CHAPTER X
ON THE IMPORTANCE OF THE UNCONSCIOUS IN PSYCHOPATHOLOGY[182]
When we speak of a thing as being "unconscious" we must not forget that from the point of view of the functioning of the brain a thing may be unconscious to us in two ways—physiologically or psychologically. I shall only deal with the subject from the latter point of view. So that for our purposes we may define the unconscious as "the sum of all those psychological events which are not apperceived, and so are unconscious."
The unconscious contains all those psychic events which, because of the lack of the necessary intensity of their functioning, are unable to pass the threshold which divides the conscious from the unconscious; so that they remain in effect below the surface of the conscious, and flit by in subliminal phantom forms.
It has been known to psychologists since the time of Leibniz that the elements—that is to say, the ideas and feelings which go to make up the conscious mind, the so-called conscious content—are of a complex nature, and rest upon far simpler and altogether unconscious elements; it is the combination of these which gives the element of consciousness. Leibniz has already mentioned the perceptions insensibles—those vague perceptions which Kant called "shadowy" representations, which could only attain to consciousness in an indirect manner. Later philosophers assigned the first place to the unconscious, as the foundation upon which the conscious was built.
But this is not the place to consider the many speculative theories nor the endless philosophical discussions concerning the nature and quality of the unconscious. We must be satisfied with the definition already given, which will prove quite sufficient for our purpose, namely the conception of the unconscious as the sum of all psychical processes below the threshold of consciousness.
The question of the importance of the unconscious for psychopathology may be briefly put as follows: "In what manner may we expect to find unconscious psychic material behave in cases of psychosis and neurosis?"
In order to get a better grasp of the situation in connexion with mental disorders, we may profitably consider first how unconscious psychic material behaves in the case of normal people, especially trying to visualize what in normal men is apt to be unconscious. As a preliminary to this knowledge we must get a complete understanding of what is contained in the conscious mind; and then, by a process of elimination we may expect to find what is contained in the unconscious, for obviously—per exclusionem—what is in the conscious cannot be unconscious. For this purpose we examine all activities, interests, passions, cares, and joys, which are conscious to the individual. All that we are thus able to discover becomes, ipso facto, of no further moment as a content of the unconscious, and we may then expect to find only those things contained in the unconscious which we have not found in the conscious mind.
Let us take a concrete example: A merchant, who is happily married, father of two children, thorough and painstaking in his business affairs, and at the same time trying in a reasonable degree to improve his position in the world, carries himself with self-respect, is enlightened in religious matters, and even belongs to a society for the discussion of liberal ideas.
What can we reasonably consider to be the content of the unconscious in the case of such an individual?
Considered from the above theoretical standpoint, everything in the personality that is not contained in the conscious mind should be found in the unconscious. Let us agree, then, that this man consciously considers himself to possess all the fine attributes we have just described—no more, no less. Then it must obviously result that he is entirely unaware that a man may be not merely industrious, thorough, and painstaking, but that he may also be careless, indifferent, untrustworthy; for some of these last attributes are the common heritage of mankind and may be found to be an essential component of every character. This worthy merchant forgets that quite recently he allowed several letters to remain unanswered which he could easily have answered at once. He forgets, too, that he failed to bring a book home which his wife has asked him to get at the book-stall, where she had previously ordered it, although he might easily have made a note of her wish. But such occurrences are common with him. Therefore we are obliged to conclude that he is also lazy and untrustworthy. He is convinced that he is a thoroughly loyal subject; but for all that he failed to declare the whole of his income to the assessor, and when they raise his taxes, he votes for the Socialists.
He believes himself to be an independent thinker, yet a little while back he undertook a big deal on the Stock Exchange, and when he came to enter the details of the transaction in his books he noticed with considerable misgivings that it fell upon a Friday, the 13th of the month. Therefore, he is also superstitious and not free in his thinking.
So here we are not at all surprised to find these compensating vices to be an essential content of the unconscious. Obviously, therefore, the reverse is true—namely, that unconscious virtues compensate for conscious deficiencies. The law which ought to follow as the result of such deductions would appear to be quite simple—to wit, the conscious spendthrift is unconsciously a miser; the philanthropist is unconsciously an egoist and misanthrope. But, unfortunately, it is not quite so easy as that, although there is a basis of truth in this simple rule. For there are essential hereditary dispositions of a latent or manifest nature which upset the simple rule of compensation, and which vary greatly in individual cases. From entirely different motives a man may, for instance, be a philanthropist, but the manner of his philanthropy depends upon his originally inherited disposition, and the way in which the philanthropic attitude is compensated depends upon his motives. It is not sufficient simply to know that a certain person is philanthropic in order to diagnose an unconscious egoism. For we must also bring to such a diagnosis a careful study of the motives involved.
In the case of normal people the principal function of the unconscious is to effect a compensation and thus produce a balance. All extreme conscious tendencies are softened and toned down through an effective opposite impulse in the unconscious. This compensating agency, as I have tried to show in the case of the merchant, maintains itself through certain unconscious, inconsequent activities, as it were, which Freud has very well described as symptomatic acts (Symptom-handlungen).
To Freud we owe thanks also for having called attention to the importance of dreams, for by means of them, also, we are able to learn much about this compensating function. There is a fine historical example of this in the well-known dream of Nebuchadnezzar in the fourth chapter of the Book of Daniel, where Nebuchadnezzar at the height of his power had a dream which foretold his downfall. He dreamed of a tree which had raised its head even up to heaven and now must be hewn down. This is a dream which is obviously a counterpoise to the exaggerated feeling of royal power.
Now considering states in which the mental balance is disturbed, we can easily see, from what has preceded, wherein lies the importance of the unconscious for psychopathology. Let us ponder the question of where and in what manner the unconscious manifests itself in abnormal mental conditions. The way in which the unconscious works is most clearly seen in disturbances of a psychogenic nature, such as hysteria, compulsion neurosis, etc.
We have known for a long time that certain symptoms of these disturbances are produced by unconscious psychic events. Just as clear, but less recognised, are the manifestations of the unconscious in actually insane patients. As the intuitive ideas of normal men do not spring from logical combinations of the conscious mind, so the hallucinations and delusions of the insane arise, not out of conscious but out of unconscious processes.
Formerly, when we held a more materialistic view of psychiatry we were inclined to believe that all delusions, hallucinations, stereotypic acts, etc., were provoked by morbid processes in the brain cells. Such a theory, however, ignores that delusions, hallucinations, etc., are also to be met with in certain functional disturbances, and not only in the case of functional disturbances, but also in the case of normal people. Primitive people may have visions and hear strange voices without having their mental processes at all disturbed. To seek to ascribe symptoms of that nature directly to a disease of the brain cells I hold to be superficial and unwarranted. Hallucinations show very plainly how a part of the unconscious content can force itself across the threshold of the conscious. The same is true of a delusion whose appearance is at once strange and unexpected by the patient.
The expression "mental balance" is no mere figure of speech, for its disturbance is a real disturbance of that equilibrium which actually exists between the unconscious and conscious content to a greater extent than has heretofore been recognised or understood. As a matter of fact, it amounts to this—that the normal functioning of the unconscious processes breaks through into the conscious mind in an abnormal manner, and thereby disturbs the adaptation of the individual to his environment.
If we study attentively the history of any such person coming under our observation, we shall often find that he has been living for a considerable time in a sort of peculiar individual isolation, more or less shut off from the world of reality. This constrained condition of aloofness may be traced back to certain innate or early acquired peculiarities, which show themselves in the events of his life. For instance, in the histories of those suffering from dementia præcox we often hear such a remark as this: "He was always of a pensive disposition, and much shut up in himself. After his mother died he cut himself off still more from the world, shunning his friends and acquaintances." Or again, we may hear, "Even as a child he devised many peculiar inventions; and later, when he became an engineer, he occupied himself with most ambitious schemes."
Without discussing the matter further it must be plain that a counterpoise is produced in the unconscious as a compensation to the one-sidedness of the conscious attitude. In the first case we may expect to find an increasing pressing forward in the unconscious, of a wish for human intercourse, a longing for mother, friends, relatives; while in the second case self-criticism will try to establish a correcting balance. Among normal people a condition never arises so one-sided that the natural corrective tendencies of the unconscious entirely lose their value in the affairs of everyday life; but in the case of abnormal people, it is eminently characteristic that the individual entirely fails to recognise the compensating influences which arise in the unconscious. He even continues to accentuate his one-sidedness; this is in accord with the well-known psychological fact that the worst enemy of the wolf is the wolf-hound, the greatest despiser of the negro is the mulatto, and that the biggest fanatic is the convert; for I should be a fanatic were I to attack a thing outwardly which inwardly I am obliged to concede as right.
The mentally unbalanced man tries to defend himself against his own unconscious, that is to say, he battles against his own compensating influences. The man already dwelling in a sort of atmosphere of isolation, continues to remove himself further and further from the world of reality, and the ambitious engineer strives by increasingly morbid exaggerations of invention to disprove the correctness of his own compensating powers of self-criticism. As a result of this a condition of excitation is produced, from which results a great lack of harmony between the conscious and unconscious attitudes. The pairs of opposites are torn asunder, the resulting division or strife leads to disaster, for the unconscious soon begins to intrude itself violently upon the conscious processes. Then odd and peculiar thoughts and moods supervene, and not infrequently incipient forms of hallucination, which clearly bear the stamp of the internal conflict.
These corrective impulses or compensations which now break through into the conscious mind, should theoretically be the beginning of the healing process, because through them the previously isolated attitude should apparently be relieved. But in reality this does not result, for the reason that the unconscious corrective impulses which thus succeed in making themselves apparent to the conscious mind, do so in a form that is altogether unacceptable to consciousness.
The isolated individual begins to hear strange voices, which accuse him of murder and all sorts of crimes. These voices drive him to desperation and in the resulting agitation he attempts to get into contact with the surrounding milieu, and does what he formerly had anxiously avoided. The compensation, to be sure, is reached, but to the detriment of the individual.
The pathological inventor, who is unable to profit by his previous failures, by refusing to recognise the value of his own self-criticism, becomes the creator of still more preposterous designs. He wishes to accomplish the impossible but falls into the absurd. After a while he notices that people talk about him, make unfavourable remarks about him, and even scoff at him. He believes a far-reaching conspiracy exists to frustrate his discoveries and render them objects of ridicule. By this means his unconscious brings about the same results that his self-criticism could have attained, but again only to the detriment of the individual, because the criticism is projected into his surroundings.
An especially typical form of unconscious compensation—to give a further example—is the paranoia of the alcoholic. The alcoholic loses his love for his wife; the unconscious compensation tries to lead him back again to his duty, but only partially succeeds, for it causes him to become jealous of his wife as if he still loved her. As we know, he may even go so far as to kill both his wife and himself, merely out of jealousy. In other words, his love for his wife has not been entirely lost, it has simply become subliminal; but from the realm of the unconscious it can now only reappear in the form of jealousy.
We see something of a similar nature in the case of religious converts. One who turns from protestantism to catholicism has, as is well known, the tendency to be somewhat fanatical. His protestantism is not entirely relinquished, but has merely disappeared into the unconscious, where it is constantly at work as a counter-argument against the newly acquired catholicism. Therefore the new convert feels himself constrained to defend the faith he has adopted in a more or less fanatical way. It is exactly the same in the case of the paranoiac, who feels himself constantly constrained to defend himself against all external criticism, because his delusional system is too much threatened from within.
The strange manner in which these compensating influences break through into the conscious mind derives its peculiarities from the fact that they have to struggle against the resistances already existing in the conscious mind, and therefore present themselves to the patient's mind in a thoroughly distorted manner. And secondly, these compensating equivalents are obliged necessarily to present themselves in the language of the unconscious—that is, in material of a heterogeneous and subliminal nature. For all the material of the conscious mind which is of no further value, and can find no suitable employment, becomes subliminal, such as all those forgotten infantile and phantastic creations that have ever entered the heads of men, of which only the legends and myths still remain. For certain reasons which I cannot discuss further here, this latter material is frequently found in dementia præcox.
I hope I may have been able to give in this brief contribution, which I feel to be unfortunately incomplete, a glimpse of the situation as it presents itself to me of the importance of the unconscious in psychopathology. It would be impossible in a short discourse to give an adequate idea of all the work that has already been done in this field.
To sum up, I may say that the function of the unconscious in conditions of mental disturbance is essentially a compensation of the content of the conscious mind. But because of the characteristic condition of one-sidedness of the conscious striving in all such cases, the compensating correctives are rendered useless. It is, however, inevitable that these unconscious tendencies break through into the conscious mind, but in adapting themselves to the character of the one-sided conscious aims, it is only possible for them to appear in a distorted and unacceptable form.
CHAPTER XI
A CONTRIBUTION TO THE STUDY OF PSYCHOLOGICAL TYPES[183]
It is well known that in their general physiognomy hysteria and dementia præcox present a striking contrast, which is seen particularly in the attitude of the sufferers towards the external world. The reactions provoked in the hysteric surpass the normal level of intensity of feeling, whilst this level is not reached at all by the precocious dement. The picture presented by these contrasted illnesses is one of exaggerated emotivity in the one, and extreme apathy in the other, with regard to the environment. In their personal relations this difference is very marked. Abstraction creates some exceptions here, for we remain in affective rapport with our hysterical patients, which is not the case in dementia præcox.
The opposition between these two nosological types is also seen in the rest of their symptomatology. From the intellectual point of view the products of hysterical imagination may be accounted for in a very natural and human way in each individual case by the antecedents and individual history of the patient; while the inventions of the precocious dement, on the contrary, are more nearly related to dreams than to normal consciousness, and they display moreover an incontestably archaic tendency, wherein mythological creations of primitive imagination are more in evidence than the personal memories of the patient. From the physical point of view we do not find in dementia præcox those symptoms so common in the hysteric, which simulate well known or severe organic affections.
All this clearly indicates that hysteria is characterised by a centrifugal tendency of the libido,[184] whilst in dementia præcox its tendency is centripetal. The reverse occurs, however, where the illness has fully established its compensatory effects. In the hysteric the libido is always hampered in its movements of expansion and forced to regress upon itself; one observes that such individuals cease to partake in the common life, are wrapped up in their phantasies, keep their beds, or are unable to live outside their sick-rooms, etc. The precocious dement, on the contrary, during the incubation of his illness turns away from the outer world in order to withdraw into himself; but when the period of morbid compensation arrives, he seems constrained to draw attention to himself, and to force himself upon the notice of those around him, by his extravagant, insupportable, or directly aggressive conduct.
I propose to use the terms "extroversion" and "introversion" to describe these two opposite directions of the libido, further qualifying them, however, as "regressive" in morbid cases where phantasies, fictions, or phantastic interpretations, inspired by emotivity, falsify the perceptions of the subject about things, or about himself. We say that he is extroverted when he gives his fundamental interest to the outer or objective world, and attributes an all-important and essential value to it: he is introverted, on the contrary, when the objective world suffers a sort of depreciation, or want of consideration, for the sake of the exaltation of the individual himself, who then monopolising all the interest, grows to believe no one but himself worthy of consideration. I will call "regressive extroversion" the phenomenon which Freud calls "transference" (Übertragung), by which the hysteric projects into the objective world the illusions, or subjective values of his feelings. In the same way I shall call "regressive introversion," the opposite pathological phenomenon which we find in dementia præcox, where the subject himself suffers these phantastical transfigurations.
It is obvious that these two contrary movements of the libido, as simple psychic mechanisms, may play a part alternately in the same individual, since after all they serve the same purpose by different methods—namely, to minister to his well-being. Freud has taught us that in the mechanism of hysterical transference the individual aims at getting rid of disagreeable memories or impressions, in order to free himself from painful complexes, by a process of "repression." Conversely in the mechanism of introversion, the personality tends to concentrate itself upon its complexes, and with them, to isolate itself from external reality, by a process which is not properly speaking "repression," but which would be better rendered perhaps by the term "depreciation" (Entwertung) of the objective world.
The existence of two mental affections so opposite in character as hysteria and dementia præcox, in which the contrast rests on the almost exclusive supremacy of extroversion or introversion, suggests that these two psychological types may exist equally well in normal persons, who may be characterised by the relative predominance of one or other of the two mechanisms. Psychiatrists know very well that before either illness is fully declared, patients already present the characteristic type, traces of which are to be found from the earliest years of life. As Binet pointed out so well, the neurotic only accentuates and shews in relief the characteristic traits of his personality. One knows, of course, that the hysterical character is not simply the product of the illness, but pre-existed it in a measure. And Hoch has shown by his researches into the histories of his dementia præcox patients, that this is also the case with them; dissociations or eccentricities were present before the onset of the illness. If this is so, one may certainly expect to meet the same contrast between psychological temperaments outside the sphere of pathology. It is moreover easy to cull from literature numerous examples which bear witness to the actual existence of these two opposite types of mentality. Without pretending to exhaust the subject, I will give a few striking examples.
In my opinion, we owe the best observations on this subject to the philosophy of William James.[185] He lays down the principle that no matter what may be the temperament of a "professional philosopher," it is this temperament which he feels himself forced to express and to justify in his philosophy. And starting from this idea, which is altogether in accord with the spirit of psychoanalysis, divides philosophers into two classes: the "tender-minded," who are only interested in the inner life and spiritual things; and the "tough-minded," who lay most stress on material things and objective reality. We see that these two classes are actuated by exactly opposite tendencies of the libido: the "tender-minded" represent introversion, the "tough-minded" extroversion.
James says that the tender-minded are characterised by rationalism; they are men of principles and of systems, they aspire to dominate experience and to transcend it by abstract reasoning, by their logical deductions, and purely rational conceptions. They care little for facts, and the multiplicity of phenomena hardly embarrasses them at all: they forcibly fit data into their ideal constructions, and reduce everything to their a priori premises. This was the method of Hegel in settling beforehand the number of the planets. In the domain of mental pathology we again meet this kind of philosopher in paranoiacs, who, without being disquieted by the flat contradictions presented by experience, impose their delirious conceptions on the universe, and find means of interpreting everything, and according to Adler "arranging" everything, in conformity with their morbidly preconceived system.
The other traits which James depicts in this type follow naturally from its fundamental character. The tender-minded man, he says, is intellectual, idealist, optimist, religious, partisan of free-will, a monist, and a dogmatist. All these qualities betray the almost exclusive concentration of the libido upon the intellectual life. This concentration upon the inner world of thought is nothing else than introversion. In so far as experience plays a rôle with these philosophers, it serves only as an allurement or fillip to abstraction, in response to the imperative need to fit forcibly all the chaos of the universe within well-defined limits, which are, in the last resort, the creation of a spirit obedient to its subjective values.
The tough-minded man is positivist and empiricist. He regards only matters of fact. Experience is his master, his exclusive guide and inspiration. It is only empirical phenomena demonstrable in the outside world which count. Thought is merely a reaction to external experience. In the eyes of these philosophers principles are never of such value as facts; they can only reflect and describe the sequence of phenomena and cannot construct a system. Thus their theories are exposed to contradiction under the overwhelming accumulation of empirical material. Psychic reality for the positivist limits itself to the observation and experience of pleasure and pain; he does not go beyond that, nor does he recognise the rights of philosophical thought. Remaining on the ever-changing surface of the phenomenal world, he partakes himself of its instability; carried away in the chaotic tumult of the universe, he sees all its aspects, all its theoretical and practical possibilities, but he never arrives at the unity or the fixity of a settled system, which alone could satisfy the idealist or tender-minded. The positivist depreciates all values in reducing them to elements lower than themselves; he explains the higher by the lower, and dethrones it, by showing that it is "nothing but such another thing," which has no value in itself.
From these general characteristics, the others which James points out logically follow. The positivist is a sensualist, giving greater value to the specific realm of the senses than to reflection which transcends it. He is a materialist and a pessimist, for he knows only too well the hopeless uncertainty of the course of things. He is irreligious, not being in a state to hold firmly to the realities of the inner world as opposed to the pressure of external facts; he is a determinist and fatalist, only able to show resignation; a pluralist, incapable of all synthesis; and finally a sceptic, as a last and inevitable consequence of all the rest.
The expressions, therefore, used by James, show clearly that the diversity of types is the result of a different localisation of the libido; this libido is the magic power in the depth of our being, which, following the personality, carries it sometimes towards internal life, and sometimes towards the objective world. James compares, for example, the religious subjectivism of the idealist, and the quasi-religious attitude of the contemporary empiricist: "Our esteem for facts has not neutralised in us all religiousness. It is itself almost religious. Our scientific temper is devout."[186]
A second parallel is furnished by Wilhelm Ostwald,[187] who divides "savants" and men of genius into classics and romantics. The latter are distinguished by their rapid reactions, their extremely prompt and abundant production of ideas and projects, some of which are badly digested and of doubtful value. They are admirable and brilliant masters, loving to teach, of a contagious ardour and enthusiasm, which attracts many pupils, and makes them founders of schools, exercising great personal influence. Herein our type of extroversion is easily recognised. The classics of Ostwald are, on the contrary, slow to react; they produce with much difficulty, are little capable of teaching or of exercising direct personal influence, and lacking enthusiasm are paralysed by their own severe criticism, living apart and absorbed in themselves, making scarcely any disciples, but producing works of finished perfection which often bring them posthumous fame. All these characteristics correspond to introversion.
We find a further very valuable example in the æsthetic theory of Warringer. Borrowing from A. Riegl his expression "Volonté d'art absolue" to express the internal force which inspires the artist, he distinguishes two forms, viz. sympathy (Einfühlung) and abstraction; and the term which he employs indicates that here, too, we witness the activity of the push of the libido, the stirring of the élan vital. "In the same way," says Warringer, "as the sympathetic impulse finds its satisfaction in organic beauty, so abstract impulse discovers beauty in the inorganic, which is the negation of all life, in crystallised forms, and in a general manner wherever the severity of abstract law reigns." Whilst sympathy represents the warmth of passion which carries it into the presence of the object in order to assimilate it and penetrate it with emotional values; abstraction, on the other hand, despoils the object of all that could recall life, and grasps it by purely intellectual thought, crystallised and fixed into the rigid forms of law,—the universal, the typical. Bergson also makes use of these images of crystallisation, solidification, etc., to illustrate the essence of intellectual abstraction.
Warringer's "abstraction" represents the process which I have already remarked as a consequence of introversion, namely, the exaltation of the intellect, in the place of the depreciated reality of the external world. "Sympathy" corresponds in fact to extroversion, for, as Lipps has pointed out, "What I perceive sympathetically in an object is, in a general manner life, and life is power, internal work, effort, and execution. To live, in a word, is to act, and to act is to experience intimately the force which we give out; experience creates activity, which is essentially of a spontaneous character." "Æsthetic enjoyment," said Warringer, "is the enjoyment of one's own self projected into the "object," a formula which corresponds absolutely with our definition of transference. This æsthetic conception does not refer to the positivist in James's sense; it is rather the attitude of the idealist for whom psychological reality only is interesting, and worthy of consideration." Warringer adds, "what is essential lies not in the gradation of the feeling, but pre-eminently in the feeling itself; that is to say, the inner movement, the intimate life, the unfolding of the subject's own activity; the value of a line or of a form, depends in our eyes on the biological value it holds for us; that which gives beauty is solely our own vital feeling, which we unconsciously project into it." This view corresponds exactly with my own way of understanding the theory of the libido, in attempting to keep the true balance between the two psychological opposites of introversion and extroversion.
The polar opposite of sympathy is abstraction. The impulse of abstraction is conceived by Warringer "as the result of a great internal conflict of the human soul in the presence of the external world, and from the religious standpoint, it corresponds to a strong transcendental colouring of all the representations man has made to himself of reality." We recognise clearly in this definition the primordial tendency to introversion. To the introverted type the universe does not appear beautiful and desirable, but disquieting, and even dangerous; it is a manifestation against which the subject puts himself on the defensive; he entrenches himself in his inner fastness, and fortifies himself therein by the invention of geometrical figures, full of repose, perfectly clear even in their minutest details, the primitive magic power of which assures him of domination over the surrounding world.
"The need of abstraction is the origin of all art," says Warringer. Here is a great principle, which gains weighty confirmation from the fact that precocious dements reproduce forms and figures which present the closest analogy to those of primitive humanity, not only in their thoughts but also in their drawings.
We should recall that Schiller had already tried to formulate the same presentation in what he calls the naïve and sentimental types. The latter is in quest of nature, whilst the former is itself "all nature." Schiller also saw that these two types result from the predominance of psychological mechanisms which might be met with in one and the same individual. "It is not only in the same poet," he said, "but even in the same work that these two types of mentality are found united.... The naïve poet pursues only nature and feeling in their simplicity, and all his effort is limited to the imitation and reproduction of reality. The sentimental poet, on the contrary, reflects the impression he receives from objects. The object here is allied to an idea, and the poetic power of the work depends on this alliance." These quotations shew what types Schiller had in view, and one recognises their fundamental identity with those with which we are here dealing.
We find another instance in Nietzsche's contrast between the minds of Apollo and of Dionysus. The example which Nietzsche uses to illustrate this contrast is instructive—namely, that between a dream and intoxication. In a dream the individual is shut up in himself, in intoxication, on the contrary, he forgets himself to the highest degree, and, set free from his self-consciousness, plunges into the multiplicity of the objective world. To depict Apollo, Nietzsche borrows the words of Schopenhauer, "As upon a tumultuous sea, which disgorges and swallows by turns, lost to view in the mountains of foaming waves, the mariner remains seated tranquilly on his plank, full of confidence in his frail barque; so individual man, in a world of troubles, lives passive and serene, relying with confidence on the principle of 'individuation.'" "Yes," continues Nietzsche, "we might say that the unshakeable confidence in this principle, and the calm security of those whom it has inspired, have found in Apollo their most sublime expression, and we may always recognise in him the most splendid and divine personification of the principle of making an individual." The Apollien state, as Nietzsche conceives it, is consequently the withdrawal into oneself, that is, introversion. Conversely in the Dionysian state, psychic intoxication, indicates in his view the unloosening of a torrent of libido which expends itself upon things. "This is not only," says Nietzsche, "the alliance of man with man, which finds itself confirmed afresh under the Dionysian enchantment; it is alienated Nature, hostile or enslaved, which also celebrates her reconciliation with her prodigal child,—man. Spontaneously Earth offers her gifts and the wild beasts from rock and desert draw near peacefully. The car of Dionysus is lost under flowers and garlands; panthers and tigers approach under his yoke."
If we change Beethoven's "Hymn of Praise" into a picture, and giving rein to our imagination, contemplate the millions of beings prostrated and trembling in the dust, at such a moment the Dionysian intoxication will be near at hand. Then is the slave free; then all the rigid and hostile barriers which poverty and arbitrary or insolent custom have established between man and man are broken down. Now, by means of this gospel of universal harmony, each feels himself not only reunited, reconciled, fused with his neighbour, but actually identified with him, as if the veil of "Maïa was torn away, nothing remaining of it but a few shreds floating before the mystery of the Primordial Unity."[188] It would be superfluous to add comment to these quotations.
In concluding this series of examples culled outside my own special domain, I will quote the linguistic hypothesis of Finck,[189] where we also see the duality in question. The structure of language, according to Finck, presents two principal types: in one the subject is generally conceived as active: "I see him," "I strike him down;" in the other the subject experiences and feels, and it is the object which acts: "He appears to me," "He succumbs to me." The first type clearly shews the libido as going out of the subject,—this is a centrifugal movement; the second as coming out of the object,—this movement is centripetal. We meet with this latter introverted type especially in the primitive languages of the Esquimaux.
In the domain of psychiatry also these two types have been described by Otto Gross,[190] who distinguishes two forms of mental debility: the one a diffuse and shallow consciousness, the other a concentrated and deep consciousness. The first is characterised by weakness of the consecutive function, the second by its excessive reinforcement. Gross has recognised that the consecutive function is in intimate relation with affectivity, from which we might infer that he is dealing once more with our two psychological types. The relation he establishes between maniac depressive insanity and the state of diffuse or extended and shallow mental disease shows that the latter represents the extroverted type; and the relation between the psychology of the paranoiac and repressed mentality, indicates the identity of the former with the introverted type.
After the foregoing considerations no one will be astonished to find that in the domain of psychoanalysis we also have to reckon with the existence of these two psychological types.
On the one side we meet with a theory which is essentially reductive, pluralist, causal and sensualist; this is Freud's standpoint. This theory limits itself rigidly to empirical facts, and traces back complexes to their antecedents and their elemental factors. It regards the psychological life as being only an effect, a reaction to the environment, and accords the greatest rôle and the largest place to sensation. On the other side we have the diametrically opposed theory of Adler[191] which is an entirely philosophical and finalistic one. In it phenomena are not reducible to earlier and very primitive factors, but are conceived as "arrangements," the outcome of intentions and of ends of an extremely complex nature. It is no longer the view of causality but of finality which dominates researches: the history of the patient and the concrete influences of the environment are of much less importance than the dominating principles, the "fictions directrices," of the individual. It is not essential for him to depend upon the object, and to find in it his fill of subjective enjoyment, but to protect his own individuality and to guarantee it against the hostile influences of the environment.
Whilst Freud's psychology has for its predominant note the centrifugal tendency, which demands its happiness and satisfaction in the objective world, in that of Adler the chief rôle belongs to the centripetal movement, which tends to the supremacy of the subject, to his triumph and his liberty, as opposed to the overwhelming forces of existence. The expedient to which the type described by Freud has recourse is "infantile transference," by means of which he projects phantasy into the object and finds a compensation for the difficulties of life in this transfiguration. In the type described by Adler what is characteristic is, on the contrary, the "virile protest," personal resistance, the efficacious safeguard which the individual provides for himself, in affirming and stubbornly enclosing himself in his dominating ideas.
The difficult task of elaborating a psychology which should pay equal attention to the two types of mentality belongs to the future.
CHAPTER XII
THE PSYCHOLOGY OF DREAMS[192]
A dream is a psychic structure which at first sight appears to be in striking contrast with conscious thought, because judging by its form and substance it apparently does not lie within the continuity of development of the conscious contents, it is not integral to it, but is a mere external and apparently accidental occurrence. Its mode of genesis is in itself sufficient to isolate a dream from the other contents of the conscious, for it is a survival of a peculiar psychic activity which takes place during sleep, and does not originate in the manifest and clearly logical and emotional continuity of the event experienced.
But a careful observer should have no difficulty in discovering that a dream is not entirely severed from the continuity of the conscious, for in almost every dream certain details are found which have their origin in the impressions, thoughts, or states of mind of one of the preceding days. In so far a certain continuity does exist, albeit a retrograde one. But any one keenly interested in the dream problem cannot have failed to observe that a dream has also a progressive continuity—if such an expression be permitted—since dreams occasionally exert a remarkable influence upon the conscious mental life, even of persons who cannot be considered superstitious or particularly abnormal. These occasional after-effects are usually seen in a more or less distinct change in the dreamer's frame of mind.
It is probably in consequence of this loose connection with the other conscious contents, that the recollected dream is so extremely unstable. Many dreams baffle all attempts at reproduction, even immediately after waking; others can only be remembered with doubtful accuracy, and comparatively few can be termed really distinct and clearly reproduceable. This peculiar reaction with regard to recollection may be understood by considering the characteristics of the various elements combined in a dream. The combination of ideas in dreams is essentially phantastic; they are linked together in a sequence which, as a rule, is quite foreign to our current way of thinking, and in striking contrast to the logical sequence of ideas which we consider to be a special characteristic of conscious mental processes.
It is to this characteristic that dreams owe the common epithet of "meaningless." Before pronouncing this verdict, we must reflect that dreams and their chains of ideas are something that we do not understand. Such a verdict would therefore be merely a projection of our non-comprehension upon its object. But that would not prevent its own peculiar meaning being inherent in a dream.
In spite of the fact that for centuries endeavours have been made to extract a prophetic meaning from dreams, Freud's discovery is practically the first successful attempt to find their real significance. His work merits the term "scientific," because he has evolved a technique which, not only he, but many other investigators also assert achieves its object, namely, the understanding of the meaning of the dream. This meaning is not identical with the one which the manifest dream content seems to indicate.
This is not the place for a critical discussion of Freud's psychology of dreams. But I will try to give a brief summary of what may be regarded as more or less established facts of dream psychology to-day.
The first question we must discuss is, whence do we deduce the justification for attributing to dreams any other significance than the one indicated in the unsatisfying fragmentary meaning of the manifest dream content?
As regards this point a particularly weighty argument is the fact that Freud discovered the hidden meaning of dreams by empiric and not deductive methods. A further argument in favour of a possible hidden, as opposed to the manifest meaning of dreams, is obtained by comparing dream-phantasies with other phantasies (day-dreams and the like) in one and the same individual. It is not difficult to conceive that such day-phantasies have not merely a superficial, concrete meaning, but also a deeper psychological meaning. It is solely on account of the brevity that I must impose upon myself, that I do not submit materials in proof of this. But I should like to point out that what may be said about the meaning of phantasies, is well illustrated by an old and widely diffused type of imaginative story, of which Æsop's Fables are typical examples, wherein, for instance, the story is some objectively impossible phantasy about the deeds of a lion and an ass. The concrete superficial meaning of the fable is an impossible phantasm, but the hidden moral meaning is plain upon reflection. It is characteristic that children are pleased and satisfied with the exoteric meaning of the story. However, the best argument for the existence of a hidden meaning in dreams is provided by conscientious application of the technical procedure to solve the manifest dream content.
This brings us to our second main point, viz.—the question of analytic procedure. Here again I desire neither to defend nor to criticise Freud's views and discoveries, but rather to confine myself to what seem to me to be firmly established facts.
The fact that a dream is a psychic structure, does not give us the slightest ground for assuming that it obeys laws and designs other than those applicable to any other psychic structure. According to the maxim: principia explicandi prœter necessitatem non sunt multiplicanda, we have to treat dreams, in analysis, just as any other psychic structure, until experience teaches us some better way.
We know that every psychic construction considered from the standpoint of causality, is the resultant of previous psychic contents. Moreover, we know also that every psychic structure, considered from the standpoint of finality, has its own peculiar meaning and purpose in the actual psychic process. This standard must also be applied to dreams. When, therefore, we seek a psychological explanation of a dream, we must first know what were the preceding experiences out of which it is combined. We must trace the antecedents of every element in the dream picture. For example: some one dreams "that he is walking in a street, a child is running in front of him, who is suddenly run over by a motor-car." We will trace the antecedents of this dream-picture, with the aid of the dreamer's recollections.
He recognises the street as one down which he had walked on the previous day. The child he acknowledges as his brother's child, whom he had seen on the previous evening when visiting his brother. The motor accident reminds him of an accident that had actually occurred a few days before, but of which he had only read an account in a newspaper. Popular opinion is known to be satisfied with this kind of explanation. People say: "Oh, that is why I dreamt such and such a thing!"
Obviously this explanation is absolutely unsatisfactory from a scientific standpoint. The dreamer walked down many streets on the previous day; why was this particular one selected? He had read about several accidents; why did he select just this one? The mere disclosure of an antecedent is by no means sufficient; for a plausible determination of the dream presentation can only be obtained from the competition of various determinants. The collection of additional material proceeds, according to the principle of recollection that has been called the Association Method. The result, as will easily be understood, is the admission of a mass of multifarious and quite heterogeneous material, having apparently nothing in common but the fact of its evident associative connection with the dream contents, since it has been reproduced by means of this content.
How far the collection of such material should go, is an important question from the technical point of view. Since the entire psychic content of a life may be ultimately disclosed from any single starting point, theoretically the whole previous life-experience might be found in every dream. But we only need to assemble just so much material as is absolutely necessary in order to comprehend the dream's meaning. The limitation of the material is obviously an arbitrary proceeding, according to that principle of Kant's whereby to comprehend is "to perceive to the extent necessary for our purpose." For instance, when undertaking a survey of the causes of the French Revolution, we could, in amassing our material, include not only the history of medieval France but also that of Rome and Greece, which certainly would not be "necessary for our purpose," since we can comprehend the historical genesis of the Revolution from much more limited material.
Except for the aforesaid arbitrary limitation, the collecting of material lies outside the investigator's discretion. The material gathered must now be sifted and examined, according to principles which are always applied to the examination of historical or any empirical scientific material. The method is an essentially comparative one, that obviously cannot be applied automatically, but is largely dependent upon the skill and aim of the investigator.
When a psychological fact has to be explained, it must be remembered that psychological data necessitate a twofold point of view, namely, that of causality and that of finality. I use the word finality intentionally, in order to avoid confusion with the idea of "teleology." I use finality to denote immanent psychological teleology. In so far as we apply the view point of causality to the material that has been associated with the dream, we reduce the manifest dream content to certain fundamental tendencies or ideas. These, as one would expect, are elementary and universal in character.
For instance, a young patient dreams as follows: "I am standing in a strange garden, and pluck an apple from a tree. I look about cautiously, to make sure no one sees me."
The associated dream material is a memory of having once, when a boy, plucked a couple of pears surreptitiously from another person's garden.
The feeling of having a bad conscience, which is a prominent feature in the dream, reminds him of a situation he experienced on the previous day. He met a young lady in the street—a casual acquaintance—and exchanged a few words with her. At that moment a gentleman passed whom he knew, whereupon our patient was suddenly seized with a curious feeling of embarrassment, as if he had done something wrong. He associated the apple with the scene in Paradise, together with the fact that he had never really understood why the eating of the forbidden fruit should have been fraught with such dire consequences for our first parents. This had always made him feel angry; it seemed to him an unjust act of God, for God had made men as they were, with all their curiosity and greed.
Another association was, that sometimes his father had punished him for certain things in a way that seemed to him incomprehensible. The worst punishment had been bestowed after he had secretly watched girls bathing.
That led up to the confession that he had recently begun a love affair with a housemaid, but had not yet carried it through to a conclusion. On the day before the dream he had had a rendezvous with her.
Upon reviewing this material we see that the dream contains a very transparent reference to the last-named incident. The connecting associative material shows that the apple episode is palpably meant for an erotic scene. For various other reasons, too, it may be considered extremely probable that this experience of the previous day is operative even in this dream. In the dream the young man plucks the apple of Paradise, which in reality he has not yet plucked. The remainder of the material associated with the dream is concerned with another experience of the previous day, namely, with the peculiar feeling of a bad conscience, which seized the dreamer when he was talking to his casual lady acquaintance; this, again, was connected with the fall of man in Paradise, and finally with an erotic misdemeanour of his childhood, for which his father had punished him severely. All these associations are linked together by the idea of guilt.
In the first place we will consider this material from Freud's view-point of causality; in other words, we will "interpret" it, to use Freud's expression. A wish has been left unfulfilled from the day before the dream. In the dream this wish is realised in the symbolical apple scene. But why is this realisation disguised and hidden under a symbolic image instead of being expressed in a distinctly sexual thought? Freud would refer to the unmistakable sense of guilt shown up by the material, and say the morality that has been inculcated in the young man from childhood is bent on repressing such wishes, and to that end brands the natural craving as immoral and reprehensible. The suppressed immoral thought can therefore only achieve expression by means of a symbol. As these thoughts are incompatible with the moral content of the conscious ego, a psychic factor adopted by Freud called the Censor, prevents this wish from passing undisguised into consciousness.
Reviewing the dream from the standpoint of finality, which I contrast with that of Freud, does not—as I wish to establish explicitly—involve a denial of the dream's causæ, but rather a different interpretation of the associative material collected around the dream. The material facts remain the same, but the standard by which they are measured is altered. The question may be formulated simply as follows: What is this dream's purpose? What should it effect? These questions are not arbitrary, in as much as they may be applied to every psychic activity. Everywhere the question of the "why" and "wherefore" may be raised.
It is clear that the material added by the dream to the previous day's erotic experience, chiefly emphasises the sense of guilt in the erotic act. The same association has already been shown to be operative in another experience of the previous day, in the meeting with his casual lady acquaintance, when the feeling of a bad conscience was automatically and inexplicably aroused, as if, in that instance, too, the young man had done something wrong. This experience also plays a part in the dream, which is even intensified by the association of additional, appropriate material; the erotic experience of the day before, being depicted by the story of the Fall which was followed by such a severe punishment.
I maintain that there exists in the dreamer an unconscious propensity or tendency to conceive his erotic experiences as guilty. It is most characteristic that the association with the Fall of Man should ensue, the young man having never really grasped why the punishment should have been so drastic. This association throws light upon the reasons why the dreamer did not think simply, "I am doing what is not right." Obviously he does not know that he might condemn his own conduct as morally wrong. This is actually the case. His conscious belief is that his conduct does not matter in the least morally, as all his friends were acting in the same way; besides, for other reasons too, is unable to understand why a fuss should be made about it.
Whether this dream should be considered full or void of meaning depends upon a very important question, viz. whether the standpoint of morality, handed down to us through the ages by our forefathers is held to be full or void of meaning. I do not wish to wander off into a philosophical discussion of this question, but would merely observe that mankind must obviously have had very strong reasons for devising this morality, otherwise it would be truly incomprehensible why such restraints should be imposed upon one of man's strongest cravings. If we attach due value to this fact, we are bound to pronounce this dream to be full of meaning, for it reveals to the young man the necessity of facing his erotic conduct boldly from the view point of morality. Primitive races have in some respects extremely strict legislation concerning sexuality. This fact proves that sexual morality is a not-to-be-neglected factor in the soul's higher functions, but deserves to be taken fully into account. In the case in question it should be added, that the young man—influenced by his friends' example—somewhat thoughtlessly let himself be guided exclusively by his erotic cravings, unmindful of the fact that man is a morally responsible being and must perforce submit—voluntarily or involuntarily—to a morality that he himself has created.
In this dream we can discern a compensating function of the unconscious, consisting in the fact that those thoughts, propensities, and tendencies of a human personality, which in conscious life are too seldom recognised, come spontaneously into action in the sleeping state, when to a large extent the conscious process is disconnected.
The question might certainly be raised, of what use is this to the dreamer if he does not understand the dream?
To this I must remark that to understand is not an exclusively intellectual process, for—as experience proves—man may be influenced—nay, even very effectually convinced—by innumerable things, of which he has no intellectual understanding. I will merely remind my readers of the efficacy of religious symbols.
The example given above might suggest the thought that the function of dreams is a distinctly "moral" one. Such it appears to be in this case, but if we recall the formula according to which dreams contain the subliminal materials of a given moment, we cannot speak simply of a "moral" function. For it is worthy of note that the dreams of those persons whose actions are morally unexceptionable, bring materials to light that might well be characterised as "immoral" in the current meaning of that term. Thus it is significant that St. Augustine was glad that God did not hold him responsible for his dreams. The unconscious is the unknown of a given moment, therefore it is not surprising that all those aspects that are essential for a totally different point of view should be added by dreams to the conscious psychological factors of a given moment. It is evident that this function of dreams signifies a psychological adjustment, a compensation essential for properly balanced action. In the conscious process of reflection it is indispensable that, so far as possible, we should realise all the aspects and consequences of a problem, in order to find the right solution. This process is continued automatically in the more or less unconscious state of sleep, wherever—as our previous experience seems to show—all those other points of view occur to the dreamer (at least by way of allusion) that during the day were underestimated or even totally ignored; in other words, were comparatively unconscious.
As regards the much-discussed symbolism of dreams, the value attached to it varies according to whether the standpoint of causality or of finality is adopted. According to Freud's causal view point it proceeds from a craving, viz. from the suppressed dream-wish. This craving is always somewhat simple and primitive, and is able to disguise itself under manifold forms. For instance, the young man in question might just as well have dreamt that he had to open a door with a key, or that he had to travel by aeroplane, or that he was kissing his mother, etc. From this standpoint all those things would have had the same meaning. In this way, the typical adherents of Freud's school have come to the point of interpreting—to give a gross instance—almost all long objects in dreams as phallic symbols.
From the view-point of finality, the various dream pictures have each their own peculiar value. For instance, if the young man, instead of dreaming of the apple scene, had dreamt he had to open a door with a key, the altered dream picture would have furnished associative material of an essentially different character; that, again, would have resulted in the conscious situation being supplemented by associations of a totally different kind from those connected with the apple scene. From this point of view, it is the diversity of the dream's mode of expression that is full of meaning, and not the uniformity in its significance. The causal view-point tends by its very nature towards uniformity of meaning, that is, towards a fixed significance of symbols. On the other hand, the final view-point perceives in an altered dream picture, the expression of an altered psychological situation. It recognises no fixed meaning of symbols. From this standpoint all the dream pictures are important in themselves, each one having a special significance of its own, to which it owes its inclusion in the dream. Keeping to our previous example, we see that from the standpoint of finality the symbol in this dream is approximately equivalent to a parable; it does not conceal, but it teaches. The apple scene recalls vividly the sense of guilt, at the same time disguising the real deed of our first parents.
It is obvious we reach very dissimilar interpretations of the meaning of the dream, according to the point of view adopted. The question now arises, which is the better or truer version? After all, for us therapeuts it is a practical and not a merely theoretical necessity that leads us to seek for some comprehension of the meaning of dreams. In treating our patients we must for practical reasons endeavour to lay hold of any means that will enable us to train them effectually. It should be quite evident from the foregoing example, that the material associated with the dream has opened up a question calculated to make many matters clear to the young man, which, hitherto, he has heedlessly overlooked. But by disregarding these things he was really overlooking something in himself, for he possesses a moral standard and a moral need just like any other man. By trying to live without taking this fact into consideration, his life is one-sided and incomplete, so to say inco-ordinate; with the same consequences for the psychological life as a one-sided and incomplete diet would have for the physical. In order to develop a person's individuality and independence to the uttermost, we need to bring to fruition all those functions that have hitherto attained but little conscious development or none at all. In order to achieve this aim, we must for therapeutic reasons enter into all those unconscious aspects of things brought forward by the dream material. This makes it abundantly clear that the view-point of finality is singularly important as an aid to the practical development of the individual.
The view-point of causality is obviously more in accord with the scientific spirit of our time, with its strictly causalistic reasoning. Much may be said for Freud's view as a scientific explanation of dream psychology. But I must dispute its completeness, for the psyche cannot be conceived merely from the causal aspect, but necessitates also a final view-point. Only a combination of both points of view—which has not yet been attained to the satisfaction of the scientific mind, owing to great difficulties both of a practical and theoretical nature—can give us a more complete conception of the essence of dreams.
I would like to treat briefly of some further problems of dream psychology, that border on the general discussion of dreams. Firstly, as to the classification of dreams; I do not wish to overestimate either the practical or theoretical significance of this question. I investigate yearly some 1500-2000 dreams, and this experience enables me to state that typical dreams actually do exist. But they are not very frequent, and from the view-point of finality they lose much of the importance which attaches to them as a result of the fixed significance of symbols according to the causal view-point. It seems to me that the typical themes of dreams are of far greater importance, for they permit of a comparison with the themes of mythology. Many of these mythological themes—in the study of which Frobenius has rendered notable service—are also found in dreams, often with precisely the same significance. Unfortunately the limited time at my disposal, does not permit me to lay detailed materials before you: this has been done elsewhere.[193] But I desire to emphasise the fact that the comparison of the typical themes of dreams with those of mythology obviously suggests the idea (already put forward by Nietzsche) that from a phylogenetic point of view dream-thought should be conceived as an older form of thought. Instead of multiplying examples in explanation of my meaning, I will briefly refer you to our specimen dream. As you remember, that dream introduced the apple scene as a typical representation of erotic guilt. The gist of its purport is: "I am doing wrong in acting like this." But it is characteristic that a dream never expresses itself in a logically abstract way, but always in the language of parable or simile. This peculiarity is also a characteristic feature of primitive languages, whose flowery idioms always strike us. If you call to mind the writings of ancient literature—e.g. the language of simile in the Bible—you will find that what nowadays is expressed by means of abstract expressions, could then only be expressed by means of simile. Even such a philosopher as Plato did not disdain to express certain fundamental ideas by means of concrete simile.
Just as the body bears traces of its phylogenetic development, so also does the human mind. There is therefore nothing surprising in the possibility of the allegories of our dreams being a survival of archaic modes of thought.
The theft of the apple in our example is a typical theme of dreams, often recurring with various modifications. It is also a well-known theme in mythology, and is found not only in the story of the Garden of Eden, but in numerous myths and fables of all ages and climes. It is one of those universally human symbols, which can reappear in any one, at any time. Thus, dream psychology opens up a way to a general comparative psychology, from which we hope to attain the same sort of understanding of the development and structure of the human soul, as comparative anatomy has given us concerning the human body.