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.