ing a new method. In psychoanalysis, moreover, there is much discussion of case-histories, but little discussion of principle. This, too, has naturally led to the method being little under stood and therefore to its being regarded as unscientific. For if we do not acknowledge the scientific character of the method, we cannot acknowledge the scientific character of its results. i [Originally written in German with the title "AUgemeine Aspekte der Psycho analyse," translated (anonymously) into English, and read before the Psycho- Medical Society, London, Aug. 5, 1913. With the title "Psycho-Analysis/' the translation was published in the Transactions of the Psycho-Medical Society (Cockermouth), 1913, and reprinted in Collected Papers on Analytical Psychology (London, 1916; 2nd edn., London, 1917, New York, 1920). The present translation is made hi consultation with the original German manuscript. EDITORS.] 229 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS 525 Before discussing the principles of the psychoanalytic method, I must mention two common prejudices against it. The first is that psychoanalysis is nothing but a rather deep and complicated form of anamnesis. Now it is well known that an anamnesis is based on the statements made by the patient's fam ily, and on his own conscious self-knowledge in reply to direct questions. The psychoanalyst naturally makes his anamnesis as carefully as any other specialist. But this is merely the patient's history and must not be confused with analysis. Analysis is the reduction of actual contents of consciousness, ostensibly of a fortuitous nature, to their psychological determinants. This process has nothing to do with the anamnestic reconstruction of the history of the illness. 526 The second prejudice, which is based, as a rule, on a super ficial knowledge of psychoanalytic literature, is that psycho analysis is a method of suggestion, by which some kind of sys tematic teaching is instilled into the patient, thereby effecting a cure in the manner of mental healing or Christian Science. Many analysts, especially those who have practised psychoanal ysis for a long time, previously used suggestion therapy, and therefore know very well what suggestion is and what it is not. They know that the psychoanalyst's method of working is dia metrically opposed to that of the hypnotist. In direct contrast with suggestion therapy, the psychoanalyst does not attempt to force anything on his patient which the latter does not see for himself and find plausible with his own understanding. Faced with the constant demand of the neurotic for suggestions and advice, the analyst just as constantly endeavours to get him out of this passive attitude and make him use his common sense and powers of criticism in order to equip him for an inde pendent life. We have often been accused of forcing interpre tations upon patients, interpretations that are often quite arbi trary. I wish one of these critics would try forcing arbitrary interpretations on my patients, who are very often persons of great intelligence and highly cultured indeed, not infrequently my own colleagues. The impossibility of such an undertaking would quickly be demonstrated. In psychoanalysis we are en tirely dependent on the patient and on his powers of judgment, for the reason that the very nature of analysis consists in lead ing him to a knowledge of himself. The principles of psycho- 230 GENERAL ASPECTS OF PSYCHOANALYSIS analysis are so utterly different from those of suggestion therapy that on this point the two methods cannot be compared. 527 An attempt has also been made to compare psychoanalysis with the ratiocinative method of Dubois,2 which is an essentially rational procedure. But this comparison does not hold good, for the psychoanalyst strictly avoids reasoning and arguing with his patients. Naturally he has to listen to their conscious problems and conflicts and take note of them, but not for the purpose of fulfilling their desire to obtain advice or instruction with regard to the conduct of their lives. The problems of a neurotic cannot be solved by advice and conscious reasoning. I do not doubt that good advice at the right time can produce good results, but 1 do not know how anyone can believe that the psychoanalyst can always give the right advice at the right moment. The neu rotic conflict is frequently, indeed usually, of such a nature that advice cannot possibly be given. Furthermore, it is well known that the patient only wants authoritative advice in order to shuffle off the burden of responsibility, referring himself and others to the opinion of a higher authority. So far as reasoning and persuasion are concerned, their effect as a method of therapy is as little to be doubted as that of hypnosis. What I would like to stress here is simply its difference in principle from psycho analysis. 5 28 In contradistinction to all previous methods, psychoanalysis endeavours to overcome the disorders of the neurotic psyche through the unconscious, and not from the conscious side. In this work we naturally have need of the patient's conscious con tents, for only in this way can we reach the unconscious. The conscious content from which our work starts is the material supplied by the anamnesis. In many cases the anamnesis pro vides useful clues which make the psychic origin of his symp toms clear to the patient. This, of course, is necessary only when he is convinced that his neurosis is organic in origin. But even in those cases where the patient is convinced from the start of the psychic nature of his illness, a critical survey of the anam nesis can be of advantage, for it discloses a psychological context of which he was unaware before. In this way problems that need special discussion are frequently brought to the surface. This work may occupy many sittings. Finally, the elucidation of the 2 [See par. 41, n. 6, above. EDITORS.] 231 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS conscious material comes to an end when neither the analyst nor the patient can contribute anything further of decisive im portance. In the most favourable cases the end comes with the formulation of the problem which, very often, proves insoluble. 529 Let us take the case of a man who was once healthy but de veloped a neurosis between the ages of thirty-five and forty. His position in life was secure, and he had a wife and children. Parallel with his neurosis he developed an intense resistance to his professional work. He observed that the first symptoms of neurosis became noticeable when he had to overcome a particu lar difficulty in his career. Later they got worse with each suc cessive difficulty that arose. Passing ameliorations occurred whenever fortune favoured him in his work. The problem that presented itself after a critical discussion of the anamnesis was as follows: the patient knew that he could improve his work and that the satisfaction resulting from this would bring about the much-desired improvement in his neurotic condition. But he was unable to do his work more efficiently because of his great resistance to it. This problem is rationally insoluble. Psycho analytic treatment must therefore start at the critical point, his resistance to his work. 53 Let us take another case. A woman of forty, mother of four children, became neurotic four years ago after the death of one of them. A new pregnancy, followed by the birth of another child, brought a great improvement in her condition. She now thought that if she could have yet another child she would be helped still further. She knew, however, that she could not have any more children, so she tried to devote her energies to philan thropic interests. But she failed to obtain the least satisfaction from this work. She noticed a distinct alleviation whenever she succeeded in giving real interest to something, however fleetingly, but she felt quite incapable of discovering anything that would bring her lasting interest and satisfaction. The rational insolubility of the problem is clear. Psychoanalytic work must begin with the question of what prevented the patient from de veloping any interest beyond her longing for a child. 531 Since we cannot pretend that we know from the outset what the solution of such problems is, we have to rely on the clues furnished by the individuality of the patient. Neither conscious questioning nor rational advice can aid us in the discovery of 232 GENERAL ASPECTS OF PSYCHOANALYSIS these clues, for the obstacles which prevent us from finding them are hidden from the patient's consciousness. There is, therefore, no clearly prescribed way of getting at the unconscious obstacles. The only rule that psychoanalysis lays down in this respect is: let the patient talk about anything that comes into his head. The analyst must observe carefully what the patient says and, to begin with, simply take note of it without attempt ing to force his own opinions upon him. We notice, for instance, that the first-named patient began by talking about his mar riage, which we had been told was normal. We now learn that he has difficulties with his wife and does not understand her in the least. This prompts the analyst to remark that evidently the patient's professional work is not his only problem, and that his relation to his wife also needs reviewing. This starts a train of associations all relating to the marriage. Then follow associa tions about the love-affairs he had before he was married. These experiences, recounted in detail, show that the patient was al ways rather peculiar in his more intimate relations with women, and that his peculiarity took the form of a childish egoism. This is a new and surprising point of view for him, and explains to him many of his misfortunes with women. 552 We cannot in every case get as far as this on the principle of simply letting the patient talk; few patients have their psychic material so much on the surface. Furthermore, many patients have a real resistance against speaking freely about what occurs to them on the spur of the moment, some because it is too pain ful for them to tell it to an analyst whom they may not entirely trust, others because apparently nothing occurs to them and they force themselves to talk of things about which they are more or less indifferent. This trick of not talking to the point does not prove that the patient is consciously concealing certain painful contents; it can also occur quite unconsciously. In such cases it sometimes helps the patient to tell him that he need not force himself, but need only seize on the very first thoughts that come to him, no matter how unimportant or ridiculous they may seem. In certain cases even these instructions are of no use, and then the analyst has to resort to other measures. One of these is the association experiment, which usually gives apt in formation concerning the main tendencies of the patient at that moment. 233 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS 533 A second expedient is the analysis of dreams; this is the real instrument of psychoanalysis. We have already experienced so much opposition to dream analysis that a brief exposition of its principles may not be out of place. The interpretation of dreams, as well as the meaning given to them, is, as we know, in bad odour. It is not long since oneiromancy was practised and believed in; nor is the time long past when even the most enlightened persons were still under the spell of superstition. It is therefore comprehensible that our age should still entertain a lively fear of superstitions that have been only partially over come. This nervousness in regard to superstition is largely re sponsible for the opposition to dream-interpretation, but psy choanalysis is in no way to blame for this. We select the dream as an object not because we pay it the homage of supersti tious admiration, but because it is a psychic product that is independent of consciousness. We ask for the patient's free associations, but he gives us little or nothing, or else something forced or irrelevant. A dream is a free association, a free fantasy, it is not forced, and is just as much a psychic phenomenon as an association.3 534 I cannot disguise the fact that in practice, especially at the beginning of an analysis, we do not under all circumstances make complete and ideal analyses of the dreams. Usually we gather the dream-associations together until the problem which the patient is hiding from us becomes so clear that he can recog nize it himself. This problem is then worked through con sciously until it is cleared up as far as possible and we are once again confronted with an unanswerable question. 535 You will now ask what is to be done when the patient does not dream at all. I can assure you that hitherto all patients, even those who claimed never to have dreamed before, began to dream when they went through analysis. On the other hand it frequently happens that patients who began by dreaming viv idly are suddenly no longer able to remember their dreams. The empirical and practical rule which I have adopted is that the patient, if he does not dream, still has sufficient conscious material which he is keeping back for certain reasons. A com mon reason is: "I am in the analyst's hands and am quite willing 3 [The passage which here follows in the original is identical with "The Theory of Psychoanalysis," supra, pars. 324-31. EDITORS.] 834 GENERAL ASPECTS OF PSYCHOANALYSIS to be treated by him. But the analyst must do the work, I shall remain passive in the matter." Sometimes there are resistances of a more serious nature. For instance, patients who cannot ad mit certain moral defects in themselves project them upon the analyst, calmly assuming that since he is more or less deficient morally they cannot communicate certain unpleasant things to him. 536 If, then, a patient does not dream from the beginning or ceases to dream, he is keeping back material which would be capable of conscious elaboration. Here the relationship between analyst and patient may be considered one of the chief obstacles. It can prevent them both, the analyst as well as the patient, from seeing the situation clearly. We must not forget that as the analyst shows, and must show, a searching interest in the psychology of his patient, so the patient, if he has an active mind, feels his way into the psychology of the analyst and adopts a corresponding attitude towards him. The analyst is blind to the attitude of his patient to the exact extent that he does not see himself and his own unconscious problems. For this reason I maintain that a doctor must himself be analysed before he prac tises analysis. Otherwise analysis may easily be a great disap pointment to him, because he can, under certain circumstances, get absolutely stuck and then lose his head. He is then readily inclined to assume that psychoanalysis is nonsense, so as to avoid having to admit that he has run his vessel aground. If you are sure of your own psychology you can confidently tell your pa tient that he does not dream because there is conscious material still to be dealt with. I say you must be sure of yourself at such moments, for the criticisms and unsparing judgments to which you sometimes have to submit can be excessively disturbing to one who is unprepared to meet them. The immediate conse quence of the analyst's losing his balance is that he begins to argue with his patient in order to maintain his influence over him. This, of course, renders all further analysis impossible. 537 I have told you that, in the first instance, dreams need be used only as a source of material for analysis. At the beginning of an analysis it is not only unnecessary, but at times unwise, to give a so-called complete interpretation of a dream. A complete and really exhaustive interpretation is very difficult indeed. The interpretations you sometimes come across in the psychoanalytic FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS literature are very often one-sided and, not infrequently, contestable formulations. I include among these the one-sided sexual reductions of the Viennese school. In view of the myriadsidedness of the dream-material one must beware of all one-sided formulations. The many-sided meaning of a dream, rather than its singleness of meaning, is of the utmost value especially at the beginning of the treatment. Thus, a patient had the following dream not long after her treatment had begun. She was in a hotel in a strange city. Suddenly a fire broke out. Her husband and her father, who were with her, helped her in the rescue work. 538 The patient was intelligent, extraordinarily sceptical, and absolutely convinced that dream-analysis was nonsense. I had the greatest difficulty in inducing her to give it even one trial. I selected the fire, the most conspicuous event in the dream, as the starting-point for associations. The patient informed me that she had recently read in the newspapers that a certain hotel in Zurich had been burnt down; that she remembered the hotel because she had once stayed there. At the hotel she had made the acquaintance of a man, and from this a somewhat ques tionable love-affair developed. In connection with this story the fact came out that she had already had quite a number of similar adventures, all of them decidedly frivolous. This important bit of past history was brought out by the very first association. In her case it would have been pointless to make clear to her the very obvious meaning of the dream. With her frivolous atti tude, of which her scepticism was only a special instance, she would have coldly repelled such an attempt. But after the fri volity of her attitude had been recognized and demonstrated to her from the material she herself had furnished, it was possible to analyse the dreams which followed much more thoroughly. 539 It is, therefore, advisable in the beginning to use dreams for getting at the critical material through their associations. This is the best and most cautious procedure, especially for the be ginner in psychoanalysis. An arbitrary translation of the dreams is exceedingly inadvisable. That would be a superstitious prac tice based on the assumption that dreams have well-established symbolic meanings. But there are no fixed symbolic meanings. There are certain symbols that recur frequently, but we are not in a position to get beyond very general statements. For in- 236 GENERAL ASPECTS OF PSYCHOANALYSIS stance, it is quite incorrect to assume that a snake, when it ap pears in dreams, always has a merely phallic meaning; just as incorrect as it is to deny that it may have a phallic meaning in some cases. Every symbol has at least two meanings. The very frequent sexual meaning of dream-symbols is at most one of them. I cannot, therefore, accept the exclusively sexual inter pretations which appear in certain psychoanalytic publications, as little as I can accept the interpretation of dreams as wishfulfilments, for my experience has led me to regard these for mulations as one-sided and inadequate. As an example I will tell you a very simple dream of a young man, a patient of mine. It was as follows: I was going up a flight of stairs with my mother and sister. When we reached the top I was told that my sister was going to have a baby. 54 First I will show how, in accordance with the hitherto pre vailing point of view, this dream may be translated sexually. We know that incest fantasies play a prominent role in the life of a neurotic, hence the image "with my mother and sister" could be understood as a hint in this direction. "Stairs" are alleged to have a well-established sexual meaning: they represent the sex ual act because of the rhythmic climbing. The baby the sister is expecting is nothing but the logical consequence of these premises. Thus translated, the dream would be a clear fulfil ment of so-called infantile wishes, which, as you know, are an important part of Freud's dream-theory. 541 I have analysed this dream on the basis of the following rea soning. If I say that stairs are a symbol for the sexual act, by what right do I take the mother and sister and baby as real, that is, not symbolically? If, on the strength of the assertion that dream-images are symbolic, I assign a symbolic value to certain of these images, what right have I to exempt certain others? If I attach a symbolic value to the ascent of the stairs, I must also attach a symbolic value to the images called mother, sister, and baby. I therefore did not "translate" the dream but really ana lysed it. The result was surprising. I will give you the patient's associations to the individual dream-images word for word, so that you can form your own opinion of the material. I should say in advance that the young man had finished his studies at the university a few months previously, that he had found the choice of a profession too difficult to make, and that he there- 237 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS upon became neurotic. In consequence of this he gave up his work. His neurosis took, among other things, a manifestly homo sexual form. 542 His associations to mother were as follows: "I have not seen her for a long time, a very long time. I must really reproach myself for this, it is wrong of me to neglect her so." 543 Mother, then, stands for something that is neglected in an irresponsible manner. I asked the patient: "What is that?" and he replied, with considerable embarrassment: "My work." 544 Associations to sister: "It is years since I have seen her. I long to see her again. Whenever I think of her I always remem ber the moment I said good-bye. I kissed her with real affection, and at that moment I understood for the first time what love for a woman can mean." It was at once clear to the patient that "sister" stood for "love for a woman." 545 Associations to stairs: "Climbing upgetting to the top mak ing a careergrowing up, becoming great." 546 Associations to baby: "Newborn renewal rebirth becom ing a new man." 547 One has only to hear this material to understand at once that the dream represents not so much the fulfilment of infantile wishes as the fulfilment of biological duties which the patient has neglected because of his neurotic infantilism. Biological justice, which is inexorable, often compels us to make up in dreams for the duties we have neglected in real life. 548 This dream is a typical example of the prospective and fi nally-oriented function of dreams in general, especially stressed by my colleague Maeder. If we adhered to a one-sided sexual interpretation the real meaning of the dream would escape us. Sexuality in dreams is, in the first instance, a means of expres sion and by no means always the meaning and aim of the dream. The discovery of its prospective or final meaning is particularly important when the analysis is so far advanced that the eyes of the patient are turned more readily to the future than to his inner world and the past. 549 As regards the handling of the symbolism, we learn from this example that there can be no dream-symbols whose mean ings are fixed in every detail, but, at most, a frequent occur rence of symbols with fairly general meanings. So far as the 238 GENERAL ASPECTS OF PSYCHOANALYSIS specifically sexual meaning of dreams is concerned, experience has led me to lay down the following practical rules: 550 If dream-analysis at the beginning of the treatment shows that the dreams have an undoubtedly sexual meaning, this meaning is to be taken realistically; that is, it proves that the sexual problems of the patient need to be subjected to a careful review. For instance, if an incest fantasy is clearly shown to be a latent content of the dream, one must subject the patient's infantile relations with his parents and brothers and sisters, as well as his relations with other persons who are fitted to play the role of father or mother, to a thorough investigation. But if a dream that comes at a later stage of the analysis has, let us say, an incest fantasy as its essential content a fantasy that we have reason to consider disposed of concrete value should not under all circumstances be attached to it; it should be regarded as symbolic. The formula for interpretation is: the unknown meaning of the dream is expressed, by analogy, through a fan tasy of incest. In this case symbolic and not real value must be attached to the sexual fantasy. If we did not get beyond the real value we should keep reducing the patient to sexuality, and this would arrest the progress of the development of his per sonality. The patient's salvation does not lie in thrusting him back again and again into primitive sexuality; this would leave him on a low cultural level whence he could never obtain free dom and complete restoration to health. Retrogression to a state of barbarism is no advantage at all for a civilized human being. 55 1 The above-mentioned formula, according to which the sex uality of a dream is a symbolic or analogical expression of its meaning, naturally applies also to dreams occurring at the be ginning of an analysis. But the practical reasons that have im pelled us not to take the symbolic value of these sexual fantasies into consideration arise from the fact that a genuine realistic value must be attached to the abnormal sexual fantasies of a neurotic in so far as he allows his actions to be influenced by them. The fantasies not only hinder him in adapting better to his situation, they also lead him to all manner of real sexual acts, and occasionally even to incest, as experience shows. Under these circumstances, it would be of little use to consider the sym bolic content only; the concrete aspect must be first dealt with. 552 These statements are based, as you will have observed, on a FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS different conception of the dream from that put forward by Freud. Indeed, experience has forced a different conception upon me. For Freud, the dream is essentially a symbolic disguise for repressed wishes which would come into conflict with the aims of the personality. I am obliged to regard the structure of a dream from a different point of view. For me the dream is, in the first instance, a subliminal picture of the actual psycho logical situation of the individual in his waking state. It gives us a resume of the subliminal associative material constellated by the psychological situation of the moment. The volitional content of the dream, which Freud calls the repressed wish, is for me essentially a means of expression. 553 The activity of consciousness represents, biologically speak ing, the individual's struggle for psychological adaptation. Con sciousness tries to adjust itself to the necessities of the moment, or, to put it differently: there are tasks ahead which the individ ual must overcome. In many cases the solution is, in the nature of things, unknown, for which reason consciousness always tries to find the solution by way of analogous experiences. We try to grasp the unknown future on the model of our experience in the past. We have no reason to suppose that the subliminal psychic material obeys other laws than the "supraliminal" ma terial. The unconscious, like the conscious, mobilizes itself round the biological tasks and seeks solutions on the analogy of what has gone before, just as consciousness does. Whenever we wish to assimilate something unknown, we do so by means of analogy. A simple example of this is the well-known fact that when America was discovered by the Spaniards the Indians took the horses of the conquerors, which were unknown to them, for large pigs, because only pigs were familiar in their experi ence. This is the way we always recognize things, and it is also the essential reason for the existence of symbolism: it is a process of comprehension by means of analogy. The dream is a sublimi nal process of comprehension by analogy. The apparently re pressed wishes are volitional tendencies which supply the un conscious dream-thought with a verbal means of expression. On this particular point I find myself in entire agreement with the views of Adler, another pupil of Freud's. As to the fact that the unconscious expresses itself by means of volitional elements or 240 GENERAL ASPECTS OF PSYCHOANALYSIS tendencies, this is due to the archaic nature of dream-thinking, a problem I have discussed elsewhere.4 554 Owing to our different conception of the structure of dreams, the further course of analysis assumes a rather different aspect. The symbolic evaluation of sexual fantasies in the later stages necessarily leads, not to a reduction of the personality to primi tive tendencies, but to a broadening and continuous develop ment of the patient's attitude; that is, it tends to make his thinking richer and deeper, thus giving him what has always been one of man's most powerful weapons in the struggle for adaptation. By following this new course consistently, I have come to the realization that the religious and philosophical driving forces what Schopenhauer calls the "metaphysical need" of man must receive positive consideration during the analytical work. They must not be destroyed by reducing them to their primitive sexual roots, but made to serve biological ends as psychologically valuable factors. In this way these driv ing forces assume once more the function that has been theirs from time immemorial. 555 Just as primitive man was able, with the help of religious and philosophical symbols, to free himself from his original condition, so too the neurotic can free himself from his illness. It is hardly necessary for me to remark that I do not mean in oculating him with belief in a religious or philosophical dogma; I mean simply that there must be built up in him that same psychological attitude which was characterized by the living belief in a religious or philosophical dogma on earlier levels of culture. A religious or philosophical attitude is not the same thing as belief in a dogma. A dogma is a temporary intellectual formulation, the outcome of a religious and philosophical atti tude conditioned by time and circumstances. But the attitude itself is a cultural achievement; it is a function that is exceed ingly valuable from a biological point of view, for it gives rise to incentives that drive human beings to do creative work for the benefit of a future age and, if necessary, to sacrifice them selves for the welfare of the species. 556 Thus man attains the same sense of unity and wholeness, the same confidence, the same capacity for self-sacrifice in his * [Cf. Symbols of Transformation, p. 21, par. 25. EDITORS.] 241 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS conscious existence that belong unconsciously and instinctively to wild animals. Every reduction, every digression from the path that has been laid down for the development of civilization, does nothing more than turn the human being into a crippled animal; it never makes a so-called natural man of him. I have had numerous successes and failures in the course of my ana lytical practice which have convinced me of the inexorable rightness of this kind of psychological orientation. We do not help the neurotic by relieving him of the demands made by civilization; we can help him only by inducing him to take an active part in the strenuous work of carrying on its develop ment. The suffering he undergoes in performing this service takes the place of his neurosis. But whereas the neurosis and the troubles that attend it are never followed by the pleasant feel ing of good work well done, of duty fearlessly performed, the suffering that comes from useful work and from victory over real difficulties brings with it those moments of peace and satis faction which give the human being the priceless feeling that he has really lived his life. 242 PSYCHOANALYSIS AND NEUROSIS * 557 After many years' experience I now know that it is extremely difficult to discuss psychoanalysis at public meetings and at con gresses. There are so many misconceptions of the matter, so many prejudices against certain psychoanalytic views, that it is an almost impossible task to reach mutual understanding in a public discussion. I have always found a quiet conversation on the subject much more useful and fruitful than heated argu ments coram publico. However, having been honoured by an invitation from the Committee of this Congress to speak as a representative of the psychoanalytic movement, I will do my best to discuss some of the fundamental theoretical problems of psychoanalysis. I must limit myself to this aspect of the subject because I am quite unable to put before my audience all that psychoanalysis means and strives for, and its various applica tions in the fields of mythology, comparative religion, philoso phy, etc. But if I am to discuss certain theoretical problems fundamental to psychoanalysis, I must presuppose that my audience is familiar with the development and the main results of psychoanalytic research. Unfortunately, it often happens that people think themselves entitled to judge psychoanalysis who have not even read the literature. It is my firm conviction that no one is competent to form an opinion on this matter until he has studied the basic writings of the psychoanalytic school. 558 In spite of the fact that Freud's theory of neurosis has been worked out in great detail, it cannot be said to be, on the whole, very clear or easy to understand. This justifies my giving you a short abstract of his fundamental views on the theory of neurosis. 559 You are aware that the original theory that hysteria and the related neuroses have their origin in a trauma or sexual shock 1 [Originally read in English before the i7th International Medical Congress, London, 1913, under the title "On Psychoanalysis." First published in Collected Papers on Analytical Psychology (London, 1916; 2nd edn., London, 1917, and New York, 1920), pp. 226-35. The present version is a stylistic revision of this. EDITORS.] 243 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS in early childhood was given up about fifteen years ago. It soon became evident that the sexual trauma could not be the real cause of the neurosis, for the simple reason that the trauma was found to be almost universal. There is scarcely a human being who has not had some sexual shock in early youth, and yet com paratively few develop a neurosis in later life. Freud himself soon realized that many of the patients who related an early traumatic experience had only invented the story of the socalled trauma; it had never occurred in reality, but was a mere creation of fantasy. Moreover, on further investigation it be came quite obvious that even if a trauma had actually occurred it was not always responsible for the whole of the neurosis, al though it does sometimes look as if the structure of the neurosis depended entirely on the trauma. I a neurosis were the in evitable consequence of the trauma it would be quite incom prehensible why neurotics are not incomparably more numerous than they are. 56 The apparently heightened effect of the shock was clearly due to the exaggerated and morbid fantasy of the patient. Freud also saw that this same fantasy activity manifested itself rela tively early in bad habits, which he called infantile perversions. His new conception of the aetiology of neurosis was based on this insight, and he traced the neurosis back to some sexual activity in early infancy. This conception led to his recent view that the neurotic is "fixated" to a certain period of his early infancy, because he seems to preserve some trace of it, direct or indirect, in his mental attitude. Freud also makes the attempt to classify or to differentiate the neuroses, as well as dementia praecox, according to the stage of infantile development in which the fixation took place. From the standpoint of this theory, the neurotic appears to be entirely dependent on his infantile past, and all his troubles in later life, his moral con flicts and his deficiencies, seem to be derived from the powerful influences of that period. Accordingly, the main task of the treatment is to resolve this infantile fixation, which is con ceived as an unconscious attachment of the sexual libido to certain infantile fantasies and habits. 561 This, so far as I can see, is the essence of Freud's theory of neurosis. But it overlooks the following important question: What is the cause of this fixation of libido to the old infantile 244 PSYCHOANALYSIS AND NEUROSIS fantasies and habits? We have to remember that almost everyone has at some time had infantile fantasies and habits exactly cor responding to those of a neurotic, yet he does not become fixated to them; consequently, he does not become neurotic later on. The aetiological secret of the neurosis, therefore, does not lie in the mere existence of infantile fantasies but in the so-called fixation. The numerous statements of neurotics affirming the existence of infantile sexual fantasies are worthless in so far as they attribute an aetiological significance to them, for the same fantasies can be found in normal individuals as well, a fact which I have often proved. It is only the fixation which seems to be characteristic. 562 It is therefore necessary to demand proof of the reality of this infantile fixation. Freud, an absolutely sincere and pains taking empiricist, would never have evolved this hypothesis had he not had sufficient grounds for it. These grounds are furnished by the results of psychoanalytic investigations of the uncon scious. Psychoanalysis reveals the unconscious presence of nu merous fantasies which have their roots in the infantile past and are grouped round the so-called "nuclear complex," which in men may be designated as the Oedipus complex, in women as the Electra complex. These terms convey their own meaning exactly. The whole tragic fate of Oedipus and Electra was acted out within the narrow confines of the family, just as a child's fate lies wholly within the family boundaries. Hence the Oedi pus complex, like the Electra complex, is very characteristic of an infantile conflict. The existence of these conflicts in infancy has been proved by means of psychoanalytic research. It is in the realm of this complex that the fixation is supposed to have taken place. The extremely potent and effective existence of the nuclear complex in the unconscious of neurotics led Freud to the hypothesis that the neurotic has a peculiar fixation or attachment to it. Not the mere existence of this complex for everybody has it in the unconscious but the very strong at tachment to it is what is typical of the neurotic. He is far more influenced by this complex than the normal person; many ex amples in confirmation of this can be found in every one of the recent psychoanalytic histories of neurotic cases. 563 We must admit that this view is a very plausible one, because the hypothesis of fixation is based on the well-known fact that 245 FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS certain periods of human life, and particularly infancy, do some times leave determining traces behind them which are perma nent. The only question is whether this is a sufficient explana tion or not. If we examine persons who have been neurotic from infancy it seems to be confirmed, for we see the nuclear complex as a permanent and powerful agent throughout life. But if we take cases which never show any noticeable trace of neurosis except at the particular time when they break down, and there are many such, this explanation becomes doubtful. If there is such a thing as fixation, it is not permissible to erect upon it a new hypothesis, claiming that at times during certain periods of life the fixation becomes loosened and ineffective, while at others it suddenly becomes strengthened. In these cases we find that the nuclear complex is as active and potent as in those which apparently support the theory of fixation. Here a critical attitude is justifiable, especially when we consider the oft-repeated observation that the moment of the outbreak of neurosis is not just a matter of chance; as a rule it is most criti cal. It is usually the moment when a new psychological adjust ment, that is, a new adaptation, is demanded. Such moments facilitate the outbreak of a neurosis, as every experienced neu rologist knows. 564 This fact seems to me extremely significant. If the fixation were indeed real we should expect to find its influence constant; in other words, a neurosis lasting throughout life. This is obvi ously not the case. The psychological determination of a neu rosis is only partly due to an early infantile predisposition; it must be due to some cause in the present as well. And if we carefully examine the kind of infantile fantasies and occur rences to which the neurotic is attached, we shall be obliged to agree that there is nothing in them that is specifically neurotic. Normal individuals have pretty much the same inner and outer experiences, and may be attached to them to an astonishing degree without developing a neurosis. Primitive people, espe cially, are very much bound to their infantility. It now begins to look as if this so-called fixation were a normal phenomenon, and that the importance of infancy for the later mental attitude is natural and prevails everywhere. The fact that the neurotic seems to be markedly influenced by his infantile conflicts shows that it is less a matter of fixation than of the peculiar use which 246 PSYCHOANALYSIS AND NEUROSIS he makes of his infantile past. It looks as if he exaggerated its importance and attributed to it a wholly artificial value. Adler, a pupil of Freud's, expresses a very similar view. 565 It would be unjust to say that Freud limited himself to the hypothesis of fixation; he was also aware of the problem I have just discussed. He called this phenomenon of reactivation or secondary exaggeration of infantile reminiscences "regression." But in Freud's view it appears as if the incestuous desires of the Oedipus complex were the real cause of the regression to in fantile fantasies. If this were the case, we should have to postu late an unexpected intensity of the primary incestuous tenden cies. This view led Freud to his recent comparison between what he calls the psychological ' 'incest barrier" in children and the "incest taboo" in primitive man. He supposes that a desire for real incest led primitive man to frame laws against it; while to me it looks as if the incest taboo were only one among nu merous taboos of all kinds, and were due to the typical super stitious fear of primitive man a fear existing independently of incest and its prohibition. I am able to attribute as little strength to incestuous desires in childhood as in primitive humanity. I do not even seek the reason for regression in primary incestuous or any other sexual desires. I must admit that a purely sexual aetiology of neurosis seems to me much too narrow. I base this criticism not on any prejudice against sexuality but on an inti mate acquaintance with the whole problem. 566 I therefore suggest that psychoanalytic theory should be freed from the purely sexual standpoint. In place of it I should like to introduce an energic viewpoint into the psychology of neurosis. 5^7 All psychological phenomena can be considered as manifesta tions of energy, in the same way that all physical phenomena have been understood as energic manifestations ever since Robert Mayer discovered the law of the conservation of energy. Subjectively and psychologically, this energy is conceived as desire. I call it libido> using the word in its original sense, which
is by no means only sexual. Sallust uses it exactly as we do here
when he says: "They took more pleasure in handsome arms and
war horses than in harlots and revelry."
2"Magis in armis et militaribus equis quam in scortis et conviviis libidinem
habebant." Gatilina, 7, trans, by Rolfe, pp.14-15.
568 From a broader standpoint libido can be understood as vital
energy in general, or as Bergson's elan vital. The first manifesta
tion o this energy in the infant is the nutritive instinct. From
this stage the libido slowly develops through numerous variants
of the act of sucking into the sexual function. Hence I do not
consider the act of sucking a sexual act. The pleasure in sucking
can certainly not be considered as sexual pleasure, but as pleas
ure in nutrition, for it is nowhere proved that pleasure is sexual
in itself. This process of development is continued into adult
life and is accompanied by constantly increasing adaptation to
the external world. Whenever the libido, in the process of
adaptation, meets an obstacle, an accumulation takes place
which normally gives rise to an increased effort to overcome the
obstacle. But if the obstacle seems to be insurmountable, and
the individual abandons the task of overcoming it, the stored-up
libido makes a regression. Instead of being employed for an
increased effort, the libido gives up its present task and reverts
to an earlier and more primitive mode of adaptation.
569 The best examples of such regressions are found in hysterical
cases where a disappointment in love or marriage has precipi
tated a neurosis. There we find those well-known digestive dis
orders, loss of appetite, dyspeptic symptoms of all sorts,
etc. In these cases the regressive libido, turning back from the
task of adaptation, gains power over the nutritive function and
produces marked disturbances. Similar effects can be observed
in cases where there is no disturbance of the nutritive function
but, instead, a regressive revival of reminiscences from the dis
tant past. We then find a reactivation of the parental imagos,
of the Oedipus complex. Here the events of early infancy never
before important suddenly become so. They have been regressively
reactivated. Remove the obstacle from the path of life
and this whole system of infantile fantasies at once breaks down
and becomes as inactive and ineffective as before. But let us not
forget that, to a certain extent, it is at work all the time, influ
encing us in unseen ways. This view, incidentally, comes very
close to Janet's hypothesis that the "parties suprieures" of a
function are replaced by its "parties inf&ieures." I would also
remind you of Claparde's conception of neurotic symptoms as
emotional reflexes of a primitive nature.
570 For these reasons I no longer seek the cause of a neurosis in
the past, but in the present. I ask, what is the necessary task
which the patient will not accomplish? The long list of his in
fantile fantasies does not give me any sufficient aetiological ex
planation, because I know that these fantasies are only puffed
up by the regressive libido, which has not found its natural out
let in a new form of adaptation to the demands of life.
57 1 You may ask why the neurotic has a special tendency not to
accomplish his necessary tasks. Here let me point out that no
living creature adjusts itself easily and smoothly to new condi
tions. The law of inertia is valid everywhere.
572 A sensitive and somewhat unbalanced person, as a neu
rotic always is, will meet with special difficulties and perhaps
with more unusual tasks in life than a normal individual, who
as a rule has only to follow the well-worn path of an ordinary
existence. For the neurotic there is no established way of life,
because his aims and tasks are apt to be of a highly individual
character. He tries to go the more or less uncontrolled and halfconscious
way of normal people, not realizing that his own
critical and very different nature demands of him more effort
than the normal person is required to exert. There are neurotics
who have shown their heightened sensitiveness and their re
sistance to adaptation in the very first weeks of life, in the diffi
culty they have in taking the mother's breast and in their exag
gerated nervous reactions, etc. For this peculiarity in the
neurotic predisposition it will always be impossible to find a
psychological aetiology, because it is anterior to all psychology.
This predisposition you can call it "congenital sensitiveness"
or what you like is the cause of the first resistances to adapta
tion. As the way to adaptation is blocked, the biological energy
we call libido does not find its appropriate outlet or activity,
with the result that a suitable form of adaptation is replaced by
an abnormal or primitive one.
573 In neurosis we speak of an infantile attitude or of the pre
dominance of infantile fantasies and wishes. In so far as infantile
impressions are of obvious importance in normal people they
will be equally influential in neurosis, but they have no aetiolog
ical significance; they are reactions merely, being chiefly sec
ondary and regressive phenomena. It is perfectly true, as Freud
says, that infantile fantasies determine the form and the subse
quent development of neurosis, but this is not an aetiology.
Even when we find perverted sexual fantasies whose existence
can be demonstrated in childhood, we cannot consider them of
aetiological significance. A neurosis is not really caused by in
fantile sexual fantasies, and the same must be said of the sexualism
of neurotic fantasy in general. It is not a primary phe
nomenon based on a perverted sexual disposition, but merely
secondary and a consequence of the failure to apply the storedup
libido in a suitable way. I realize that this is a very old view,
but this does not prevent it from being true. The fact that the
patient himself very often believes that his infantile fantasies
are the real cause of his neurosis does not prove that he is right
in his belief, or that a theory based on this belief is right either.
It may look as if it were so, and I must admit that very many
cases do have that appearance. At all events, it is perfectly easy
to understand how Freud arrived at this view. Everyone who has
any psychoanalytic experience will agree with me here.
574 To sum up: I cannot see the real aetiology of neurosis in the
various manifestations of infantile sexual development and the
fantasies to which they give rise. The fact that these fantasies
are exaggerated in neurosis and occupy the foreground is a con
sequence of the stored-up energy or libido. The psychological
trouble in neurosis, and the neurosis itself, can be formulated as
an act of adaptation that has failed. This formulation might
reconcile certain views of Janet's with Freud's view that a neu
rosis is, in a sense, an attempt at self-cure a view which can be
and has been applied to many other illnesses.
575 Here the question arises as to whether it is still advisable to
bring to light all the patient's fantasies by analysis, if we now
consider them of no aetiological significance. Hitherto psycho
analysis has set about unravelling these fantasies because they
were considered aetiologically important. My altered view of
the theory of neurosis does not affect the psychoanalytic pro
cedure. The technique remains the same. Though we no longer
imagine we are unearthing the ultimate root of the illness, we
have to pull up the sexual fantasies because the energy which .
the patient needs for his health, that is, for adaptation, is at
tached to them. By means of psychoanalysis the connection be
tween his conscious mind and the libido in the unconscious is
re-established. Thus the unconscious libido is brought under
the control of the will. Only in this way can the split-off energy
become available again for the accomplishment of the necessary
tasks of life. Considered from this standpoint, psychoanalysis no
longer appears as a mere reduction of the individual to his
primitive sexual wishes, but, if rightly understood, as a highly
moral task of immense educational value.
A few words may suffice to explain the reasons which led to this
correspondence, and the purpose in publishing it.
After being introduced to the theory and practice of suggestion
therapy by Professor Forel, I practised it for many years and still
use it in suitable cases. When I became aware of the great signifi
cance of Freud's psychoanalytic works, I studied them and gradually
began to take up analysis myself. I made contact with the nearest
centre of psychoanalytic research, which was Zurich. Yet in technical
matters I had, in the main, to rely on myself. Hence, when I met
with failures, I had to ask myself who or what was to blame, I alone,
because I did not know how to apply the "correct psychoanalytic
method/* or perhaps the method itself, which might not be suitable
in all cases. A special stumbling-block for me was the interpretation
of dreams: I could not convince myself that there was a generally
valid symbolism, and that this symbolism was exclusively sexual, as
many psychoanalysts declared. Their interpretations often seemed to
me to bear the stamp of arbitrariness.
And so, when I read the following statement by Freud in the
Zentralblatt fur Psychoanalyse, in June 1912, the words seemed to
come from my own heart: "Some years ago I gave as an answer to the
question of how one can become an analyst: 'By analysing one's own
dreams,' This preparation is no doubt enough for many people, but
not for everyone who wishes to learn analysis. Nor can everyone suc
ceed in interpreting his own dreams without outside help. I count it
as one of the many merits of the Zurich school of analysis that they
1 [Originally published as Psychotherapeutische Zeitfragen; Ein Briefwechsel mit
Dr. C. G. Jung, edited by Dr. R. Loy (Leipzig and Vienna, 1914). Translated (ex
cept for Dr. Loy's foreword) by Mrs. Edith Eder as "On Some Crucial Points in
Psychoanalysis/' in Collected Papers on Analytical Psychology (London, 1916; 2nd
edn., London, 1917; New York, 1920). The present translation is based on this.
have laid increased emphasis on this requirement, and have em
bodied it in the demand that everyone who wishes to carry out anal
yses on other people shall first himself undergo an analysis by some
one with expert knowledge. Anyone who takes up the work seriously
should choose this course, which offers more than one advantage; the
sacrifice involved in laying oneself open to another person without
being driven to it by illness is amply rewarded. Not only is one's aim
of learning to know what is hidden in one's own mind far more
rapidly attained and with less expense of affect, but impressions and
convictions will be gained in relation to oneself which will be sought
in vain from studying books and attending lectures.'
1 2
Dr. Jung declared himself ready to undertake my analysis. A
great obstacle arose, however: the distance between us. Thus, many
questions which had come up in the analytical interviews and could
not be discussed sufficiently thoroughly were settled by correspond
When the correspondence reached its present proportions I asked
myself whether other colleagues might not find it as stimulating as
I had done: psychoanalysts who were just beginning and who needed
a guiding thread through the mounting tangle of psychoanalytic
literature, practising physicians who perhaps knew of psychoanalysis
only through the violent attacks it has had to endure (often from
quite unqualified persons who have no experience of it).
I could only answer this question in the affirmative. I asked Dr.
Jung to give his consent to my publishing the correspondence, which
he readily did.
I do not doubt that the reader will, like me, give him the thanks
that are his due; for a more concise and easily understandable ac
count of the psychoanalytic method and of some of the problems it
raises does not, to my knowledge, exist.
Sanatorium UAbri, Montreux-Territet,
1 December
From Dr. Loy
12 January 1913
576 What you said at our last interview was extraordinarily
stimulating. I was expecting you to throw light on the interpre
tation of my own and my patients' dreams from the standpoint
2 "Recommendations to Physicians Practising Psycho-Analysis" (orig. 1912), pp.
of Freud's dream interpretation. Instead, you put before me
an entirely new conception: the dream as a means, produced
by the subconscious, of restoring the moral balance. That is
certainly a fruitful thought. But still more fruitful, it seems to
me, is your other suggestion. You conceive the tasks of psycho
analysis to be much deeper than I had ever imagined: it is no
longer a question of getting rid of troublesome pathological
symptoms, but of the analysand learning to know himself com
pletelynot just his anxiety experiences and on the basis of
this knowledge building up and shaping his life anew. But he
himself must be the builder; the analyst only furnishes him with
the necessary tools.
577 To begin with, I would ask you to consider what justifica
tion there is for the original procedure of Breuer and Freud,
now entirely given up both by Freud himself and by you, but
practised by Frank, for instance, as his only method: the "abreaction
of inhibited affects under light hypnosis." Why did you
give up the cathartic method? Please explain. More particularly,
has light hypnosis in psychocatharsis a different value from sug
gestion during sleep, long practised in suggestion therapy?
That is, has it only the value which the doctor attributes, or says
he attributes to it, the value which the patient's faith gives it?
In other words, is suggestion in the waking state equivalent to
suggestion in the hypnoid state, as Bernheim now asserts, after
having used suggestion for many years in hypnosis? You will
tell me that we must talk of psychoanalysis, not of suggestion.
What I really mean is this: is not the suggestion that psychocatharsis
in the hypnoid state will produce a therapeutic effect
(with limitations, naturally, the age of the patient, etc.) the
main factor in the therapeutic effects of psychocatharsis? Frank
says in his Affektstorungen: "These one-sided attitudes, sug
gestibility and suggestion, are almost entirely in abeyance in
psychocatharsis under light sleep, so far as the content of the
ideas reproduced is concerned." 3 Is that really true? Frank
himself adds: "How can ruminating on the dreams of youth in
itself lead to discharge of the stored-up anxiety, whether in the
hypnoid state or any other? Must we not rather suppose that
ruminating on them would make the anxiety states even
3Ludwig Frank, Affektstorungen: Studien uber ihre Aetiologie und Therapie
greater?" (I have noticed this myself, far more than I liked.) Of
course one says to the patient,
First we must stir up, then
afterwards comes peace." And it does come. But does it not
come in spite of the stirring-up process, because gradually, by
means of frequent talks apart from light hypnosis, the patient
gains such confidence in the analyst that he becomes susceptible
to the direct suggestion that an improvement and then a cure
will follow? I go still further: in an analysis in the waking state,
is not the patient's faith that the method employed will cure
him, coupled with his growing confidence in the analyst, a main
cause of his cure? And I go still further: in every therapeutic
method systematically carried out is not faith in it, confidence
in the doctor, a main cause of its success? I won't say the only
cause, for one cannot deny that physical, dietetic, and chemical
procedures, when properly selected, have their own effect in
bringing about a cure, over and above the striking effects pro
duced by indirect suggestion.
From Dr. Jung
28 January 1913
578 With regard to your question concerning the applicability
of the cathartic procedure, I can say that I adopt the following
standpoint: every procedure is good if it helps. I therefore
acknowledge every method of suggestion including Christian
Science, mental healing, etc. "A truth is a truth, when it works/'
It is another question, though, whether a scientifically trained
doctor can square it with his conscience to sell little bottles of
Lourdes water because this suggestion is at times very helpful.
Even the so-called highly scientific suggestion therapy employs
the wares of the medicine-man and the exorcising shaman. And
why not? The public is not much more advanced either and
continues to expect miraculous cures from the doctor. And in
deed, we must rate those doctors wise worldly-wise in every
sense who know how to surround themselves with the aura of
a medicine-man. They have not only the biggest practices but
also get the best results. This is because, apart from the neu
roses, countless physical illnesses are tainted and complicated
with psychic material to an unsuspected degree. The medical
exorcist betrays by his whole demeanour his full appreciation of
that psychic component when he gives the patient the opportuni
ty of fixing his faith firmly on the mysterious personality of the
doctor. In this way he wins the sick man's mind, which from
then on helps him to restore his body to health. The cure works
best when the doctor himself believes in his own formulae, other
wise he may be overcome by scientific doubt and so lose the
proper convincing tone. I myself practised hypnotic suggestiontherapy
for a time with enthusiasm. But then there befell me
three dubious incidents which I would like to bring to your
579 One day a withered old peasant woman of about 56 came to
me to be hypnotized for various neurotic troubles. She was not
easy to hypnotize, was very restless, and kept opening her eyes
but at last I did succeed. When I woke her up again after
about half an hour she seized my hand and with many words
testified to her overflowing gratitude. I told her, "You are by
no means cured yet, so keep your thanks till the end of the treat
ment." "I'm not thanking you for that," she whispered, blush
ing, "but because you were so decent" She looked at me with
a sort of tender admiration and departed. I gazed for a long
time at the spot where she had stood. So decent? I asked myself,
flabbergastedgood heavens, surely she hadn't imagined . . . ?
This glimpse made me suspect for the first time that possibly
the old reprobate, with the atrocious directness of feminine (at
the time I called it "animal") instinct, understood more about
the essence of hypnosis than I did with all my knowledge of the
scientific profundity of the text-books. My innocence was gone.
580 Next came a pretty, coquettish, seventeen-year-old girl with
a very harassed-looking mama. She had suffered since early
childhood from enuresis nocturna (which she used, among other
things, to stop herself being sent to a finishing school in Italy).
At once I thought of the old woman and her wisdom. I tried to
hypnotize the girl; she went into fits of laughter and held up
the hypnosis for twenty minutes. I kept my temper and thought:
I know why you laugh, you have already fallen in love with me,
but I will give you proof of my decency as a reward for wasting
my time with your provocative laughter. At last I put her un
der. The effect was immediate. The enuresis stopped, and I
thereupon informed the young lady that, instead of Wednesday,
I would not see her again for hypnosis till the following Satur-
day. On Saturday she arrived with a cross face, boding disaster.
The enuresis had come back again. I thought of my wise old
woman and asked, "When did it come back?" She (unsuspect
ing): "Wednesday night.'
I thought to myself: There we have
it, she wants to prove to me that I absolutely must see her on
Wednesdays too; not to see me for a whole long week is too
much for a tender loving heart. But I did not intend to pander
to this annoying romance, so I said, "It would be quite wrong
to continue the treatment under these circumstances. We must
drop it altogether for three weeks, to give the enuresis a chance
to stop. Then come again for treatment." In my malicious heart
I knew that I would be away on holiday and the course for
hypnotic treatment would be finished. After the holiday my
locum tenens told me that the young lady had been there with
the news that the enuresis had vanished, but her disappoint
ment at not seeing me was very keen. The old woman was right,
I thought.
581 The third case gave my joy in suggestion therapy its death
blow. This case really was the limit. A 65-year-old lady came
hobbling into the consulting-room on a crutch. She had suffered
from pain in the knee-joint for seventeen years, and this at times
kept her chained to her bed for many weeks. No doctor had
been able to cure her, and she had run through all the cures of
present-day medicine. After letting the stream of her narrative
pour over me for ten minutes, I said, "I will try to hypnotize
you, perhaps that will do you good." "Oh yes, please do!" she
said, then leaned her head to one side and fell asleep before
ever I said or did a thing. She passed into somnambulism and
showed every form of hypnosis you could possibly desire. After
half an hour I had the greatest difficulty in waking her; when at
last she was awake she jumped up: "I am well, I am all right,
you have cured rne!" I tried to raise timid objections, but her
praises drowned me. She could really walk. I blushed, and said
embarrassed to my colleagues: "Behold the marvels of hypnotic
therapy!" That day saw the death of my connection with ther
apy by suggestion; the notoriety aroused by this case shamed
and depressed me. When, a year later, the good old lady re
turned, this time with a pain in her back, I was already sunk in
hopeless cynicism; I saw written on her brow that she had just
read in the paper the notice of the reopening of my course on
hypnotism. That tiresome romanticism had provided her with
a convenient pain in the back so that she might have a pretext
for seeing me, and again let herself be cured in the same spec
tacular fashion. This proved true in every particular.
582 AS you will understand, a man possessed of a scientific con
science cannot digest such cases with impunity. I was resolved
to abandon suggestion altogether rather than allow myself to be
passively transformed into a miracle-worker. I wanted to under
stand what really goes on in people's minds. It suddenly seemed
to me incredibly childish to think of dispelling an illness with
magical incantations, and that this should be the sole result of
our efforts to create a psychotherapy. Thus the discovery of
Breuer and Freud came as a veritable life-saver. I took up
their method with unalloyed enthusiasm and soon recognized
how right Freud was when, at a very early date, indeed as far
back as Studies on Hysteria, he began to direct a searchlight on
the circumstances of the so-called trauma. I soon discovered
that, though traumata of clearly aetiological significance were
occasionally present, the majority of them appeared very im
probable. Many traumata were so unimportant, even so normal,
that they could be regarded at most as a pretext for the neurosis.
But what especially aroused my criticism was the fact that not
a few traumata were simply inventions of fantasy and had never
happened at all. This realization was enough to make me scep
tical about the whole trauma theory. (I have discussed these
matters in detail in my lectures on the theory of psychoanaly
sis.) I could no longer imagine that repeated experiences of
a fantastically exaggerated or entirely fictitious trauma had a
different therapeutic value from a suggestion procedure. It is
good if it helps. If only one did not have a scientific conscience
and that hankering after the truth! I recognized in many cases,
particularly with intelligent patients, the therapeutic limita
tions of this method. It is merely a rule of thumb, convenient
for the analyst because it makes no particular demands on his
intellect or his capacity to adapt. The theory and practice are
delightfully simple: "The neurosis comes from a trauma. The
trauma is abreacted." If the abreacting takes place under hyp
notism or with other magical accessories (dark room, special
lighting, etc.), I think at once of my clever old woman, who
opened my eyes not only to the magical influence of the mes
meric passes but to the nature of hypnotism itself.
583 What alienated me once and for all from this comparatively
effective, indirect method of suggestion, based as it is on an
equally effective false theory, was the simultaneous recognition
that behind the bewildering and deceptive maze of neurotic
fantasies there is a conflict which may best be described as a
moral one. With this there began for me a new era of under
standing. Research and therapy now joined hands in the effort
to discover the causes and the rational solution of the conflict.
For me this meant psychoanalysis. While I was arriving at this
insight, Freud had built up his sexual theory of neurosis, thus
posing a mass of questions for discussion, all of which seemed
worthy of the deepest consideration. I had the good fortune to
collaborate with Freud for a long time, and to work with him
on the problem of sexuality in neurosis. You know perhaps from
some of my earlier works that I was always rather dubious about
the significance of sexuality. This has now become the point on
which I am no longer altogether of Freud's opinion.
584 I have preferred to answer your questions in a somewhat in
consequential fashion. I will now catch up on the rest: light
hypnosis and total hypnosis are simply varying degrees of in
tensity of unconscious susceptibility to the hypnotist. Who can
draw sharp distinctions here? To a critical intelligence it is un
thinkable that suggestibility and suggestion can be avoided in
the cathartic method. They are present everywhere as general
human attributes, even with Dubois 4 and the psychoanalysts,
who all think they are working on purely rational lines. No
technique and no self-effacement avails here; the analyst works
willy-nilly, and perhaps most of all, through his personality,
i.e., through suggestion. In the cathartic method, what is of far
more importance to the patient than the conjuring up of old
fantasies is the experience of being together so often with the
analyst, his trust and belief in him personally and in his method.
The belief, the self-confidence, perhaps also the devotion with
which the analyst does his work, are far more important to the
[See supra, par. 41, n. 6.]
patient (imponderabilia though they may be) than the rehears
ing of old traumata.5
585 It is time we learnt from the history of medicine everything
that has ever been of help, then perhaps we shall discover the
really necessary therapythat is, psychotherapy. Did not even
the old apothecaries' messes achieve brilliant cures, cures which
faded only with the belief in their efficacy?!
586 Because I know that, despite all rational safeguards, the pa
tient does attempt to assimilate the analyst's personality, I have
laid it down as a requirement that the psychotherapist must be
just as responsible for the cleanness of his hands as the surgeon.
I even hold it to be an indispensable prerequisite that the psy
choanalyst should first submit himself to the analytical process,
as his personality is one of the main factors in the cure.
587 Patients read the analyst's character intuitively, and they
should find in him a man with failings, admittedly, but also a
man who strives at every point to fulfil his human duties in the
fullest sense. Many times I have had the opportunity of seeing
that the analyst is successful with his treatment just so far as he
has succeeded in his own moral development. I think this an
swer will satisfy your question.
From Dr. Loy
2 February 1913
588 You answer several of my questions in a decidedly affirmative
tone, taking it as proved that in cures by the cathartic method
the main role is played by faith in the analyst and his method
and not by "abreacting" the real or imaginary traumata. I think
so too. Equally I agree with your view that the old "apothecaries'
messes," as well as the Lourdes cures or those of the mental
healers, Christian Scientists, and persuasionists, are to be at
tributed to faith in the miracle-worker rather than to any of the
methods employed.
589 But now comes the ticklish point: the augur can remain an
5 Thus a woman patient, who had been treated by a young colleague without
entire success, once said to me: "Certainly I made great progress with him
and I am much better than I was. He tried to analyse my dreams. It's true he
never understood them, but he took so much trouble over them. He is really a
good doctor."
augur so long as he himself believes that the will of the gods is
made manifest by the entrails of the sacrificial beast. When he
no longer believes, he can ask himself: Shall I continue to use
my augur's authority to promote the welfare of the State, or
shall I make use of my newer, and I hope truer, convictions of
today? Both ways are possible. The first is called opportunism,
the second the pursuit of truth and scientific honesty. For the
doctor, the first way perhaps brings therapeutic success and
fame, the second brings the reproach that such a man is not to
be taken seriously. What I esteem most highly in Freud and his
school is just this passionate desire for truth. On the other hand
some people pronounce a different verdict: "It is impossible for
a busy practitioner to keep pace with the development of the
views of this investigator and his initiates" (Frank, Affektstorungen,
Introduction, p. 2).
590 One can easily disregard this little quip, but self-criticism
needs to be taken more seriously. One can after all ask oneself:
Since science is in continual flux, have I the right to ignore on
principle any method or combination of methods by which I
know I can get therapeutic results?
591 Looking more closely at the fundamental reason for your
aversion to the ancillary use of hypnosis (or semi-hypnosis; the
degree matters nothing) in treatment by suggestion (which as
you say every doctor and every therapeutic method makes use
of willy-nilly, no matter what it is called), one must say that
what has disgusted you with hypnotism is at bottom nothing
but the so-called "transference" to the doctor, which you, with
your purely psychoanalytic procedure, can eliminate as little as
anybody else, and which actually plays an essential part in the
success of the treatment. Your requirement that the psycho
analyst must be responsible for the cleanness of his handshere
I agree unreservedly is the logical conclusion. But is the possi
ble recourse to hypnosis in a psychotherapeutic procedure any
more "augurish" than the unavoidable use of the "transference
to the analyst" for therapeutic purposes? In either case we bank
on faith as the healing agent. As for the feeling which the pa
tientwhether man or woman entertains for the analyst, is
there never anything in the background save a conscious or un
conscious sexual wish? In many cases your impression is cer
tainly correct, and more than one woman has been frank enough
to confess that the beginning of hypnosis was accompanied by
a voluptuous sensation. But it is not true in all instances or
how would you explain the underlying feeling in the hypnotiz
ing of one animal by another, e.g., snake and bird? Surely you
would say that here the feeling of fear prevails, which is an in
version of libido, whereas in the hypnoid state that comes over
the female before she succumbs to the male it is the pure libido
sexualis that predominates, though possibly still mixed with
592 However that may be, from your three cases I cannot draw
any ethical distinction between "susceptibility to the hypnotist"
and "transference to the analyst" that would condemn a pos
sible combination of hypnosis with psychoanalysis, as an aux
iliary. You will ask why I cling so much to the use of hypnosis,
or rather of the hypnoid state. It is because I think there are
cases that can be cured much more quickly in this way than by a
purely psychoanalytic procedure. For example, in no more than
five or six interviews I completely cured a fifteen-year-old girl
who had suffered from enuresis nocturna even since infancy,
but was otherwise perfectly sound, gifted, first in her class, etc.
Previously she had tried all sorts of treatment without any
593 Perhaps I ought to have sought out the psychoanalytic con
nections between the enuresis and her psychosexual disposition,
explained it to her, etc., but I couldn't, the girl had only the
short Easter holidays for treatment: so I just hypnotized her and
the trouble vanished.
594 In psychoanalysis I use hypnosis to help the patient overcome
595 Further, I use semi-hypnosis in conjunction with psycho
analysis to accelerate the "reconstruction" stage.
596 To take an example, a patient afflicted with a washing mania
was sent to me after a year's psychocathartic treatment with
Dr. X. The symbolic meaning of her washing ceremonies had
previously been explained to her, but she became more and
more agitated during the "abreaction" of alleged traumata in
childhood, because she had persuaded herself by auto-sugges
tion that she was too old to be cured, that she saw no "images,"
etc. So I used hypnosis to help her reduce the number of wash
ings "so that the anxiety feeling would stay away" and to
train her to throw things on the floor and pick them up again
without washing her hands afterwards, etc.
597 In view of these considerations I should, if you feel disposed
to go further into the matter, be grateful if you would furnish
me with more convincing reasons why the hypnotic procedure
is to be condemned, and explain how to do without it, or what
to replace it with in such cases. Were I convinced, I would give
it up as you have done; but what convinced you has not, so far,
convinced me. Si duo faciunt idem., non est idem.
598 I would now like to go on to another important matter to
which you alluded, but only cursorily, and to put one question:
Behind the neurotic fantasies there is almost always (or always)
a moral conflict belonging to the present. That is perfectly clear
to me. Research and therapy coincide; their task is: to seek the
causes and the rational solution of the conflict.
599 Good. But can the rational solution always be found? "Rea
sons of expediency" so often bar the way, varying with the type
of patient (children, young girls and women, from "pious"
hypocritical! Catholic or Protestant families). Again that ac
cursed opportunism! A colleague of mine was perfectly right
when he began to give sexual enlightenment to a young French
boy who was indulging in masturbation. Whereupon, like one
possessed, in rushed a bigoted grandmother, and a disagreeable
scene ensued. How to act in these and similar cases? What to do
in cases where there is a moral conflict between love and duty
(conflicts in marriage) or in general between instinct and
moral duty? What to do in the case of a girl afflicted with hys
terical or anxiety symptoms, who is in need of love and has no
chance to marry, or cannot find a suitable man, and, because she
comes of "good family," wants to remain chaste? Simply try to
get rid of the symptoms by suggestion? But that is wrong as soon
as one knows of a better way.
600 How is one to reconcile one's two consciences: that of the
man who does not want to confine his fidelity to truth intra
muros, and that of the doctor who must cure, or if he dares not
cure according to his real convictions (owing to opportunist
motives), must at least provide some alleviation? We live in the
present, but with the ideas and the ideals of the future. That is
our conflict. How to resolve it?
From Dr. Jung
4 February 1913
601 ... You have put me in a somewhat embarrassing position
with your question in yesterday's letter. You have rightly
guessed the spirit which dictated my last. I am glad you, too,
acknowledge this spirit. There are not very many who can boast
of such liberalism. I should deceive myself if I thought I was a
practising physician. I am above all an investigator, and this
naturally gives me a different attitude to many problems. In
my last letter I purposely left the practical needs of the doctor
out of account, chiefly in order to show you on what grounds
one might be moved to give up hypnotic therapy. To anticipate
a possible objection, let me say at once that I did not give up
hypnosis because I wanted to avoid dealing with the basic forces
of the human psyche, but because I wanted to battle with them
directly and openly. When once I understood what kind of
forces play a part in hypnotism I gave it up, simply to get rid
of all the indirect advantages of this method. As we psychoana
lysts find to our cost every day and our patients also we do
not work with the "transference to the analyst/'
6 but against it
and in spite of it. Hence we do not bank on the faith of the pa
tient, but on his criticism. So much I would say for now about
this delicate question.
602 As your letter shows, we are at one in regard to the theoreti
cal aspect of treatment by suggestion. We can therefore apply
ourselves to the further task of reaching agreement on practical
questions. Your remarks on the doctor's dilemma whether to
be a magician or a scientist bring us to the heart of the matter.
I strive not to be a fanatic though there are not a few who
accuse me of fanaticism. I struggle merely for the recognition
of methods of research and their results, not for the application
of psychoanalytic methods at all costs. I was a medical practi
tioner quite long enough to realize that practice obeys, and
must obey, other laws than does the search for truth. One might
almost say that the practitioner must submit first and foremost
6 Defined in the Freudian sense as the transference to the analyst of infantile and
sexual fantasies. A more advanced conception of the transference perceives in it
the important process of empathy, which begins by making use of infantile and
sexual analogies.
to the law of expediency. The investigator would be doing him
a great wrong if he accused him of not using the "one true"
scientific method. As I said to you in my last letter: "A truth is
a truth, when it works." On the other hand, the practitioner
must not reproach the investigator if in his search for truth and
for new and perhaps better methods he tries out unusual pro
cedures. After all, it is not the practitioner who will have to bear
the brunt, but the investigator and possibly his patient. The
practitioner must certainly use those methods which he knows
how to apply to the greatest advantage and which give him rela
tively the best results. My liberalism, as you see, extends even to
Christian Science. But I deem it most uncalled for that Frank,
a practising doctor, should cast aspersions on research in which
he cannot participate the very line of research to which he owes
his own method. It is surely high time to stop this running
down of every new idea. No one asks Frank and his confreres
to be psychoanalysts. We grant them their right to existence,
why should they always seek to curtail ours?
603 As my own "cures" show you, I do not doubt the effect of
suggestion. I merely had the feeling that I might be able to dis
cover something still better. This hope has been justified. Not
for ever shall it be said:
If ever in this world we reach what's good
We call what's better just a plain falsehood! T
604 I frankly confess that if I were doing your work I should
often be in difficulties if I relied on psychoanalysis alone. I can
scarcely imagine a general practice, especially in a sanatorium,
with no other auxiliaries than psychoanalysis. It is true that at
Bircher's sanatorium in Zurich the principle of psychoanalysis
has been adopted, at least by several of the assistants, but a whole
series of other important educative influences are also brought
to bear on the patients, without which things would probably go
very badly. In my own purely psychoanalytic practice I have
often regretted that I could not avail myself of other methods
of re-education that are naturally at hand in an institution but
only, of course, in special cases where one is dealing with par
ticularly uncontrolled, untrained patients. Which of us would
[Faust, Part I, The Night Scene.]
assert that he has discovered the panacea? There are cases where
psychoanalysis works worse than any other method. But who has
ever claimed that psychoanalysis should be used always and
everywhere? Only a fanatic could maintain such a view. Patients
for whom psychoanalysis is suitable have to be selected. I un
hesitatingly send cases I think unsuitable to other doctors. This
does not happen often, as a matter of fact, because patients have
a way of sorting themselves out. Those who go to a psychoana
lyst usually know quite well why they go to him and not to
someone else. Moreover there are very many neurotics excel
lently suited for psychoanalysis. In these matters all schematism
is to be abhorred. It is never quite wise to run your head against
a brick wall. Whether simple hypnotism, or cathartic treatment,
or psychoanalysis shall be used must be determined by the con
ditions of the case and the preference of the doctor. Every doc
tor will obtain the best results with the instrument he knows
605 But, barring exceptions, I must say definitely that for me, as
well as for my patients, psychoanalysis works better than any
other method. This is not merely a matter of feeling; from mani
fold experiences I know many cases can still be helped by psy
choanalysis that are refractory to all other methods of treatment.
I know many colleagues whose experience is the same, even men
engaged exclusively in practical work. It is scarcely credible that
an altogether inferior method would meet with so much sup
606 When once psychoanalysis has been applied in a suitable
case, it is imperative that rational solutions of the conflicts
should be found. The objection is at once advanced that many
conflicts are intrinsically insoluble. People sometimes take this
view because they think only of external solutions which at
bottom are not solutions at all. If a man cannot get on with his
wife, he naturally thinks the conflict would be solved if he mar
ried someone else. When such marriages are examined they are
seen to be no solution whatever. The old Adam enters upon the
new marriage and bungles it just as badly as he did the earlier
one. A real solution comes only from within, and then only
because the patient has been brought to a different attitude.
So? If an external solution is possible no psychoanalysis is neces
sary; but if an internal solution is sought, we are faced with the
peculiar task of psychoanalysis. The conflict between "love and
duty" must be solved on that level o character where "love and
duty" are no longer opposites, which in reality they are not.
Similarly, the familiar conflict between "instinct and conven
tional morality" must be solved in such a way that both factors
are taken sufficiently into account, and this again is possible
only through a change of character. This change psychoanalysis
can bring about. In such cases external solutions are worse than
none at all. Naturally, expediency determines which road the
doctor must ultimately follow and what is then his duty. I re
gard the conscience-searching question of whether he should
remain true to his scientific convictions as a minor one in com
parison with the far weightier question of how he can best help
his patient. The doctor must, on occasion, be able to play the
augur. Mundus vult decipibut the curative effect is no decep
tion. It is true that there is a conflict between ideal conviction
and concrete possibility. But we should ill prepare the ground
for the seed of the future were we to forget the tasks of the
present, and sought only to cultivate ideals. That would be but
idle dreaming. Do not forget that Kepler once cast horoscopes
for money, and that countless artists are condemned to work for
a living wage.
From Dr. Loy
9 February 1913
608 The same passion for truth possesses us when we think of
pure research, and the same wish to cure when we consider
therapy. For the researcher, as for the doctor, we desire the
fullest freedom in all directions complete freedom to choose
and practise the methods which promise the best fulfilment of
their ends at any moment. On this last point we are at one, but
it remains a postulate which we must prove to the satisfaction
of others if we want recognition for our views.
609 First and foremost there is one question that must be an
swered, an old question already asked in the Gospels: "What
is truth?" I think clear definitions of fundamental ideas are
everywhere necessary. How shall we contrive a working defini
tion of the concept "Truth?" Perhaps an allegory may help us.
610 Imagine a gigantic prism in front of the sun, so that its rays
are broken up, but suppose man entirely ignorant of this fact.
(I disregard the chemical, invisible, ultra-violet rays.) Men liv
ing in the blue-lit region will say, "The sun sends forth blue
light only/' They are right and yet they are wrong: from their
standpoint they are capable of perceiving only a fragment of
the truth. And so too with the inhabitants of the red, yellow,
and intermediate regions. And they will all scourge and slay
one another to force their fragmentary truth on the others
until, grown wiser through travelling in each other's regions,
they come to the unanimous view that the sun sends out light
of different colours. That is a more comprehensive truth, but it
is still not the truth. Only when a giant lens has recombined
the split-up rays, and when the invisible, chemical, and heat
rays have given proof of their specific effects, will a view arise
more in accordance with the truth, and men will perceive that
the sun emits white light which is split up by the prism into
different rays with different qualities, and that these rays are
recombined by the lens into a beam of white light.
611 This example serves to show that the road to Truth leads
through a series of comparative observations, the results of
which must be controlled with the help of freely selected experi
ments until seemingly well-grounded hypotheses and theories
can be put forward; but these hypotheses and theories will fall
to the ground as soon as a single new observation or a single
new experiment contradicts them.
6l* The way is toilsome, and in the end all we ever attain is a
relative truth. But such relative truth suffices for the time being
if it serves to explain the most important concatenations of fact
in the past, to light up those of the present, and to predict those
of the future, so that we are in a position to adapt through our
knowledge. Absolute truth, however, would be accessible only
to omniscience, having knowledge of all possible concatenations
and combinations; but that is not possible for us, because the
number of concatenations and combinations is infinite. Accord
ingly, we shall never know more than an approximate truth.
Should new concatenations be discovered, new combinations be
built up, the picture changes and with it the whole range of
knowledge and action. To what new revolutions in daily life
does not every new scientific discovery lead: how absurdly small
was the beginning of the first theory of electricity, how incon
ceivably great the results!
613 These are commonplaces, but one must continually repeat
them when one sees how life is always made bitter for the inno
vators in every scientific field, and now especially so for the
followers of the psychoanalytic school. Everyone admits these
commonplaces so long as it is a matter of "academic" discussion,
but only so long; as soon as a concrete case has to be considered,
sympathies and antipathies rush to the forefront and darken
judgment. Therefore the investigator must fight tirelessly, ap
pealing to logic and honesty, for freedom of research in all
fields, and must not allow despots of whatever political or re
ligious persuasion to advance "reasons of expediency" in order
to destroy or even restrict this freedom. Reasons of expediency
may be and are in place elsewhere, but not here. Finally, we
must make an end of the dictum of the Middle Ages, philosophia
ancilla iheologiae, as well as the founding of university
chairs in favour of this or that political or religious party. All
fanaticism is the enemy of science, which above all things must
be independent.
614 And when we turn from the search for Truth back to thera
peutics, we see immediately that here again we are in agreement.
In practice expediency must rule: the doctor from the yellow
region must adapt himself to the patients in the yellow region,
as must the doctor in the blue region to his patients; both have
the same object in view. And the doctor who lives in the white
light must take into consideration the past experiences of pa
tients from the yellow or blue region, in spite or rather because
of his wider knowledge. In such cases the way to healing will be
long and difficult, may indeed lead more easily to a cul-de-sac
than in cases where he has to deal with patients who, like him
self, have already attained knowledge of the white light, or, in
other words, when his patients have already "sorted themselves
out." With these sorted-out patients the psychoanalyst is per
mitted to work exclusively with the methods of psychoanalysis;
he can consider himself lucky that he does not need to "play
the augur."
6*5 Now, these methods of psychoanalysis, what are they? If I
understand you aright, it is by and large a question of working
directly and openly with the fundamental forces of the human
psyche, to the end that the patient, be he sick or sound or in
some stage in between for sickness and health flow into each
other imperceptiblyshall have his mental eyes opened to the
drama that is being enacted within him. He must learn to know
the automatisms that are hostile to the development of his per
sonality, and through this knowledge he must learn gradually
to free himself from them; but he must also learn how to ex
ploit and strengthen the favourable automatisms. He must learn
to make his self-knowledge real and to control the workings of
his mind so that a balance may be struck between feeling and
reason. How large a part is played in all this by suggestion! I
can hardly believe that suggestion can be avoided altogether till
the patient feels really freed. This freedom, it goes without say
ing, is the main thing to strive for, and it must be an active
freedom. The patient who simply obeys a suggestion obeys it
only so long as the "transference to the analyst" remains in
616 But in order to adjust himself to all circumstances the pa
tient must have strengthened himself "from within/' He should
no longer need the crutches of faith but must be capable of
tackling all theoretical and practical problems critically and of
solving them himself. That is your view, isn't it, or have I not
understood you correctly?
61 7 I next ask, must not every single case be treated differently
within the limits of the psychoanalytic method? For if every
case is a case by itself, it must surely require individual treat
618 "II n'y a pas de maladies, il n'y a que des malades," said a
French doctor whose name escapes me. But broadly speaking,
what course, from a technical point of view, does analysis take,
and what deviations occur most frequently? That I would gladly
learn from you. I take it for granted that all "augur's tricks,"
darkened rooms, masks, chloroform, etc., are out of the question.
61 9 Psychoanalysis purged so far as is humanly possible of sug
gestive influence appears to have one essential difference from
psychotherapy a la Dubois. With Dubois, all talk about the past
is prohibited from the outset, and "moral reasons for recovery"
are placed in the forefront; whilst psychoanalysis uses the sub
conscious material from the patient's past and present to pro
mote self-knowledge. Another difference lies in the conception
of morality: morals are above all "relative." But what forms (in
broad outline) should one give them at times when suggestion
cannot be avoided? Expediency must decide, you will say.
Agreed, as regards old people or grown-ups who have to live in
a not very enlightened milieu. But if one is dealing with chil
dren, the seed of the future, isn't it a sacred duty to enlighten
them about the shaky foundations of the so-called moral con
ceptions of the past, which have only a dogmatic basis, and to
educate them to full freedom by courageously unveiling the
truth? I ask this not so much with respect to the analysing doc
tor as with respect to the educator. Should not the founding of
progressive schools be regarded as a task for the psychoanalyst?
From Dr. Jung
11 February 1913
620 The relativity of "truth" has been known for ages and does
not stand in the way of anything, and if it did would merely
prevent belief in dogmas and authority. But it does not even
do that.
621 You ask me or rather tell me what psychoanalysis is. Be
fore considering your views, permit me first to try to mark out
the territory and give a definition of psychoanalysis.
622 Psychoanalysis is first of all simply a method but a method
complying with all the rigorous requirements which the con
cept of a "method" implies today. Let me say at once that psy
choanalysis is not an anamnesis, as those who know everything
without learning it are pleased to believe. It is essentially a way
of investigating unconscious associations which cannot be got
at by exploring the conscious mind. Again, psychoanalysis is not
a method of examination in the nature of an intelligence test,
though this mistake is common in certain circles. Nor is it a
method of catharsis for abreacting, with or without hypnosis,
real or imaginary traumata.
623 Psychoanalysis is a method which makes possible the analyti
cal reduction of psychic contents to their simplest expression,
and for discovering the line of least resistance in the develop
ment of a harmonious personality. In neurosis there is no uni
form direction of life because contrary tendencies frustrate and
prevent psychological adaptation. Psychoanalysis, so far as we
can judge at present, seems to be the only rational therapy of
the neuroses.
624 No programme can be formulated for the technical applica
tion of psychoanalysis. There are only general principles, and
working rules for individual analysis. (For the latter I would
refer you to Freud's work in Vol. I of the Internationale Zeitscrift
fur drztliche Psychoanalyse.
) My only working rule is to
conduct the analysis as a perfectly ordinary, sensible conversa
tion, and to avoid all appearance of medical magic.
625 The main principle of psychoanalytic technique is to analyse
the psychic contents that present themselves at a given moment.
Any interference on the part of the analyst, with the object of
forcing the analysis to follow a systematic course, is a gross mis
take in technique. So-called chance is the law and order of psy
626 At the beginning of the analysis the anamnesis and diagnosis
naturally come first. The subsequent analytic procedure de
velops quite differently in every case. To give rules is almost
impossible. All one can say is that very frequently, right at the
beginning, a number of resistances have to be overcome, re
sistances against both the method and the analyst. Patients who
have no notion of psychoanalysis must first be given some un
derstanding of the method. With those who already know some
thing of it there are very often misconceptions to be set right,
and also all those objections to be answered which are levelled
by scientific criticism. In either case the misconceptions are due
to arbitrary interpretations, superficiality, and gross ignorance
of the facts.
627 If the patient is himself a doctor his habit of knowing better
may prove extremely tiresome. With intelligent colleagues a
thorough theoretical discussion is worth while. With the unin
telligent and bigoted ones you begin quietly with the analysis.
In the unconscious of such folk you have a confederate who
never lets you down. The very first dreams demonstrate the
wretched inadequacy of their criticism, so that from the whole
beautiful edifice of supposedly scientific scepticism nothing re
mains over but a little heap of personal vanity. I have had very
amusing experiences in this respect.
8 ["On Beginning the Treatment (Further Recommendations on the Technique
of Psycho-Analysis I)" (19 13). EDITORS.]
628 it is best to let the patients talk freely and to confine yourself
to pointing out a connection here and there. When the conscious
material is exhausted you go on to dreams, which give you the
subliminal material. If people have no dreams, as they allege,
or forget them, there is usually still some conscious material that
ought to be produced and discussed, but is kept back owing to
resistances. When the conscious is emptied then come the
dreams, which as you know are the chief object of analysis.
629 How the analysis is to be conducted and what is to be said
to the patient depends, first, on the material to be dealt with;
second, on the analyst's skill; and third, on the patient's capacity.
I must emphasize that no one should undertake an analysis ex
cept on the basis of a sound knowledge of the subject, and this
means a thorough knowledge of the existing literature. With
out this, the work will only be bungled.
63 I do not know what else to tell you beforehand. I must wait
for further questions.
63* As to the question of morality and education, let me say that
these things belong to a later stage of the analysis, when they
find or should findtheir own solution. You cannot make
recipes out of psychoanalysis!
From Dr. Loy
16 February 1913
632 You write that a sound knowledge of the literature is neces
sary for an introduction to psychoanalysis. I agree, but with one
reservation: the more one reads of it the more clearly one sees
how many contradictions there are among the different writers,
and less and less does one know until one has had sufficient
personal experience to which view to give adherence, since
quite frequently assertions are made without any proof. For
example, I had thought (strengthened in this view by my own
experience of suggestion therapy) that the transference to the
analyst might be an essential condition of the patient's cure. But
you write: "We psychoanalysts do not bank on the patient's
faith, but on his criticism" As against this Stekel writes ("Ausgange
der psychoanalytischen Kuren," Zentralblatt ]ur Psycho
analyse, III, 1912-13, p. 176): "Love for the analyst can become
a force conducive to recovery. Neurotics never get well for love
of themselves, they get well for love of the analyst. They do it
to please him . . ." Here again; surely, the accent is on the
power of suggestion? And yet Stekel, too, thinks he is a psycho
analyst pure and simple. On the other hand you remark in your
letter of January 28: "The personality of the analyst is one of
the main factors in the cure." Should not this be translated as:
When the analyst inspires respect in the patient and is worthy
of his love, the patient will follow his example in order to please
him, and will endeavour to get over his neurosis so as to fulfil
his human duties in the widest sense of the word?
633 I think one can only emerge from all this uncertainty when
one has gained sufficient personal experience, and then one will
also know which procedure is best suited to one's own person
ality and gives the best therapeutic results. This is another rea
son for submitting to an analysis oneself, to find out what one
is. I am very much in agreement with your definition of psycho
analysis in its negative sense: psychoanalysis is neither an anam
nesis nor a method of examination like an intelligence test, nor
yet a psychocatharsis. But your definition in the positive sense,
that "psychoanalysis is a method for discovering the line of least
resistance in the development of a harmonious personality,"
seems to me to apply only to the laziness of the patient, but not
to the releasing of sublimated libido for a new aim in life.
634 You say that in neurosis there is no uniform direction be
cause contrary tendencies prevent psychic adaptation. True, but
will not psychic adaptation turn out quite differently according
to whether the patient, now cured, re-directs his life simply to
the avoidance of pain (line of least resistance) or to the attain
ment of the greatest pleasure? In the first case he would be more
passive, and would simply reconcile himself to the "soberness
of reality" (Stekel, p. 187). In the second case he would be "filled
with enthusiasm" for something or other, or for some person.
But what determines whether he will be more active or more
passive in his "second" life? In your opinion, does this deter
mining factor appear spontaneously in the course of analysis,
and should the analyst carefully avoid tilting the balance to one
side or the other by his influence? Or will he, if he does not re
frain from canalizing the patient's libido in a definite direction,
have to renounce the right to be called a psychoanalyst at all,
and is he to be regarded as a "moderate" or a "radical"? (Fiirt-
muller, "Wandlungen in der Freud'schen Schule," Zentralblatt,
III, p. 191.) But I think you have already answered this ques
tion in advance when you write in your letter of February 1 1 :
"Any interference on the part of the analyst is a gross mistake
in technique. So-called chance is the law and order of psycho
analysis." But, torn from its context, perhaps this sentence does
not quite give your whole meaning.
635 With regard to enlightening the patient about the psycho
analytic method before beginning the analysis, you appear to be
in agreement with Freud and Stekel: better too little than too
much. For knowledge pumped into a patient remains halfknowledge
anyway, and half-knowledge begets "wanting to know
better," which only impedes progress. So, after a brief explana
tion, first let the patient talk, pointing out a connection here
and there, then, after the conscious material is exhausted, go on
to the dreams.
636 But here another obstacle stands in my way, which I have
already mentioned at our interview: you find the patient adopt
ing the tone, language, or jargon of the analyst (whether from
conscious imitation, transference, or plain defiance, so as to fight
the analyst with his own weapons) how then can you prevent
his starting to produce all manner of fantasies as supposedly real
traumata of early childhood, and dreams which are supposedly
spontaneous but in reality, whether directly or indirectly, albeit
involuntarily, are suggested?
637 I told you at the time that Forel (in Der Hypnotismus) made
his patients dream just what he wanted, and I myself have easily
repeated this experiment. But if the analyst wants to suggest
nothing, must he keep silent most of the time and let the patient
talk except that, when interpreting the dreams, he may put his
own interpretation to the patient?
From Dr. Jung
18 February 1913
I cannot but agree with your observation that confusion
reigns in psychoanalytic literature. Just at this moment different
points of view are developing in the theoretical assessment of
analytic results, not to mention the many individual deviations.
Over against Freud's almost entirely causal conception there
has developed, apparently in absolute contradiction to Freud,
Adler's purely finalist view, though in reality it is an essential
complement to Freud's theory. I hold rather to a middle course,
taking account of both standpoints. It is not surprising that
great disagreement prevails with regard to the ultimate ques
tions of psychoanalysis when you consider how difficult they are.
In particular, the problem of the therapeutic effect of psycho
analysis is bound up with the most difficult questions of all, so
that it would indeed be astonishing if we had already reached
final certitude.
639 Stekel's remark is very characteristic. What he says about
love for the analyst is obviously true, but it is simply a state
ment of fact and not a goal or a guiding principle of analytical
therapy. If it were the goal, many cures, it is true, would be pos
sible, but also many failures might result which could be
avoided. The goal is to educate the patient in such a way that
he will get well for his own sake and by reason of his own de
termination, and not in order to procure his analyst some kind
of advantagethough of course it would be absurd from the
therapeutic standpoint not to allow the patient to get well be
cause he simply wants to do his analyst a good turn. The patient
should know what he is doing, that's all. It is not for us to pre
scribe for him the ways by which he should get well. Naturally
it seems to me (from the psychoanalytic point of view) an ille
gitimate use of suggestive influence if the patient is forced to
get well out of love for his analyst. This kind of coercion some
times takes a bitter revenge. The "y u must and shall be saved"
attitude is no more to be commended in the therapy of the neu
roses than in any other department of life. Besides, it contradicts
the principles of analytic treatment, which shuns all coercion
and tries to let everything grow up from within. I am not op
posed, as you know, to suggestive influence in general, but
merely to doubtful motivations. If the analyst demands that his
patient shall get well out of love for him, the patient may
easily reckon on reciprocal services, and will without doubt
try to extort them. I can only utter a warning against any such
practice. A far stronger motive for recovery also a far healthier
and ethically more valuable one is the patient's thorough in
sight into the real situation, his recognition of things as they are
and how they should be. If he is worth his salt he will then real-
ize that he can hardly remain sitting in the morass of neurosis.
340 I cannot agree with your interpretation of my remarks on
the healing effect of the analyst's personality. I wrote 9 that his
personality had a healing effect because the patient reads the
personality of the analyst, and not that he gets well out of love
for the analyst. The analyst cannot prevent him from beginning
to behave towards his conflicts as he himself behaves, for nothing
is finer than the empathy of a neurotic. But every strong trans
ference serves this purpose too. If the analyst makes himself
amiable to the patient, he simply buys off a lot of resistances
which the patient ought to have overcome, and which he will
quite certainly have to overcome later on. So nothing is gained
by this technique; at most the beginning of the analysis is made
easier for the patient, though in certain cases this is not without
its uses. To have to crawl through a barbed-wire fence without
having some enticing end in view testifies to an ascetic strength
of will which you can expect neither from the ordinary person
nor from the neurotic. Even Christianity, whose moral demands
are set very high, has not scorned to dangle before us the king
dom of heaven as the goal and reward of earthly endeavour. In
my view the analyst is entitled to speak of the advantages which
follow from the ardours of analysis. Only, he should not repre
sent himself or his friendship, by hints or promises, as a reward,
unless he is seriously resolved to make it so.
'4 1 As to your criticism of my tentative definition of psycho
analysis, it must be observed that the road over a steep moun
tain is the line of least resistance when a ferocious bull awaits
you in the pleasant valley road. In other words, the line of least
resistance is a compromise with all eventualities, not just with
laziness. It is a prejudice to think that the line of least resist
ance coincides with the path of inertia. (That's what we thought
when we dawdled over our Latin exercises at school.) Laziness
is a temporary advantage only and leads to consequences which
involve the worst resistances. On the whole, therefore, it does
not coincide with the line of least resistance. Nor is life along
the line of least resistance synonymous with the ruthless pursuit
of selfish desires. Anyone who lived like that would soon re
alize with sorrow that he was not following the line of least
9 [Presumably a reference to par. 587, or to an unpublished letter. EDITORS.]
resistance, because man is also a social being and not just a bun
dle o egoistic instincts, as some people pretend. You can see
this best with primitives and domestic animals, who all have a
well-developed social sense. Without some such function the
herd could not exist at all. Man as a herd-animal, too, has not by
any manner of means to subordinate himself to laws imposed
from without; he carries his social imperatives within himself,
a priori, as an inborn necessity. Here, as you see, I place myself
in decided opposition to certain views quite unjustified, in my
opinion which have been expressed here and there inside the
psychoanalytic school.
642 Accordingly the line of least resistance does not signify eo
ipso the avoidance of pain so much as the just balancing of pain
and pleasure. Painful activity by itself leads to no result but
exhaustion. A man must be able to enjoy life, otherwise the
effort of living is not worth while.
643 What direction the patient's life should take in the future is
not ours to judge. We must not imagine that we know better
than his own nature, or we would prove ourselves educators of
the worst kind. (Fundamental ideas of a similar nature have also
been worked out by the Montessori school.10
) Psychoanalysis is
only a means for removing the stones from the path of develop
ment, and not a method (as hypnotism often claims to be) of
putting things into the patient that were not there before. It is
better to renounce any attempt to give direction, and simply
try to throw into relief everything that the analysis brings to
light, so that the patient can see it clearly and be able to draw
suitable conclusions. Anything he has not acquired himself he
will not believe in the long run, and what he takes over from
authority merely keeps him infantile. He should rather be put
in a position to take his own life in hand. The art of analysis
lies in following the patient on all his erring ways and so gather
ing his strayed sheep together. Working to programme, on a
preconceived system, we spoil the best effects of analysis. I must
therefore hold fast to the sentence you object to: "Any inter
ference on the part of the analyst is a gross mistake in technique.
So-called chance is the law and order of psychoanalysis."
644 As you must know, we still cannot give up the pedantic preju-
[Dr. Maria Montessori (1870-1952) published The Montessori Method in 1912.
dice of wanting to correct nature and force our limited "truths"
on her. But in the therapy of the neuroses we meet with so many
strange, unforeseen and unforeseeable experiences that all hope
should vanish of our knowing better and being able to pre
scribe the way. The roundabout way and even the wrong way
are necessary. If you deny this you must also deny that the mis
takes of history were necessary. That is the pedant's-eye view of
the world. This attitude is no good in psychoanalysis.
645 The question as to how much the analyst involuntarily sug
gests to the patient is a very ticklish one. It certainly plays a
much more important role than psychoanalysis has so far ad
mitted. Experience has convinced me that patients rapidly be
gin to make use of ideas picked up from psychoanalysis, as is
also apparent in their dreams. You get many impressions of this
sort from StekeFs book Die Sprache des Traumes. I once had
a very instructive experience: a very intelligent lady had from
the beginning long-drawn-out transference fantasies which ap
peared in the usual erotic guise. But she absolutely refused to
admit their existence. Naturally she was betrayed by her dreams,
in which, however, my person was always hidden under some
other figure, often rather difficult to make out. A long series of
such dreams finally compelled me to remark: "So, you see, it's
always like that, the person you are really dreaming about is
replaced and masked by someone else in the manifest dream."
Till then she had obstinately denied this mechanism. But this
time she could no longer evade it and had to admit my working
rule but only to play a trick on me. Next day she brought me
a dream in which she and I appeared in a manifestly lascivious
situation. I was naturally perplexed and thought of my rule.
Her first association to the dream was the malicious question:
"It's always true, isn't it, that the person you are really dream
ing about is replaced by someone else in the manifest dream?"
646 Clearly, she had made use of her experience to find a pro
tective formula by which she could express her fantasies openly
in a quite innocent way.
647 This example shows at once how patients use insights they
have gained from analysis. They use them for the purpose of
symbolization. You get caught in your own net if you believe
in fixed, unalterable symbols. That has happened to more than
one psychoanalyst. It is therefore a fallacious and risky business
to try to exemplify any particular theory with dreams aris
ing from an analysis. Proof can only come from the dreams of
demonstrably uninfluenced persons. In such cases one would
have to exclude at most telepathic thought-reading. But if you
concede this possibility, you would have to subject many other
things to a rigorous scrutiny, including judicial verdicts.
648 Although we must pay full attention to the element of sug
gestion, we should not go too far. The patient is not an empty
sack into which we can stuff whatever we like; he brings his
own particular contents with him which stubbornly resist sug
gestion and push themselves again and again to the fore. Ana
lytic "suggestions" merely distort the expression, but not the
content, as I have seen countless times. The expression varies
without limit, but the content is fixed and can only be got at
in the long run, and then with difficulty. Were it not so, sug
gestion therapy would be in every sense the most effective and
rewarding and easiest therapy, a true panacea. Unfortunately
it is not, as every honest hypnotist will readily admit.
649 To come back to your question as to whether it is possible
for patients to trick the analyst by making deceptive use per
haps involuntarily of his mode of expression, this is indeed a
very serious problem. The analyst must exercise all possible
care and self-criticism not to let himself be led astray by his
patient's dreams. One can say that patients almost invariably
use in their dreams, to a greater or lesser extent, the mode of
expression learnt in analysis. Interpretations of earlier symbols
will themselves be used again as fresh symbols in later dreams.
It often happens, for instance, that sexual situations which ap
peared in earlier dreams in symbolic form will appear "un
disguised" in later ones once more, be it noted, in symbolic
form as analysable expressions for ideas of a different nature
hidden behind them. Thus the not infrequent dream of inces
tuous cohabitation is by no means an "undisguised" content,
but a dream as freshly symbolic and capable of analysis as all
others. You can only arrive at the paradoxical idea that such a
dream is "undisguised" if you are pledged to the sexual theory
of neurosis.
65<> That the patient may mislead the analyst for a longer or
shorter time by means of deliberate deception and misrepre
sentation is possible, as in all other branches of medicine. But
the patient injures himself most, since he has to pay for every
deception or subterfuge with an aggravation of his symptoms,
or with fresh ones. Deception is so obviously disadvantageous
to himself that he can scarcely avoid relinquishing such a course
for good.
651 The technique of analysis we can best postpone for oral
From Dr. Loy
23 February 1913
652 From your letter of 18 February I would like first to single
out the end, where you so aptly assign the element of sugges
tion its proper place in psychoanalysis: "The patient is not an
empty sack into which we can stuff whatever we like; he brings
his own particular contents with him, with which you have
always to reckon afresh" [sic]. With this I fully agree, as my
own experience confirms it. And you add: involuntary analytic
suggestions will leave this content intact, but the expression,
Proteus-like, can be distorted without limit. Hence it would
be a kind of "mimicry," by which the patient seeks to escape
the analyst who is driving him into a corner and for the mo
ment seems to him an enemy. Until at last, through the joint
work of patient and analyst the former spontaneously yielding
up his psychic content, the latter only interpreting and explain
ingthe analysis succeeds in bringing so much light into the
darkness of the patient's psyche that he can see the true relation
ships and, without any preconceived plan of the analyst's, draw
the right conclusions and apply them to his future life. This
new life will follow the line of least resistance or should we
not rather say of least resistances as a "compromise with all
eventualities," in a just balancing of pain and pleasure. It is not
for us to decide arbitrarily for the patient how matters stand
and what will benefit him; his own nature decides. In other
words, we should take over approximately the role of a mid
wife, who can only bring out into the light of day a child al
ready alive, but who has to avoid a number of mistakes if the
child is to remain alive and the mother is not to be injured.
653 All this is very clear to me because it is only an application
to psychoanalytic procedure of a principle which should be
generally valid: Never do violence to Nature! Hence I also see
that the psychoanalyst must follow his patient's apparently
"erring ways" if the patient is ever to arrive at his own convic
tions and be freed once and for all from infantile reliance on
authority. We ourselves as individuals have learnt and can only
learn by making mistakes how to avoid them in the future, and
mankind as a whole has created the conditions for its present
and future stages of development quite as much by following
the crooked path as by keeping to the straight one. Have not
many neurotics I do not know if you will agree, but I think
so become ill partly because their infantile faith in authority
has gone to pieces? Now they stand before the wreckage of their
faith, weeping over it, and terrified because they cannot find a
substitute which would show them clearly where they have to
turn. So they remain stuck between the infantilisms they are
unwilling to renounce and the serious tasks of the present and
future (moral conflict). I also see, particularly in such cases,
how right you are in saying that it would be a mistake to try
to replace their lost faith in authority by another faith in au
thority, which would be useful only as long as it lasted. This
passes a verdict on the deliberate use of suggestive influence in
psychoanalysis, and on regarding the "transference to the ana
lyst" as the goal of analytic therapy. I no longer contest your
dictum: "Every interference on the part of the analyst is a
gross mistake in technique. So-called chance is the law and or
der of psychoanalysis.
Further, I am in entire agreement when
you say that altruism [sic] must necessarily be innate in man as
a herd-animal. The contrary would be the thing to wonder at.
<>54 I am very much inclined to assume that not the egoistic but
the altruistic instincts are primary. Love and trust of the child
for the mother who feeds it, nurses, cherishes and pets it; love
of man for wife, regarded as absorption in another's personality;
love for offspring, care of them; love for kinsfolk, etc. Whereas
the egoistic instincts owe their existence only to the desire for
exclusive possession of the object of love, the desire to possess
the mother exclusively, in opposition to the father and brother
and sisters, the desire to have a woman for oneself alone, the
desire for jewellery, clothes, etc. . . . But perhaps you will say
I am being paradoxical and that the instincts, whether altruistic
or egoistic, arise together in the heart of man, and that every
instinct is ambivalent by nature. But I ask: are our feelings and
instincts really ambivalent? Are they perhaps bipolar? Can the
qualities of emotions be compared at all? Is love really the op
posite of hate?
655 Be that as it may, it is lucky that man carries his social im
peratives within himself as an inborn necessity, otherwise our
civilized humanity would be in a bad way, having to submit to
laws imposed only from without: when the earlier religious
faith in authority died out we would rapidly and infallibly fall
into complete anarchy. We would then have to ask ourselves
whether it would not be better to try to maintain by force an
exclusively religious belief in authority, as the Middle Ages
did. For the benefits of civilization, which strives to grant every
individual as much outward freedom as is consistent with the
freedom of others, would be well worth such a sacrifice as the
sacrifice of free research. But the age of this use of force against
nature is past, civilized mankind has abandoned these erroneous
ways, not out of caprice, but obeying an inner need, and there
fore we may look forward with joyful anticipation to the future.
Mankind, advancing in knowledge and obeying its own law, will
find its way across the ruins of faith in authority to the moral
autonomy of the individual.
From Dr. Jung
March 1913
656 At various places in your letters it has struck me that the
problem of the "transference" seems to you particularly critical
Your feeling is entirely justified. The transference is indeed at
present the central problem of analysis.
657 You know that Freud regards the transference as a projection
of infantile fantasies upon the analyst. To that extent it is an
infantile-erotic relationship. However, seen from outside, and
superficially, the thing does not always look like an infantileerotic
relationship by any means. So long as it is a case of a
so-called positive transference, you can as a rule recognize the
infantile-erotic content of the transference without much diffi
culty. But if it is a so-called negative transference, you see noth
ing but violent resistances which sometimes disguise themselves
in theoretical, seemingly critical or sceptical forms. In a certain
sense the determining factor in these relationships is the pa
tient's relationship to authority, that is, in the last resort, to his
father. In both forms of transference the analyst is treated as if
he were the father either with affection or with hostility. Ac
cording to this view of the transference it acts as a resistance as
soon as the question arises of resolving the infantile attitude.
But this form of transference must be destroyed in so far as the
aim of analysis is the patient's moral autonomy.
658 A lofty aim, you will say. Lofty indeed, and far off, but still
not altogether so remote, since it actually corresponds to one
of the predominating trends of our stage of civilization the
urge towards individualization, which might serve as a motto
for our whole epoch. (Cf. Miiller-Lyer, The Family.} Anyone
who does not believe in this ultimate aim but still adheres to
the old scientific causalism will naturally tend to take only the
hostile element out of the transference and let the patient re
main in a positive relationship to the father, in accordance with
the ideals of a past epoch. As we know, the Catholic Church is
one of the most powerful organizations based on this tendency.
I do not venture to doubt that there are very many people who
feel happier under the coercion of others than when forced
to discipline themselves (see Shaw's Man and Superman). None
the less, we would be doing our neurotic patients a grievous
wrong if we tried to force them all into the category of the co
erced. Among neurotics, there are not a few who do not require
any reminders of their social duties and obligations, but are
born and destined rather to be bearers of new cultural ideals.
They are neurotic as long as they bow down before authority
and refuse the freedom to which they are destined. As long as
we look at life only retrospectively, as is the case in the psy
choanalytic writings of the Viennese school, we shall never do
justice to these persons and never bring them the longed-for
deliverance. For in this way we train them only to be obedient
children and thereby strengthen the very forces that made them
ill their conservative backwardness and submission to author
ity. Up to a point this is the right way to take with people suf
fering from an infantile insubordination who cannot yet adapt
to authority. But the impulse which drives the others out of
their conservative father-relationship is by no means an infan
tile wish for insubordination; it is a powerful urge to develop
their own personality, and the struggle for this is for them an
imperative duty. Adler's psychology does much greater justice
to this situation than Freud's.
659 For one type of person (called the infantile-rebel) a posi
tive transference is, to begin with, an important achievement
with a healing significance; for the other (the infantile-obedient)
it is a dangerous backsliding, a convenient way of evading life's
duties. For the first a negative transference denotes increased
insubordination, hence a backsliding and an evasion of life's
duties, for the second it is a step forward with a healing signifi
cance. (For the two types see Adler, "Trotz und Gehorsam,"
Monatshefte fur Pddagogik und Schulpolitik,, VIII, 1910.)
660 So the transference must, as you see, be evaluated quite dif
ferently according to the type of case.
661 The psychological process of transference whether negative
or positive consists in a "libidinal investment" of the personal
ity of the analyst, that is to say he stands for an emotional value.
(As you know, by libido I mean very much what the ancients
meant by the cosmogonic principle of Eros, or in modern lan
guage, "psychic energy/') The patient is bound to the analyst
by ties of affection or resistance and cannot help following and
imitating his psychic attitude. By this means he feels his way
along (empathy). And with the best will in the world and for
all his technical skill the analyst cannot prevent it, for empathy
works surely and instinctively in spite of conscious judgment,
be it never so strong. If the analyst himself is neurotic and in
sufficiently adapted to the demands of life or of his own per
sonality, the patient will copy this defect and reflect it in his
own attitudes: with what results you can imagine.
66* Accordingly I cannot regard the transference merely as a
projection of infantile-erotic fantasies. No doubt that is what it
is from one standpoint, but I also see in it, as I said in an earlier
letter, a process of empathy and adaptation. From this stand
point, the infantile-erotic fantasies, in spite of their undeniable
reality, appear rather as a means of comparison or as analogical
images for something not yet understood than as independent
wishes. This seems to me the real reason why they are uncon
scious. The patient, not knowing the right attitude, tries to
grasp at the right relationship to the analyst by way of com
parison and analogy with his infantile experiences. It is not
surprising that he gropes back to just the most intimate rela
tionships of his childhood in the attempt to discover the ap
propriate formula for his relationship to the analyst, for this
relationship is very intimate too but differs from the sexual
relationship as much as does that of a child to its parents. This
latter relationship child to parent which Christianity has
everywhere set up as a symbolic formula for human relation
ships in general, serves to restore to the patient that direct feel
ing of human fellowship of which he has been deprived by the
incursions of sexual and social valuations (valuations from the
standpoint of power, etc.). The purely sexual and other more or
less primitive and barbaric valuations militate against a direct,
purely human relationship, and this creates a damming up of
libido which may easily give rise to neurotic formations.
Through analysis of the infantile content of the transference
fantasies the patient is brought back to a remembrance of the
childhood relationship, which, stripped of its infantile qualities,
gives him a clear picture of a direct human relationship over
and above merely sexual valuations, etc. I can only regard it as a
misconception to judge the child-relationship retrospectively as
a merely sexual one, even though a certain sexual content can
not be denied.
>63 Recapitulating, I would like to say this of the positive trans
The patient's libido fastens on the person of the analyst in
the form of expectation, hope, interest, trust, friendship, and
love. The transference first produces a projection of infantile
fantasies, often with a predominantly erotic tinge. At this stage
it is, as a rule, of a decidedly sexual character, even though
the sexual component remains relatively unconscious. But this
emotional process serves as a bridge for the higher aspect of
empathy, whereby the patient becomes conscious of the inade
quacy of his own attitude through recognition of the analyst's
attitude, which is accepted as being adapted to life's demands
and as normal. Through remembrance of the childhood rela
tionship with the help of analysis the patient is shown the way
which leads out of the subsidiary, purely sexual or power values
acquired in puberty and reinforced by social prejudice. This
road leads to a purely human relationship and to an intimacy
based not on the existence of sexual or power factors but on the
value of personality. That is the road to freedom which the
analyst should show his patient.
664 I ought not to conceal from you at this point that the stub
born assertion of sexual values would not be maintained so
tenaciously if they did not have a profound significance for that
period of life in which propagation is of primary importance.
The discovery of the value of human personality is reserved for
a riper age. For young people the search for personality values
is very often a pretext for evading their biological duty. Con
versely, the exaggerated longing of an older person for the
sexual values of youth is a short-sighted and often cowardly eva
sion of a duty which demands recognition of the value of per
sonality and submission to the hierarchy of cultural values. The
young neurotic shrinks back in terror from the expansion of
life's duties, the old one from the dwindling of the treasures he
has attained.
665 This view of the transference is, as you will have observed,
closely connected with the acceptance of biological "duties/* By
this I mean the tendencies or determinants that produce cul
ture in man with the same logic as in the bird they produce the
artfully woven nest, and antlers in the stag. The purely causal,
not to say materialistic views of the last few decades seek to
explain all organic formation as the reaction of living matter,
and though this is undoubtedly a heuristically valuable line
of inquiry, as far as any real explanation goes it amounts only
to a more or less ingenious postponement and apparent mini
mizing of the problem. I would remind you of Bergson's excel
lent criticism in this respect. External causes can account for at
most half the reaction, the other half is due to the peculiar attri
butes of living matter itself, without which the specific reaction
formation could never come about at all. We have to apply this
principle also in psychology. The psyche does not merely react,
it gives its own specific answer to the influences at work upon it,
and at least half the resulting formation is entirely due to
the psyche and the determinants inherent within it. Culture
can never be understood as reaction to environment. That shal
low explanation can safely be left to the past century. It is just
these determinants that appear as psychological imperatives, and
we have daily proof of their compelling power. What I call
"biological duty" is identical with these determinants.
666 In conclusion, I must take up one point which seems to have
caused you uneasiness. That is the moral question. Among our
patients we observe so many so-called immoral impulses that
the thought involuntarily forces itself on the psychotherapist
how it would be if all these desires were gratified. You will have
seen from my earlier letters that these desires should not be
taken too seriously. Mostly they are boundlessly exaggerated
demands which are thrust to the forefront by the patient's
dammed-up libido, usually against his will. The canalizing of
libido for the fulfilment of life's simple duties is in most cases
sufficient to reduce the pressure of these desires to zero. But in
certain cases it is a recognized fact that "immoral" tendencies
are not got rid of by analysis, but appear more and more clearly
until it becomes evident that they belong to the biological du
ties of the individual. This is particularly true of certain sexual
demands aiming at an individual evaluation of sexuality. This
is not a question for pathology, it is a social question of today
which imperatively demands an ethical solution. For many it is
a biological duty to work for a solution of this question, i.e., to
find some sort of practical solution. (Nature, as we know, is not
satisfied with theories.) Nowadays we have no real sexual moral
ity, only a legalistic attitude to sexuality; just as the Middle Ages
had no real morality of money-making but only prejudices and
a legalistic point of view. We are not yet far enough advanced
to distinguish between moral and immoral behaviour in the
realm of free sexual activity. This is clearly expressed in the
customary treatment, or rather ill-treatment, of unmarried
mothers. All the repulsive hypocrisy, the high tide of prostitu
tion and of venereal diseases, we owe to the barbarous, whole
sale legal condemnation of certain kinds of sexual behaviour,
and to our inability to develop a finer moral sense for the
enormous psychological differences that exist in the domain of
free sexual activity.
667 The existence of this exceedingly complicated and signifi
cant contemporary problem may serve to make clear to you why
we so often find among our patients people who, because of
their spiritual and social gifts, are quite specifically called to
take an active part in the work of civilization that is their bi
ological destiny. We should never forget that what today seems
to us a moral commandment will tomorrow be cast into the
melting-pot and transformed, so that in the near or distant fu
ture it may serve as a basis for new ethical formations. This
much we ought to have learnt from the history of civilization,
that the forms of morality belong to the category of transitory
things. The finest psychological tact is needed with these sensi
tive natures if they are to turn the dangerous corner of infantile
irresponsibility, indolence, or licentiousness, and to give the
patient a clear and unclouded vision of the possibility of mor
ally autonomous behaviour. Five per cent on money lent is fair
interest, twenty per cent is despicable usury. We have to apply
this view to the sexual situation as well.
668 So it comes about that there are many neurotics whose inner
decency prevents them from being at one with present-day
morality and who cannot adapt themselves so long as the moral
code has gaps in it which it is the crying need of our age to fill.
We deceive ourselves greatly if we think that many married
women are neurotic merely because they are unsatisfied sexu
ally or because they have not found the right man or because
they have an infantile sexual fixation. The real reason in many
cases is that they cannot recognize the cultural task that is wait
ing for them. We all have far too much the standpoint of the
"nothing but" psychology, that is, we still think that the new
future which is pressing in at the door can be squeezed into the
framework of what is already known. And so these people see
only the present and not the future. It was of profound psycho
logical significance when Christianity first proclaimed that the
orientation to the future was the redeeming principle for man
kind. In the past nothing can be altered, and in the present lit
tle, but the future is ours and capable of raising life's intensity
to the highest pitch. A little span of youth belongs to us, all the
rest belongs to our children.
669 Thus your question about the significance of the loss of faith
in authority answers itself. The neurotic is ill not because he
has lost his old faith, but because he has not yet found a new
form for his finest aspirations.
First Edition
67 This volume contains a selection of articles and pamphlets
on analytical psychology written at intervals during the past
fourteen years.
2 These years have seen the development of a
new discipline and, as is usual in such a case, have involved many
changes of viewpoint, conception, and formulation.
67* It is not my intention to present the fundamental concepts
of analytical psychology in this book. The volume does, how
ever, throw some light on a certain line of development which
is especially characteristic of the Zurich school of psychoanalysis.
6?s As is well known, the merit of discovering the new analytical
method of general psychology belongs to Professor Freud of
Vienna. His original views have had to undergo many impor
tant modifications, some of them owing to the work done at
Zurich, in spite of the fact that he himself is far from agreeing
with the standpoint of this school.
673 I cannot here explain the fundamental differences between
1 [Published in Collected Papers on Analytical Psychology, edited by Dr. Con
stance E. Long (London, 1916; 2nd edn., London, 1917, and New York, 1920). The
prefaces were probably written in German and translated by Dr. Long; they are
published here with minor revisions. EDITORS.]
2 [Contents of ist edition and location in the Coll. Works: "On the Psychology
and Pathology of So-called Occult Phenomena" (Vol. i); "The Association
Method": Lecture I, untitled, and Lecture II, "The Familial Constellations"
(Vol. 2); Lecture III, "The Psychic Life of the Child" (Vol. 16, as "Psychic Con
flicts in a Child"); "The Significance of the Father in the Destiny of the Indi
vidual," "A Contribution to the Psychology of Rumour," and "On the Signifi
cance of Number Dreams" (Vol. 4); "A Criticism of Bleuler's 'Theory of
Schizophrenic Negativism'
(Vol. 3); "Psychoanalysis" and "On Psychoanalysis"
(Vol. 4, as "Concerning Psychoanalysis" and "Psychoanalysis and Neurosis"); "On
Some Crucial Points in Psychoanalysis" (Vol. 4); "On the Importance of the Un
conscious in Psychopathology" (Vol. 3); "A Contribution to the Study of Psycho
logical Types" (Vol. 6); "The Psychology of Dreams" (Vol. 8, as "General Aspects
of Dream Psychology"); "The Content of the Psychoses" (Vol. 3); and "New Paths
in Psychology" (Vol. 7, appendix; see n. 4, infra). EDITORS.]
the two schools but would mention only the following: The
Viennese School adopts an exclusively sexualistic standpoint
while that of the Zurich School is symbolistic. The Viennese
School interprets the psychological symbol semiotically, as a
sign or token of certain primitive psychosexual processes. Its
method is analytical and causal. The Zurich School recognizes
the scientific possibility of such a conception but denies its ex
clusive validity, for it does not interpret the psychological sym
bol semiotically only but also symbolistically, that is, it attri
butes a positive value to the symbol.
674 The value of the symbol does not depend merely on histori
cal causes; its chief importance lies in the fact that it has a
meaning for the actual present and for the future, in their
psychological aspects. For the Zurich School the symbol is not
merely a sign of something repressed and concealed, but is at
the same time an attempt to comprehend and to point the way
to the further psychological development of the individual. Thus
we add a prospective meaning to the retrospective value of the
675 The method of the Zurich School, therefore, is not only ana
lytical and causal but synthetic and prospective, in recognition
of the fact that the human mind is characterized by fines (aims)
as well as by causae. This deserves particular emphasis, because
there are two types of psychology, the one following the princi
ple of hedonism, the other the power principle. The philosophi
cal counterpart of the former type is scientific materialism and
of the latter the philosophy of Nietzsche. The principle of the
Freudian theory is hedonism, while the theory of Adler (one
of Freud's earliest personal pupils) is founded on the power
676 The Zurich School, recognizing the existence of these two
types (also remarked by the late Professor William James), con
siders that the views of Freud and Adler are one-sided and valid
only within the limits of their corresponding type. Both prin
ciples exist in every individual though not in equal proportions.
677 Thus, it is obvious that every psychological symbol has two
aspects and should be interpreted in accordance with both prin
ciples. Freud and Adler interpret in the analytical and causal
way reducing to the infantile and primitive. Thus with Freud
the conception of the "aim" is the fulfilment of the wish, while
with Adler it is the usurpation of power. In their practical ana
lytical work both authors take the standpoint which brings to
light only infantile and grossly egoistic aims.
678 The Zurich School is convinced that within the limits of a
diseased mental attitude the psychology is such as Freud and
Adler describe. It is, indeed, just on account of such an impos
sible and childish psychology that the individual is in a state of
inner dissociation and hence neurotic. The Zurich School, there
fore, in agreement with them so far, also reduces the psychologi
cal symbol (the fantasy-products of the patient) to his funda
mental infantile hedonism or infantile desire for power. Freud
and Adler content themselves with the result of mere reduction,
which accords with their scientific biologism and naturalism.
679 But here a very important question arises. Can man obey
the fundamental and primitive impulses of his nature without
gravely injuring himself or his fellow beings? He cannot assert
either his sexual desire or his desire for power unlimitedly in
the face of limits which are very restrictive. The Zurich School
has in view the end-result of analysis, and it regards the funda
mental thoughts and impulses of the unconscious as symbols,
indicative of a definite line of future development. We must
admit, however, that there is no scientific justification for such
a procedure, because our present-day science is based wholly on
causality. But causality is only one principle, and psychology
cannot be exhausted by causal methods only, because the mind
lives by aims as well. Besides this controversial philosophical ar
gument we have another of much greater value in favour of our
hypothesis, namely that of vital necessity. It is impossible to live
according to the promptings of infantile hedonism or according
to a childish desire for power. If these are to be given a place
they must be taken symbolically. Out of the symbolic applica
tion of infantile trends there evolves an attitude which may be
termed philosophic or religious, and these terms characterize
sufficiently well the lines of the individual's further develop
ment. The individual is not just a fixed and unchangeable
complex of psychological facts; he is also an extremely variable
entity. By an exclusive reduction to causes the primitive trends
of a personality are reinforced; this is helpful only when these
primitive tendencies are balanced by a recognition of their sym
bolic value. Analysis and reduction lead to causal truth; this by
itself does not help us to live but only induces resignation and
hopelessness. On the other hand, the recognition of the intrin
sic value of a symbol leads to constructive truth and helps us to
live; it inspires hopefulness and furthers the possibility of fu
ture development.
680 The functional importance of the symbol is clearly shown
in the history of civilization. For thousands of years the religious
symbol proved a most efficacious device in the moral education
of mankind. Only a prejudiced mind could deny such an obvi
ous fact. Concrete values cannot take the place of the symbol;
only new and more effective symbols can be substituted for
those that are antiquated and outworn and have lost their ef
ficacy through the progress of intellectual analysis and under
standing. The further development of the individual can be
brought about only by means of symbols which represent some
thing far in advance of himself and whose intellectual mean
ings cannot yet be grasped entirely. The individual unconscious
produces such symbols, and they are of the greatest possible
value in the moral development of the personality.
681 Man almost invariably has philosophic and religious views
concerning the meaning of the world and of his own life. There
are some who are proud to have none. But these are exceptions
outside the common path of mankind; they lack an important
function which has proved itself to be indispensable to the hu
man psyche.
68s In such cases we find in the unconscious, instead of modern
symbolism, an antiquated, archaic view of the world and of life.
If a necessary psychological function is not represented in the
sphere of consciousness it exists in the unconscious in the form
of an archaic or embryonic prototype.
683 This brief r6sum may show the reader what he may expect
not to find in this collection of papers. The essays are stations
on the way toward the more general views developed above.
Kiisnacht IZurich^ January
Second Edition
684 In agreement with my honoured collaborator, Dr. C. E.
Long, I have made certain additions to the second edition of
this book. It should especially be noted that a new chapter on
"The Concept of the Unconscious" 3 has been added. This is a
lecture I gave early in 1916 to the Zurich Society for Analytical
Psychology. It provides a general survey of a most important
problem in practical analysis, namely the relation of the ego to
the psychological non-ego. Chapter XIV, "The Psychology of
the Unconscious Processes/' 4 has been fundamentally revised,
and I have taken the opportunity to incorporate an article 5 that
describes the results of more recent researches.
685 In accordance with my usual method of working, my descrip
tion is as generalized as possible. My habit in daily practice is
to confine myself for some time to studying the human material.
I then abstract as general a formula as possible from the data
collected, obtaining from it a point of view and applying it in
my practical work until it has been either confirmed, modified,
or else abandoned. If it is confirmed, I publish it as a general
viewpoint without giving the empirical material. I introduce
the material amassed in the course of my practice only in the
form of example or illustration. I therefore beg the reader not
to consider the views I present as mere fabrications of my brain.
They are, as a matter of fact, the results of extensive experience
and ripe reflection.
686 These additions will enable the reader of the second edition
to familiarize himself with the recent views of the Zurich
687 As regards the criticism encountered by the first edition of
this work, I was pleased to find my writings were received with
3 [This was a translation of the original version of "The Relations between the
Ego and the Unconscious." Later in 1916 the German original was translated into
French under the title "La Structure de I'inconscient." See Two Essays on Analyt
ical Psychology, pp. 12 iff. and 2635. EDITORS.]
4 [A revised and expanded version of "New Paths in Psychology" (orig. in
Raschers Jahrbuch fur Schweizer Art und Kunst, Zurich, 1912). In 1926 it was
again expanded and published under the title Das Unbewusste im normalen und
kranken Seelenleben. A revised and expanded version of this appeared in 1942 as
Uber die Psychologic des Unbewussten. See Two Essays on Analytical Psychology,
pp. 3ff. and 243 ff. EDITORS.]
[Part II, untided, of "The Content of the Psychoses," Ch. XIII in the Collected
Papers. This was originally written in English and published as "On Psycholog
ical Understanding," Journal of Abnormal Psychology (Boston), IX (1915). Later
in 1914, translated into German and published as a supplement to Der Inhalt
der Psychose. See The Psychogenesis of Mental Disease, pp. 1790% EDITORS.]
much more open-mindedness among English critics than was
the case in Germany, where they are met with the silence born
of contempt. I am particularly grateful to Dr. Agnes Savill for
an exceptionally understanding criticism in the Medical Press.
My thanks are also due to Dr. T. W. Mitchell for an exhaustive
review in the Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research*
This critic takes exception to my heresy respecting causality. He
considers that I am entering upon a perilous, because unscien
tific, course when I question the sole validity of the causal view
point in psychology. I sympathize with him, but in my opinion
the nature of the human mind compels us to take the fmalistic
view. It cannot be disputed that, psychologically speaking, we
are living and working day by day according to the principle
of directed aim or purpose as well as that of causality. A psy
chological theory must necessarily adapt itself to this fact. What
is plainly directed towards a goal cannot be given an exclusively
causalistic explanation, otherwise we should be led to the con
clusion expressed in Moleschott's famous dictum: "Man ist was
er isst" (Man is what he eats). We must always bear in mind that
causality is a point of view. It affirms the inevitable and im
mutable relation of a series of events: a-b-c-z. Since this relation
is fixed, and according to the causal point of view must neces
sarily be so, looked at logically the order may also be reversed.
Finality is also a point of view, and it is empirically justified by
the existence of series of events in which the causal connection
is indeed evident but the meaning of which only becomes intel
ligible in terms of end-products (final effects). Ordinary life
furnishes the best instances of this. The causal explanation must
be mechanistic if we are not to postulate a metaphysical entity
as first cause. For instance, if we adopt Freud's sexual theory
and assign primary importance psychologically to the function
of the genital glands, the brain is seen as an appendage of the
genital glands. If we approach the Viennese concept of sexu
ality, with all its vague omnipotence, in a strictly scientific man
ner and reduce it to its physiological basis, we shall arrive at the
first cause, according to which psychic life is for the most, or the
most important part, tension and relaxation of the genital
glands. If we assume for the moment that this mechanistic
[Savill, "Psychoanalysis" (1916); Mitchell (1916). EDITORS.]
explanation is ''true/' it would be the sort of truth which is ex
ceptionally tiresome and rigidly limited in scope. A similar state
ment would be that the genital glands cannot function without
adequate nourishment, the inference being that sexuality is a
subsidiary function of nutrition. The truth of this forms an
important chapter in the biology of the lower forms of life.
688 But if we wish to work in a really psychological way we shall
want to know the meaning of psychological phenomena. After
learning what kinds of steel the various parts of a locomotive
are made of, and what iron-works and mines they come from,
we do not really know anything about the locomotive's function,
that is to say its meaning. But "function" as conceived by mod
ern science is by no means exclusively a causal concept; it is
especially a final or "ideological" one. For it is impossible to
consider the psyche from the causal standpoint only; we are
obliged to consider it also from the final point of view. As Dr.
Mitchell remarks, it is impossible to think of causal determina
tion as having at the same time a finalistic reference. That would
be an obvious contradiction. But the theory of cognition does
not need to remain on a pre-Kantian level. It is well known that
Kant showed very clearly that the mechanistic and the teleologi
cal viewpoints are not constituent (objective) principles as it
were, qualities of the object but that they are purely regula
tive (subjective) principles of thought, and, as such, not mutu
ally inconsistent. I can, for example, easily conceive the fol
lowing thesis and antithesis:
Thesis: Everything came into existence according to mecha
nistic laws.
Antithesis: Some things did not come into existence accord
ing to mechanistic laws only.
Kant says to this: Reason cannot prove either of these principles
because a priori the purely empirical laws of nature cannot give
us a determinative principle regarding the potentiality of events.
^9 As a matter of fact, modern physics has necessarily been con
verted from the idea of pure mechanism to the finalistic concept
of the conservation of energy, because the mechanistic explana
tion recognizes only reversible processes whereas the actual
truth is that the processes of nature are irreversible. This fact
led to the concept of an energy that tends towards relief of ten
sion and hence towards a definitive final state.
69 Obviously, I consider both these points of view necessary,
the causal as well as the final, but would at the same time stress
that since Kant's time we have come to realize that the two view
points are not antagonistic if they are regarded as regulative
principles of thought and not as constituent principles of the
process of nature itself,
69 l In speaking of the reviews of this book I must mention some
that seem to me wide of the mark. I was once again struck by the
fact that certain critics cannot distinguish between the theoreti
cal explanation given by the author and the fantastic ideas pro
duced by the patient. One of my critics is guilty of this confusion
when discussing "On the Significance of Number Dreams/' The
associations to the quotation from the Bible in this paper are,
as every attentive reader will perceive, not arbitrary explana
tions of my own but a cryptomnesic conglomeration emanating
not from my brain at all but from that of the patient. Surely it
is not difficult to see that this conglomeration of numbers cor
responds exactly to the unconscious psychological function from
which the whole mysticism of numbers originated, Pythagorean,
cabalistic, and so forth, back to very early times.
69* I am grateful to my serious reviewers, and should like here
to express my thanks also to Mrs. Harold F. McConnick for her
generous help in the production of this book.


Foreword to the Second Edition
This little essay, written seventeen years ago, ended with the words:
"It is to be hoped that experience in the years to come will sink
deeper shafts into this obscure territory, on which I have been able
to shed but a fleeting light, and will discover more about the secret
workshop of the daemon who shapes our fate." Experience in later
years has indeed altered and deepened many things; some of them
have appeared in a different light, and I have seen how the roots
of the psyche and of fate go deeper than the "family romance/' and
that not only the children but the parents, too, are merely branches
of one great tree. While I was working on the mother-complex in
my book Wandlungen und Symbole der Libido,2 it became clear to
me what the deeper causes of this complex are; why not only the
father, but the mother as well, is such an important factor in the
child's fate: not because they themselves have this or that human
failing or merit, but because they happen to be by accident, so to
speak the human beings who first impress on the childish mind
those mysterious and mighty laws which govern not only families
but entire nations, indeed the whole of humanity. Not laws devised
by the wit of man, but the laws and forces of nature, amongst which
man walks as on the edge of a razor.
I am letting this essay appear in unaltered form. There is noth
ing in it that is actually wrong merely too simple, too naive. The
[First published as "Die Bedeutung des Vaters fur das Schicksal des Einzelnen,"
Jahrbuch fur psychoanalytische und psychopathologische Forschungen (Leipzig),
1 (1909), 155-73. This was translated by M. D. Eder under the present title and
published in Collected Papers on Analytical Psychology (London, 1916; 2nd edn.,
London, 1917, and New York, 1920). The German original was reprinted (1909)
as a pamphlet, and a second edition in this form appeared (Vienna, 1927) with a
brief foreword. A third edition, much revised and expanded, with a new fore
word, was published in 1949 (Zurich). The present version is a translation of the
third edition. Passages which the author added to that version are given in
pointed brackets { ) in the text, while any of significance which they replaced, or
which were omitted, are given in square brackets [ ] in the footnotes (as translated
from the 1909 version). EDITORS.]
2 [Revised (1952) and translated as Symbols of Transformation. EDITORS.]
Horatian verse, which I then placed at the end, points to that
deeper, darker background:
"Scit Genius natale comes qui temperat astrum,
Naturae deus humanae, mortalis in unum,
Quodque caput, vultu mutabilis, albus et ater." 3
C. G. J.
Kusnacht, December 1926
Foreword to the Third Edition
This essay was written nearly forty years ago, but this time I did
not want to publish it in its original form. Since that time so many
things have changed and taken on a new face that I felt obliged to
make a number of corrections and additions to the original text.
It was chiefly the discovery of the collective unconscious that raised
new problems for the theory of complexes. Previously the person
ality appeared to be unique and as if rooted in nothing; but now,
associated with the individually acquired causes of the complex,
there was found to be a general human precondition, the inherited
and inborn biological structure which is the instinctual basis of
every human being. From it proceed, as throughout the whole ani
mal kingdom, determining forces which inhibit or strengthen the
more or less fortuitous constellations of individual life. Every nor
mal human situation is provided for and, as it were, imprinted on
this inherited structure, since it has happened innumerable times
before in our long ancestry. At the same time the structure brings
with it an inborn tendency to seek out, or to produce, such situa
tions instinctively. A repressed content would indeed vanish into
the void were it not caught and held fast in this pre-established in
stinctual substrate. Here are to be found those forces which offer
the most obstinate resistance to reason and will, thus accounting for
the conflicting nature of the complex.
I have tried to modify the old text in accordance with these
discoveries and to bring it, in some degree, up to the level of our
present knowledge.
C. G. J.
October 1948
3 "[(Why this should be so) only the Genius knows that companion who rules
the star of our birth, the god of human nature, mortal though he be in each
single life, and changeful of countenance, white and black." Horace, Epistles,
II, ii, 187-89 TRANS.]
The Fates lead the willing,
but drag the unwilling.
693 Freud has pointed out that the emotional relationship of the
child to the parents, and particularly to the father, is of a decisive
significance in regard to the content of any later neurosis. This
relationship is indeed the infantile channel along which the
libido 4 flows back when it encounters any obstacles in later
years, thus reactivating the long-forgotten psychic contents of
childhood. It is ever so in life when we draw back before too
great an obstacle, say the threat of some severe disappointment
or the risk of some too far-reaching decision. The energy stored
up for the solution of the task flows back and the old river-beds,
the obsolete systems of the past, are filled up again. A man dis
illusioned in love falls back, as a substitute, upon some senti
mental friendship
5 or false religiosity; if he is a neurotic he
regresses still further back to the childhood relationships he has
never quite forsaken, and to which even the normal person is
fettered by more than one chain the relationship to father and
694 Every analysis carried out at all thoroughly shows this regres
sion more or less plainly. One peculiarity which stands out in
the works of Freud is that the relationship to the father seems
to possess a special significance, (This is not to say that the father
always has a greater influence on the moulding of the child's
fate than the mother. His influence is of a specific nature and
differs typically from hers.6
695 The significance of the father in moulding the child's psyche
may be discovered in quite another field the study of the fam
7 The latest investigations show the predominating influence
of the father's character in a family, often lasting for centuries.
[Orig. footnote: Libido is what earlier psychologists called "will'* or "tendency."
The Freudian expression is a denominatio a potiori. Jahrbuch, I (1909), 155.]
[In orig., also: masturbation.]
(I have discussed this question on two occasions: Symbols of Transformation
(in regard to the son), and "Psychological Aspects of the Mother Archetype" (in
regard to the daughter).)
7 Sommer, Famihenforschung und Vererbungslehre (1907); Joerger, "Die Familie
Zero" (1905); Ziermer, "Genealogische Studien uber die Vererbung geistiger
Eigenschaften" (1908).
The mother seems to play a less important role. If this is true
of heredity, we may expect it to be true also of the psychological
influences emanating from the father.8 The scope of the prob
lem has been widened by the researches of my pupil, Dr. Emma
Fiirst, on the similarity of reaction-type within families.9 She
conducted association tests on 100 persons coming from 24
families. From this extensive material, so far only the results for
nine families and 37 persons (all uneducated) have been worked
out and published. But the calculations already permit some
valuable conclusions. The associations were classified on the
Kraepelin-Aschaffenburg scheme as simplified and modified by
me, and the difference was then calculated between each group
of qualities in a given subject and the corresponding group in
every other subject. We thus get mean figures of the differences
in reaction-type.
Non-related men 5.9
Non-related women 6.0
Related men 4.1
Related women 3.8
696 Relatives, especially if they are women, therefore have on
average a similar reaction-type. This means that the psychologi
cal attitude of relatives differs but slightly. Examination of the
various relationships yielded the following results:
697 The mean difference for husband and wife amounts to 4.7%.
But the dispersion value for this mean figure is 3.7, which is
high, indicating that the mean of 4.7 is composed of a very wide
range of figures: there are married couples with great similarity
in reaction-type and others with less.
698 On the whole, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, stand
closer together:
Difference for fathers and sons: 3.1
Difference for mothers and daughters: 3.0
[Orig.: These experiences, and those gained more particularly in an analysis
carried out conjointly with Dr. Otto Gross, have impressed upon me the sound
ness of this view.] [For Gross, cf. Jones, Freud: Life and Work, II, p. 33. EDITORS.]
9 "Statistical Investigations on Word-Associations and on Familial Agreement in
Reaction Type among Uneducated Persons" (orig. 1907).
699 Except for a few cases of married couples (where the differ
ence dropped to 1.4), these are among the lowest figures. Ftirst
even had one case where a 45-year-old mother and her 1 6-yearold
daughter differed by only 0.5. But it was just in this case
that the mother and daughter differed from the father's reac
tion-type by 11.8. The father was a coarse, stupid man and a
drinker; the mother went in for Christian Science. In accord
ance with this, mother and daughter exhibited an extreme
value-predicate type of reaction,10 which in my experience is an
important sign of a conflicting relationship to the object. Valuepredicate
types show excessive intensity of feeling and thus be
tray an unadmitted but nonetheless transparent desire to evoke
answering feelings in the experimenter. This view agrees with
the fact that in Fiirst's material the number of value-predicates
increases with the age of the subject.
7 The similarity of reaction-type in children and parents pro
vides matter for thought. For the association experiment is
nothing other than a small segment of the psychological life of
a man, and everyday life is at bottom an extensive and greatly
varied association experiment; in principle we react in one as
we do in the other. Obvious as this truth is, it still requires some
reflection and limitation. Take the case of the 45-year-old
mother and her 1 6-year-old daughter: the extreme value-predi
cate type of the mother is without doubt the precipitate of a
whole life of disappointed hopes and wishes. One is not in the
least surprised at a value-predicate type here. But the 16-yearold
daughter had not really lived at all; she was not yet married,
and yet she reacted as if she were her mother and had endless
disillusions behind her. She had her mother's attitude, and to
that extent was identified with her mother. The mother's atti
tude was explained by her relationship to the father. But the
daughter was not married to the father and therefore did not
need this attitude. She simply took it over from the environ
mental influences and later on will try to adapt herself to the
world under the influence of this family problem. To the extent
that an ill-assorted marriage is unsuitable, the attitude resulting
from it will be unsuitable too. In order to adapt, the girl in later
10 By this I mean reactions where the response to the stimulus-word is always
a subjectively toned predicate instead of an objective relationship, e.g., flower /
nice, frog / horrible, piano / frightful, salt / bad, singing / sweet, cooking f useful.
life will have to overcome the obstacles of her family milieu; if
she does not, she will succumb to the fate to which her attitude
predisposes her.
70 1 Clearly such a fate has many possibilities. The glossing over
of the family problem and the development of the negative of
the parental character may take place deep within, unnoticed
by anyone, in the form of inhibitions and conflicts which she
herself does not understand. Or, as she grows up, she will come
into conflict with the world of actualities, fitting in nowhere,
until one stroke of fate after another gradually opens her eyes
to her own infantile, unadapted qualities. The source of the
infantile disturbance of adaptation is naturally the emotional
relation to the parents. It is a kind of psychic contagion, caused,
as we know, not by logical truths but by affects and their physi
cal manifestations.11 In the most formative period between the
first and fifth year all the essential characteristics, which fit ex
actly into the parental mould, are already developed, for experi
ence teaches us that the first signs
12 of the later conflict between
the parental constellation and the individual's longing for inde
pendence occur as a rule before the fifth year.
702 I would like to show, with the help of a few case-histories,
how the parental constellation hinders the child's adaptation.
Case i
73 A well-preserved woman of 55, dressed poorly but carefully,
with a certain elegance, in black; hair carefully arranged; a
polite, rather affected manner, fastidious in speech, devout. The
patient might be the wife of a minor official or shopkeeper. She
informed me, blushing and dropping her eyes, that she was the
divorced wife of a common peasant. She had come to the clinic
on account of depression, night terrors, palpitations, and nerv
ous twitches in the arms typical features of a mild climacteric
neurosis. To complete the picture, the patient added that she
suffered from severe anxiety-dreams; some man was pursuing
her, wild animals attacked her, and so on.
11 Vigouroux and Juquelier, La Contagion mentale (1904), ch. 6.
[Orig.: ... of the struggle between repression and libido (Freud) . .
[Orig.: It must suffice to present only the chief events, i.e., those of sexuality.]
704 Her anamnesis began with the family history. (So far as pos
sible I give her own words.) Her father was a fine, stately, rather
corpulent man of imposing appearance. He was very happily
married, for her mother worshipped him. He was a clever man,
a master craftsman, and held a dignified position. There were
only two children, the patient and an elder sister. The sister
was the mother's and the patient the father's favourite. When
she was five years old her father suddenly died of a stroke at the
age of forty-two. She felt very lonely, and also that from then on
she was treated by her mother and sister as the Cinderella. She
noticed clearly enough that her mother preferred her sister to
herself. The mother remained a widow, her respect for her hus
band being too great to allow her to marry a second time. She
preserved his memory "like a religious cult" and taught her
children to do likewise.
75 The sister married relatively young; the patient did not
marry till she was twenty-four. She had never cared for young
men, they all seemed insipid; her mind turned always to more
mature men. When about twenty she became acquainted with
a "stately" gentleman of over forty, to whom she was much
drawn, but for various reasons the relationship was broken off.
At twenty-four she got to know a widower who had two chil
dren. He was a fine, stately, rather corpulent man, with an
imposing presence, like her father; he was forty-four. She mar
ried him and respected him enormously. The marriage was
childless; his children by the first marriage died of an infectious
disease. After four years of married life her husband died of a
stroke. For eighteen years she remained his faithful widow. But
at forty-six (just before the menopause) she felt a great need of
love. As she had no acquaintances she went to a matrimonial
agency and married the first comer, a peasant of about sixty
who had already been twice divorced on account of brutality
and perverseness; the patient knew this before marriage. She
remained five unbearable years with him, then she also obtained
a divorce. The neurosis set in a little later.
706 For the reader with psychological
experience no further
elucidation is needed; the case is too obvious. I would only em
phasize that up to her forty-sixth year the patient did nothing
[Orig.: psychanalytical.]
but live out a faithful copy of the milieu of her early youth.
The exacerbation of sexuality at the climacteric led to an even
worse edition of the father-substitute, thanks to which she was
cheated out of the late blossoming of her sexuality. The neu
rosis reveals, flickering under the repression, the eroticism of
the aging woman who still wants to please (affectation).
Case 2
7<>7 A man of thirty-four, of small build, with a clever, kindly
expression. He was easily embarrassed, blushed often. He had
come for treatment on account of ' 'nervousness." He said he
was very irritable, readily fatigued, had nervous stomach-trou
ble, was often so deeply depressed that he sometimes thought
of suicide.
708 Before coming to me for treatment he had sent me a circum
stantial autobiography, or rather a history of his illness, in order
to prepare me for his visit. His story began: "My father was a
very big and strong man." This sentence awakened my curiosity;
I turned over a page and there read: "When I was fifteen a biglad
of nineteen took me into a wood and indecently assaulted
709 The numerous gaps in the patient's story induced me to ob
tain a more exact anamnesis from him, which led to the follow
ing disclosures: The patient was the youngest of three brothers.
His father, a big, red-haired man, was formerly a soldier in the
Swiss Guard at the Vatican; later he became a policeman. He
was a stern, gruff old soldier, who brought up his sons with mili
tary discipline; he issued commands, did not call them by name,
but whistled for them. He had spent his youth in Rome, and
during his gay life there had contracted syphilis, from the con
sequences of which he still suffered in old age. He was fond of
talking about his adventures in early life. His eldest son (con
siderably older than the patient) was exactly like him, a big,
strong man with red hair. The mother was an ailing woman,
prematurely aged. Exhausted and tired of life, she died at forty
when the patient was eight years old. He preserved a tender and
beautiful memory of his mother.
[Orig.: . . , but dares not acknowledge her sexuality.]
7 10 At school he was always the whipping-boy and always the
object of his schoolfellows' mockery. He thought his peculiar
dialect might be to blame. Later he was apprenticed to a, strict
and unkind master, with whom he stuck it out for over two
years, under conditions so trying that all the other apprentices
ran away. At fifteen the assault already mentioned took place,
together with several other, milder homosexual experiences.
Then fate packed him off to France. There he made the ac
quaintance of a man from the south, a great boaster and Don
Juan. He dragged the patient to a brothel; he went unwillingly
and out of fear, and found he was impotent. Later he went to
Paris, where his eldest brother, a master-mason and the replica
of his father, was leading a dissolute life. The patient stayed
there a long time, badly paid and helping his sister-in-law out
of pity. The brother often took him along to a brothel, but he
was always impotent.
7 11 One day his brother asked him to make over to him his in
heritance, 6,000 francs. The patient consulted his second
brother, who was also in Paris, and who urgently tried to dis
suade him from handing over the money, because it would only
be squandered. Nevertheless the patient went and gave his in
heritance to his brother, who naturally ran through it in the
shortest possible time. And the second brother, who would have
dissuaded him, was also let in for 500 francs. To my astonished
question why he had so light-heartedly given the money to his
brother without any guarantee he replied: well, he asked for it.
He was not a bit sorry about the money, he would give him
another 6,000 francs if he had it. The eldest brother afterwards
went to the bad altogether and his wife divorced him.
7 1 * The patient returned to Switzerland and remained for a year
without regular employment, often suffering from hunger. Dur
ing this time he made the acquaintance of a family and became
a frequent visitor. The husband belonged to some peculiar sect,
was a hypocrite, and neglected his family. The wife was elderly,
ill, and weak, and moreover pregnant. There were six children,
all living in great poverty. For this woman the patient developed
a warm affection and shared with her the little he possessed. She
told him her troubles, saying she felt sure she would die in child
bed. He promised her (although he possessed nothing) that he
would take charge of the children and bring them up. The
woman did die in childbed, but the orphanage interfered and
allowed him only one child. So now he had a child but no family,
and naturally could not bring it up by himself. He thus came to
think of marrying. But as he had never yet fallen in love with
a girl he was in great perplexity.
713 It then occurred to him that his elder brother was divorced
from his wife, and he resolved to marry her. He wrote to her
in Paris, saying what he intended. She was seventeen years older
than he, but not averse to his plan. She invited him to come to
Paris to talk matters over. But on the eve of the journey fate
willed that he should run an iron nail into his foot, so that he
could not travel. After a while, when the wound was healed,
he went to Paris and found that he had imagined his sister-inlaw,
now his fiancee, to be younger and prettier than she really
was. The wedding took place, however, and three months later
the first coitus, on his wife's initiative. He himself had no desire
for it. They brought up the child together, he in the Swiss and
she in the Parisian fashion, as she was a French woman. At the
age of nine the child was run over and killed by a cyclist. The
patient then felt very lonely and dismal at home. He proposed
to his wife that they should adopt a young girl, whereupon she
broke out into a fury of jealousy. Then, for the first time in his
life, he fell in love with a young girl, and simultaneously the
neurosis started with deep depression and nervous exhaustion,
for meanwhile his life at home had become a hell.
7*4 My suggestion that he should separate from his wife was dis
missed out of hand, on the ground that he could not take it
upon himself to make the old woman unhappy on his account.
He obviously preferred to go on being tormented, for the mem
ories of his youth seemed to him more precious than any present
7*5 This patient, too, moved all through his life in the magic
circle of the family constellation. The strongest and most fateful
factor was the relationship to the father; its masochistic-homo
sexual colouring is clearly apparent in everything he did. Even
the unfortunate marriage was determined by the father, for the
patient married the divorced wife of his elder brother, which
amounted to marrying his mother. At the same time, his wife
was the mother-substitute for the woman who died in childbed.
The neurosis set in the moment the libido was withdrawn from
the infantile relationship and for the first time came a bit nearer
to an individually determined goal. In this as in the previous
case, the family constellation proved to be by far the stronger,
so that the narrow field of neurosis was all that was left over for
the struggling individuality.
Case 3
7* 6 A 36-year-old peasant woman, of average intelligence,
healthy appearance, and robust build, mother of three healthy
children. Comfortable economic circumstances. She came to the
clinic for the following reasons: for some weeks she had been ter
ribly wretched and anxious, slept badly, had terrifying dreams,
and also suffered by day from anxiety and depression. She stated
that all these things were without foundation, she herself was
surprised at them, and had to admit that her husband was quite
right when he insisted that it was all "stuff and nonsense." Never
theless, she simply could not get over them. Often strange
thoughts came into her head; she was going to die and would
go to hell. She got on very well with her husband.
7*7 Examination of the case yielded the following results. Some
weeks before, she happened to take up some religious tracts
which had long lain about the house unread. There she was
informed that people who swore would go to hell. She took this
very much to heart, and ever since then had been thinking that
she must stop people swearing or she would go to hell too. About
a fortnight before she read these tracts her father, who lived
with her, had suddenly died of a stroke. She was not actually
present at his death, but arrived only when he was already dead.
Her terror and grief were very great.
7 l8 In the days following his death she thought much about it
all, wondering why her father had to die so suddenly. During
these meditations she suddenly remembered that the last words
she had heard her father say were: "I am one of those who have
got into the devil's clutches/' This memory filled her with
trepidation, and she recalled how often her father had sworn
savagely. She also began to wonder whether there was really a
life after death, and whether her father was in heaven or hell.
It was during these musings that she came across the tracts and
began to read them, until she came to the place where it said
that people who swore would go to hell. Then great fear and
terror fell upon her; she covered herself with reproaches, she
ought to have stopped her father's swearing and deserved to be
punished for her negligence. She would die and would be con
demned to hell. From that hour she was filled with sorrow, grew
moody, tormented her husband with her obsessive ideas, and
shunned all joy and conviviality.
?!9 The patient's life-history was as follows: She was the young
est of five brothers and sisters and had always been her father's
favourite. Her father gave her everything she wanted if he pos
sibly could. If she wanted a new dress and her mother refused
it, she could be sure her father would bring her one next time
he went to town. Her mother died rather early. At twenty-four
she married the man of her choice, against her father's wishes.
The father flatly disapproved of her choice although he had
nothing particular against the man. After the wedding she made
her father come and live with them. That seemed the obvious
thing, she said, since the others had never suggested having him
with them. He was, as a matter of fact, a quarrelsome, foulmouthed
old drunkard. Husband and father-in-law, as may
easily be imagined, did not get on at all. There were endless
squabbles and altercations, in spite of which the patient would
always dutifully fetch drink for her father from the inn. All the
same, she admitted her husband was right. He was a good, pa
tient fellow with only one failing: he did not obey her father
enough. She found that incomprehensible, and would rather
have seen her husband knuckle under to her father. When all's
said and done, a father is still a father. In the frequent quarrels
she always took her father's part. But she had nothing to say
against her husband, and he was usually right in his protests,
but even so one must stand by one's father.
720 Soon it began to seem to her that she had sinned against her
father by marrying against his will, and she often felt, after one
of these incessant wrangles, that her love for her husband had
died. And since her father's death it was impossible to love him
any more, for his disobedience had usually been the cause of
her father's fits of raging and swearing. At one time the quar
relling had become too much for the husband, and he induced
his wife to find a room for her father elsewhere, where he lived
for two years. During this time husband and wife lived together
peaceably and happily. But by degrees she began to reproach
herself for letting her father live alone; in spite of everything he
was her father. And in the end, despite her husband's protests,
she fetched her father home again because, as she said, at bot
tom she loved her father better than her husband. Scarcely was
the old man back in the house than the strife broke out again.
And so it went on till the father's sudden death.
721 After this recital she broke into a string of lamentations: she
must get a divorce from her husband, she would have done so
long ago but for the children. She had committed a great wrong,
a grievous sin, when she married her husband against her
father's wishes. She ought to have taken the man her father
wanted her to have; he, certainly, would have obeyed her father,
and then everything would have been all right. Oh, she wailed,
her husband was not nearly as nice as her father, she could do
anything with her father, but not with her husband. Her father
had given her everything she wanted. And now she wanted most
of all to die, so that she could be with her father.
722 When this outburst was over, I asked curiously why she had
refused the husband her father had proposed?
723 It seems that the father, a small peasant on a lean little hold
ing, had taken on as a labourer, just at the time when his young
est daughter was born, a wretched little boy, a foundling. The
boy developed in a most unpleasant fashion: he was so stupid
that he could not learn to read or write, or even to speak prop
erly. He was an absolute blockhead. As he approached manhood
a series of ulcers developed on his neck, some of which opened
and continually discharged pus, giving this dirty, ugly creature
a truly horrible appearance. His intelligence did not grow with
his years, so he stayed on as a farm-labourer without any recog
nized wage.
724 To this oaf the father wanted to marry his favourite daughter.
725 The girl, fortunately, had not been disposed to yield, but
now she regretted it, for this idiot would unquestionably have
been more obedient to her father than her good man had been.
726 Here, as in the foregoing case, it must be clearly understood
that the patient was not at all feeble-minded. Both possessed
normal intelligence, although the blinkers of the infantile
constellation kept them from using it. That appears with quite
remarkable clearness in this patient's life-story. The father's
authority is never even questioned. It makes not the least differ
ence to her that he was a quarrelsome old drunkard, the obvious
cause of all the bickering and dissension; on the contrary, her
husband must bow down before this bogey, and finally our pa
tient even comes to regret that her father did not succeed in
completely destroying her life's happiness. So now she sets about
destroying it herself, through her neurosis, which forces on her
the wish to die so that she may go to hell whither, be it noted,
her father has already betaken himself.
727 If ever we are disposed to see some demonic power at work
controlling mortal destiny, surely we can see it here in these
melancholy, silent tragedies working themselves out, slowly and
agonizingly, in the sick souls of our neurotics. Some, step by
step, continually struggling against the unseen powers, do free
themselves from the clutches of the demon who drives his un
suspecting victims from one cruel fatality to another; others rise
up and win to freedom, only to be dragged back later to the old
paths, caught in the noose of the neurosis. You cannot even
maintain that these unhappy people are always neurotics or
"degenerates." If we normal people examine our lives,
16 we too
perceive how a mighty hand guides us without fail to our des
tiny, and not always is this hand a kindly one. 17 Often we call
it the hand of God or of the devil, (thereby expressing, uncon
sciously but correctly, a highly important psychological fact:
that the power which shapes the life of the psyche has the char
acter of an autonomous personality. At all events it is felt as
such, so that today in common speech, just as in ancient times,
the source of any such destiny appears as a daemon, as a good or
evil spirit.
[Orig.: . . . from the psychanalytic standpoint . .
17 "Throughout we believe ourselves to be the masters of our deeds. But review
ing our lives, and chiefly taking our misfortunes and their consequences into
consideration, we often cannot account for our doing this act and omitting that,
making it appear as if our steps had been guided by a power foreign to us. There
fore Shakespeare says:
'Fate show thy force: ourselves we do not owe;
What is decreed must be, and be this sol'
Schopenhauer, "On Apparent Design in the Fate of the Individual," Parerga
and Paralipomena (trans, by Irvine, p. 26).
728 (The personification of this source goes back in the first place
to the father, for which reason Freud was of the opinion that all
' 'divine" figures have their roots in the father-imago. It can
hardly be denied that they do derive from this imago, but what
we are to say about the father-imago itself is another matter.
For the parental imago is possessed of a quite extraordinary
power; it influences the psychic life of the child so enormously
that we must ask ourselves whether we may attribute such magi
cal power to an ordinary human being at all. Obviously he pos
sesses it, but we are bound to ask whether it is really his property.
Man "possesses" many things which he has never acquired but
has inherited from his ancestors. He is not born as a tabula
rasa, he is merely born unconscious. But he brings with him
systems that are organized and ready to function in a specifically
human way, and these he owes to millions of years of human de
velopment. Just as the migratory and nest-building instincts of
birds were never learnt or acquired individually, man brings
with him at birth the ground-plan of his nature, and not only
of his individual nature but of his collective nature. These in
herited systems correspond to the human situations that have
existed since primeval times: youth and old age, birth and death,
sons and daughters, fathers and mothers, mating, and so on.
Only the individual consciousness experiences these things for
the first time, but not the bodily system and the unconscious.
For them they are only the habitual functioning of instincts
that were preformed long ago. "You were in bygone times my
wife or sister," says Goethe, clothing in words the dim feelings of
729 (I have called this congenital and pre-existent instinctual
model, or pattern of behaviour, the archetype. This is the
imago that is charged with the dynamism we cannot attribute
to an individual human being. Were this power really in our
hands and subject to our will, we would be so crushed with re
sponsibility that no one in his right senses would dare to have
children. But the power of the archetype is not controlled by us;
we ourselves are at its mercy to an unsuspected degree. There
are many who resist its influence and its compulsion, but equally
many who identify with the archetype, for instance with the
patris potestas or with the queen ant. And because everyone is
in some degree "possessed" by his specifically human preformation,
he is held fast and fascinated by it and exercises the same
influence on others without being conscious of what he is doing.
The danger is just this unconscious identity with the archetype:
not only does it exert a dominating influence on the child by
suggestion, it also causes the same unconsciousness in the child,
so that it succumbs to the influence from outside and at the
same time cannot oppose it from within. The more a father
identifies with the archetype, the more unconscious and irre
sponsible, indeed psychotic, both he and his child will be. In
the case we have discussed, it is almost a matter of "folie a
73 In our case, it is quite obvious what the father was doing,
and why he wanted to marry his daughter to this brutish crea
ture: he wanted to keep her with him and make her his slave
for ever. What he did is but a crass exaggeration of what is done
by thousands of so-called respectable, educated parents, who
nevertheless pride themselves on their progressive views. The
fathers who criticize every sign of emotional independence in
their children, who fondle their daughters with ill-concealed
eroticism and tyrannize over their feelings, who keep their sons
on a leash or force them into a profession and finally into a "suit
able5 *
marriage, the mothers who even in the cradle excite their
children with unhealthy tenderness, who later make them into
slavish puppets and then at last ruin their love-life out of jeal
ousy: they all act no differently in principle from this stupid,
boorish peasant. (They do not know what they are doing, and
they do not know that by succumbing to the compulsion they
pass it on to their children and make them slaves of their parents
and of the unconscious as well. Such children will long continue
to live out the curse laid on them by their parents, even when
[Orig.: ... for the power of the infantile constellation has provided highly
convincing material for the religions in the course of the millennia.
[All this is not to say that we should cast the blame for original sin upon our
parents. A sensitive child, whose sympathies are only too quick to reflect in his
psyche the excesses of his parents, bears the blame for his fate in his own char
acter. But, as our last case shows, this is not always so, for the parents can (and
unfortunately only too often do) instil the evil into the child's soul, preying
upon his ignorance in order to make him the slave of their complexes.]
the parents are long since dead. "They know not what they do/'
Unconsciousness is the original sin.)
Case 4
731 An eight-year-old boy, intelligent, rather delicate-looking,
brought to me by his mother on account of enuresis. During the
consultation the child clung all the time to his mother, a pretty,
youthful woman. The marriage was a happy one, but the father
was strict, and the boy (the eldest child) was rather afraid of
him. The mother compensated for the father's strictness by a
corresponding tenderness, to which the boy responded so much
that he never got away from his mother's apron-strings. He
never played with his school-fellows, never went alone into the
street unless he had to go to school. He feared the boys' rough
ness and violence and played thoughtful games at home or
helped his mother with the housework. He was extremely jeal
ous of his father, and could not bear it when the father showed
tenderness to the mother.
[Orzg.: It will be asked, wherein lies the magic power of the parents to bind
their children to themselves, often for the whole of their lives? The psychoanalyst
knows that it is nothing but sexuality on both sides.
[We are always trying not to admit the child's sexuality. But this is only be
cause of wilful ignorance, which happens to be very prevalent again just now.*
[I have not given any real analysis of these cases. We therefore do not know
what happened to these puppets of fate when they were children. A profound
insight into the living soul of a child, such as we have never had before, is given
in Freud's contribution to the present semi-annual volume of the Jahrbuch
["Analysis of a Phobia in a Five-year-old Boy"]. If I venture, after Freud's mas
terly presentation, to offer another small contribution to the study of the childpsyche,
it is because psychoanalytic case-histories seem to me always valuable.
[* Orzg. footnote: This was seen at the Amsterdam Congress in 1907 [First
International Congress of Psychiatry and Neurology; cf. the second paper in this
vol. EDITORS], when an eminent French savant assured us that Freud's theory
was nothing but "une plaisanterie." This gentleman had evidently read neither
Freud's latest writings nor mine, and knew far less about the subject than a little
child. This pronouncement, so admirably grounded, met with the approbation
of a well-known German professor in his report to the Congress. One can but
bow before such thoroughness. At the same Congress a noted German neurolo
gist immortalized his name with the following brilliant argument: "If in Freud's
view hysteria really does rest on repressed affects, then the whole German army
must be hysterical."]
732 I took the boy aside and asked him about his dreams. Very
often he dreamt of a black snake that wanted to bite his face.
Then he would cry out, and his mother had to come to him
from the next room and stay by his bedside.
733 In the evening he would go quietly to bed. But when falling
asleep it seemed to him that a wicked black man with a sword
or a gun was lying on his bed., a tall thin man who wanted to
kill him. The parents slept in the next room. The boy often
dreamt that something dreadful was going on in there, as if
there were great black snakes or evil men who wanted to kill
Mama. Then he would cry out, and Mama came to comfort
him. Every time he wet his bed he called his mother, who
would then have to change the bedclothes.
734 The father was a tall thin man. Every morning he stood
naked at the wash-stand in full view of the boy, to perform a
thorough ablution. The boy also told me that at night he often
started up from sleep at the sound of strange noises in the next
room; then he was always horribly afraid that something dread
ful was going on in there, a struggle of some kind, but his
mother would quiet him and say it was nothing.
735 It is not difficult to see what was happening in the next room.
It is equally easy to understand the boy's aim in calling out for
his mother: he was jealous and was separating her from the
father. He did this also in the daytime whenever he saw his
father caressing her. Thus far the boy was simply the father's
rival for his mother's love.
736 But now comes the fact that the snake and the wicked man
threaten him as well: the same thing happens to him as hap
pens to his mother in the next room. To that extent he identi
fies with his mother and thus puts himself in a similar relation
ship to the father. This is due to his homosexual component,
which feels feminine towards the father. (The bed-wetting is in
this case a substitute for sexuality. Pressure of urine in dreams
and also in the waking state is often an expression of some other
pressure, for instance of fear, expectation, suppressed excite
ment, inability to speak, the need to express an unconscious
content, etc. In our case the substitute for sexuality has the sig
nificance of a premature masculinity which is meant to compen
sate the inferiority of the child.
737 (Although I do not intend to go into the psychology of
dreams in this connection, the motif of the black snake and of
the black man should not pass unmentioned. Both these terrify
ing spectres threaten the dreamer as well as his mother. "Black"
indicates something dark, the unconscious. The dream shows
that the mother-child relationship is menaced by unconscious
ness. The threatening agency is represented by the mythological
motif of the * 'father animal"; in other words the father appears
as threatening. This is in keeping with the tendency of the child
to remain unconscious and infantile, which is decidedly dan
gerous. For the boy, the father is an anticipation of his own
masculinity, conflicting with his wish to remain infantile. The
snake's attack on the boy's face, the part that "sees," represents
the danger to consciousness (blinding).}
738 This little example shows what goes on in the psyche of an
eight-year-old child who is over-dependent on his parents, the
blame for this lying partly on the too strict father and the too
tender mother. (The boy's identification with his mother and
fear of his father are in this individual instance an infantile neu
rosis, but they represent at the same time the original human
situation, the clinging of primitive consciousness to the uncon
scious, and the compensating impulse which strives to tear con
sciousness away from the embrace of the darkness. Because man
has a dim premonition of this original situation behind his
individual experience, he has always tried to give it generally
valid expression through the universal motif of the divine hero's
fight with the mother dragon, whose purpose is to deliver man
from the power of darkness. This myth has a "saving," i.e.,
therapeutic significance, since it gives adequate expression to the
dynamism underlying the individual entanglement. The myth
is not to be causally explained as the consequence of a personal
father-complex, but should be understood teleologically, as an
attempt of the unconscious itself to rescue consciousness from
the danger of regression. The ideas of "salvation" are not sub
sequent rationalizations of a father-complex; they are, rather,
[Orzg.; It is not difficult to see, from the Freudian standpoint, what the bedwetting
means in this case. Micturition dreams give us the clue. Here I would
refer the reader to an analysis of this kind in my paper "The Analysis of Dreams"
(cf. supra, pars. 8af.). Bed-wetting must be regarded as an infantile sexual substi
tute, and even in the dream-life of adults it is easily used as a cloak for the
pressure of sexual desire.]
archetypally preformed mechanisms for the development of
739 What we see enacted on the stage of world-history happens
also in the individual. The child is guided by the power of the
parents as by a higher destiny. But as he grows up, the struggle
between his infantile attitude and his increasing consciousness
begins. The parental influence, dating from the early infantile
period, is repressed and sinks into the unconscious, but is
not eliminated; by invisible threads it directs the apparently
individual workings of the maturing mind. Like everything
that has fallen into the unconscious, the infantile situation still
sends up dim, premonitory feelings, feelings of being secretly
guided by otherworldly influences. (Normally these feelings are
not referred back to the father, but to a positive or negative
[Orig.: The infantile attitude, it is evident, is nothing but infantile sexuality.
If we now survey all the far-reaching possibilities of the infantile constellation,
we are obliged to say that in essence our life's fate is identical with the fate of
our sexuality. If Freud and his school devote themselves first and foremost to
tracing out the individual's sexuality, it is certainly not in order to excite piquant
sensations but to gain a deeper insight into the driving forces that determine the
individual's fate. In this we are not saying too much, but rather understating
the case. For, when we strip off the veils shrouding the problems of individual
destiny, we at once widen our field of vision from the history of the individual
to the history of nations. We can take a look, first of all, at the history of religion,
at the history of the fantasy systems of whole peoples and epochs. The religion
of the Old Testament exalted the paterfamilias into the Jehovah of the Jews,
whom the people had to obey in fear and dread. The patriarchs were a steppingstone
to the Deity. The neurotic fear in Judaism, an imperfect or at any rate
unsuccessful attempt at sublimation by a still too barbarous people, gave rise to
the excessive severity of Mosaic law, the compulsive ceremonial of the neurotic.*
Only the prophets were able to free themselves from it; for them the identifica
tion with Jehovah, complete sublimation, was successful. They became the
fathers of the people. Christ, the fulfiller of their prophecies, put an end to this
fear of God and taught mankind that the true relation to the Deity is love. Thus
he destroyed the compulsive ceremonial of the law and was himself the exponent
of the personal loving relationship to God. Later, the imperfect sublimations of
the Christian Mass resulted once again in the ceremonial of the Church, from
which only those of the numerous saints and reformers who were really capable
of sublimation were able to break free. Not without cause, therefore, does modern
theology speak of the liberating effect of "inner'* or "personal" experience, for
always the ardour of love transmutes fear and compulsion into a higher, freer
type of feeling.
[* Orig. footnote: Cf. Freud, Zeitschrift fur Religionspsychologie (1907).] [I.e.,
"Obsessive Acts and Religious Practices." EDITORS.]
deity. This change is accomplished partly under the influence
of education, partly spontaneously. It is universal. Also, it re
sists conscious criticism with the force of an instinct, for which
reason the soul (anima) may fittingly be described as naturaliter
religiosa. The reason for this development, indeed its very pos
sibility, is to be found in the fact that the child possesses an
inherited system that anticipates the existence of parents and
their influence upon him. In other words, behind the father
stands the archetype of the father, and in this pre-existent arche
type lies the secret of the father's power, just as the power which
forces the bird to migrate is not produced by the bird itself but
derives from its ancestors.
74 It will not have escaped the reader that the role which falls
to the father-imago in our case is an ambiguous one. The threat
it represents has a dual aspect: fear of the father may drive the
boy out of his identification with the mother, but on the other
hand it is possible that his fear will make him cling still more
closely to her. A typically neurotic situation then arises: he
wants and yet does not want, saying yes and no at the same time.
74 1 This double aspect of the father-imago is characteristic of
the archetype in general: it is capable of diametrically opposite
effects and acts on consciousness rather as Yahweh acted towards
Job ambivalently. And, as in the Book of Job, man is left to
take the consequences. We cannot say with certainty that the
archetype always acts in this way, for there are experiences which
prove the contrary. But they do not appear to be the rule.)
742 An instructive and well-known example of the ambivalent
behaviour of the father-imago is the love-episode in the Book of
Tobit.23 Sara, the daughter of Raguel, of Ecbatana, desires to
marry. But her evil fate wills it that seven times, one after the
[Orig.: These are the roots of the first religious sublimations. In the place of
the father with his constellating virtues and faults there appears on the one hand
an altogether sublime deity, and on the other hand the devil, who in modern
times has been largely whittled away by the realization of one's own moral re
sponsibility. Sublime love is attributed to the former, low sexuality to the latter.
As soon as we enter the field of neurosis, this antithesis is stretched to the limit.
God becomes the symbol of the most complete sexual repression, the devil the
symbol of sexual lust. Thus it is that the conscious expression of the fatherconstellation,
like every expression of an unconscious complex when it appears in
consciousness, acquires its Janus face, its positive and its negative components.]
23Chs. 3 : 7ff. and 8: iff.
other, she chooses a husband who dies on the wedding-night. It
is the evil spirit Asmodeus, by whom she is persecuted, that kills
these men. She prays to Yahweh to let her die rather than suffer
this shame again, for she is despised even by her father's maid
servants. The eighth bridegroom, her cousin Tobias, the son of
Tobit, is sent to her by God. He too is led into the bridal cham
ber. Then old Raguel, who had only pretended to go to bed,
goes out and thoughtfully digs his son-in-law's grave, and in the
morning sends a maid to the bridal chamber to make sure that
he is dead. But this time Asmodeus' role is played out, for
Tobias is alive.
743 (The story shows father Raguel in his two roles, as the in
consolable father of the bride and the provident digger of his
son-in-law's grave. Humanly speaking he seems beyond re
proach, and it is highly probable that he was. But there is still
the evil spirit Asmodeus and his presence needs explaining. If
we suspect old Raguel personally of playing a double role, this
malicious insinuation would apply only to his sentiments; there
is no evidence that he committed murder. These wicked deeds
transcend the old man's daughter-complex as well as Sara's
father-complex, for which reason the legend fittingly ascribes
them to a demon. Asmodeus plays the role of a jealous father
who will not give up his beloved daughter and only relents
when he remembers his own positive aspect, and in that capacity
at last gives Sara a pleasing bridegroom. He, significantly
enough, is the eighth: the last and highest stage.
24 Asmodeus
stands for the negative aspect of the father archetype, for the
archetype is the genius and daemon of the personal human
being, "the god of human nature, changeful of countenance,
white and black." 25 The legend offers a psychologically correct
explanation: it does not attribute superhuman evil to Raguel,
it distinguishes between man and daemon, just as psychology
must distinguish between what the human individual is and
can do and what must be ascribed to the congenital, instinctual
system, which the individual has not made but finds within him.
We would be doing the gravest injustice to Raguel if we held
(Cf. the axiom of Maria and the discussion of 3 and 4, 7 and 8, in Psychology
and Alchemy, pars, soiff. and 209.)
25 (Horace, Epistles, II, 2, 187-89.)
him responsible for the fateful power of this system, that is, of
the archetype.
744 (The potentialities of the archetype, for good and evil alike,
transcend our human capacities many times, and a man can
appropriate its power only by identifying with the daemon, by
letting himself be possessed by it, thus forfeiting his own hu
manity. The fateful power of the father complex comes from
the archetype, and this is the real reason why the consensus
gentium puts a divine or daemonic figure in place of the father.
The personal father inevitably embodies the archetype, which
is what endows his figure with its fascinating power. The arche
type acts as an amplifier, enhancing beyond measure the effects
that proceed from the father, so far as these conform to the
inherited pattern.)
[Orig.: Unfortunately medical etiquette forbids me to report a case of hysteria
which fits this pattern exactly, except that there were not seven husbands but
only three, unluckily chosen under all the ominous signs of an infantile constella
tion. Our first case, too, belongs to this category, and in our third case we see
the old peasant at work, preparing to dedicate his daughter to a like fate.
[As a pious and dutiful daughter (cf. her prayer in Tobit, ch. 3), Sara has
brought about the usual sublimation and splitting of the father-complex, on the
one hand elevating her infantile love into the worship of God, and on the other
turning the obsessive power of the father into the persecuting demon Asmodeus.
The story is beautifully worked out and shows father Raguel in his two roles, as
the inconsolable father of the bride and the provident digger of his son-in-law's
grave, whose fate he foresees.
[This pretty fable has become a classic example in my analytical work, for we
frequently meet with cases where the father-demon has laid his hand upon his
daughter, so that her whole life long, even when she does marry, there is never
a true inward union, because her husband's image never succeeds in obliterating
the unconscious and continually operative infantile father-ideal. This is true not
only of daughters, but also of sons. An excellent example of this kind of fatherconstellation
can be found in Brill's recently published "Psychological Factors in
Dementia Praecox" (1908).
[In my experience it is usually the father who is the decisive and dangerous
object of the child's fantasy, and if ever it happened to be the mother I was able
to discover behind her a grandfather to whom she belonged in her heart.
[I must leave this question open, because my findings are not sufficient to
warrant a decision. It is to be hoped that experience in the years to come will
sink deeper shafts into this obscure territory, on which I have been able to shed
but a fleeting light, and will discover more about the secret workshop of the
demon who shapes our fate, of whom Horace says:
"Scit Genius natale comes qui temperat astrum,
Naturae deus humanae, mortalis in unum,
Quodque caput, vultu mutabilis, albus et ater."]
745 At the present time, one can well say, it is still quite impos
sible to draw up a comprehensive and hence a proper picture of
all that commonly goes by the much abused name "psycho
analysis." What the layman usually understands by "psycho
analysis''a medical dissection of the soul for the purpose of
disclosing hidden causes and connectionstouches only a small
part of the phenomena in question. Even if we regard psycho
analysis from a wider angle in agreement with Freud's concep
tion of it as essentially a medical instrument for the cure of
neurosis, this broader point of view still does not exhaust the
nature of the subject. Above all, psychoanalysis in the strictly
Freudian sense is not only a therapeutic method but a psycho
logical theory, which does not confine itself in the least to the
neuroses and to psychopathology in general but attempts also
to bring within its province the normal phenomenon of the
dream and, besides this, wide areas of the humane sciences, of
literature and the creative arts, as well as biography, mythology,
folklore, comparative religion, and philosophy.
746 It is a somewhat curious fact in the history of science but
one that is in keeping with the peculiar nature of the psycho
analytic movement that Freud, the creator of psychoanalysis
(in the narrower sense), insists on identifying the method with
his sexual theory, thus placing upon it the stamp of dogmatism.
This declaration of "scientific" infallibility caused me, at the
time, to break with Freud, for to me dogma and science are
incommensurable quantities which damage one another by
mutual contamination. Dogma as a factor in religion is of inesi
[Originally published in W. M. Kranefeldt's Die Psychoanalyse (Berlin and
Leipzig, 1930). Translated by Ralph M. Eaton in the English version of the
volume, Secret Ways of the Mind (New York, 1932; London, 1934). The present
translation is of the original, but reference was made to the Eaton version.
tunable value precisely because of its absolute standpoint. But
when science dispenses with criticism and scepticism it degener
ates into a sickly hot-house plant. One of the elements necessary
to science is extreme uncertainty. Whenever science inclines
towards dogma and shows a tendency to be impatient and fanati
cal, it is concealing a doubt which in all probability is justified
and explaining away an uncertainty which is only too well
747 I emphasize this unfortunate state of affairs not because I
want to make a critical attack on Freud's theories, but rather
to point out to the unbiased reader the significant fact that
Freudian psychoanalysis, apart from being a scientific endeavour
and a scientific achievement, is a psychic symptom which has
proved to be more powerful than the analytical art of the master
himself. As Maylan's book on "Freud's tragic complex"
2 has
shown, it would not be at all difficult to derive Freud's tendency
to dogmatize from the premises of his own personal psychology
indeed, he taught this trick to his disciples and practised it
more or less successfully himselfbut I do not wish to turn his
own weapons against him. In the end no one can completely
outgrow his personal limitations; everyone is more or less im
prisoned by them especially when he practises psychology.
748 I find these technical defects uninteresting and believe it is
dangerous to lay too much stress on them, as it diverts attention
from the one important fact: that even the loftiest mind is most
limited and dependent just at the point where it seems to be
freest. In my estimation the creative spirit in man is not his
personality at all but rather a sign or symptom of a contem
porary movement of thought. His personality is important only
as the mouthpiece of a conviction arising out of an unconscious,
collective background a conviction that robs him of his free
dom, forces him to sacrifice himself and to make mistakes which
he would criticize mercilessly in others. Freud is borne along
by a particular current of thought which can be traced back to
the Reformation. Gradually it freed itself from innumerable
veils and disguises, and it is now turning into the kind of psy
chology which Nietzsche foresaw with prophetic insight the dis
covery of the psyche as a new fact. Some day we shall be able to
2 [Freuds tragischer Komplex: Eine Analyse der Psychoanalyse (1929). EDITORS.]
see by what tortuous paths modern psychology has made its way
from the dingy laboratories of the alchemists, via mesmerism
and magnetism (Kerner, Ennemoser, Eschimayer, Baader, Passavant,
and others), to the philosophical anticipations of Scho
penhauer, Cams, and von Hartmann; and how, from the native
soil of everyday experience in Liebeault and, still earlier, in
Quimby (the spiritual father of Christian Science),
3 it finally
reached Freud through the teachings of the French hypnotists.
This current of ideas flowed together from many obscure
sources, gaining rapidly in strength in the nineteenth century
and winning many adherents, amongst whom Freud is not an
isolated figure.
749 What is designated today by the catchword "psychoanalysis"
is not in reality a uniform thing, but comprises in itself many
different aspects of the great psychological problem of our age.
Whether or not the public at large is conscious of this problem
does not alter the fact of its existence. In our time the psyche has
become something of a problem for everyone. Psychology has
acquired a power of attraction which is really astounding. It
explains the surprising, world-wide spread of Freudian psycho
analysis, which has had a success comparable only to that of
Christian Science, theosophy, and anthroposophy comparable
not only in its success but also in its essence, for Freud's dogma
tism comes very close to the attitude of religious conviction that
characterizes these movements. Moreover, all four movements
are decidedly psychological. When we add to this the almost un
believable rise of occultism in every form in all civilized parts
of the Western world, we begin to get a picture of this current
of thought, everywhere a little taboo yet nonetheless compelling.
Similarly, modern medicine shows significant leanings towards
the spirit of Paracelsus, and is becoming increasingly aware of
the importance of the psyche in somatic diseases. Even the tra
ditionalism of criminal law is beginning to yield to the claims
of psychology, as we can see from the suspension of sentences
and the more and more frequent practice of calling in psycho
logical experts.
750 So much for the positive aspects of this psychological move-
3 [Phineas Parkhurst Quimby (1802-66), American hypnotist and mental healer,
consulted by Mary Baker Eddy, whose ideas he is thought to have influenced.
ment. But these aspects are balanced on the other side by equally
characteristic negative ones. Already at the time of the Reforma
tion the conscious mind had begun to break away from the meta
physical certainties of the Gothic age, and this separation be
came more acute and widespread with every passing century. At
the beginning of the eighteenth century the world saw the truths
of Christianity publicly dethroned for the first time, and at the
beginning of the twentieth the government of one of the largest
countries on earth is making every effort to stamp out the Chris
tian faith as if it were a disease. Meanwhile, the intellect of the
white man as a whole has outgrown the authority of Catholic
dogma, and Protestantism has succeeded in splitting itself into
more than four hundred denominations through the most trivial
quibbles. These are obvious negative aspects, and they explain
why people increasingly flock to any movement from which they
expect a helpful truth to come.
15 l Religions are the great healing-systems for the ills of the soul.
Neuroses and similar illnesses arise, one and all, from psychic
complications. But once a dogma is disputed and questioned, it
has lost its healing power. A person who no longer believes that
a God who knows suffering will have mercy on him, will help
and comfort him and give his life a meaning, is weak and a prey
to his own weakness and becomes neurotic. The innumerable
pathological elements in the population constitute one of the
most powerful factors that lend support to the psychological
tendencies of our time.
752 Another and by no means unimportant contingent is formed
by all those who, after a period of belief in authority, have
awakened with a kind of resentment and find a satisfaction
mixed with self-torture in advocating a so-called new truth
which is destructive of their old, still-smouldering convictions.
Such people can never keep their mouths shut and, because of
the weakness of their conviction and their fear of isolation, must
always flock together in proselytizing bands, thus at least mak
ing up in quantity for their doubtful quality.
753 Finally, there are those who are earnestly searching for some
thing, who are thoroughly convinced that the soul is the seat of
all psychic sufferings and at the same time the dwelling-place of
all the healing truths that have ever been announced as glad
tidings to suffering humanity. From the soul come the most
senseless conflicts, yet we also look to it for a solution or at least
a valid answer to the tormenting question: why?
754 One does not have to be neurotic to feel the need of healing,
and this need exists even in people who deny with the deepest
conviction that any such healing is possible. In a weak moment
they cannot help glancing inquisitively into a book on psychol
ogy, even if only to find a recipe for adroitly bringing a refrac
tory marriage partner to reason.
755 These entirely different interests on the part of the public
are reflected in the variations on the theme of "psychoanalysis/'
The Adlerian school, which grew up side by side with Freud,
lays particular stress on the social aspect of the psychic problem
and, accordingly, has differentiated itself more and more into a
system of social education. It denies, not only in theory but in
practice, all the essentially Freudian elements of psychoanalysis,
so much so that with the exception of a few theoretical princi
ples the original points of contact with the Freudian school are
almost unrecognizable. For this reason Adler's "individual psy
chology" can no longer be included in the concept of "psycho
analysis." It is an independent system of psychology, the expres
sion of a different temperament and a wholly different view of
the world.
756 No one who is interested in "psychoanalysis" and who wants
to get anything like an adequate survey of the whole field of
modern psychiatry should fail to study the writings of Adler.
He will find them extremely stimulating, and in addition he
will make the valuable discovery that exactly the same case of
neurosis can be explained in an equally convincing way from
the standpoint of Freud or of Adler, despite the fact that the
two methods of explanation seem diametrically opposed to one
another. But things that fall hopelessly apart in theory lie close
together without contradiction in the paradoxical soul of man:
every human being has a power instinct as well as a sexual in
stinct. Consequently, he displays both of these psychologies, and
every psychic impulse in him has subtle overtones coming from
the one side as much as the other.
757 Since it has not been established how many primary instincts
exist in man or in animals, the possibility at once arises that an
ingenious mind might discover a few more psychologies, appar
ently contradicting all the rest and yet productive of highly
satisfactory explanations. But these discoveries are not just a sim
ple matter of sitting down and evolving a new psychological sys
tem out of, shall we say, the artistic impulse. Neither Freud's
nor Adler's psychology came into existence in this way. Rather,
as if they were fated by an inner necessity, both investigators
confessed their ruling principle, putting on record their own
personal psychology and hence also their way of observing other
people. This is a question of deep experience and not an intel
lectual conjuring-trick. One could wish that there were more
confessions of this sort; they would give us a more complete
picture of the psyche's potentialities.
758 My own views and the school I have founded are equally
psychological, and are therefore subject to the same limitations
and criticisms that I have allowed myself to urge against these
other psychologists. So far as I myself can pass judgment on my
own point of view, it differs from the psychologies discussed
above in this respect, that it is not monistic but, if anything,
dualistic, being based on the principle of opposites, and pos
sibly pluralistic, since it recognizes a multiplicity of relatively
autonomous psychic complexes.
759 It will be seen that I have deduced a theory from the fact
that contradictory and yet satisfactory explanations are possible.
Unlike Freud and Adler, whose principles of explanation are
essentially reductive and always return to the infantile condi
tions that limit human nature, I lay more stress on a construc
tive or synthetic explanation, in acknowledgment of the fact
that tomorrow is of more practical importance than yesterday,
and that the Whence is less essential than the Whither. For all
my respect for history, it seems to me that no insight into the
past and no re-experiencing of pathogenic reminiscences how
ever powerful it may be is as effective in freeing man from the
grip of the past as the construction of something new. I am of
course very well aware that, without insight into the past and
without an integration of significant memories that have been
lost, nothing new and viable can be created. But I consider it
a waste of time and a misleading prejudice to rummage in the
past for the alleged specific causes of illness; for neuroses, no
matter what the original circumstances from which they arose,
are conditioned and maintained by a wrong attitude which is
present all the time and which, once it is recognized, must be
corrected now and not in the early period of infancy. Nor is it
enough merely to bring the causes into consciousness, for the
cure of neurosis is, in the last analysis, a moral problem and not
the magic effect of rehearsing old memories.
760 My views differ further from those of Freud and Adler in
that I give an essentially different value to the unconscious.
Freud, who attributes an infinitely more important role to the
unconscious than Adler (this school allows it to disappear com
pletely into the background), has a more religious temperament
than Adler and for this reason he naturally concedes an autono
mous, if negative, function to the psychic non-ego. In this re
spect I go several steps further than Freud. For me the uncon
scious is not just a receptacle for all unclean spirits and other
odious legacies from the dead past such as, for instance, that
deposit of centuries of public opinion which constitutes Freud's
"superego/' It is in very truth the eternally living, creative,
germinal layer in each of us, and though it may make use of
age-old symbolical images it nevertheless intends them to be
understood in a new way. Naturally a new meaning does not
come ready-made out of the unconscious, like Pallas Athene
springing fully-armed from the head of Zeus; a living effect is
achieved only when the products of the unconscious are brought
into serious relationship with the conscious mind.
7Sl In order to interpret the products of the unconscious, I also
found it necessary to give a quite different reading to dreams
and fantasies. I did not reduce them to personal factors, as
Freud does, but and this seemed indicated by their very na
tureI compared them with the symbols from mythology
and the history of religion, in order to discover the meaning
they were trying to express. This method did in fact yield ex
tremely interesting results, not least because it permitted an
entirely new reading of dreams and fantasies, thus making it
possible to unite the otherwise incompatible and archaic tend
encies of the unconscious with the conscious personality. This
union had long seemed to me the end to strive for, because neu
rotics (and many normal people, too) suffer at bottom from a
dissociation between conscious and unconscious. As the uncon
scious contains not only the sources of instinct and the whole
prehistoric nature of man right down to the animal level, but
also, along with these, the creative seeds of the future and the
roots of all constructive fantasies, a separation from the uncon
scious through neurotic dissociation means nothing less than a
separation from the source of all life. It therefore seemed to me
that the prime task of the therapist was to re-establish this lost
connection and the life-giving co-operation between conscious
and unconscious. Freud depreciates the unconscious and seeks
safety in the discriminating power of consciousness. This ap
proach is generally mistaken and leads to desiccation and ri
gidity wherever a firmly established consciousness already exists;
for, by holding off the antagonistic and apparently hostile ele
ments in the unconscious, it denies itself the vitality it needs
for its own renewal.
762 Freud's approach is not always mistaken, however, for con
sciousness is not always firmly established. This presupposes a
good deal of experience of life and a certain amount of maturity.
Young people, who are very far from knowing who they really
are, would run a great risk if they obscured their knowledge of
themselves still further by letting the "dark night of the soul"
pour into their immature, labile consciousness. Here a certain
depreciation of the unconscious is justified. Experience has con
vinced me that there are not only different temperaments
("types"), but different stages of psychological development, so
that one can well say that there is an essential difference between
the psychology of the first and the second half of life. Here again
I differ from the others in maintaining that the same psycholog
ical criteria are not applicable to the different stages of life.
763 If, to all these considerations, one adds the further fact that
I distinguish between extraverts and introverts, and again dis
tinguish each of them by the criterion of its most differentiated
function (of which I can clearly make out four), it will be evi
dent that hitherto my main concern as an investigator in the
field of psychology has been to break in rudely upon a situation
which, seen from the other two standpoints, is simple to the
point of monotony, and to call attention to the inconceivable
complexity of the psyche as it really is.
764 Most people have wanted to ignore these complexities, and
have frankly deplored their existence. But would any physiol
ogist assert that the body is simple? Or that a living molecule
of albumen is simple? If the human psyche is anything, it must
be of unimaginable complexity and diversity, so that it cannot
possibly be approached through a mere psychology of instinct.
I can only gaze with wonder and awe at the depths and heights
of our psychic nature. Its non-spatial universe conceals an un
told abundance of images which have accumulated over mil
lions of years of living development and become fixed in the
organism. My consciousness is like an eye that penetrates to the
most distant spaces, yet it is the psychic non-ego that fills them
with non-spatial images. And these images are not pale shadows,
but tremendously powerful psychic factors. The most we may
be able to do is misunderstand them, but we can never rob them
of their power by denying them. Beside this picture I would
like to place the spectacle of the starry heavens at night, for the
only equivalent of the universe within is the universe without;
and just as I reach this world through the medium of the body,
so I reach that world through the medium of the psyche.
765 Thus I cannot regret the complications introduced into psy
chology by my own contributions, for scientists have always de
ceived themselves very thoroughly when they thought they had
discovered how simple things are.
766 In this introduction I hope I have conveyed to the reader that
the psychological endeavours summed up in the layman's idea
of "psychoanalysis" ramify very much further historically, so
cially, and philosophically than the term indicates. It may also
become clear that the field of research presented in this book is
far from being a distinct, easily delimited territory. On the
contrary it is a growing science, which is only just beginning to
leave its medical cradle and become a psychology of human
767 The exposition that now follows is not intended to describe
the whole range of present-day psychological problems. It con
fines itself to surveying the beginnings of modern psychology
and the elementary problems which fall chiefly within the prov
ince of the physician. I have included in my introduction a
number of wider considerations so as to give the reader a more
general orientation.
768 The difference between Freud's views and my own ought
really to be dealt with by someone who stands outside the orbit
of those ideas which go under our respective names. Can I be
credited with sufficient impartiality to rise above my own ideas?
Can any man do this? I doubt it. If I were told that someone
had rivalled Baron Munchausen by accomplishing such a feat,
I should feel sure that his ideas were borrowed ones.
769 It is true that widely accepted ideas are never the personal
property of their so-called author; on the contrary, he is the
bondservant of his ideas. Impressive ideas which are hailed as
truths have something peculiar about them. Although they come
into being at a definite time, they are and have always been
timeless; they arise from that realm of creative psychic life
out of which the ephemeral mind of the single human being
grows like a plant that blossoms, bears fruit and seed, and then
withers and dies. Ideas spring from something greater than the
personal human being. Man does not make his ideas; we could
say that man's ideas make him.
77<> Ideas are, inevitably, a fatal confession, for they bring to
light not only the best in us, but our worst insufficiencies and
personal shortcomings as well. This is especially the case with
ideas about psychology. Where should they come from ex
cept from our most subjective side? Can our experience of the
objective world ever save us from our subjective bias? Is not
every experience, even in the best of circumstances, at least
fifty-per-cent subjective interpretation? On the other hand, the
subject is also an objective fact, a piece of the world; and what
1 [Originally published as "Der Gegensatz Freud und Jung," Kolnische Zeitung
(Cologne), May 7, 1929, p. 4. Reprinted in Seelenprobleme der Gegenwart (Zurich,
1931), and translated by W. S. Dell and Gary F. Baynes, under the present title,
in Modern Man in Search of a Soul (London and New York, 1933). The original
German text is retranslated here, though reference has been made to the 1933
comes from him comes, ultimately, from the stuff of the world
itself, just as the rarest and strangest organism is none the less
supported and nourished by the earth which is common to all.
It is precisely the most subjective ideas which, being closest to
nature and to our own essence, deserve to be called the truest.
But: "What is truth?"
77* For the purposes of psychology, I think it best to abandon
the notion that we are today in anything like a position to make
statements about the nature of the psyche that are "true" or
"correct." The best that we can achieve is true expression. By
true expression I mean an open avowal and detailed presenta
tion of everything that is subjectively observed. One person
will stress the forms into which he can work this material, and
will therefore believe that he is the creator of what he finds
within himself. Another will lay most weight on what is ob
served; he will therefore speak of it as a phenomenon, while
remaining conscious of his own receptive attitude. The truth
probably lies between the two: true expression consists in giving
form to what is observed.
772 The modern psychologist, however ambitious, can hardly
claim to have achieved more than this. Our psychology is the
more or less successfully formulated confession of a few indi
viduals, and so far as each of them conforms more or less to a
type, his confession can be accepted as a fairly valid description
of a large number of people. And since those who conform to
other types none the less belong to the human species, we may
conclude that this description applies, though less fully, to them
too. What Freud has to say about sexuality, infantile pleasure,
and their conflict with the "reality principle," as well as what
he says about incest and the like, can be taken as the truest ex
pression of his personal psychology. It is the successful formula
tion of what he himself subjectively observed. I am no opponent
of Freud's; I am merely presented in that light by his own
short-sightedness and that of his pupils. No experienced psy
chiatrist can deny having met with dozens of cases whose psy
chology answers in all essentials to that of Freud. By his own
subjective confession, Freud has assisted at the birth of a great
truth about man. He has devoted his life and strength to the
construction of a psychology which is a formulation of his own
773 Our way of looking at things is conditioned by what we are.
And since other people have a different psychology, they see
things differently and express themselves differently. Adler, one
of Freud's earliest pupils, is a case in point. Working with the
same empirical material as Freud, he approached it from a to
tally different standpoint. His way of looking at things is at
least as convincing as Freud's, because he too represents a psy
chology of a well-known type. I know that the followers of both
schools flatly assert that I am in the wrong, but I may hope that
history and all fair-minded persons will bear me out. Both
schools, to my way of thinking, deserve reproach for over
emphasizing the pathological aspect of life and for interpreting
man too exclusively in the light of his defects. A convincing
example of this in Freud's case is his inability to understand
religious experience, as is clearly shown in his book The Future
of an Illusion.
774 For my part, I prefer to look at man in the light of what in
him is healthy and sound, and to free the sick man from just
that kind of psychology which colours every page Freud has
written. I cannot see how Freud can ever get beyond his own
psychology and relieve the patient of a suffering from which
the doctor himself still suffers. It is the psychology of neurotic
states of mind, definitely one-sided, and its validity is really
confined to those states. Within these limits it is true and valid
even when it is in error, for error also belongs to the picture
and carries the truth of a confession. But it is not a psychology
of the healthy mind, and this is a symptom of its morbidityit
is based on an uncriticized, even an unconscious, view of the
world which is apt to narrow the horizon of experience and
limit one's vision. It was a great mistake on Freud's part to turn
his back on philosophy. Not once does he criticize his assump
tions or even his personal psychic premises. Yet to do so was
necessary, as may be inferred from what I have said above; for
had he critically examined his own foundations he would never
have been able to put his peculiar psychology so naively on
view as he did in The Interpretation of Dreams. At all events,
he would have had a taste of the difficulties I have met with. I
have never refused the bitter-sweet drink of philosophical criti
cism, but have taken it with caution, a little at a time. All too
little, my opponents will say; almost too much, my own feeling
tells me. All too easily does self-criticism poison one's nai'vet^,
that priceless possession, or rather gift, which no creative per
son can do without. At any rate, philosophical criticism has
helped me to see that every psychology my own includedhas
the character of a subjective confession. And yet I must prevent
my critical powers from destroying my creativeness. I know well
enough that every word I utter carries with it something of my
selfof my special and unique self with its particular history
and its own particular world. Even when I deal with empirical
data I am necessarily speaking about myself. But it is only by
accepting this as inevitable that I can serve the cause of man's
knowledge of man the cause which Freud also wished to serve
and which, in spite of everything, he has served. Knowledge
rests not upon truth alone, but upon error also.
775 It is perhaps here, where the question arises of recognizing
that every psychology which is the work of one man is subjec
tively coloured, that the line between Freud and myself is most
sharply drawn.
776 A further difference seems to me to consist in this, that I try
to free myself from all unconscious and therefore uncriticized
assumptions about the world in general. I say "I try," for who
can be sure that he has freed himself from all of his unconscious
assumptions? I try to save myself from at least the crassest preju
dices, and am therefore disposed to recognize all manner of
gods provided only that they are active in the human psyche. I
do not doubt that the natural instincts or drives are forces of
propulsion in psychic life, whether we call them sexuality or
the will to power; but neither do I doubt that these instincts
come into collision with the spirit, for they are continually col
liding with something, and why should not this something be
called "spirit"? I am far from knowing what spirit is in itself,
and equally far from knowing what instincts are. The one is as
mysterious to me as the other; nor can I explain the one as a
misunderstanding of the other. There are no misunderstandings
in nature, any more than the fact that the earth has only one
moon is a misunderstanding; misunderstandings are found only
in the realm of what we call "understanding." Certainly instinct
and spirit are beyond my understanding. They are terms which
we posit for powerful forces whose nature we do not know.
777 My attitude to all religions is therefore a positive one. In
their symbolism I recognize those figures which I have met with
in the dreams and fantasies of my patients. In their moral teach
ings I see efforts that are the same as or similar to those made
by my patients when, guided by their own insight or inspira
tion, they seek the right way to deal with the forces of psychic
life. Ceremonial ritual, initiation rites, and ascetic practices, in
all their forms and variations, interest me profoundly as so
many techniques for bringing about a proper relation to these
forces. My attitude to biology is equally positive, and to the
empiricism of natural science in general, in which I see a her
culean attempt to understand the psyche by approaching it from
the outside world, just as religious gnosis is a prodigious attempt
of the human mind to derive knowledge of the cosmos from
within. In my picture of the world there is a vast outer realm
and an equally vast inner realm; between these two stands man,
facing now one and now the other, and, according to tempera
ment and disposition, taking the one for the absolute truth by
denying or sacrificing the other.
778 This picture is hypothetical, of course, but it offers a hy
pothesis which is so valuable that I will not give it up. I con
sider it heuristically and empirically justified and, moreover, it
is confirmed by the consensus gentium. This hypothesis cer
tainly came to me from an inner source, though I might imagine
that empirical findings had led to its discovery. Out of it has
grown my theory of types, and also my reconciliation with views
as different from my own as those of Freud.
779 I see in all that happens the play of opposites, and derive
from this conception my idea of psychic energy. I hold that
psychic energy involves the play of opposites in much the same
way as physical energy involves a difference of potential, that is
to say the existence of opposites such as warm and cold, high
and low, etc. Freud began by taking sexuality as the only psychic
driving force, and only after my break with him did he take
other factors into account. For my part, I have summed up the
various psychic drives or forces all constructed more or less
ad hoc under the concept of energy, in order to eliminate the
almost unavoidable arbitrariness of a psychology that deals
purely with power-drives. I therefore speak not of separate
drives or forces but o "value intensities." 2 By this I do not
mean to deny the importance of sexuality in psychic life, though
Freud stubbornly maintains that I do deny it. What I seek is to
set bounds to the rampant terminology of sex which vitiates all
discussion of the human psyche, and to put sexuality itself in its
proper place.
78 Common-sense will always return to the fact that sexuality
is only one of the biological instincts, only one of the psychophysiological
functions, though one that is without doubt very
far-reaching and important. But what happens when we can no
longer satisfy our hunger? There is, quite obviously, a marked
disturbance today in the psychic sphere of sex, just as, when a
tooth really hurts, the whole psyche seems to consist of nothing
but toothache. The kind of sexuality described by Freud is that
unmistakable sexual obsession which shows itself whenever a
patient has reached the point where he needs to be forced or
tempted out of a wrong attitude or situation. It is an over
emphasized sexuality piled up behind a dam, and it shrinks at
once to normal proportions as soon as the way to development
is opened. Generally it is being caught in the old resentments
against parents and relations and in the boring emotional tan
gles of the "family romance" that brings about the damming
up of life's energies, and this stoppage unfailingly manifests it
self in the form of sexuality called "infantile." It is not sexuality
proper, but an unnatural discharge of tensions that really be
long to quite another province of life. That being so, what is
the use of paddling about in this flooded country? Surely,
straight thinking will grant that it is more important to open
up drainage canals, that is, to find a new attitude or way of life
which will offer a suitable gradient for the pent-up energy.
Otherwise a vicious circle is set up, and this is in fact what
Freudian psychology appears to do. It points no way that leads
beyond the inexorable cycle of biological events. In despair we
would have to cry out with St. Paul: "Wretched man that I am,
who will deliver me from the body of this death?" And the spir
itual man in us comes forward, shaking his head, and says in
Faust's words: "Thou art conscious only of the single urge,"
namely of the fleshly bond leading back to father and mother or
2 Cf. "On Psychic Energy," pars. 148.
forward to the children that have sprung from our flesh "incest"
with the past and "incest" with the future, the original sin of
perpetuation of the "family romance." There is nothing that
can free us from this bond except that opposite urge of life, the
spirit. It is not the children of the flesh, but the "children ol
God/' who know freedom. In Ernst Barlach's tragedy The Dead
Day, the mother-daemon says at the end: "The strange thing is
that man will not learn that God is his father." That is what
Freud would never learn, and what all those who share his out
look forbid themselves to learn. At least, they never find the key
to this knowledge. Theology does not help those who are look
ing for the key, because theology demands faith, and faith can
not be made: it is in the truest sense a gift of grace. We moderns
are faced with the necessity of rediscovering the life of the spirit;
we must experience it anew for ourselves. It is the only way in
which to break the spell that binds us to the cycle of biological
7Sl My position on this question is the third point of difference
between Freud's views and my own. Because of it I am accused
of mysticism. I do not, however, hold myself responsible for the
fact that man has, always and everywhere, spontaneously de
veloped a religious function, and that the human psyche from
time immemorial has been shot through with religious feelings
and ideas. Whoever cannot see this aspect of the human psyche
is blind, and whoever chooses to explain it away, or to "en
lighten" it away, has no sense of reality. Or should we see in
the father-complex which shows itself in all members of the
Freudian school, and in its founder as well, evidence of a notable
release from the fatalities of the family situation? This fathercomplex,
defended with such stubbornness and oversensitivity,
is a religious function misunderstood, a piece of mysticism ex
pressed in terms of biological and family relationships. As for
Freud's concept of the "superego," it is a furtive attempt to
smuggle the time-honoured image of Jehovah in the dress of
psychological theory. For my part, I prefer to call things by the
names under which they have always been known.
782 The wheel of history must not be turned back, and man's
advance toward a spiritual life, which began with the primitive
rites of initiation, must not be denied. It is permissible for
science to divide up its field of inquiry and to operate with
limited hypotheses, for science must work in that way; but the
human psyche may not be so parcelled out. It is a whole which
embraces consciousness, and it is the mother of consciousness.
Scientific thought, being only one of the psyche's functions, can
never exhaust all its potentialities. The psychotherapist must
not allow his vision to be coloured by pathology; he must never
allow himself to forget that the ailing mind is a human mind
and that, for all its ailments, it unconsciously shares the whole
psychic life of man. He must even be able to admit that the ego
is sick for the very reason that it is cut off from the whole, and
has lost its connection not only with mankind but with the
spirit. The ego is indeed the "place of fears/' as Freud says in
The Ego and the Id, but only so long as it has not returned to
its "father" and "mother." Freud founders on the question of
Nicodemus: "How can a man be born when he is old? Can he
enter the second time into his mother's womb, and be born?"
(John 3:4). History repeats itself, for to compare small things
with great-the question reappears today in the domestic quar
rel of modern psychology.
7 83 For thousands of years, rites of initiation have been teaching
rebirth from the spirit; yet, strangely enough, man forgets again
and again the meaning of divine procreation. Though this may
be poor testimony to the strength of the spirit, the penalty for
misunderstanding is neurotic decay, embitterment, atrophy,
and sterility. It is easy enough to drive the spirit out of the door,
but when we have done so the meal has lost its savour the salt
of the earth. Fortunately, we have proof that the spirit always
renews its strength in the fact that the essential teaching of the
initiations is handed on from generation to generation. Ever
and again there are human beings who understand what it
means that God is their father. The equal balance of the flesh
and the spirit is not lost to the world.
784 The contrast between Freud and myself goes back to essen
tial differences in our basic assumptions. Assumptions are un
avoidable, and this being so it is wrong to pretend that we have
no assumptions. That is why I have dealt with fundamental
questions; with these as a starting-point, the manifold and de
tailed differences between Freud's views and my own can best
be understood.

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Psychological Types. (Collected Works, 6.*) (Alternative
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abasia, 5
Abraham, Karl, 100, 122, 211, 220
abreaction, 11, 14, go, 254, 258, 262
accidents, 223; apparent, 216; and
emotional development, 177, 179;
hysteria and, go
activity, and passivity, 274
Acts of the Apostles, 53
adaptation, 137, 182, 186^ 248; ab
normal, 249; failure in, 250; in
fantile, 137; new, and neurosis,
246; psychological, 271, 274; re
duced, in neurotics, 191; resistance
to, infantile, 249; transference
and, 199, 285
Adler, Alfred, 48, 87, 240, 247, 276,
advice, 231
affection, need for, 114
affects: aetiological significance in
hysteria, lof; blocking of, 12, 90;
children's, intensity of, 152; dis
placement of, 13; effects of trau
matic, i2/; in normal persons, 11;
retardation of development of,
affluxes, libidinal, 126
Agamemnon, 154
aims, and causes, 291f
albumen, 331
alchemists, 326
altruism, 282
ambivalence: of father-imago, 321;
of instincts, 283
America: cross symbol in, 210; psy
choanalysis in, 88
amnesia: of childhood/infantile,
117, i63/; neurotic, 164
Amsterdam Congress (1907), 31771
anal eroticism, 20, 21, 76
analogy, 240
analysis, 250; fantasy invention dur
ing, 184; first stage, ig4/; second
stage, 197, 200; of transference,
194$; see also dream-analysis; psychanalysis;
analyst: analysis of, ig8/, 235, 253,
260, 274; fear of loss of, 63; inter
ference by, 272, 275; loss of bal
ance by, 235; personality of, 198^
260, 274, 277; possibility of deceiv
ing, 280; procedure of, 272; rela
tion to patient, 193, 235, 285; re
quirements for, 202; resistances of,
187; transference relation to, 191,
see also transference
analytical psychology, 229
anamnesis, 97; and psychoanalysis,
2 3o/, 271
anarchy, 283
ancestor-columns, 222
anchorite, 121
Andennatt, 35$
animals, 242; artistic impulse in, 123;
gradual change in reproductive
principles, 123; hypnosis in, 262;
laziness in, 208; and remembered
impressions, 179; social sense in,
278; training of, 182
Annunciation, 54
ant, queen, 315
anthroposophy, 326
antlers, 287
anxiety attacks, 162
apathy, neurotic, 113
aphonia, 5, 69, 70
"apothecaries' messes," 260
appetite, loss of, 248
archetype, 315^ 32 2/; of father, 321,
artistic instinct, in animals, 123
ascetic practices, 337
Aschaffenburg, Gustav, %fff ion, 304
Asmodeus, 322, 32371
association(s): chains of, and com
plex, 16; concordant, in families,
136; and dreams, 17, i43/; and
dream material, 238; free, 15, 58/;
and number dreams, 49; and re
pression, 92
association experiments, 233; and
families, 136, 304; and neurosis,
181; and psychanalysis, 7; and un
conscious, 148ff
assumptions: basic, 340; uncon
scious, 336
asthma, nervous, 162
astro-mythology, 210
attitude: change of, and conflict,
266; infantile, 249; patient's, to in
terpretation, 236; and reactiontype,
305; religious and philosoph
ical, 241; see also emotional atti
attraction, 125/
attributes, personification of, 40^
aufsitzen, 3872, 4772
augur, a6o/, 267
authority: faith in, 282, 283; submis
sion to, 284
autoerotism, 108
automatisms, unconscious psychic,
and hysteria, 10
autonomy: individual, 283, 284;
moral, 288, 289
auto-suggestion, 6ff 90
Baader, 326
baptism, i46/, 148
barbarism, 239
Barlach, Ernst, 339
barn, 35^
Bataks, 222
bed-wetting, see enuresis
Bergson, Henri, 248, 287
Bernheim, H., 254
Bible, 53, 55
bicycle, 218
Binet, Alfred, 57
Binswanger, Ludwig, 10 8c n, 60
biography, 324
biology, 337
Bircher, 265
bird(s), 287, 315, 321
blackmail, 205, 208, 209
black man (dream-symbol), 3i8/
bladder, irritation of, and dreams,
Bleuler, Eugen, 40, 57, 5872, 229
"blinded," 7o/, 72
blinding, 319
Boas, F., 211
body-openings, 127
Breuer, Josef, 10, 11, 90^ 254; "Anna
O." case, 11; Studies on Hysteria,
11, i2n,34, 89, 92, 258
bridge, 1417
Brill, A. A., 56, 32371
brooding, 185
bull, 217
butterfly(-ies), 105, 117
cab, 96
Carus, K. G., 326
castration complex, 151
caterpillar(s), 105, 117, 118
catharsis /cathartic method, 259/7
and hysteria, go/; and neurosis, 14,
254/; psychoanalysis and, 271, 274
Catherine of Siena, St., 28
Catholic Church, 284
cats, 6Sff, 72
causalism, 284
causality: and dreams, 26; need for,
and fantasy formation, 173; psy
chology and, 292, 295
cause(s): and aims, 29 if; first, 295
cave, 7o/
censor, 29, 31,43
chance, and psychoanalysis, 272, 275,
278, 282
Charcot, J.-M., 8gf
chestnuts, 40, 41
childbirth, 103
children: parental influences on,
135$7 sexuality in, 94, 98^ see also
Christ, 32on
Christianity, 277, 286, 289, 327
Christian Science, 230, 255, 260, 265,
Church, the, ig2/; see also Catholic
church-spire, 214
Cicero, 111
civilization, 283, 288; history of, sym
bols in, 293
Claparede, Edouard, 45, 120, 248
Clark University, 57
Cleanthes, 303
climacteric, 306^
Clytemnestra, 154
coercion, 284
cognition, theory of, 165, 296
Columbus, Christopher, 102
compensation, 155
complex(es): association experiment
and, 181; father-, Freud's, 339;
feeling-toned, 26; nuclear, 157,
245/; resolution of, i$fj tendency
to reproduction, 16; see also cas
tration complex; Electra complex;
incest complex; Oedipus complex;
parental complex
complex indicators, 148
"components/' of sexuality, 109, 111
conation, 125
condensation, ssj, 62 7 UJ7
confession, 192^ 205/; formulas of,
40; subjective, psychology as, 336
conflict(s), 129, 157; actual, 181;
child and adult, 157; external and
internal solutions, 266/; infantile,
245; instinct/conventional moral
ity, 267; love/duty, 267; moral,
259> * 63* 282
consciousness: and adaptation, 240;
individual, and unconscious, 315;
infantile, 164; and infantile atti
tude, struggle, 320; not whole of
psyche, 66, 140; primitive, 319;
psyche and, 340; psychological de
terminants of, 230
constellation(s): affective, i6/; anal
ysis of, in association experiment,
18; of childhood sexuality, 99; psy
chic, elements of, 26; unconscious,
contagion, psychic, 306
context, importance in psychology, 6
conversion of excitation, 12, 90
coughing, 206
cramps, 162
creation, regression and, 180
criticism of psychoanalysis, and per
sonal undercurrents, 75
cross, 210
cryptomnesia, 55
cucumber, 149
culture, 198, 287; and nature, 213
cure: faith and, 254; necessity to at
tempt, 263
daemon, 514, 322;
dark night of the soul, 331
"decent," 256
deception, of analyst, 275, 281
degeneration /degeneracy, heredi
tary, 91, 130
delusions, 114
dementia praecox, 4on, 244; infan
tilism in, 129; libido in, 119$;
mythology and, 225; psychoanaly
sis and, 202; see also schizophre
nia; Schreber case
depressions, psychogenic, 162
depth psychology, 57, 229
desire, 125, 247; see also libido
destiny: biological, 288; and psycho
logical tendency, 136; source of,
determinants, 287
determination: causal and final, 296;
unconscious, 158^
devil, 314, 32 in
diagnosis of facts, experimental, 7
digestive disorders, 248
dinner-party, 32
Dionysus, 41
disgust, 19, 2 if
disintegration, chemical, 128
dissociation: inner, 291; psychic, and
hysteria, 10
divine, the, and father-imago, 315
doctor, as analysand, 272
dogma, 193, 241, 324^ 327
"Dora analysis/' Freud's, 977
dragon, 216; hero's fight with, 319
dream(s), i43ft alleged absence of,
234/; analysis of, see dream-analy
sis; archaic thinking in, 241;
Freud and, 14, 17, 25ft Freud's vs.
Jung's views, 240, 330; and hys
terics, 28; of incestuous cohabita
tion, 280; interpreted by rumour,
45; manifest and latent content,
25; meaningfulness of, 25/; no
fixed meanings, 236, 238; and
number fantasies, 48ft and par
ticular theories, 280; and past ex
periences, 143^; prospective func
tion, 20O/, 238; psychoanalysis of,
see dream-analysis; and reminis
cence, 149; in second stage of
analysis, 200; sexuality in, 238ft as
subliminal picture of dreamer's
waking state, 240; suggested, 275;
symbolism in, 252; technique of
elucidation, 144; teleological sig
nificance, 201, 214; unconscious
origin, 144; undisguised, 280; use
in analysis, 273; as wish-fulfilment,
27, 62ft see also fear; resistance;
occurrence in text): black-clothed
man dragging woman over preci
pice, 2g/; need to urinate felt in
presence of Pope Pius X, 31; girls'
bathing expedition and journey
with teacher, 35ft season ticket
numbered 2477, 48/; gambling on
number 152, 50; analyst's bill with
interest, 50^; "Luke 137," 53; Jew
ess drinking whisky, 61; toiling up
hill, 62; rocky path and hammer
ing with stone, 64; woman alone
in ballroom, theatre, etc., 66/; cats
and wild man on rocky path, 68/;
gnomes in cave, 7o/; exhibitionist
in grey suit, i72/; girl bitten by
wolf while looking for strawber
ries, 209/7 tall girl who meets
policeman, 214; house on fire, 215;
stork in fir-wood, 220; fire in hotel,
236; mounting stairs with mother
and sister, 237; lady in lascivious
situation with Dr Jung, 279; black
snake seeking to bite boy's face,
318; black man on boy's bed, 318
dream-analysis, 31, 234; method,
i44ft 234
dream-material, 27, 145; many-sided
ness of, 236
dream-thought and content, confu
sion, 62, 64
drives, sexual, plurality of, 108; see
also instinct(s)
drowning, 221
Dubois, Paul, 15 & n, 184, 231, 259,
duplication, of personalities, 40
duty(-ies), i86/; biological, 287, 288;
and love, conflict, 267; neglected,
and dreams, 238
dyspepsia, 248
Edda, 216
Eddy, Mary Baker, 32671
education: moral, 213; and neurosis,
213; psychoanalysis and, ig6/; psy
choanalytic, 79; social, 328
educative method, 15
ego: "place of fears," 340; relation to
non-ego, 294
egoism: and altruism, 282; childish,
elan vital, 248
Electra complex, 154^ 168, 245
electricity, 269
electromagnetism, 124
elephant, 149
emotional attitude, infantile, and
neurosis, 137
emotional rapport, lack of, i ig/
empathy, 190, 264^ 277, 285, 286
encasement, 165
"end of the world/' 120
energic viewpoint, 247
energy, 124; conservation of, 109,
111, 112, 115, 247, 296; hypotheti
cal idea of, 124; physical, and
libido, compared, 124; psychic,
121, 122, 247, 285, 337; single, in
physics, 111
enlightenment, sexual, 8, 219, 224
Ennemoser, J., 326
enthusiasm, 274
enuresis, 256^ 262, 317
environment: culture and, 287; see
also neurosis
envy, patient's, of analyst, 50
erection, in children, 100
erogenous zones, 108
Eros, 122ft, 285
eroticism: in analysis, 195; see also
anal eroticism
error, value of, 200
Eschimayer, 326
ethnopsychology, 203
evolution, 123
exaltations, psychogenic, 162
excitation: retention of, 90; see also
affect, blocking of
excitement, suppressed, 318
exhibitionist, i72/
expectation, 286, 318
expediency, 263, 265, 267, 269
experience, inner, 32071
expression, true, 334
extraversion, 331
"faculties," psychic, 111, 114
fairytales, 2i5/
faith, 339; in authority, 282, 289;
patient's, 254^ s6o/
Falke, Konrad, 79
family: analyst assimilated to, 194;
conformity of reaction type in,
136; father's significance in, 303^;
reaction-types in, 3O4/
family milieu, and neurosis, 135$
family romance, 301, 338, 339
fanaticism, 269
fantasy(-ies) : aetiological significance,
188, 245, 2487; artificiality of, 183;
bondage to, 182; cessation of, 188;
conscious, 139, 151; defecation,
2O/; in dementia praecox, 120; of
father in obscene attitude, 173; in
hysterics, 19$, 130$; infantile, 138,
249; , transference and, 283;
murderous, 146; and neurosis, 157,
244; neurotic, evaluation of, iSsff;
in neurotics, 138; patient's atti
tude to, i85/; perverse, in case of
hysteria, i72/; "reality" of, 183/7
reasons for inventing, i74/; sex
ual, in children, 103; and sexual
function, 103; transference, erotic,
279, 285; traumatic effect of, 96,
97/; unconscious, 138, i%gff, 151$;
, origin of, 152$; value of, 188;
see also incest fantasies
fantasy activity, excessive, 133; see
also hypnosis
fantasy systems, unconscious, ii3/
fate, of child, restricted to parents,
father: analyst as, 284; animal, 319;
and personification of destiny,
315; relation to, and neurosis,
303; significance of, 30 1#; wolf as
symbol of, 2ii/; see also Oedipus
complex; parents
father-imago, see imago
Faust, see Goethe
fear, 318; dream as fulfilment of, 60,
fear (cont.):
62, 70; of father, 2iiff, see also
father; and hypnosis, 262; in Ju
daism, 32071
fertilization: chance and assured,
123; child's theories of, 221
fever, 185
fig-tree, barren, 54
finality, 295
finger-sucking, 106, 212
fire, dream-symbol, 215, 236
firewood, 62
flesh and spirit, balance, 340
Flournoy, Theodore, 55, 57
folie a deux, 316
folklore, 146, 324
"fonction du re'el," 120
food, and mother, 153
Fordham University, 87
Forel, Auguste, 252, 275
forgetfulness, and inhibition, 32
forgetting, 6, 92
foster-children, 168
Frank, Ludwig, 254, 261, 265
freedom, 270, 287
Freud, Sigmund, 40, 56, 64, 74, 76,
85, 88, 104, 105, 122, 130, 132, 137,
148, l6l, l8o, 190, 200, 211, 225,
229, 252, 275/, 290, 324$; on analy
sis of one's own dreams, 252; de
velopment of his views, iSff; "Dora
analysis," 977; and dreams, z$ff,
2Oo/, 240; German criticism of,
57/; and incest complex, 156; and
infantile sexuality/sexual trau
mata, 13, 94/., 98, 114, 118; and
latency period, i64/; and libido
concept, 111; "Lucy R." case, 93;
misunderstandings of, 167; and
number symbolism, 48; and paren
tal complex, 135; and regression,
163, 168; on relationship to father,
33 3*5; ai*d repression, 9i/; and
Schreber case, 119; theory of hys
teria/neurosis, $ff, iofff 22, go/,
243^ 259; and transference, 283;
and unconscious, 140, 141; see also
sexuality; WORKS: "Analysis of a
Phobia in a Five-year-old Boy,"
31771; "Bruchstiick einer Hystericanalyse,"
371; "Charakter und Analerotik,"
76; Collected Papers,
9477; "The Defence Neuro-Psychoses/'
12, 13; The Ego and the Id,
340; "Five Lectures on Psycho-
Analysis," 5777; "Fragment of an
Analysis of a Case of Hysteria,"
377, 977, 1472, 17, 18, 23, 24; "Freud's
Psycho-Analytic Procedure," 1477;
The Future of an Illusion, 335; The
Interpretation of Dreams, 14, 17,
S5& 34> 58> 335 >' "Jokes and their
Relation to the Unconscious," 34;
"Obsessive Acts and Religious
Practices," 3 2 on; "On Beginning
the Treatment," 27277; "On Psy
chotherapy," 1471; "Psycho-Analy
tic Notes on an Autobiographical
Account of a Case of Paranoia,"
11971; Psychopathology of Every
day Life,, 150; "Recommendations
to Physicians Practising Psycho-
Analysis," 25371; Sammlung kleiner
Schriften zur Neurosenlehref
9471; Studies on Hysteria, 11, 1277,,
13, 34, 89, 92, 9377; "Three Essays
on Sexuality," 17, 18, 100, 111,
118, 122, 143, 166, 168
friendship, 286
Frobenius, L., 211
function(s): development from re
productive instinct, 123; especially
a final concept, 296; four, 331; im
mature and developed, 116; psy
chological, necessary, 293; reli
gious, 339; see also nutritive func
tion; reality function
Fiirst, Emma, 304^ 136
Furtmiiller, C.,
Galileo, 102
gametes, reduction in number, 123
genital organs, and sexuality, 108
German army, 31777
Germans, 158
Germany, 166, 295; Freudian theory
and, 57/, 95
"getting stuck," 133, 180, 181, 189,
*99> 235
girls: hysteria in, lyi/; Oedipus com
plex in, 153
glands, genital, 295
gnomes, 70
God, 32171,327, 340
gods, 156
Goethe, J. W. von, 315; Faust, 26ft
65, 77, 85, 265, 338
grandfather, 32371
Gregory, Dr, 87
Gross, Otto, 30471
Gulliver situation, 70, 72
habits, bad, in children, 106, 108,
213, 244
hammering, 64^ 72
hand, 127
Hartmann, C. R. E. von, 140, 326
Haslebacher, J. A., 7671
headaches, 205
healing, need of, 328
heaven, kingdom of, 277
hebephrenia, 129
hedonism, 29 if
Hermes, 40
hero-dragon myth, 2 16, 319
Hinkle, Beatrice, 153
Hoch, August, 56
Hoche, Alfred E., 57 & n
homosexuality, 108, log/, 112
hope, 286
Horace, 302, 32272, 32371
horse(s): American Indians and, 240;
trotting, shock from, 97, 131, 158^
hotel (dream-symbol), 236
human situation, original, 315, 319
hunger, 107, 111, 123; importance in
psychology, 4
hypnosis /hypnotism, 89, 231, 254$,
278; as auxiliary to psychoanalysis,
262; light and total, 259, 261; and
reminiscences, 92; see also sugges
hypnotists, French, 326
hysteria, 130, 168, 248; applicability
of Freudian view to, 23; cause and
symptom in, io/; and childhood
trauma, 89, 94; fantasy-activity in,
19; Freudian theory, loft ,
Aschaffenburg and, 3ft , histori
cal survey of, loff; and hidden
thought-processes, 60; psychogenesis
of, 90; as psychogenic illness, 4,
10, 102; and sexuality, 4^ 13, 19, 94;
traumatic, limits of, 5; in young
girls, i7ift see also affects; neuro
sis; suggestion
idea(s), 333; gained in analysis, use
of, 279; initial, as symbol of com
plex, 16; subjective, 333^
ideal, identity with, 68
identification: of analyst with pa
tient, 179; of children with par
ents, i35/
images, psychic, 332
imago: father-, 315, 321; parental,
*34> ^o
imitativeness, 135
immoral impulses, 288
immortality, 27, 142
impotence, 54/
impressions: conditioned by predis
position, 177; early, 136; , sus
pect reality of, 179
incest, 155, 156, 157, 222; complex,
207, 210; see also Oedipus com
plex; fantasies, 208, 237, 239; ta
boo, 247
incest barrier, 156, 247
independence, child's desire for, 306
Indians, American, 240
indignation, uselessness of, 100
individual, variability of, 292
individualization, urge to, 284
individual psychology, 328
indolence, 207, 289
inertia, 207, 249
infantile-insubordinate type, 285
infantile level, reversion to, 170^
infantile-obedient type, 285
influences, parental, on children,
inhibition, mental, 32
initiation, rites of, 146, 337, 339, 340
insight: and emotions, 138; gained
in analysis, use of, 279
instinct(s), 336; ambivalence of, 283;
co-existence in child, 107; multi
plicity/plurality of, 126, 165; nu
tritive, 248; preformed, 315; pri
mary, 328; sexual, in, see also
insurance money, and hysteria, 5
intelligence test, 271, 274
intention, unconscious, 161
interest, i2O/, 232, 286; erotic, 12O/
interpretations: complete, some
times unwise, 235/; Freudian, al
leged arbitrary character, 6, 230;
in Freudian analysis, 15,* use as
symbols in later dreams, 280; see
also dreams
intestinal canal, 222
intra-uterine period, 105
introversion, 133*1, 180, 331; of li
bido, 187
intuition, 215
inventiveness, 183
investment, libidinal, of analyst, 285
irresponsibility, 289
irritability, no
Isis, 40
isolation, moral, 192
Isserlin, M., 5871
jack-in-the-box, 222
James, William, 86, 291
Janet, Pierre, 10, 57, 11371, 120, 130,
248, 250
jealousy, 114, 154, 172
Jehovah, 32072, 339; see also Yahweh
Jelliffe, Smith Ely, 86
Jewess, 6 if
Job, Book of, 321
John, Gospel of, 340
Jonah, 210
Jones, Ernest, 377, ion., 56 and n,
64,73, 211,30471
Jorger, J., 3037*
Journal of Abnormal Psychology, 57
Judaism, 32071
Jung, Carl Gustav:
CASES IN SUMMARY (in order of
presentation, numbered for ref
[i] Psychotic hysteric, with com
pulsive defecation fantasies.
[2] Young woman, suffering from
hysteria after fright from cabhorses.
$6f, 130$, 158$
[3] Young man, returned to ho
mosexuality after disappoint
ment in love. 109, 112
[4] Two sisters, illustrating diffi
culties of engagement period.
[5] Schoolgirl, "blackmailed" by
boy fellow-pupil after making
fun of teacher. 205^
[6] Neurotic, in late thirties, with
resistance to his professional
work. 232
[7] Woman, 40, who developed
neurotic lack of interest after
childbearing period. 232
[8] Peasant woman, thanked Dr
Jung for his "decency" after
hypnotic treatment. 256
[9] Girl, enuretic, with romantic
approach to hypnosis. 256
[10] Woman, 65, with knee pains,
"cured" by hypnosis. 257/
[n] Woman, 55, with climacteric
neurosis, illustrating search for
father-substitute in unsatisfac
tory marriage. 306$
[12] Man, 34, with nervous stom
ach trouble, illustrating effect of
masochistic-homosexual rela
tionship to father. 308^
[13] Woman, 36, with anxiety, de
pression, and guilt-feeling for
marrying against father's will.
[14] Boy, 8, enuretic, illustrating
over-dependence on mother and
fear of father. 3 1 jff
WORKS: "Association, Dream, and
Hysterical Symptoms," yon;
"The Association Method/'
57n; Collected Papers on Analytical
Psychology, tfn; Diagnostische
jn; "The Familial Constella
tions/' 57n; "New Paths in Psy
chology," 7971; "On Psychic En
ergy," 33871; Psychiatric Studies,
5571; "Psychic Conflicts in a
Child," 46n, vfln, 218*1; "Psycho
analyse und Assoziationsexperiment,"
7n; "Psychoanalysis and
Association Experiments," 7n;
The Psychogenesis of Mental
Disease, laorc; "Psychological
Aspects of the Mother Arche
type," 30371; Psychology and Al
chemy, 32277; "The Psychology
of Dementia Praecox," 34, 4071,
i20/, 122; "Psychology of the
Transference/' 19371; Studies in
Word Association, 777, 2grr, 134;
Symbols of Transformation,
6Sn, 11 in, 11771, 12471, 151, 155,
l8o, 211, 212, 2l8n, 22On, 22271.,
24071, 301, 303; Two Essays on
Analytical Psychology, 7971, 9671,
i6on; Wandlungen und Symbole
der Libido, Son, 119, 301
Kant, Immanuel, 140, 296
Kepler, J., 9, 267
Kerner, J., 326
knowledge, perfect, 225
Kraepelin, Emil, 92, 304
Kuhn, Adalbert, 220
lability, i8$n
latency, sexual,
law, criminal, 326
laziness, 207/, 224, 274, 277
least resistance, law of, 274, 277^ 281
libido, i8/, 79/, no, 303; alimentary,
118, 127; bisexuality of, 153;
change in author's conception of,
i22/; compulsion of, 209; conser
vation of, ii^-ff; damming up of,
163, 286; in dementia praecox,
119$; desexualized, 125; displace
ments of, abnormal, 121; dreams
and use of, 200; energic theory,
112ff; excess of, and human acts,
ii2/; fixation of, see fixation;
genetic conception, 122^; a hy
pothesis, 124; infantile, nature of,
116; intensity, in children, 115,
118; investment of, 19, 285; local
ization of, 118; migration of, 127/;
non-sexual conception of, n8/;
primary and secondary, i25/; re
gression of, see regression; re
pressed, 223; sexual, introversion
of, 12 if; sexualis, and hypnosis,
262; splitting of, 170; transference
to extra-familial object, 207; and
unconscious, 114; unconscious, in
analysis, 250; use of term, 111, 285;
various forms, 125
licentiousness, 79, 289
Lidbeault, A.-A,, 326
life, first and second half of, 331
life-force, 125
life-instinct, two modes of function
ing, 105
life-urge, 123
light, 124
literature, psychoanalytic: confusion
in, 275; need of knowledge of, 273
Little Red Ridinghood, 210
locomotive, 296
loneliness, 67
Lourdes cures/water, 255, 260
love, 32071; of analyst, 273/, 276, 286,
see also transference; disappoint
ments in, 248; infantile concep
tion, 197
Lowenfeld, L., 17
Loy, R., Jung's correspondence with,
Maeder, Alfred, 34, 201, 211, 238
maenads, 41
magnetism, 326
maieutics, 225
Malthusianism, 126
"mamma," 153
"man as he really is," 197
man, normal, 197
Maria, Axiom of, 32271
marriage difficulties, 233
masculinity, premature, 318
Mass, the, 3 2on
mass therapy, and psychanalysis, 17
masturbation, 20, 21, 99, 106, 127,
212, 214, 263; infantile, 164
materialism, scientific, 291
maturation, 111, 129
maturity, 115; period of, 117
Mayer, Robert, 109, 247
Maylan, C. E., 32571
mechanics, 124
medicine, and psychoanalysis, 229
medicine-man, 255
megalomania, 179
memories(-y), 134; continuity of, 117;
lapses of, 150; see also reminis
memory-reproduction, 164
Mendel, Kurt, 76
menstruation, in child, 100
mental healing/healers, 230, 255,
mentality, infantile, 1 37^
mesmerism, 326
metaphysical need, man's, 241
method(s): choice of, 266; Freudian,
as auto-suggestion, 6/; , develop
ment of, i4/; , and hysteria, 5/;
, theoretical foundations, 15;
psychoanalysis a, 271; psychoana
lytic, 30/, 229; , purely empiri
cal, 75
Meyer, Adolf, 56
Middle Ages, 283, 288
Milan, 42, 44
Mimallones, 41
mimicry, 281
mind, collective, 225
misconceptions, patients', 272
mistakes, 149, 279, 282
misunderstanding, 336
Mitchell, T. W., 295, 296
Moleschott, J., 295
Moltzer, Mary, 204
money-box, 208
money-making, 288
Montessori, Maria, 278?!
moral balance, dreams and restora
tion of, 254
moral defects, admission of, 235
morality/morals: Aschaffenburg on,
8; psych(o)analysis and, 78, 196,
271, 288; religion and, 337; sexual,
current, 288; transitoriness of
forms of, 289
Mosaic law, 32071
mother(s): and child's fate, 303; cut
ting open body of, 210; as foodgiver,
153; significance to child,
153; unmarried, 288; violation of,
211; see also parents
mountain-climber, 169
Miiller-Lyer, 284
Munchausen, Baron, 333
murder, 155
music, 123
mysticism, 140, 339
mythology, 210, 22O/, 225, 324, 330;
and baptism, 146; psychoanalysis
and, 202; and psychology, 203;
sexual symbolism in, 23; and un
conscious fantasies, 139, 151; see
also astro-mythology
myth(s): fertility, 216; solar, siio;
therapeutic significance of, 319;
see also hero-dragon myth.
natural selection, 103
nature, collective, man's, 315
nausea, 205, 222
necessity, vital, 292
nest, 287; building, 124, 315
Neue Zilrcher Zeitung, 78
neurosis (-es): aetiological factors in
childhood, i2g/, 157$; association
experiment and, 181; of child
hood, 114, 157; and childhood en
vironment, 135$; and childhood
trauma, 89, 156; climacteric, 306;
and displacements of libido, 121;
energic viewpoint, 247; and fan
tasies, 157; Freud's theory of, see
Freud; introversion of libido and,
122; Janet's view, 130; libido the
ory of, 79/, 113; moment of out
break, 246; no uniform direction
in, 271, 274; obsessional, 12; and
parental influence, 136; and past
events, 91, 94, 244; predisposition
and environment, 91^7 prospec
tive explanation, 182; psychoanal
ysis and, 184^ 231^; psychogenic,
two groups, 12; purpose in histori
cal elements of, 167; purposiveness
of, 185; and retardation of af
fective development, 130; and
unconscious constellation, 150; as
unsuccessful attempt at self-cure,
180, 250; see also hysteria
neurotics: infantile sexuality of, 166;
often spoiled as children, 137
New Testament, 53
Nietzsche, Friedrich, 291, 325
Nicodemus, 340
non-conscious psychic processes, 113^
"nothing but" psychology, 289
numbers: mysticism of, 297; symbol
ism of, 48$
nutritive function, 116, 125; impor-
tance, 104^; libido and, 127; and
pleasure, 106; and sexual function,
io5/, 127
occultism, 326
Oedipus complex, 152$, 245, 247;
and neurosis, 156, 168; reactiva
tion of, 248; see also girls
offspring, protection of, 103, 125/
Old Testament, 32071
oneiromancy, 234
one-sidedness, scientific, 107
Oppenheim, H., 1 1
opportunism, 263
opposites: play of, 337; principle of,
oral zone, 116; see also nutritive
function; sucking
over-determination, 17
overwork, 209
Page, Herbert W., 89
pain: avoidance of, 274, 278; hyster
ical, 162
Pallas Athene, 222, 330
Paracelsus, 326
paramnesia, 218
parental complex, 133^ 182
parents: detachment from, 154; in
fluence of, and neurosis, 136; neu
rotic, 137; slavery to, 316; see also
Oedipus complex
Paris, 310
Parliament, English, 201
parricide, 155
parties supe'rieures et inferieures,
Passavant, J. K., 326
passivity, see activity
past: reversion to, 135; see also pres
path, rocky, 64, 68, 7o/
pathology, 340
patient: doctor as, 272; imitation of
patient (cont.):
analyst, 275; type of, and expedi
ency, 263; use of ideas gained
from analysis, 279
patris potestas, 315
Paul, St., 338
personality: of analyst, see analyst;
autonomous, destiny as, 314; disso
ciation of, 61, 129; harmonious,
271, 274; multiplication of, 4of;
value of, 287; see also duplication;
persuasion, 1577, 184
perversion(s), 18, 19, 109, 128; and
childhood "bad habits," 108; in
fantile, ii4/, 126/, 244; see also
polymorphous-perverse sexuality
Peters, Wilhelm, 92
Phales, 41
phallus, winged, 220
phases, three, of life, 117
philosophy, and psychoanalysis, 229,
241, 3^4
phobia, of cats, 70
phylogeny, of mind, 225
physics, 109, 124, 165, 296
Picus, 212
pigs, 240
Pius X, Pope, 31
play: in animals, 104; with numbers,
pleasure, 106, 274, 278; and sexual
ity, relation, 107, 154
poem, meaning of, 146
poetry, erotic symbolism in, 23
polygamy, 32
polymorphous-perverse sexuality,
100, 107;, ii4/, 128, 164
Pope, dream-figure, 31$
potential, difference of, 337
pounding, see hammering
power principle, 29 1/, 336
predisposition, 96^7 see also neuro
preformation, 3i5/
pregnancy, 103
prepubertal stage, 117
present: aetiological significance of,
166ff; psychological, as result of
past, 16, 26
presentiments, 201
preservation of species, and sexual
ity, 104, 105
presexual stage, 117; and libido, 118,
priest, 192
primitives: amnesia among, 164;
children among, 104; fears of, 209;
imitativeness among, 135; incest
among, 156, 208; and infantility,
246; libido among, 155; religion
and philosophy among, 241; and
remembered impressions, 179; so
cial sense in, 278; and taboos, 247
prince, 206
Prince, Morton, 56$
prism, 267/
procreation: divine, 340; infantile
theories, 210
projection: of erotic fantasies, in
transference, 286; of moral defects
on analyst, 235
proof, difference of physical and psy
chological, 74
propagation, 287
prophets, 32071
Protestantism, 327
psychanalysis, %ff; nature of, 14$;
value as therapy, 8/
psyche: complexity of, 33 1/; not
wholly conscious, see conscious
ness; roots of hysteria in, 4; sexu
ality in, 4; and somatic illness, 255
psychoanalysis: and adaptation, 137;
change in character, 190; criticism
of, 74/; definition of, 27 1/; and
dream interpretation, 59; failures
of, 188; future uses, 202^; goal of,
277; illustration of method, 31$;
lay understanding of, 74, 80; and
libido balance, 113; method of,
139, 144^; misunderstandings re
garding, i40/; need of moral effort
to understand, 68; negative defini
tion, 271, 274; prejudices against,
230, 243; Prince's criticisms, 73; in
sanatoria, 265; as science, 229; and
other sciences, 202; scope of, 324;
and self-knowledge, 48; and sexu
ality, 79; suggestion in, 280, 281;
suitability for, 266; and symptoms,
184; technical application, 272;
therapeutic effect, 190, 276; see
also analysis; psychanalysis
Psychoanalytical Society, 79
psychocatharsis, 274; see also cathar
psychology, 229; two types, 291; see
also analytical psychology; depth
psychology; individual psychology
psychoneuroses, sexuality and, %ff
puberty: and development of hys
terical psychosis, 2i/; libido and,
114; and objectification of sexual
goal, 19; reactivation of childhood
traumata at, 13
puppy, 104
purposiveness, 161
Putnam, James J., 56, 57
Quimby, Phineas P., 326 & n
Raimann, Emil, 13 & n
Rank, Otto, 145, 211
Hatcher's Yearbook, 79
ratiocinative method, 231
reactions, value-predicate, 305
reaction-types, similarity in families,
reactivation, of parental images, 248
reactivity, 18371
reality: adaptation to, enhanced,
12 6; , loss of, 119, 120; disappear
ance of, 121; flight from, 183; neu
rotics and, 191; no loss of in neu
roses, 121; soberness of, 274
reality "function, and sexuality, 122/f
reality principle, 334
reconstruction stage, 262
3 65
recovery, motives for, 276
reduction, 292
reeducation de la volont6, 184
reflexes, emotional, 248
Reformation, 325, 327
regression, 121-2277, 181, 207, 224,
247, 303; conditions of, i69/; effect
of, 178; end of, i88/; of libido,
162^, 187, 248; teleological signifi
cance, i79/
relapse, 6$f
relationship: analyst-patient, 193,
235, 285, see also transference; ex
tra-familial, i95/; parent-child,
137, 286, see also parents; transfer
ence, see transference
relatives, and association reactions,
religion, 330; in analysis, 241; com
parative, 324; , psychoanalysis
and, 202, 203; and dogma, 324;
Freud and, 335; history of, and
fantasies, 32072; infantile constel
lations and, 31671; sacrifice in, 155;
symbolism of, 337; unconscious
fantasies and, 151; see also symbol,
reminiscences, 11, 14, 134, 162, 168,
248; and dreams, 145, 149; excited
by hypnosis, 92; transformation
into fantasies, 175
repetition, significance of, 40
repression, 12, giff, 99, 126; con
scious, 93; and dreams, 28f; and
hysteria, 19, 21; of Oedipus com
plex, 156; sexual, God and, 32171
reproduction, evolutionary change
in principles, 123, 125/
reproductive organs, development
of, 104
resistance(s), no, 174, 235, 2&3/; of
analyst, 187; to complex, 16, 154^;
in dreams, sSff; hypnosis and, 262;
to hysterical fantasies, 19; initial,
in analysis, 195, 272; to sexual
problem, 172; to wish-fulfilment,
68; to work, 232
retrogression, 239
revenge, 73
reversion, to infantile level, 170$
rhythmic movement, 127
rigidity, spiritual, 193
Rig-veda, 222
Riklin, Franz, 7, s i 1
ring, 160
ritual, 146, 337
river, 163
Rome, 153
Romulus and Remus, 2 1 2
rumour: analysis by, 6$n; fantasy as,
2ig/; psychology of, 35$
sacrifice, 151, 154, 155
Sadger, I., 76, 77
St. Petersburg, 96, 98
Sallust, 111, 247
salvation, 319
Sara, 32 1/, 32371
satyrs, 41
Savill, Agnes, 295
schizophrenia, 40^, 126; see also de
mentia praecox
schools, progressive, 271
Schopenhauer, Arthur, 123, 156, 241,
Schreber case, 119$
science: and dogma, 325; and hy
potheses, 339; and independence,
Scripture, Edward Wheeler, 56
sea-monster, 210
seasons, myth of, 217
secrets, 192
self-analysis, 199
self-conquest, 197, 198
self-control, 79
self-criticism, 169, 261, 336
self-cure, neurosis as, 180, 250
self-knowledge, 58, 230, 270
self-preservation, 104, 105, 123; de
mentia praecox and, 12271; see also
nutritive function
self-sacrifice, 241
sensitiveness, 171, 174$, 183; congenital,
249; excessive, i76/; in
born, 176; symptom of disunion,
sexuality: components of, mobility,
i09/; concept of, 103^ 151; in
dreams, 238$; fate of, and life's
fate, 32071; formation of normal,
128; and formation of psychoneuroses,
3#, 13; Freud's concept, i8/,
94/; importance of, 338; individ
ual evaluation, 288; infantile, 99$,
io2#, 1 14$, 338; , Freud and, 13;,
*9> 7 6/' 98^ 1L 4' l65fr > and libido,
i26/; -, not perverse, 163; and
libido, 125; mature and immature,
118; monomorphic, 108; and nu
trition, 296; in older persons, 287;
and parental authority, 317; per
mutations of, no; and pleasure,
107; as plurality of drives, 108;
polymorphous-perverse, see poly
morphous-perverse sexuality; "re
pressed," 196; and three phases of
life, 117; see also hysteria; pleasure
shame, 19, 2i/
Shaw, G. Bernard, 284
sheikh, 32 .
ship, see steamer
shock, nervous, 89; see also trauma
Silberer, Herbert, 211
Sileni, 41
sin, original, 316*2
skin, 127
Sleeping Beauty. 215$
slips: in association experiment, 149;
of the tongue, 150
smutty talk, 218
snake, 222; and bird, 262; as dream
symbol, 237, 3i8f
Snow White, 217
social sense, in animals and primi
tives, 278
Sommer, Robert, 30371
somnambulism, 257
soul, 327/; dark night of the, 331;
naturally religious, 321
spasmogenic zones, 108
speech, inhibition of, 318
Spielmeyer, Walter, 9
Spielrein, $., 211
spirit, 336, 340
spiritualization, 180
splitting of consciousness, 1 1
spoiling of children, 137
sprinkling, 146
stag, 287
stairs, dream-symbol, 237/
steamer, 35$
Steinthal, Heymann, 23, 220
Stekel, Wilhelm, 48, 15671, 273^ 276,
Stern, 45
stone(s), 64^ 72; burning, 215;
Stork, 211, 212, 217, 2l8, 220
strawberries, 209
style of life, 136
sublimation, 19, 126, 32on; religious,
submissiveness, 155
substitute formations, 183
sucking, 127, 248; as sexual act,
suggestion (s), 95, 270, 280; and ca
thartic method, 14; hypnotic, 184;
and hysteria, 10, 89/, 255^7 invol
untary, to patient, 279; and mor
als, 271; psychoanalysis and, 230,
270, 281; therapy, 230, 252, 254/;
in waking and hypnoid states,
254; see also auto-suggestion; hyp
sun, 210, 216, 267/; eclipse of, 113
superego, 330, 339
superstition, 234
surgery, 80
swearing, 311
Swiss Psychiatric Society, 79
Switzerland, 211
sword, 214
symbols, 148, 155, 202, 280; bisexual,
212; double meaning of, 237, 291;
dreams and, 330; effect of, emo
tional, 215; ethnic and schizo
phrenic, 202; functional impor
tance, 293; interpretation of, 291;
prospective meaning, 291; reli
gious, 293
symbolism: in dreams, 28, 59, 236^,
252; of religion, 337; sexual, Freud
and, 23/
symbolization, 279
symptomatic actions, 150
symptoms: evaluation of, 184; hys
terical, as abnormal sexual activ
ity, 22; , analysis of, 90/7 -, and
trauma, 5, 91; neurotic, and li
bido, 113; psychic, Freudian psy
choanalysis as, 325; psychic origin
of, 231; psychogenic, reality of, 162
taboos, 247
teacher, ^05^ 219, 223; dream-fig
technique, psychoanalytic, 139, 229,
telepathy, 280
terminology, sexual, 117$
Teutschen, 158
theology, 339
theory, lack of, in psychoanalysis,
theosophy, 326
thunderstorm, 22of
tityrs, 41
Tobias, 322
Tobit, Book of, 32 if
tomboy, 159
torture, 70^ 72
tracts, 311
train, Dionysian, 41
trampling, 218
transference, 190^ 264*1, 270, 277,
283^; analysis of, 192, 193^; and
faith, 26i/, 273; positive and nega
tive, 283^; relationship, 192; reso
lution of, 197^; unanalysed, 61;
working against, 264
trauma: childhood, g^ff; and hyste
ria, 13, 89, 90, 243;, 258; intensity
unimportant, 97; measurement of
effect of, 178; past, and neurosis,
trauma (cont.):
91, 94; predisposition for, g6ff;
real, child's part in producing,
99/; as root of most neuroses, 4;
sexual element in, g8/; theory,
89$; criticism of, i$iff
treading, 218
treatment, individual, 270
Trinity, 40
trust, 286
truth: pragmatic, 255, 265; relative
and absolute, 267^, 271
tuberculosis, aetiology of, 91
twilight states, 11, 131, 133, 160
types, 331, 337
uncertainty, science and, 325
unconscious, 109, ii3/, 139$, 231,
245; black as symbol of, 319; "can
only wish," 14O/; collective, 302;
definition, 92; depreciation of,
331; parental influence and, 320;
as source of dreams, 59; symbols
and, 293; union with conscious,
330; views of Adler, Freud, and
Jung, 330; see also fantasies
unconsciousness, original sin, 317
understanding, 194
unity, 241
urination, need for, dream of, 31, 33
urine: and fertilization, 22i/; pres
sure of, 318
usury, 289
verbal expression, 17
Viennese school, 151, 284, 291
Vigouroux, A., and Jaquelier, P.,
vitalism, 125
wands, magic, 222
washing mania,
water, and baptism, 146
Watts, G. F., 64, 68, 70, 72
wedding, 35^
whiskey, 6i/
wholeness, 241
widow's son, raising of, 54/
wild man, 68
will, 123, 156, 250; paralysis of, 90;
to power, see power principle
wind, 70
wish(es): erotic, 66; infantile, 237;
repressed, 240
wish-fulfilment: dream as, 27, 55,
6ff> 67, 237; Freud and, 291; and
number symbolism, 5 1
wishing, unconscious and, 140^
wolf, 209/, 21 if
words, double meanings, 1 7
world, a subjective phenomenon,
Yahweh, 321, 322
value intensities, 338
Ziermer, Manfred, 30371
Zurich, 236, 252, 265
Zurich school, 202, 290$
JL.HE PUBLICATION of the first complete collected edition, in English, of the
works of C. G. Jung has been undertaken by Routledge and Kegan Paul,
Ltd., in England and by the Bollingen Foundation, through Pantheon
Books Inc., in the United States. The edition contains revised versions of
works previously published, such as Psychology of the Unconscious, which
is now entitled Symbols of Transformation; works originally written in
English, such as "Psychology and Religion"; works not previously trans
lated, such as Aion; and, in general, new translations of the major body of
Professor Jung's writings. The author has supervised the textual revision,
which in some cases is extensive. Sir Herbert Read, Dr. Michael Fordham,
and Dr. Gerhard Adler compose the Editorial Committee; the translator is
R. F. C. Hull.
Every volume of the Collected Works contains material that either has not
previously been published in English or is being newly published in revised
form. In addition to Aion, the following volumes will, entirely or in large
part, be new to English readers: Psychiatric Studies; The Archetypes and the
Collective Unconscious; Alchemical Studies; Mysterium Coniunctionis; The
Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature; and The Practice of Psychotherapy.
The volumes are not being published in strictly consecutive order; but,
generally speaking, works of which translations are lacking or unavailable
are given precedence. The price of the volumes varies according to size; they
are sold separately, and may also be obtained on standing order. Several of
the volumes are extensively illustrated. Each volume contains an index and,
in most cases, a bibliography; the final volumes will contain a complete
bibliography of Professor Jung's writings and a general index of the entire
edition. Subsequent works of the author's are being added in due course.
On the Psychology and Pathology of So-CaUed Occult Phenomena
On Hysterical Misreading
Cryptomnesia (continued)
* Published 1957.
3 6 9
i. (continued}:
On Manic Mood Disorder
A Case of Hysterical Stupor in a Prisoner in Detention
On Simulated Insanity
A Medical Opinion on a Case of Simulated Insanity
A Third and Final Opinion on Two Contradictory Psychiatric Diag
On the Psychological Diagnosis of Facts
The Associations of Normal Subjects (by Jung and Riklin)
Experimental Observations on Memory
On the Determination of Facts by Psychological Means
An Analysis of the Associations of an Epileptic
The Association Method
Reaction-Time in Association Experiments
On Disturbances in Reproduction in Association Experiments
The Significance of Association Experiments for Psychopathology
Psychoanalysis and Association Experiments
Association, Dream, and Hysterical Symptoms
On Psychophysical Relations of the Association Experiment
Psychophysical Investigations with the Galvanometer and Pneumograph
in Normal and Insane Individuals (by Peterson and Jung)
Further Investigations on the Galvanic Phenomenon and Respirations
in Normal and Insane Individuals (by Ricksher and Jung)
The Psychology of Dementia Praecox
The Content of the Psychoses
On Psychological Understanding
A Criticism of Bleuler's Theory of Schizophrenic Negativism
On the Importance of the Unconscious in Psychopathology
On the Problem of Psychogenesis in Mental Disease
Mental Disease and the Psyche
On the Psychogenesis of Schizophrenia
Recent Thoughts on Schizophrenia
* Published 1960.
Freud's Theory of Hysteria: A Reply to Aschaffenburg
The Freudian Theory of Hysteria
The Analysis of Dreams
A Contribution to the Psychology of Rumour
On the Significance of Number Dreams
Morton Prince, "Mechanism and Interpretation of Dreams": A Critical
On the Criticism of Psychoanalysis
Concerning Psychoanalysis
The Theory of Psychoanalysis
General Aspects of Psychoanalysis
Psychoanalysis and Neurosis
Some Crucial Points in Psychoanalysis; The Jung/Loy Correspondence
Prefaces to "Collected Papers on Analytical Psychology"
The Significance of the Father in the Destiny of the Individual
Introduction to Kranefeldt's "Secret Ways of the Mind"
Freud and Jung: Contrasts
Two Kinds of Thinking
The Miller Fantasies: Anamnesis
The Hymn of Creation
The Song of the Moth
The Concept of Libido
The Transformation of Libido
The Origin of the Hero
Symbols of the Mother and of Rebirth
The Battle for Deliverance from the Mother
The Dual Mother
The Sacrifice
Appendix: The Miller Fantasies
Introduction (continued)
* Published 1961.
f Published 1956.
6. (continued)
The Problem of Types in Classical and Medieval Thought
Schiller's Ideas upon the Type Problem
The Apollonian and the Dionysian
The Type Problem in the Discernment of Human Character
The Problem of Types in Poetry
The Type Problem in Psychiatry
The Problem of Typical Attitudes in Aesthetics
The Problem of Types in Modern Philosophy
The Type Problem in Biography
General Description of the Types
Four Papers on Psychological Typology
The Psychology of the Unconscious
The Relations between the Ego and the Unconscious
Appendix: New Paths in Psychology: The Structure of the Uncon
On Psychic Energy
The Transcendent Function
A Review of the Complex Theory
The Significance of Constitution and Heredity in Psychology
Psychological Factors Determining Human Behaviour
Instinct and the Unconscious
The Structure of the Psyche
On the Nature of the Psyche
General Aspects of Dream Psychology
On the Nature of Dreams
The Psychological Foundation of Belief in Spirits
Spirit and Life
Basic Postulates of Analytical Psychology
Analytical Psychology and Weltanschauung
The Real and the Surreal
The Stages of Life
The Soul and Death
Synchronicity: An Acausal Connecting Principle
* Published 1953.
f Published 1960.
Archetypes of the Collective Unconscious
The Concept of the Collective Unconscious
Concerning the Archetypes, with Special Reference to the Anima
Psychological Aspects of the Mother Archetype
Concerning Rebirth
The Psychology of the Child Archetype
The Psychological Aspects of the Kore
The Phenomenology of the Spirit in Fairytales
On the Psychology of the Trickster-Figure
Conscious, Unconscious, and Individuation
A Study in the Process of Individuation
Concerning Mandala Symbolism
*g. PART n. AION
The Ego
The Shadow
The Syzygy: Anima and Animus
The Self
Christ, a Symbol of the Self
The Sign of the Fishes
The Prophecies of Nostradamus
The Historical Significance of the Fish
The Ambivalence of the Fish Symbol
The Fish in Alchemy
The Alchemical Interpretation of the Fish
Background to the Psychology of Christian Alchemical Symbolism
Gnostic Symbols of the Self
The Structure and Dynamics of the Self
Present and Future (The Undiscovered Self)
The Role of the Unconscious
Mind and Earth
Archaic Man
The Spiritual Problem of Modern Man (connnued)
* Published 1959.
lo. (continued)
The Meaning of Psychology for Modern Man
A Psychological View of Conscience
Good and Evil in Analytical Psychology
The Love Problem of a Student
Woman in Europe
The State of Psychotherapy Today
After the Catastrophe
The Fight with the Shadow
Epilogue to "Essays on Contemporary Events"
Flying Saucers: A Modern Myth
Reviews of Keyserling's "America Set Free" and
"La Revolution Mondiale"
Complications of American Psychology
The Dreamlike World of India
What India Can Teach Us
The Swiss Line in the European Spectrum
Introduction to Wolff's "Studies in Jungian Psychology"
Contemporary Events: A Rejoinder to Dr. Bally
Psychology and Religion (The Terry Lectures)
A Psychological Approach to the Dogma of the Trinity
Transformation Symbolism in the Mass
Forewords to White's "God and the Unconscious" and Werblowsky's
"Lucifer and Prometheus"
Brother Klaus
Psychotherapists or the Clergy
Psychoanalysis and the Cure of Souls
Answer to Job
Psychological Commentaries on "The Tibetan Book of the Great Lib
eration" and "The Tibetan Book of the Dead"
Yoga and the West
Foreword to Suzuki's "Introduction to Zen Buddhism"
The Psychology of Eastern Meditation
The Holy Men of India: Introduction to Zimmer's "Der Weg zum Selbst"
Foreword to the "I Ching"
* Published 1958.
Introduction to the Religious and Psychological Problems of Alchemy
Individual Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy
Religious Ideas in Alchemy
Commentary on "The Secret of the Golden Flower"
The Spirit Mercurius
Some Observations on the Visions of Zosimos
Paracelsus as a Spiritual Phenomenon
The "Arbor philosophica"
The Components of the Coniunctio
The Paradox
The Personification of Opposites
Rex and Regina
Adam and Eve
The Conjunction
Paracelsus the Physician
Sigmund Freud: A Cultural Phenomenon
Sigmund Freud: An Obituary
Richard Wilhelm: An Obituary
Psychology and Literature
On the Relation of Analytical Psychology to the Poetic Art
Principles of Practical Psychotherapy
What Is Psychotherapy?
Some Aspects of Modern Psychotherapy
Aims of Modern Psychotherapy
Problems of Modern Psychotherapy
Psychotherapy and a Philosophy of Life (continued)
* Published 1953. t Published 1954.
1 6. (continued)
Medicine and Psychotherapy
Psychotherapy Today
Fundamental Questions of Psychotherapy
The Therapeutic Value of Abreaction
The Practical Use of Dream-Analysis
Psychology of the Transference
Psychic Conflicts in a Child
Introduction to Wickes's "Analyse der Kinderseele"
Child Development and Education
Analytical Psychology and Education: Three Lectures
The Gifted Child
The Significance of the Unconscious in Individual Education
The Development of Personality
Marriage as a Psychological Relationship
* Published 1954.

This edition, in eighteen or more volumes, will contain
revised versions of earlier works by Jung, works not
previously translated, and works originally written in
English. In general, it will present new translations of
the major body of Jung's writings. The entire edition
constitutes No. XX in Bollingen Series.
1 . Psychiatric Studies Published 7957, $3.75
2. Experimental Researches
3. The Psychogenesis of Mental Disease
Published 7 960, $4.50
4. Freud and Psychoanalysis
Published 1961, $5.00
5. Symbols of Transformation
Published 1956, $5.00
6. Psychological Types
7. Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
Published 7 953, $3.75
8. The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
Published I960, $6.00
9. PART I. The Archetypes and the Collective Uncon
scious Published 1 959, $7.50
9. PART 11. Aion: Researches into the Phenomenology
of the Self Published 1 959, $4.50
1 0. Civilization in Transition
1 1. Psychology and Religion: West and East
Published 7 958, $6.00
12. Psychology and Alchemy Published 1 953, $5.00
13. Alchemical Studies
14. Mysterium Coniunctionis
1 5. The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature
1 6. The Practice of Psychotherapy
Published 7 954, $4 .50
17. The Development of Personality
Published 7 954, $3.75
Final Volumes: Miscellaneous Works, Selected Letters
and Seminars, Bibliography, and General Index
1 04 594

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