In the preceding lecture when describing the organization of emotional complexes, I mentioned, somewhat incidentally, that their fuller meaning was to be found in antecedent experiences of life; and that these experiences conserved in the unconscious formed a setting that gave the point of view and attitude of mind. It was pointed out also that if we wish to know the reason why a given experience, like that of Voltaire with Frederick, awakens a strong emotional reaction, and why the memory of this experience continues persistently organized with the emotion or gives rise to the emotional reaction whenever stimulated, we must look to this setting of antecedent experiences which gives the ideas of the complexes meaning. We need now to inquire to what extent the unconscious complex in which the setting has roots may take part in the process which gives meaning to an idea. It is a problem in psychogenesis and psychological mechanisms. As an imperatively recurring emotional complex is an obsession the full meaning of any given obsession is involved in the psychological problem of “Idea and Meaning.”

Let us, then, take up for discussion this latter problem as preliminary to the study of that important psychosis—obsessing ideas and emotions.

A perception, or, what is in principle the same thing, an idea of an object, although apparently a simple thing, is really, as a rule, a complex affair. Without attempting to enter deeply into the psychology of perception (and ideas), and particularly into the conventional conception of perception as usually expounded in the text-books—a conception which to my mind is inadequate and incomplete^[155]—it is sufficient for our immediate purposes to point out in a general rough way the following facts concerning perception.

Perception a synthesis of primary and secondary images.—Perception may be regarded both as a process and as a group of conscious elements some of which are within the focus of attention or awareness and some of which are outside this focus. As a process it undoubtedly may include much that is entirely subconscious and therefore without conscious equivalents, and much that appears in consciousness. As a group of conscious elements it is a fusion, amalgamation, or compounding of many elements.

My perception of X., for example, whom I recognize as an acquaintance, is much more than a cluster of visual sensations—I mean the sensations of color and form that come from the stimulation of my retina. Besides these sensations it includes a number of imaginal memory images some of which are only in the fringe of consciousness and can only be recognized by introspection or under special conditions. These secondary images, as they are called, may be (as they most often are) visual, orienting him in space and in past associative relations, according to my previous experiences; they may be auditory—the imaginal sound of his voice or verbal images of his name; or they may be the so-called kinesthetic images, etc.; and all these images supplement the actual visual sensations of color and form.

That such images take part in perception is of course well recognized in every text-book on psychology where they will be found described. It is easy to become aware of them under certain conditions. For instance, to take an auditory perception from every-day life, you are listening through the telephone and hear a strange voice speaking. Aside from the meaning of the words you are conscious of little more than auditory sensations although you do perceive them as those of a human voice and not of a phonograph. Then of a sudden you recognize the voice as that of an acquaintance. Instantly visual images of his face, and perhaps of the room in which he is speaking and his situation therein, of the furnishings of the room, etc., become associated with the voice. Your perception of the voice now takes on a fuller meaning in accordance with these imaginal images. In such an experience, common probably to everybody, the secondary images which take part in perception are unusually clear and easily detected.

Again, let us take a visual perception. You meet face to face a person whom at first sight seems unfamiliar; then in a flash visual images of a scene in a room where you first met, verbal images of his name, and the sound of his voice rush into consciousness. The comparatively simple perception of a man has now given place to a more complex perception (apperception) of an acquaintance and has acquired a new meaning. This new meaning is in part due to these images which have supplemented the visual sensations; but it is also due to the coöperation of another and important factor—the context—which I will presently consider.

Another situation of every-day life in which we become aware of the images is when riding in a street car at night we look out of the window and fail to recognize the individual buildings as we pass them though we perceive them as houses. The neighborhood being obscured by darkness, the buildings have no meaning from the point of view of their uses, proprietorship, locality, etc., but only from an architectural point of view. Then suddenly, by some apparently subconscious process, visual memory images of the unseen neighborhood (hidden in darkness), and of the interior of the buildings, flash into consciousness in conjunction with the actual visual pictures of the buildings. In imagination we at once see the locality and recognize (or apperceive) the buildings which acquire a new meaning as particular shops, which we have often entered, located in a particular locality, etc.

Again, take a tactual perception: If you close your eyes and touch, say a point on your left hand, with your finger, you not only perceive the touch but you perceive the exact spot that you touched. Your perception includes localization. Now if you fix your attention and introspect carefully you will find that you visualize your hand and see, more or less vividly, the point touched (and the touching finger). If you draw a figure on the hand you will visualize that figure. That is to say imaginal visual images of the hand, figure, etc., enter into the tactual perceptions. You will probably also be able to feel faint tactual “images” of the hand (joints, fingers, etc.) which combine with the visualization.^[156] The whole complex is the perception proper.

The images which take part in actual perception, or in ideas of objects, vary with the mode of perception (whether visual, auditory, tactile, etc.) and with objects, and in different people. Reading, or the perception of words, is in many people accompanied by the sound of the words or kinesthetic images of words. If the printed words are those of a person whose voice is familiar to us we may actually hear his voice.^[157] General kinesthetic images may occur in perception, as with objects which look heavy, i.e., have secondary tactual sensations of heaviness. Likewise tactile and olfactory images may enter the perceptual field and supplement the visual sensations. When the sensational experiences of perception are tactile, auditory, olfactory, or gustatory visual images probably always take part in the perceptual field if the object is perceived as, e. g., the perception of velvet by touch and of an orange by smell. Summing all this up we may say, using Titchener’s words: “perceptions are selected groups of sensations in which images are incorporated as an integral part of the whole process.” We may further say the secondary images give meaning to sensations in forming a perception.

Now, before proceeding further in this exposition, I would point out that if memory images are habitually synthesized with sensations to form a given perception, and if perception is a matter of synthesis, then, theoretically, it ought to be possible to dissociate these images. Further, in that case, the perception as such ought to disappear. That this theoretical assumption correctly represents the facts I have been able to demonstrate by the following experiment which I have repeated many times. I should first explain that it has been shown by Janet that by certain technical procedures some hysterics can be distracted in such a way that the experimenter’s voice is not consciously heard by them, but is heard and understood subconsciously. The ordinary procedure is to whisper to the subject while his attention is focused on something else. The whisper undoubtedly acts as a suggestion that the subject will not consciously hear what is whispered. The whispered word-images are accordingly dissociated, but are perceived coconsciously, and whatever coconsciousness exists can be in this way surreptitiously communicated with and responses obtained without the knowledge of the personal consciousness. In this way I have been able to make numerous observations showing the presence of dissociated coconscious complexes which otherwise would not have been suspected. Now the experiment which I am about to cite was made for the purpose of determining whether certain experiences for which the subject had amnesia were coconsciously remembered, but the results obtained, besides giving affirmative evidence on this point, furnished certain instructive facts indicative of the dissociation of secondary images.

The subject, Miss B., was in the state known as BIVa, an hypnotic state, her eyes closed. While she was conversing with me on a subject which held her attention I whispered in her ear with the view of communicating with coconscious ideas as above explained. While I was whispering, she remarked, “Where have you gone?” and later asked why I went away and what I kept coming and going for. On examination it then appeared that it seemed to her that during the moments when I whispered in her ear I had gone away. That is to say, she could no longer visualize my body, the secondary imaginal visual images being dissociated with my whispered words. At these times, however, she continued the conversation and was not at all in a dreamy state. Testing her tactile sense it was found that there was no dissociation of this sense during these moments. She felt tactile impressions while she was not hearing my voice, but she explained afterwards [while whispering, of course, I could not ask questions regarding sensations aloud] that when I touched her, and when she held my hand, palpating it in a curious way as if trying to make out what it was, she felt the tactile impressions, or tactile sensations, but not naturally. It appeared as the result of further observations that this feeling of unnaturalness and strangeness was due to a dissociation of the secondary visual images which normally occur with the tactile images. (She described the tactile impressions of my hand as similar to those she felt when she lifted her own hand when it had “gone to sleep”; it felt dead and heavy as if it belonged to no one in particular.

Testing further it was found that, before abstraction, while she held my hand she could definitely visualize my hand, arm, and even face. While she was thus visualizing I again abstracted her auditory perceptions by the whispering process. At once the secondary visual images of my hand, etc., disappeared. As with the auditory perceptions she could not obtain these visual images, although a moment before she could visualize as far as the elbow.

Desiring now to learn whether these dissociated visual images were perceived coconsciously I whispered, at the same time holding her hand, “Do you see my hand, arm, and face?” She nodded (automatically) “Yes.” “Does she [meaning the personal consciousness] see them?” (Answer by nod) “No.” (The personal consciousness (BIVa) was unaware of the questions and nodding; the latter was performed subconsciously.)

This experiment was repeated several times. As often as she ceased to hear my voice she ceased to visualize my hand, though she could feel it without recognizing it. It follows, therefore, that the dissociation of the auditory perceptions of my voice having also robbed the subject’s personal consciousness of all visual images of my body, her previous tactual perception of my hand lost thereby its visual images and ceased to be a perception.

Let us take another observation: We have seen that a tactual perception of the body includes secondary imaginal visual and other sensory images besides the tactile sensation. Now, of course, if sensation is dissociated so that one has complete anesthesia, no tactile sensation can be perceived. Under such conditions an anesthetic person theoretically might not be able to imagine the dissociated tactile sensations and the associated visual images included in tactile perception. If so such a person would not be able to visualize his body. In other words, in accordance with the well-known principle that the dissociation of a specific memory robs the personal consciousness of other elements of experiences synthesized with the specific memory, the dissociation of the tactile images carries with it the visual images associated in perception. This theoretical proposition is confirmed by actual observation. Thus B. C. A. in one hypnotic state has general anesthesia, so complete that she has no consciousness of her body whatsoever. She does not know whether she is standing or sitting, nor the attitude of her limbs, or her location in space; she is simply thought in space. Now it is found that she can visualize the experimenter, the room, and the objects in the room although she cannot visualize any part of her own body. The dissociation of the tactual field of consciousness is so complete that she cannot evoke imaginal tactual images of the body, and this dissociation of these images carries with it that of the associated imaginal visual images. Visual images of the environment, however, not being synthesized with the tactual body images, can be still evoked. So we see from observations based on introspection and experimentation that perception includes, besides primary simple sensations of an object, secondary imaginal images of various kinds and in various numbers.

Besides images the content of ideas includes “Meaning”.—What I have said thus far refers to perception and idea as the content of consciousness—a group of conscious states. But this is not all when perception is regarded as a process. The objects of experience have associative relations to other objects, actions, conduct, stimuli, constellated ideas, etc., i.e., past experiences represented by conserved (unconscious) complexes. As a result of previous experiences various associations have been organized with ideas and these complexes form the setting or the “context” (Tichener) which gives ideas meaning. As the secondary images give meaning to sensations to form ideas (or perceptions), so these associated complexes as settings give meaning to ideas. This setting in more general terms may be regarded as the attitude of mind, point of view, interest, etc. Just as the context in a printed sentence gives meaning to a given word, and determines which of two or more ideas it is meant to be the sign of, so in the process of all perceptions the associated ideas give meaning to the perception. Indeed it is probable that the context as a process determines what images shall become incorporated with sensations to form the nucleus of the perception. Perception thus takes one meaning when it is constellated with one complex and another meaning when constellated with another complex.

“Meaning” plays such an important part in the mental reactions of pathological and everyday life that I feel we must study it a little more closely before proceeding with our theme.

The idea horse^[158] as the content of consciousness includes more than the primary and secondary sensory images which constitute a perception of an animal with four legs distinguished anatomically from other animals: The idea includes the meaning of a particular kind of animal possessing certain functions, useful for particular purposes and occupying a particular place in civilization, etc. We are distinctly conscious of this meaning; and although we may abstract more or less successfully the visual image of the animal from the meaning, and attend to the former alone, the result is an artifact. Likewise we may as an artifice abstract, to a large degree, the meaning from the image, keeping the latter in the background, and attend to the meaning.

That meaning—just as much as the sensory image of an object—is part of the conscious content of an idea becomes apparent at once, the moment the setting becomes altered and an object is collocated with a new set of experiences (knowledge regarding it). X, for example, has been known to the world as a pious, god-fearing, moral man, a teacher of the Christian religion. My perception of him, so far as made up of images, is, properly speaking, that which distinguishes him anatomically from other men of my acquaintance, that by which I recognize him as X and not as Y. But my perception also has a distinctly conscious meaning, that of a Christian man. This meaning also distinguishes him in his qualities from other men. Now it transpires to every one’s astonishment that X is a foul, cruel, murderer of women—a Jack-the-Ripper. My perception of him is the same but it has acquired an entirely different meaning. A bestial, villainous meaning has replaced the Christian meaning. So almost all objects have different meanings in different persons’ minds, or at different times in the same person’s mind, according to the settings (experiences) with which they are collocated. My perception of A has the meaning of physician, while one of his family perceives him as father or husband. My perception of a snake, it may be, has the meaning of a loathsome, venomous animal, while a naturalist’s perception may be that of a vertebrate representing a certain stage of evolution, and a psychologist holding certain theories may perceive it with a meaning given by those theories, viz.: as a sexual symbol.

This fact of meaning becomes still more obvious when we reflect that the meaning of a perception, as of A’s personality as a physician or father, may occupy the focus of attention while the images of his face, voice, etc., may sink into the background.

Every one is agreed then that every idea or combination of ideas has “meaning” of some sort. Even nonsense syllables have in a psychological sense some meaning, which may be an alliteration of sound, or a symbolism of nonsense (e. g., “fol-de-rol-di-rol-dol-day”) or as suitable tests for psychological experiments. I am speaking now, of course, of meaning as dealt with by psychology as a content of consciousness, and not as dealt with by logic. Every one also will probably agree that the content of an idea is a composite of sensory elements (images) and meaning—I would like to say of perception and meaning; but the use of two abstract terms is likely to lead to a juggling with words by turning attention away from the concrete facts for which the terms stand, and by connoting a sharp distinction between perception and meaning which, as I observe the facts, does not hold. Indeed the common though useful habit of psychologists of treating meaning as an abstract symbol without specific reference to those elements of the content of consciousness for which it stands has, it seems to me, led to considerable confusion of thought.

Mr. Hoernlé, who has given us one of the clearest expositions of idea and meaning that I have read,^[159] designates that constituent of an idea which is the psychical image of an object (e. g., “the visual perception of a horse”) by the term “sign.” “Signs,” he states “are always sensational in nature, whether they are actual sensations (as in sense-perception) or ideas (images or ‘revived’ sensations).” Accordingly an idea is a composite of sign and meaning, or, as Mr. Hoernlé has well expressed it: “Both the idea^[160] and its meaning, then, must be present in consciousness. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that they form together a complex psychical whole, a ‘psychosis,’ of which the different elements, however, enjoy different degrees of prominence in consciousness or draw upon themselves different amounts of attention.... Normally we apperceive merely the meaning, and the image or sign remains in the background, in the shade as it were. But of course we can make the image or sign the special object of attention; we can apperceive it and correspondingly the meaning falls into the background. But it does not disappear; it remains in consciousness.” And again, “every idea is a concrete whole of sign and meaning, in which the meaning, even when unanalyzed and ‘implicit’ is what is essential and prominent in consciousness. The sign on the other hand which we saw reason to identify with certain sensational elements in this conscious experience is normally subordinate and I have called this concrete idea a ‘psychic whole’....”

I quote these passages from Mr. Hoernlé as they are admirably clear statements of the theory, but as descriptions they are a very incomplete analysis of the content of ideas, and fall far short of what we require to know when dealing with the problem of mental mechanisms. It is all very well to speak of meaning in this general way; but to rest content with such an abstract term is to only present the problem and there stop short. Mr. Hoernlé rests content with the negative statement that meaning “does not consist in images and other words.” What then does it consist in?

It must be admitted that the problem is a very difficult one and therefore it is, I suppose, that most psychologists, as if scenting danger, seem to dodge the question and rest content to use meaning as a symbol like the unknown x and y of algebra. If meaning is a part of the content of consciousness it must be analyzable into specific conscious elements (images, thoughts, words, feelings or what not) representing to some extent and in some way past experiences.

Obviously a full rounded-out psychology of meaning must include an analysis of the content of meaning.^[161] I have no intention of entering upon this task here and it is not my business. It would, however, be of very great assistance in solving many of the problems of abnormal psychology if the psychology of meaning were better worked out. But conversely, I would say, considerable light on the psychology of meaning can be derived from the study of abnormal conditions, and of the mental phenomena artificially provoked by hypnotic procedures. Some of the observations which I shall presently cite contribute, I believe, to this end.

Permit me also to point out—as the point is one which has considerable bearing on our theme—that the descriptive statement that ideas are a composite of two distinct elements, perception (images, signs) and meaning, is inadequate in another respect; it is too static and schematic. Although it is convenient to distinguish between perception and meaning, they shade into one another and indeed there does not seem to be any justification for regarding them as other than one dynamic process. As we have seen, perception is made up of a primary sensory image of an object combined with a number of secondary images. This in itself is a “psychic whole”, and, as I view it, contains meaning. My perception of a watch contains secondary images which give it the meaning of a watch and make it something more than a visual image. It may have a still larger and different meaning, that of a souvenir of a dead friend, and in this larger meaning the perception of the watch becomes subordinate, as a sign or group of images, and sinks into the background, while the added meaning occupies the focus of attention. Indeed the primary image of a perception may sink into relative insignificance in the background, while the secondary images become all-important and practically constitute the actual perception (or idea) as a psychic whole. Consider, for instance, what different secondary images (and meaning) are in the focus and how the primary image of the word “son” (spoken or written) almost disappears, according as the context shows it to be my son or your son; and how correspondingly different are those ideas. And so with a wider filial meaning of son. It is safe to say that King Lear’s idea of “daughter” had not the filial meaning conventionally ascribed to that relationship.

If all this that I have said is valid the difference between that which we call perception and that which we call meaning is one of complexity. The less complex we call perception, the more complex, meaning. Both are determined by past experiences the residua of which are the settings.

This may be illustrated by the following: We will suppose that three persons in imagination perceive a certain building used as a department store on a certain street I have in mind now, in a growing section of the city. One of these persons is an architect, another is an owner of property on this street, and the third is a woman who is in the habit of making purchases in the department store. When the architect thinks of the building he perceives it in his mind’s eye in an architectural setting, that is, its architectural style, proportions, features, and relations. His perception includes a number of secondary images of the neighboring buildings, of their styles of architecture, and of their relations from an æsthetic point of view. In the perception of the owner of property there are also a number of secondary images, but these are of the passing people and traffic, of neighboring buildings as shops and places of business. In the perception of the woman the secondary images are of the interior of the store, the articles for sale, clothes she would like to purchase and possibly bargains dear to every woman’s heart. Plainly each perceives the building from a different point of view. Each might perceive the building from the same point of view, but the point of view differs because of the differences in the past experiences of each.

In the case of the architect these experiences were those of previous observations on the architecture of the growing neighborhood. In the case of the property owner they were of thoughtful reflections on the future development of neighboring property, on the industrial relations of the building to business, and on the speculative future value of the property. In the case of the woman they were of purchases she had made, of articles she had seen and desired, of scenes inside the shop, etc. Out of these experiences respectively a complex was built and conserved in the mind of each. The idea of the building is set in these respective experiences which therefore may be called its setting. The imaginal perception of the building obviously has a different meaning for each of our three observers, and it is plainly the setting which governs the meaning, i.e., an architectural, industrial, or shopping meaning, as the case happens to be; and we may further say the setting determines the point of view or attitude of mind or interest. Either the perception proper of the building or the meaning may be in the focus of attention and the other recede into the background or the fringe of awareness.

Further, different affects may enter into each setting and, therefore, into the perception. With the architectural perception there may be linked an æsthetic joyful emotion; with the industrial perception a depressing emotion of anxiety; with the shopping perception perhaps one of anger. (This linking of an emotion, of course, has a great importance for psychopathic states.)

The dependence of perceptions upon their settings for meaning has been very beautifully expressed by Emerson in “Each and All”:

The practical application of the theory to emotional outbreaks of everyday life.—The significance of these principles for our purpose lies in the fact that they enable us to understand numerous psychological events of everyday and pathological life that otherwise would be unintelligible. It is worth while then to study a little more closely the practical application in everyday life of this principle of settings before applying it to the more difficult problem of imperative ideas or obsessions.

No psychological event, any more than a physical event, stands entirely isolated, all alone by itself, without relation to other events. Every psychological event is related more or less intimately to antecedent events, and the practical importance or value of this relation depends for the individual partly upon the nature of the relation itself, and partly upon the ontological value of those anterior events, i.e., the part they played and still play in the personality of the individual. No event, therefore, if it is to be completely interpreted, should be viewed by itself but only in relation to preceding ones. For example: a husband good humoredly and thoughtlessly chaffs his wife about the cost of a new hat which she exhibits with pride and pleasure. The wife in reply expresses herself by an outburst of anger which, to the astonished bystander, seems an entirely unjustifiable and inexplicable response to an entirely inadequate cause. Now if the bystander were permitted to make a psychological inquiry into the mental processes of the wife, he would find that the chaffing remark had meaning for her very different from what it had for him, and probably also for the husband; that it meant much more to her than the cost of that hat. He would find that it was set in her mind in a number of antecedent experiences consisting of criticisms of the wife by the husband for extravagance in dress; and perhaps criminations and recriminations involving much angry feeling on the part of both, and he would probably find that when the hat was purchased the possibility of criticism on the ground of extravagance passed through her mind. The chaffing remark of the husband therefore in the mind of the wife had for a context all these past experiences which formed a setting and gave an unintended meaning to the remark. The angry response, therefore, was dictated by these antecedent experiences and not simply by the trivial matter of the cost of a hat, standing by itself. The event can only be interpreted in the light of these past conserved experiences. How much of all this antecedent experience was in consciousness at the moment is another question which we shall presently consider.

I have often had occasion to interpret cryptic occurrences of this kind happening with patients or acquaintances. They make quite an amusing social game. (A knowledge of this principle shows the impossibility of outsiders judging the rightness or wrongness of misunderstandings and contretemps between individuals—particularly married people.) To complete the interpretation of this episode of the hat—although a little beside the point under consideration: plainly the anger to which the wife gave expression was the affect linked with and the reaction to the setting-complex formed by antecedent experiences. To state the matter in another way, these experiences were the formative material out of which a psychological torch had been plastically fashioned ready to be set ablaze by the first touch of a match—in this case the chaffing remark or associated idea. This principle of the setting, which gives meaning to an idea, being the conserved neurograms of related antecedent experiences is strikingly manifest in pathological and quasi-pathological conditions. I will mention only two instances.

The first, that of X. Y. Z., I shall have occasion to refer to in more detail in connection with the emotions and instincts in a later lecture.^[162] This lady, on the first night of her marriage, felt deeply hurt in her pride from a fancied neglect on the part of her husband. The cause was trivial and could not possibly be taken by any sensible person as an adequate justification for the resentment which followed and the somewhat tragic revenge which she practiced (continuous voluntary repression of the sexual instinct during many years). But the fancied slight had a meaning for her which did not appear on the surface. As she herself insisted, in attempted extenuation of her conduct, “You must not take it alone by itself but in connection with the past.” It appeared that during the betrothal period there had been a number of experiences wounding to her pride and leading to angry resentment. These had been ostensibly but not really forgiven. The action of her spouse on the important night in question had a meaning for her of a slight, because it stood in relation to all these other antecedent experiences, and through these only could its meaning (for her) be interpreted. As a practical matter of therapeutics it became evident that the cherished resentment of years and the physiological consequences could only be removed by readjusting the setting—the memories of all the antecedent experiences with their resentment.

The second instance was a case of hysteria of the neurasthenic type with outbreaks of emotional attacks in a middle-aged woman. It developed immediately, in the midst of good health, out of a violent and protracted fit of anger, almost frenzy, two years ago, culminating in the first emotional or hysterical attack. Looked at superficially the fit of anger would be considered childish because it was aroused by the fact that some children were allowed to make the day hideous by firing cannon-crackers continually under her window in celebration of the national holiday. When more deeply analyzed it was found that the anger was really resentment at what she considered unjustifiable treatment of herself by others, and particularly by her husband, who would not take steps to have the offense stopped. It is impossible to go into all the details here; suffice it to say that below the surface the experiences of life had deposited a large accumulation of grievances against which resentment had been continuous over a long series of years. Although loving and respecting her husband, a man of force and character, yet she had long realized she was not as necessary to his life as she wanted to be; that he could get along without her, however fond he was of her; and that he was the stronger character in one way. She wanted to be wanted. Against all this for years she had felt anger and resentment. She had concealed her feelings, controlled them, repressed them, if you will, but there remained a general dissatisfaction against life, a “kicking against the pricks,” and a quickness to anger, though its expression had been well controlled. These were the formative influences which laid the mine ready to be fired by a spark, feelings of resentment and anger which had been incubating for years. Finally the spark came in the form of a childish offense. The frenzy of anger was ostensibly only the reaction to that offense, but it was really the explosion of years of antecedent experiences. The apparent offense was only the manifested cause, symbolic if you like so to express it, of the underlying accumulated causes contained in life’s grievances.^[163] After completion of the analysis the patient herself recognized this interpretation to be the true meaning of her anger and point of view.

Similarly in everyday life the emotional shocks from fear in dangerous situations, to which most people are subject and which so often give rise to traumatic psychoses, must primarily find their source in the psychological setting of the perception of the situation (railroad, automobile, and other accidents). This setting is fashioned from the conserved knowledge of the fatal and other consequences of such accidents. This knowledge, deposited by past mental experiences—that which has been heard and read—induces a dormant apprehension of accidents and gives the meaning of danger to a perception of a present situation, and in itself, I may add, furnishes the neurographic fuel ready to be set ablaze by the first accident.^[164]