The problem of lay-analyses

It appears to me that the title of this treatise may require an explanation. Let me, therefore, state that the problem of Lay-Analyses expresses itself most succinctly in the question of whether medically untrained laymen should be permitted to practise psychoanalysis.

This problem, timely in general, is subject to national laws.

It is a timely question, in so far as, up to now, apparently nobody ever cared who was practising psychoanalysis. As a matter of fact, too little attention was paid to the question into whose hands the employment of this new science was entrusted, with unanimity prevailing only in reference to a more or less strong tendency to wish that nobody at all should practise psychoanalysis. There were different reasons for this well-nigh general aversion.

The demand, then, now put before the legislatures of certain countries, that only physicians be permitted to apply psychoanalysis proves that, after all, a new, and apparently more tolerant opinion is becoming prevalent, as regards the recognition of our science. This new trend of putting the stamp of official and scientific approval on psychoanalysis, by reserving the monopoly of its application to medically trained men, must, however, first successfully clear itself of any and all suspicion of being nothing other than just a modification of the resistance hitherto shown towards psychoanalysis. Today, at last, it is admitted that, under certain circumstances, psychoanalytical treatment is in order. However, if it is to be applied, certain countries stand ready to impose the restriction that licensed physicians only shall be permitted to administer this treatment.

The problem before us right now, then, is why only physicians should be permitted to practise psychoanalysis. This is a problem subject to national laws. In the United States and Germany, for example, this problem does not amount to more than just an academic discussion, because in these countries a patient may receive treatment from anybody he chooses. In these countries, anybody who feels the inclination may treat, as a “quack” to be sure, “cases,” provided he stands ready to assume full responsibility for the effect of his treatment. Not before the authorities are actually appealed to to retaliate for such tangible harm as a patient may have suffered from the hands of an unlicensed practitioner of psychoanalysis, does the law interfere in the United States, Germany and many other countries.

In Austria, however, where I am writing this treatise, bearing in mind the special conditions which prevail there, in regard to the administration of psychoanalytical treatment, the authorities employ the law of the country as a preventive. In my country, without considering ultimate results, the law, in sweeping restrictions, enjoins all and sundry laymen from treating ailing people.

In the Republic of Austria, therefore, there is a very practical aspect to the question of whether laymen should be permitted to treat ailing people with psychoanalysis. As a matter of fact, under present conditions, this question seems to be settled since it is already answered by the wording of the law, now appearing on the statutes of my country: Nervous people are unquestionably sick people; laymen are doubtlessly no licensed physicians; psychoanalysis is a remedy for the healing, or improvement, of nervous disorders. As in the eyes of the law, the latter are considered diseases and the treatment of all such ailments reserved for licensed physicians exclusively, laymen are liable to severe punishment when employing psychoanalysis for the treatment of nervous people.

In view of this plain state of affairs, one scarcely dares to approach the question of permitting the laity to practise psychoanalysis in Austria. However, in spite of the obviousness of the situation as a whole, there are some additional aspects to the question which, albeit the law does not take cognisance of them, should nevertheless be considered.

It may develop that in connection with psychoanalysis, people in need of treatment are not sick people, in the broad meaning of this term; laymen not always to be considered laymen, nor physicians what physicians are generally supposed to be—the very premise upon which these physicians base their claims. If such a state of affairs becomes apparent, it would be justifiable to insist upon a modification of the law, prohibiting the unlicensed practise of medicine, as far as the application of psychoanalytic treatment is concerned.

Whether this modification shall be enacted as a law will depend mostly on people who may not be expected to know the peculiarities of analytical treatment. It will be our task, therefore, to instruct these impartial referees, these typical laymen whom we will assume, for the time being, are completely uninformed. It is regrettable that we cannot arrange for them to attend an analytical treatment in the rôle of an observer. It is one of the peculiarities of the “analytical situation” that it will not suffer the presence of a third party.

Moreover, individual sessions are liable to be very unequal, as regards the information they may yield. Mr. Referee happening in at an analytical session, would probably not profit to any great extent. As a matter of fact, he might altogether misinterpret that which is discussed between the analyst and the patient. He may even become downright bored with the proceedings. Therefore Mr. Referee must needs be satisfied with the information we shall presently impart to him, endeavoring to set it forth as lucidly as possible.

Let us assume that the patient is suffering from attacks of moodiness, which he is unable to control, or else is the victim of a despondency so depressing as to paralyse his energy, causing him to lose all confidence in himself, manifesting extreme self-consciousness when among strangers. Without grasping the underlying elements of his case, the patient may observe that not only the discharge of his daily duties becomes more and more arduous for him, but also that he experiences difficulties when called upon to make a decision or embark upon some enterprise.

One day—utterly ignorant of the exact cause—he succumbs to an attack of fear. From then on, he is unable to cross a street alone, or board a train, without fighting off a certain inarticulate fear. This condition, as a matter of fact, may even become so pronounced as to render it absolutely impossible for him to cross a street, or board a train, unaccompanied.

Or—what appears very peculiar to him—his thoughts “wander”; they are no longer subject to his will. They attach themselves to problems which, in reality, do not interest him at all but which he is, nevertheless, unable to dismiss from his mind. He imposes perfectly ludicrous tasks upon himself, such as counting the windows along the street. When attending to simple functions, such as mailing a letter or turning off the gas, doubts harass him a few moments later, as to whether he has really dropped the letter into the mail box and whether he actually turned off the gas.

Perhaps such a condition is merely annoying at first, but it becomes intolerable when, in advanced stages, it proves impossible to shake off such preposterous ideas as having flung a child under the wheels of a car, or thrown somebody from a bridge into the river, or being haunted by the terrifying doubt of whether he is not in reality the murderer the police are trying to apprehend for the latest spectacular crime.

All these delusions are utter nonsense, as he himself very well knows. He has never done any harm to anybody, but if he really were a fugitive from justice, this obsession, this feeling of contrition could not be stronger.

To take another case:—this time of a female patient, who is suffering in an entirely different way, presenting entirely different symptoms. We will assume that she is a pianiste, who suddenly experiences cramps in her fingers and discovers herself unable to play. As soon as she thinks of attending a social affair, she immediately feels the necessity of obeying a recurrent natural need, making it impossible for her to leave her own house. Thus, she has been forced to give up mingling with her friends, or attend dances, the theatre, or concerts.

At the most inopportune moments, she becomes the victim of headaches or other painful sensations. Eventually, after meals, she feels impelled to yield to nausea, a condition which, if prolonged, may become dangerous. Finally, she becomes absolutely unable to stand any of those little excitements which cannot be eliminated from daily life. Upon such occasions, she readily faints. As these spells are frequently complicated with muscular spasms, such attacks assume the aspect of dreadful afflictions.

Still other patients become subject to disturbances in a sphere where bodily functions coördinate with manifestations of sentiment. If men, they find themselves unable to give physiological expression to those tender urges that induce them to gravitate towards the other sex. On the other hand, all these physiological reactions may be at their command when not aimed at the person they cherish most. Then, there are still other cases, when bonds of sensuality will tie them to persons whom they actually despise and of whom they have the most earnest desire to free themselves. Or their sensuality imposes urges upon them whose fulfillment causes them to shudder.

If they be women, such patients, on account of fear or disgust, or from some other restraint of unknown origin, become unable to perform those functions which their sex imposes upon them. In cases where they have yielded to the prompting of passion, they discover that that gratification is withheld from them which nature normally offers as a reward for such complacency.

Sooner or later, all such persons come to consider themselves as sick and appeal to physicians, expecting to be cured of their nervous ailments. Physicians have classified these manifestations, diagnosing them differently, according to their own personal point of view. These ailments are listed under such terms as neurasthenia, psychasthenia, phobias and neuroses of different kinds, and with that sweeping term hysterics. The parts of the body inducing such disturbances are examined: the heart, the stomach, the intestines, the sex organs, and all are found to be in the best of condition. The physician then advises the patient to change his mode of living, to take a vacation, to exercise. Thus, with perhaps the aid of mild stimulants, the patient’s condition may, or may not, be temporarily relieved.

Eventually, the patient is informed that there are certain practitioners who specialize in the treatment of just such ailments, and thus they come to be psychoanalysed.

Mr. Referee, whom we will assume is present, has impatiently listened, while we have given an account of the nervous disturbances with which one may be afflicted. Mr. Referee suddenly becomes attentive, expressing his growing interest in these words: “Well, now at last we shall see what the psychoanalyst will do with the patient, whom physicians could not help.”

To all appearances, nothing takes place between patient and psychoanalyst except that they talk with each other. The psychoanalyst does not take recourse to any instruments, while examining the patient, nor does he write out prescriptions. If it can be arranged, he will not even take the patient out of his usual surroundings, or upset his daily routine in any way, while treating him. Such a procedure is, of course, not of indispensable necessity, quite frequently proving impossible to arrange. Usually the analyst simply makes an appointment with his patient, then lets him talk, listens to him, lets him talk again and listens once more.

Mr. Referee now clearly manifests relief but, at the same time, his face also assumes a disdainful expression. Apparently, he thinks: “Is that all? ‘Words, words, words,’ as Prince Hamlet says. Is psychoanalysis perhaps some sort of magic rite, employing mere words with which to chase away a patient’s ailment?”

Quite right! It surely would be magic if it would only work faster. One of the indispensable essentialities of magic is quickness, sudden results. But psychoanalytical treatment demands months, sometimes even years. Proceeding at such a snail’s pace, it loses the character of anything resembling magic.

As far as “words, words, words” are concerned, they are surely not to be looked down upon. Words, after all, are a powerful instrument, the means by which we express our feelings to each other, the agent through which we influence one another. Words are able to benefit us in the extreme, or liable to hurt us to the quick. Doubtless, “in the beginning was the Deed” and the Word came only later. Under certain circumstances, the reduction of the Deed to the mere Word may even prove a cultural achievement. At any rate, the Word was originally an implement of sorcery, a magic manifestation which even today still retains much of its old potency.

Mr. Referee now remarks: “Assuming that the patient is not any better prepared for the understanding of psychoanalytical treatment, than I myself, how are you going to induce him to believe in the Magic of the Word, that is to deliver him from his sufferings?”

Of course, some preparatory work is necessary, but that is easily accomplished in a simple manner. The patient is asked to be absolutely frank with the psychoanalyst, not to withhold intentionally anything that crowds itself into his mind, and to overcome gradually all such influences as may exert themselves to prevent certain of his thoughts or memories from being communicated to the psychoanalyst.

There is not one of us but does not know that there are certain things which we hate to tell anybody else, or which we are utterly unable to express at all. These are the so-called “most intimate” things. We also surmise—and this proves the great progress that has been made in the psychological understanding of our Selves—that there are some other things which we hate to admit to ourselves, which we try to hide from ourselves and which, once they are accidentally touched upon, we immediately endeavor to crowd out of our thoughts.

Doubtless, the root of a very remarkable psychological problem manifests itself in the fact that there are certain of our thoughts which we try to hide from our very own Self! That would seem to indicate that our very own Self is not an indivisible unit, as we have always considered it! Rather, that there is a certain something which may rise in opposition to our very own Self! Vaguely, then, we surmise that our own Self and our soul life may be two different things! If, now, the patient submits to the demand of psychoanalysis to express everything in words that comes to his mind, he comes to believe that an interchange of thoughts, under such extraordinary conditions, is liable to lead to extraordinary results.

“I understand you very well,” Mr. Referee says. “You simply assume that everybody suffering from a nervous disturbance is harboring something that depresses him, some dark secret, perhaps, and by inducing him to impart this secret to you, you relieve him of that depression, thus alleviating his suffering. That, after all, is the very principle of the Confessional which the Catholic church has employed for centuries to wield her influence over her communicants.”

Yes and no, is our answer to this. The Confessional, to a certain extent, may be considered as belonging into the realm of psychoanalysis; leading up to it, as it were. However, the Confessional as such is far removed from coinciding with the very being of psychoanalysis, and it is unable to explain the results of psychoanalytical treatment. In the Confessional, the sinner tells what he knows, but in the Analysis, the neurotic is expected to reveal much more. Besides, there are no known cases where the Confessional proved effective enough to remedy direct symptoms of ailments.

“Then I don’t understand you after all,” Mr. Referee interjects. “What do you mean by stating that the neurotic is ‘expected to reveal more’ in the course of psychoanalytical treatment? Of course, I can very well imagine that you, as a psychoanalyst, may wield a greater influence over your patient than the Father Confessor over a penitent, for the simple reason that you become better acquainted with him, employing your growing influence to talk unhealthy thoughts out of your patient, as it were, disseminating his apprehensions, and so forth. Frankly, it appears most remarkable to me that by such a procedure, it should be possible to alleviate purely physical manifestations, such as nausea, diarrhœa, and cramps. I know that such results are possible by taking recourse to hypnosis. Most probably, through prolonged association with your patient, you gradually succeed in establishing hypnotic relations between you and him. By this I mean that you inadvertently come to exert upon him a suggestive influence. Thus, the miracle wrought by your therapy is nothing other than the result of hypnotic suggestion. However, as far as I know, results by hypnotic therapy are procured much quicker than by psychoanalysis which you yourself admit takes months, and sometimes even years.”

After all, Mr. Referee does not seem to be so utterly uninformed and helplessly at sea as we had considered him in the beginning. Doubtless, he is eagerly bent upon grasping the essence of psychoanalysis, on the basis of certain knowledge which he has acquired. He endeavors to connect psychoanalysis with something he already knows.

Thus, he forces upon us the difficult task of explaining to him that he will never succeed in comprehending psychoanalysis in this way, because psychoanalysis is a process sui generis, something new and peculiar, understandable only with the assistance of new conceptions, or presumptions.

However, we still owe our inquisitive friend a reply to a point raised by him.

What you, Mr. Referee, mentioned before about the personal influence exerted by the psychoanalyst on his patient, should not go without comment. Such an influence actually prevails in the analysis, playing an important rôle. However, this influence is utterly unlike the influence induced by hypnosis.

I shall have to prove to you that the situations in these two cases decidedly differ from each other. However, for the time being, the statement may suffice that this personal influence—this “suggestive element” if you wish—is not drawn upon for the purpose of suppressing symptoms of nervous afflictions analogous to treatment by hypnotic suggestions. Besides, it is absolutely wrong to assume that this “suggestive element” is the agent and promoter of analytical treatment. It may be that such is the case right at the beginning of the treatment. Later, however, this very same “suggestive element” proves itself an opposing factor, forcing us to resort to extensive counter-measures.

Just let me explain to you how thoroughly opposed the technique of analysis is to anything and everything resembling the hypnotic technique of diverting or dissipating a patient’s apprehensions.

Assumed that our patient is obsessed with an intense feeling of being guilty of, say, some horrible crime, we do not advise him to stifle the qualms of his conscience simply on the strength of the fact that there is no doubt as to his innocence. He himself has already proceeded along this trend of reasoning, but to no avail. On the contrary, we try to impress him with the possibility that there may be something tangible at the bottom of so profound a feeling of guilt, and that it may be possible to detect this disturbing something.

“I should be greatly astonished,” Mr. Referee interrupts, “if you could really assuage your patient’s feeling of guilt by agreeing that there may be some tangible reason for his apprehension. But what is the mode of procedure which is applied in your analysis, and to what treatment do you subject your patient?”

To make myself perfectly plain to you, it will be necessary for me to acquaint you with certain psychological teachings which are not known beyond the circle of analysts and accordingly, not appreciated beyond this group. On the basis of this theory, it will be easy for you to deduce what we expect of the patient and how we go about obtaining it.

In explaining matters to you, I will allude to our theory dogmatically, as if it already were an accepted doctrine. Nevertheless, I do not want you to assume that our theory, as I shall presently put it before you, came into being as a fully developed, well-rounded out philosophical system. The development of our theory came about only very gradually, little by little, and was built up through continuous contact with observations. Moreover, our theory, in accordance with these observations, was continually modified until it finally evolved in a manner apparently satisfactory for our purposes.

Only so short a time as a few years back, it would have been necessary for me to express this theory in somewhat different terms. And even today, I cannot guarantee that the terms I am using are definitely fixed and will not be modified again. You know very well that scientific truths do not burst upon us with the unexpectedness of a sudden phenomenon. As a rule, any science, long after its early stages, lacks the character of definiteness, unchangeability, and infallibility for which our human way of thinking longs so intensely. However, any science, as it presents itself to contemporaries, is science as its best, so far as contemporaries are able to judge.

My introductory remarks, I hope, will assist you in gaining a correct perspective in reference to psychoanalysis, especially when I ask you to bear in mind that our specific science is still very young—hardly as old as our century, as a matter of fact—and deals with about the most difficult matter presenting itself to human research. Let me therefore encourage you to interrupt me unabashedly in my explanations, when you do not grasp the full meaning of my words and require further elucidation.

“I am already interrupting you, even before you really start. You say that you are going to acquaint me with a new psychology. But I was always under the impression that psychology as such is no new science. As a matter of fact, it seems to me there always has been enough psychology and enough psychologists. In college, I learned of the great things achieved in this realm of human endeavor.”

Far be it from me to deny these achievements. However, scrutinizing them closely, you will find that they rather belong in the category of sensory psychology. A doctrine of soul life never had a chance for development, because its conception was obstructed by one very essential misunderstanding. After all, what does psychology embrace today, as it is taught in colleges? Aside from a few important sensorimotoric perceptions, there are just a number of classifications and definitions referring to certain processes of the soul which, thanks to the fact that these terms have become a part of our living language, are now the common property of all educated people. To all appearances, such limited information does not enable us to clearly grasp our soul life.

Did you ever notice that every philosopher, poet, historian and biographer evolves his own psychology, based on individual presumptions, in regard to the connection and the ultimate purpose of psychological phenomena, all of which are more or less acceptable but altogether and equally unreliable? Seemingly, a common foundation is missing. Thus it happens that in the realm of psychology, there is an utter lack of respect and authority. There, obviously, anybody is permitted to “poach” or “freelance” to his heart’s content.

If you touch upon a question of physiology or chemistry, nobody will dare speak up, unless he is in possession of authentic information. However, when discussing psychological questions, you may expect everybody to venture an opinion, or raise his voice in protest. Evidently, there is no “professional knowledge” in his realm! Inasmuch as everybody has a soul life, everybody considers himself a born psychologist.

There is a story of an old woman who offered her services to take care of babies. When asked whether she knew anything about babies, her answer was: Why, sure, haven’t I been a baby myself once?

“And this common foundation of soul life, overlooked by all psychologists, you claim to have discovered through the observation of ailing people?”

I do not believe that the origin of our findings minimizes their value. Embryology, for example, would not enjoy any confidence as a science if it were unable to explain clearly the origin of pre-natal deformities.

You will remember that I have mentioned before persons whose thoughts insist upon travelling their own way. To such an extent as a matter of fact, that such persons are forced to ponder about problems which do not interest them at all.

Do you believe that psychology, as generally taught, will be in a position to render even so much as the slightest assistance for the explanation of such anomalies? And after all, there is not one of us whose thoughts, during the night, do not travel their very own way, creating visions which we are unable to interpret, which we are at a loss to understand, and which frequently appear to be, to an almost disquieting extent, products of morbidity.

I am now referring to our dream life! Among the majority of people, the opinion always prevailed, and still prevails, that there is an inherent meaning to dreams, that some attention ought to be paid to our nocturnal visions, that a certain interpretative value is attached to them. Orthodox psychologists have never been able to interpret the meaning of dreams. To them, dreams were something with which they did not know what to do. And as soon as orthodox psychology tried to interpret our dream life, their explanations ventured far afield from psychology proper. Dreams, according to them, were nothing other than the result of physiological sensations, originating from an unequal soundness of sleep in different parts of the brain. I venture to state right here, that any psychology unable to explain the essence of our dreams is also inapplicable to the understanding of normal soul life and cannot be expected to be recognized as science.

“You are becoming so aggressive that I surmise one of your sensitive spots has been touched upon. I have heard before that in psychoanalysis great value is attached to dreams, that dreams are interpreted and behind them old memories of actual events are sought. On the other hand, I also know that the interpretation of dreams is left to the arbitrary conception of the analyst and that the analysts between themselves have frequent squabbles, in regard to the question of how to interpret a certain dream and the justification of arriving at certain conclusions. If this is really the case, I do not think you should stress the advantage of psychoanalysis, in regard to orthodox psychology.”

There you have said something very appropriate. It is only too true that the interpretation of dreams in theory, as well as practice of psychoanalysis, has achieved incomparable importance.

If at this point, I appear to be aggressive to you, this must be looked upon as a defense mechanism. When I reflect upon all the nuisance brought about by some of our analysts in connection with the interpretation of dreams, I could despair. I feel like quoting the pessimistic truism of our great satirist Nestroy, who once said: “Any progress is only half as great as it seems to be in the beginning!” But haven’t you noticed that we mortals are always bent upon confounding everything and distorting it? Nevertheless, with a little caution and self-training, most of the dangers lurking behind the interpretation of dreams can be avoided.

But it will never be possible for me to get down to the explanation of our new science which I promised you, if we continually digress.

“If I understood you correctly, you were going to speak about the fundamental presumptions underlying the new psychology.”

It was not my intention to start with that. Rather, I intend to tell you what we have learned of the soul apparatus, in the course of our analytical studies.

“What do you mean by ‘soul apparatus’ and what is it made of, may I ask?”

You will soon enough see what the soul apparatus is. It is irrelevant to ask of what material it is made, as this question has no psychological interest. As far as psychology is concerned, the question of material is just as unimportant as the question would be in the realm of optic, of whether a telescope is made of metal or cardboard. The question of matter does not enter here at all, but there is great importance attached to the aspect of space.

This obscure soul apparatus, which serves as the agent for all processes of our soul, is conceived by us as an instrument consisting of several parts. Each of these parts we shall call a stage. There is an individual function attached to each of these stages, and all of them are correlated to each other in reference to space. Aspects of space like “near” and “far,” and “above” and “below,” for the time being, only serve to illustrate the regular sequence of the functions allotted to the different stages of the soul apparatus.—Do you still follow me?

“Hardly! However, I hope I will understand you eventually. At any rate, your explanation appeals to me as a somewhat peculiar description of the anatomy of the soul, which, according to biologists, is nonexistent.”

I will grant that what you call my “somewhat peculiar description of the anatomy of the soul,” is merely a parallel drawn upon for the purpose of elucidation, as is so often done in sciences. In the early stages of a new science such parallels have always been quite primitive,—open to revision, as it were. I consider it superfluous to strengthen my argument by referring to the frequently applied “if,” as is quite popular in such cases. The actual value of such “if” argumentations—“fiction” the philosopher Vaihinger would call it—greatly depends on how advantageously this argumentation may be applied to the case in question.

However, for argument’s sake, let us accept the popular conception and assume that within us there is a psychical organization, recording sensations and perceptions of physical wants on one hand, and releasing motoric actions on the other. This medium for establishing this definite coöperation we call the “I.”

Of course, this is nothing new. Each one of us takes this for granted, if he is not a philosopher, and some despite being philosophers. However, our description of the psychical apparatus is not by far complete.

Aside from the “I,” we perceive another region of the soul, much more extensive, much more impressive, and much more obscure than the “I,” which we designate the “It.”

It is the relation between the “I” and the “It” upon which we shall dwell first.

Doubtless, you will raise an objection against our intention to refer to these two regions or stages of the soul with simple pronouns, instead of giving them beautiful euphonious Greek names. However, in psychoanalysis, we prefer to remain in contact with the popular way of thinking, and attach commonplace terms to our scientific conceptions, rather than look upon such nomenclature in contempt. We do not expect to receive credit for this popularization of psychoanalytical terms, inasmuch as we are forced to do this in order to make ourselves plain to our patients who are frequently very intelligent, but not always exactly learned people.

The impersonal pronoun “It” is most appropriate for our purposes, as is plainly proved by the fact that we frequently speak of something, averring that “‘It’ came to me quite suddenly”; “‘It’ gave me a shock”; “‘It’ was stronger than I.” “C’était plus fort que moi.”

In the realm of psychology, we can only make ourselves understood by taking recourse to comparisons. This, after all, is no special peculiarity of psychology, inasmuch as other sciences also find it necessary to avail themselves of analogous expedients. These comparisons, however, must be modified time and again, as their application generally proves too limited. If you are seeking an explanation of the relation of the “I” to the “It,” it would be well to remember that the “I” serves as a foreground to the “It.” The “I” is, as it were, the outer, front layer of the “It.” We may so much more readily accept this comparison, inasmuch as layers—say, of a tree—owe their peculiar characteristics to the modifying influence of that exterior medium with which they are in contact. Thus, we visualize that the “I,” being the outer layer of the psychical apparatus, is the “It,” modified in accordance with the influence which the outer world exerts upon it.

Here you will perceive how conceptions of space apply to psychoanalysis. To all intents and purposes, the “I” is actually the front layer, the obvious, whereas the “It” is the inner layer, the hidden. To make it even more plain: The “I” is inserted between the reality of the outer world and the “It,” the latter constituting the soul proper, the essence of the soul, as it were.

“I am not going to inquire how you came to know all this. I should first like to know how this differentiation between the ‘I’ and the ‘It’ assists you in your psychoanalytical work, and why you need it.”

Your question clearly shows me how to proceed.

It is most important and extremely valuable to know that the “I” and the “It,” in many instances, greatly differ from each other. As far as the “I” is concerned, psychical activations are subject to a different rule than the one applying to the “It.” The “I” has different intentions from the “It,” availing itself of means other than those resorted to by the “It.”

Of course, much could be said in this respect, but perhaps it will be best if I give you a new comparison and a new example. Just remember the differences which developed, during the late war, between the actual front and the hinterland. We were apparently never surprised to observe that there were certain things going on at the front, utterly different from analogous developments in the hinterland, and that in the hinterland many a thing was permissible which had to be strictly prohibited at the front. In the war, the deciding factor, of course, was the proximity of the enemy. In our psychical life, the deciding factor is the proximity of the outer world. Remember that in ancient times “outside,” “strange,” “hostile,” used to be identical conceptions.

And now, the example I promised you: The “It” is never assailed by any conflicts. Within the “It,” contradiction and opposition dwell undisturbed in close proximity to each other, frequently equalizing one another by means of compromise. However, while the “It” thus remains undisturbed, the “I” cannot avoid facing conflicts, and the only way for the “I” to escape the dilemma is by renouncing some particular intention, or urge, for the benefit of the other.

The “I” is controlled by a very remarkable trend for unification, for synthesis—a characteristic utterly lacking in the “It.” The latter never manifests such unity of intention, but rather displays a tendency towards dissipation and a diversity of aims, utterly independent of one another, and without regard to each other.

“If there really is such an important hinterland of the soul, how do you explain the fact that it was never discovered before the advent of psychoanalysis?”

By this question, you are leading us back to one of your former inquiries. Let me advise you, then, that orthodox psychology blocked its own way to the “It,” by holding on tenaciously to a presumption which, in itself, seemed obviously enough but which, nevertheless, cannot be successfully sustained any more. It was presumed that all psychical activations are conscious, that consciousness is the characteristic of any psychological process, and that if there really were unconscious processes of our brain, these processes did not deserve to be termed psychological processes, having nothing at all to do with psychology proper.

“I should say that this is self-evident!”

Of course. That is exactly what all the orthodox psychologists claim. However, it is easy enough to prove that such a view is incorrect, or rather amounts to an impractical separation. Observing ourselves, we easily perceive that many of our thoughts could not have arisen unless they were induced by certain premises. However, of the preparatory stages of these thoughts, which must have been psychical, too, we are unaware, inasmuch as only the complete result enters into our consciousness. Once in a while, it may be possible for us to reconstruct the development of a thought by retrospective contemplation.

“Most probably, our attention had been diverted so that we missed observing the development of the thought in the making, so to speak.”

That’s just an obvious excuse!—insufficient to obscure the fact that quite frequently psychical activations—and often highly complicated ones, too—may occur in our soul life without our becoming actually aware of them. Alas, you may be ready to accept the hypothesis that just a little more or less of your “attention” may prove sufficient to transmute a non-psychical action into a psychical one. But why squabble? The existence of unconscious thoughts has been proven in hypnotic experiments, time and again, to the satisfaction of everybody.

“I don’t wish to deny that, and I actually believe I am now beginning to understand you at last. What you are terming the ‘I’ is the Conscious while the ‘It’ describes the so-called Subconscious, which is so much discussed just now. But why, pray, this masquerade of new terms, if I may ask?”

This is no masquerade, inasmuch as other terms cannot be employed here properly. Besides, let me ask you not to substitute literature for science. If somebody refers to the Subconscious, I don’t know whether he is alluding to it as a stratum, that is, something dwelling in the soul beneath the Conscious, or whether he refers to it as to quality, that is, another consciousness, a subterranean one, so to say. To be sure, the greatest probability seems to be that anybody juggling such terms is himself not at all sure of what he really means. The only permissible differentiation is one between Conscious and Unconscious.

Nevertheless, it would be a severe error to believe that a differentiation between Conscious and Unconscious would be analogous to a differentiation between the “I” and the “It.” It would be too wonderful, if it were as simple as all that, and it would be easy going for our theory then. But, it is not so simple! Correct only is that everything that occurs within the “It” is and remains unconscious, and that only activities of the “I” may become conscious. However, not all these activities are conscious, nor are they always conscious, nor do they necessarily have to become conscious. Parts of the “I” may remain permanently unconscious.

The penetration into Consciousness of a psychical process is quite complicated. I cannot avoid demonstrating to you—dogmatically once more—what our hypothesis is in this respect. You will remember that the “I” is the outer, peripheral layer of the “It.” We now assume that on this outermost surface of the “I,” there is a peculiar device, a system, an organ if you wish, by whose exclusive actuation that phenomenon is created which we call Consciousness. This organ may be actuated from the outside—that is, our sensory nerves may convey to it sensations of an outer world—as well as from the inside, where first it may perceive the sensations from the “It” and, later on, the processes of the “I.”

“This is getting worse and worse, and more and more beyond my understanding. Did you not invite me to discuss with you the question of whether or no, medically trained laymen should be permitted to apply psychoanalysis? Why, then, all these ramblings of vague and dark theories, whose correctness you will be unable to prove to me?”

Only too well do I realize that I cannot convince you. As that would be beyond all possibilities, I have, therefore, surrendered such intentions. Even when instructing our own disciples in the theory of psychoanalysis, we always observe how little impression we make on them in the beginning. They accept the analytical teachings with just as much equanimity as any other abstractions which have been fed to them. Some of them may have the earnest desire to be convinced, but there is no trace that they ever really are convinced.

We demand that anyone who intends to analyse somebody else, should first submit to an analysis. Only if in the course of this “self-analysis”—as it is usually incorrectly called—a disciple experiences the truth of psychoanalytical teachings on his own body—or rather on his own soul—then, and only then, he gains those convictions which later on will guide him in his work as an analyst.

How, then, may I expect to convince you, Mr. Referee, of the correctness of our theories, especially as I can only give you an incomplete, abbreviated, and, therefore, none too lucid outline of psychoanalytical teachings, without your being able to corroborate it through your own experiences?

But such is not my intention at all! We are not discussing here the question of whether psychoanalysis is sense or nonsense, nor whether the premises of psychoanalysis are correct or full of grave fallacies. I am simply presenting our theories to you, because in this way it seems easiest to me to explain to you what is the real essence of psychoanalysis, what are its premises in reference to individual patients, and just what the treatment is that is administered to them. In this way, the problem of lay-analyses is projected in a striking light. If you have followed me up to now, you may rest assured that the worst is over and that from now on, everything will be much more comprehensible to you.

And now let me pause for a moment.