This powerful impression was evidently connected in some way with

the horses. The predisposition of the patient to react in such an

exaggerated fashion to a not very remarkable incident, might result

from the fact that horses had some special significance for her. It

might be suspected that she had experienced some dangerous accident

with them; this actually turned out to be the case. When a child of

about seven years old she was out for a drive with the coachman; the

horses shied and galloped at full speed towards a steep river-bank.

The coachman jumped down, and shouted to her to do the same, but in

her extreme terror she could scarcely bring herself to obey. She did,

however, just manage to jump out in the nick of time, whilst the horses

and carriage were dashed to pieces below. No proof is needed that such

an experience must leave a lasting impression behind it. But it does not

offer any explanation for such an exaggerated reaction to an inadequate

stimulus. So far we only know that this later symptom had its prologue

in childhood, but its pathological aspect remains obscure. To penetrate

into the heart of such a mystery it was necessary to accumulate further

material. And the greater our experience the clearer does it become

that in all cases with such traumatic experiences analysed up to the

present, there co-exists a special kind of disturbance which can only be

described as a derangement in the sphere of _love_. Not all of us give

due credit to the anomalous nature of love, reaching high as heaven,

sinking low as hell, uniting in itself all extremes of good and evil, of

lofty and low.[225]

As soon as Freud recognised this, a decisive change came about in his

view. In his earlier researches, whilst more or less dominated by

Charcot's trauma-theory, he had sought for the origin of the neurosis

in actual traumatic experiences; but now the centre of gravity shifted

to a very different point. This is best demonstrated by reference to

our case; we can understand that horses might easily play a significant

part in the patient's life, but it is not clear why there should be this

later reaction, so exaggerated, so uncalled for. It is not her fear of

horses which forms the morbid factor in this curious story; to get at

the real truth we must remember our empirical conclusion, that, side by

side with traumatic experiences, there is also invariably present some

disturbance in the sphere of love. We must now go on to inquire whether

perhaps there is anything unsatisfactory in this respect in the case

under review.

Our patient has a young man friend, to whom she is thinking of becoming

engaged, she loves him and expects to be happy with him. At first

nothing more is discoverable; but the investigator must not let himself

be deterred by a negative result in the beginning of this preliminary

questioning. When the direct way does not lead to the desired end, an

indirect way may be taken. We accordingly turn our attention back to

that strange moment when she ran away in front of the horses. We inquire

who were her companions and what kind of social gathering was it, and

find it was a farewell-party to her best friend, on her departure to a

foreign health-resort on account of a nervous breakdown. We are told

this friend is happily married and is the mother of one child. We may

well doubt the assertion that she is happy. If she really were so, it

is hardly to be supposed she would be "nervous" and in need of a cure.

When I attacked the situation from a different vantage-ground, I learnt

that our patient--after this episode--had been taken by her friends to

the nearest safe place--her host's house. In her exhausted state he

took charge of her. When the patient came to this part of her story,

she suddenly broke off, was embarrassed, fidgeted and tried to turn

the subject. Evidently some disagreeable reminiscences had suddenly

cropped up. After obstinate resistances had been overcome, she admitted

something very strange had happened that night. Her host had made her

a passionate declaration of love, thus occasioning a situation that,

in the absence of his wife, might well be considered both painful and

difficult. Ostensibly this declaration came upon her like a "bolt from

the blue." But a small dose of criticism applied to such an assertion

soon apprises us that these things never do drop suddenly from the sky;

they always have their previous history. It was a task of the following

weeks to dig out piecemeal a long love-story. I will attempt to sketch

in the picture as it appeared finally.

As a child the patient was a thorough tomboy, loved boys' boisterous

games, laughed at her own sex, and would have nothing to do with

feminine ways or occupations. After puberty, just when the sex-issue

should have meant much to her, she began to shun all society; she

seemingly hated and despised everything which could remind her even

remotely of the biological destiny of mankind, and lived in a world of

phantasy which had nothing in common with rude reality. Thus, till her

twenty-fourth year, she escaped all the little adventures, hopes and

expectations which ordinarily move a girl at this age. But finally she

got to know the two men who were destined to destroy the thorny hedge

which had grown up around her. Mr. A. was her best friend's husband;

Mr. B. was their bachelor-friend. She liked both; but pretty soon found

B. the more sympathetic, and an intimacy grew up between them which made

an engagement seem likely. Through her friendship with him and with

Mrs. A., she often met Mr. A. His presence excited her inexplicably,

made her nervous. Just at this time she went to a big party. All her

friends were there. She became lost in thought, and in a reverie was

playing with her ring, when suddenly it slipped out of her hand and

rolled under the table. Both men tried to find it and Mr. B. managed to

get it. With a meaning smile he put the ring back on her finger, and

said, "You know what that means!" Overcome by some strange, irresistible

feeling, she tore the ring from her finger and flung it out of the open

window. Naturally a painful moment for all ensued, and she soon went

away, much depressed. A little while after, so-called chance brought her

for her summer holidays to the health-resort where A. and his wife were

staying. It was then that Mrs. A. began to suffer from nerve-trouble,

and frequently felt too unwell to leave the house. So our patient could

often go out for walks alone with A. One day they were out in a small

boat. She was boisterously merry and fell overboard. Mr. A. saved her

with difficulty as she could not swim, and he managed to lift her into

the boat in a half-unconscious state. Then he kissed her. This romantic

event wove fast the bonds between them. In self-defence she did her best

to get herself engaged to B. and to persuade herself that she loved him.

Of course this queer comedy could not escape the sharp eye of feminine

jealousy. Mrs. A., her friend, guessed the secret, and was so much upset

by it that her nervous condition grew bad enough to necessitate her

trying a cure at a foreign health-resort. At the farewell gathering the

demon came to our patient and whispered: "To-night he will be alone,

something must happen to you so that you can go to his house." And so

indeed it came about; her strange behaviour made her friends take her to

his house, and thus she achieved her desire.

After this explanation the reader will probably be inclined to assume

that only diabolical subtlety could think out and set in motion such a

chain of circumstances. There is no doubt about the subtlety, but the

moral evaluation is less certain. I desire to lay special emphasis upon

the fact that the patient was _in no sense conscious of the motives_ of

this dramatic performance. The incident apparently just came about of

itself without any conscious motive whatsoever. But the whole previous

history makes it perfectly clear that everything was most ingeniously

directed towards the other aim; whilst the conscious self was apparently

working to bring about the engagement to Mr. B., the unconscious

compulsion to take the other road was still stronger.

So once more we must return to our original question, whence comes the

pathological, the peculiar and exaggerated reaction to the trauma?

Relying on a conclusion obtained from other analogous experiences,

we ventured the conjecture that in the present case we had to do

with a disturbance in the love-life, in addition to the trauma. This

supposition was thoroughly borne out; the trauma, which was apparently

the cause of the illness, was merely the _occasion_ for some factor,

till then unconscious, to manifest itself. This was the _significant

erotic conflict_. With this finding the trauma loses its pathogenic

significance and is replaced by a much deeper and more comprehensive

conception, which regards the erotic conflict as the pathogenic agent.

This conception may be described as the sexual theory of the neurosis.

I am often asked why it is just the erotic conflict rather than any

other which is the cause of the neurosis. There is but one answer to

this. No one asserts that this ought necessarily to be the case, but as

a simple matter of fact it is always found to be so, notwithstanding all

the cousins and aunts, godparents, and teachers, who rage against it.

Despite all the indignant assertions to the contrary, the problem and

conflicts of love are of fundamental importance for humanity,[226] and

with increasingly careful study, it comes out ever more clearly that

the love-life is of immensely greater importance than the individual

suspects.

As a consequence of the recognition that the true root of the neurosis

is not the trauma, but the hidden erotic conflict, the trauma loses its

pathogenic significance.

II.--THE SEXUAL THEORY.

Thus, it will be seen, the theory had to be shifted on to an entirely

different basis, for the investigation now had to face the erotic

conflict itself. Our example shows that this contains extremely abnormal

elements and cannot, _primâ facie_, be compared with an ordinary love

conflict. It is surprising, indeed hardly credible, that only the

postulated affection should be conscious, whilst the real passion

remained unknown to the patient. But in this case it is beyond dispute

that the real erotic relation remained unillumined, whilst the field of

consciousness was dominated by the assumption. If we try to formulate

this fact, something like the following proposition results: _in a

neurosis_, two erotic tendencies exist which stand in extreme opposition

to one another, and one at least is unconscious. Against this formula

the objection can be raised that it has obviously been derived from

this one particular case, and is therefore lacking in general validity.

The criticism will be the more readily urged because no one unpossessed

of special reasons is willing to admit that the erotic conflict is of

universal prevalence. On the contrary, it is assumed that this conflict

belongs more properly to the sphere of novels, since it is generally

depicted as something in the nature of such wild adventures as are

described by Karin Michaelis in her "Aberrations of Marriage," or by

Forel in "The Sexual Question." But indeed this is not the case; for we

know the wildest and most moving dramas are not played on the stage, but

every day in the hearts of ordinary men and women who pass by without

exciting attention, and who betray to the world, save through the symbol

of a nervous breakdown, nothing of the conflicts that rage within them.

But what is so difficult for the layman to grasp is the fact that in

most cases patients have no suspicion whatever of the internecine

war raging in their unconscious. But remembering that there are many

people who understand nothing at all about themselves, we shall be less

surprised at the realisation that there are also people who are utterly

unaware of their actual conflicts.

If the reader is now inclined to admit the possible existence of

pathogenic, and perhaps even of unconscious conflicts, he will certainly

protest that they are not erotic conflicts. If this kind reader should

happen himself to be somewhat nervous, the mere suggestion will arouse

his indignation, for we are all inclined, as a result of our education

in school and at home, to cross ourselves three times where we meet such

words as "erotic" and "sexual"--and so we are conveniently able to think

that nothing of that nature exists, or at least very seldom, and at a

great distance from ourselves. But it is just this attitude which in the

first instance brings about neurotic conflicts.

We recognise that the course of civilisation consists in the progressive

mastering of the animal element in man; it is a process of domestication

which cannot be carried through without rebellion on the part of the

animal nature still thirsting for its liberty. Humanity forces itself

to endure the restrictions of the civilising process; but from time

to time there comes a frenzied bursting of all bonds. Antiquity had

experience of it in that wave of Dionysian orgies, surging hither from

the East, which became an essentially characteristic element of antique

culture. Its spirit was partly instrumental in causing the numerous

sects and philosophic schools of the last century before Christ, to

develop the Stoic ideal into asceticism; and in producing from the

polytheistic chaos of those times, the ascetic twin-religions of Mithras

and of Christ. A second clearly marked wave of the Dionysian impulse

towards freedom swept over the Western world during the Renaissance.

It is difficult to judge of one's own time, but we gain some insight

if we note how the Arts are developing, what is the prevailing type of

public taste, what men read and write, what societies they found, what

"questions" are the order of the day, and against what the Philistines

are fighting. We find in the long list of our present social problems

that the sexual question occupies by no means the last place. It

agitates men and women who would shake the foundations of sexual

morality, and throw off the burden of moral shame which past centuries

have heaped upon Eros. The existence of these aspirations and endeavours

cannot be simply denied, or declared indefensible; they exist and

are therefore presumably not without justification. It is both more

interesting and more useful to study carefully the basic causes of these

movements than to chime in with the lamentations of the professional

mourners over morals, who prophesy with unction the moral downfall of

humanity. The moralist least of all trusts God, for he thinks that the

beautiful tree of humanity can only thrive by dint of being pruned,

bound, and trained on a trellis, whereas Father-Sun and Mother-Earth

have combined to make it grow joyfully in accordance with its own laws,

which are full of the deepest meaning.

Serious people are aware that a very real sexual problem does exist

at the present time. The rapid development of the towns, coupled with

methods of work brought about by the extraordinary division of labour,

the increasing industrialisation of the country and the growing security

of life, combine to deprive humanity of many opportunities of expending

emotional energy. Think of the life of the peasant, whose work so rich

and full of change, affords him unconscious satisfaction by means of its

symbolic content; a like satisfaction the factory-hand and the clerk

can never know. Think of a life with nature; of those wonderful moments

when, as lord and fructifier, man drives the plough through the earth,

and with kingly gesture scatters the seed of the future harvest; see his

justifiable awe before the destructive power of the elements, his joy in

the fruitfulness of his wife, who gives him daughters and sons, who mean

to him increased working power and enhanced prosperity. Alas! from all

this we town-dwellers, we modern machines, are far, far removed.

Must we not admit that we are already deprived of the most natural and

most beautiful of all satisfactions, since we can no longer contemplate

the arrival of our own seed, the "blessing" of children, with unmixed

pleasure? Marriages where no artifices are resorted to are rare.

Is this not an all-important departure from the joys which Mother

Nature gave her first-born sons? Can such a state of affairs bring

satisfaction? Note how men slink to their work, watch their faces at

an early morning hour in the tram-cars. One of them makes his little

wheels, and another writes trivial things which do not interest him.

What wonder is it if such men belong to as many clubs as there are days

in the week, and that among women little societies flourish, where they

pour out on some particular hero or cause those unsatisfied desires

which the man dulls at his restaurant or club, imbibing beer and playing

at being important? To these sources of dissatisfaction is added a more

serious factor. Nature has provided defenceless, weaponless man with a

great amount of energy to enable him not merely to bear passively the

grave dangers of existence, but also to conquer them. Mother Nature

has equipped her son for tremendous hardships and has placed a costly

premium on the overcoming of them, as Schopenhauer quite understood when

he said that "happiness is really but the termination of unhappiness."

Civilized people are, as a rule, shielded from the immediately pressing

dangers, and they are therefore daily tempted to excess, for in man

the animal always becomes rampant when he is not constrained by fierce

necessity. Are we then indeed unrestrained? In what orgiastic festivals

do _we_ dispose of the surplus of vital power? Our moral views do not

permit us that outlet.

But reckon up in how many directions we are met by unsatisfied

longings; the denial of procreation and begetting, for which purpose

nature has endowed us with great energy; the unending monotony of

our highly developed modern methods of "division of labour," which

excludes any interest in the work itself; and above all our effortless

security against war, lawlessness, robbery, epidemics, infant and

woman mortality--all this gives a sum of surplus energy which must

needs find an outlet. But how? A relatively few create quasi-natural

dangers for themselves in reckless sport; many more, seeking to find

some equivalent for their more primitive energy, take to alcoholic

excess; others expend themselves in the rush of money-making, or in the

morbid performance of duties, in perpetual over-work. By such means

they try to escape a dangerous storing-up of energy which might force

mad outlets for itself. It is for such reasons that we have to-day a

_sexual question_. It is in this direction that men's energy would like

to expend itself as it has done from time immemorial in periods of

security and abundance. Under such circumstances it is not only rabbits

that multiply; men and women, too, become the sport of these accesses

of nature: the sport, because their moral views have confined them in a

narrow cage, the excessive narrowness of which was not felt so long as

harsh external necessity pressed upon them with even greater constraint.

But now the man of the cities finds the space too circumscribed. He is

surrounded by alluring temptation, and like an invisible _procureur_

there slinks through society the knowledge of preventive methods which

evade all consequences. Why then moral restraint? Out of religious

consideration for an angry God? Apart from the prevalence of widespread

unbelief, even the believing man might quietly ask himself whether, if

he himself were God, he would punish the youthful erotic uncontrol of

John and Mary with twice twenty-four years of imprisonment and seething

in boiling oil. Such ideas are no longer compatible with our decorous

conception of God. The God of our time is necessarily much too tolerant

to make a great fuss over it; (knavishness and hypocrisy are a thousand

times worse). In this way the somewhat ascetic and hypocritical sexual

morality of our time has had the ground cut from under its feet.

Or is it the case that we are now protected from dissoluteness by

superior wisdom, recognition of the nothingness of human happenings?

Unfortunately we are very far from that; rather does the hypnotic power

of tradition keep us in bonds, and through cowardice and thoughtlessness

and habit the herd goes tramping on in this same path. But man possesses

in the unconscious a fine scent for the spirit of his time; he has an

inkling of his own possibilities and he feels in his innermost heart

the instability of the foundations of present-day morality, no longer

supported by living religious conviction. It is thus the greater number

of the erotic conflicts of our time originate. Instinct thirsting for

liberty thrusts itself up against the yielding barriers of morality: men

are tempted, they desire and do not desire. And because they will not

and cannot think out to its logical conclusion what it is they really

desire, their erotic conflict is largely unconscious; whence comes

neurosis. Neurosis then is most intimately bound up with the problem of

our times and represents an unsuccessful attempt of the individual to

solve the general problem in his own person. Neurosis is a tearing in

two of the _inner self_. For most men the reason of this cleavage is

the fact that their conscious self desires to hold to its moral ideal,

whilst the unconscious strives after the amoral ideal, steadfastly

rejected by the conscious self. People of this kind would like to appear

more decent than they really are. But the conflict is often of an

opposite kind. There are those who do not outwardly live a decent life

at all and do not place the slightest constraint upon their sexuality,

but in reality this is a sinful pose assumed for goodness knows what

reasons, for down below they have a decorous soul which has somehow gone

astray in their unconscious, just as has the real immoral nature in

the case of apparently moral people. Extremes of conduct always arouse

suspicions of the opposite tendencies in the unconscious.

It was necessary to make this general statement in order to elucidate

the idea of the "erotic conflict" in analytical psychology, for it is

the key to the conception of neurosis. We can now proceed to consider

the psychoanalytic technique. Obviously the main problem is, how to

arrive by the shortest and best path at a knowledge of the patient's

"unconscious." The method first used was hypnotism, the patient being

questioned, on the production of spontaneous phantasies observed while

in a state of hypnotic concentration. This method is still occasionally

used, but in comparison with the present technique is primitive and

frequently unsatisfactory. A second method, evolved by the Psychiatric

Clinic, Zürich, was the so-called association method,[227] which is

chiefly of theoretic, experimental value. Its result is an extensive,

though superficial orientation, concerning the unconscious conflict

("complex").[228] The more penetrating method is that of dream-analysis

whose discovery belongs to Sigmund Freud.[229]

Of the dream it can be said that "the stone which the builders rejected

has become the head of the corner." It is only in modern times that

the dream (that fleeting and seemingly insignificant product of the

soul), has met with such complete contempt. Formerly it was esteemed,

as a harbinger of fate, a warning or a consolation, a messenger of the

gods. Now we use it as a messenger of the unconscious; it must disclose

to us the secrets which our unconscious self enviously hides from our

consciousness, and it does so with astonishing completeness.

On analytical investigation it becomes plain that the dream, as we

remember it, is only a façade which conceals the contents within the

house. But if, observing certain technical rules, we get the dreamer

to talk about the details of his dream, it soon appears that his free

associations group themselves in certain directions and round certain

topics. These appear to be of personal significance, and have a meaning

which at first sight would not be suspected. Careful comparison

shows that they are in close and subtle symbolic connection with the

dream-façade.[230] This particular complex of ideas in which all the

threads of the dream unite, is the conflict for which we are seeking;

is its particular form at the moment, conditioned by the immediate

circumstances. What is painful and incompatible is in this way so

covered up or split that we can call it a wish-fulfilment; but we must

immediately add that the wishes fulfilled in the dream do not seem

at first sight to be _our_ wishes, but rather the very opposite. For

instance, a daughter loves her mother tenderly, but she dreams that

her mother is dead; this causes her great grief. Such dreams, where

apparently there is no trace of any wish-fulfilment are innumerable, and

are a constant stumbling-block to our learned critics, for--_incredible

dictu_--they still cannot grasp the simple distinction between the

_manifest_ and the _latent_ content of the dream. We must guard against

such an error; the conflict dealt with in the dream is an unconscious

one, and equally so also is the manner its solution. Our dreamer has,

as a matter of fact, the wish to get away from her mother--expressed

in the language of the unconscious, she wants her mother to die. Now

we know that a certain section of the unconscious contains all our

lost memories, and also all those infantile impulses that cannot find

any application in adult life--a series, that is, of ruthless childish

desires. We may say that for the most part the unconscious bears an

infantile stamp; like the child's simple wish: "Daddy, when Mummie is

dead, will you marry me?" In a dream that infantile expression of a

wish is the substitute for a recent wish to marry, which is painful to

the dreamer for reasons still undiscovered. This thought, or rather the

seriousness of its corresponding intention, is said to be "repressed

into the unconscious" and must there necessarily express itself in

an infantile way, for the material which is at the disposal of the

unconscious consists chiefly of infantile memories. As the latest

researches of the Zürich school have shown,[231] these are not only

infantile memories but also "racial" memories, extending far beyond the

limits of individual existence.

Important desires which have not been sufficiently gratified, or have

been "repressed," during the day find their symbolic substitution

in dreams. Because moral tendencies usually predominate in waking

hours, these ungratified desires which strive to realise themselves

symbolically in the dream are, as rule, erotic ones. It is, therefore,

somewhat rash to tell dreams before one who understands, for the

symbolism is often extremely transparent to him who knows the rules! The

clearest in this respect are "anxiety-dreams" which are so common, and

which invariably symbolise a strong erotic desire.

Often the dream apparently deals with quite irrelevant details, thereby

making a ridiculous impression; or else it is so unintelligible that we

are simply amazed at it, and accordingly have to overcome considerable

resistance in ourselves before we can set to work seriously to unravel

its symbolic weaving by patient work. But when at last we penetrate

into its real meaning we find ourselves at a bound in the very heart of

the dreamer's secrets, and find to our astonishment that an apparently

senseless dream is quite full of sense, and deals with extraordinarily

important and serious problems of the soul. Having acquired this

knowledge we cannot refrain from giving rather more credit to the

old superstitions concerning the meaning of dreams for which our

rationalising tendencies, until lately, had no use.

As Freud says: "Dream-analysis is the _via regia_ to the unconscious."

Dream-analysis leads us into the deepest personal secrets, and it is

therefore an invaluable instrument in the hand of the psychotherapist

and educator. The objections of the opponents of this method are based,

as might be expected, upon argument, which (setting aside undercurrents

of personal feeling) show the bias of present-day Scholasticism. It

so happens that it is just the analysis of dreams which mercilessly

uncovers the deceptive morals and hypocritical affectations of man, and

shows him the under side of his character; can we wonder if many feel

that their toes have been rather painfully trodden upon? In connection

with the dream-analysis I am always reminded of the striking statue of

Carnal Pleasure in Bâle Cathedral, which shows in front the sweet smile

of archaic sculpture, but behind is covered with toads and serpents.

Dream-analysis reverses the figure and for once shows the other side.

The ethical value of this reality-correction (Wirklichkeitscorrectur)

cannot be disputed. It is a painful but extremely useful operation,

which makes great demands on both physician and patient.

Psychoanalysis, in so far as we are considering it as a therapeutic

technique, consists mainly of the analysis of many dreams; the dreams

in the course of the treatment bringing up successively the contents of

the unconscious in order that they may be subjected to the disinfecting

power of daylight, and in this process many a valuable thing believed

to have been lost is found again. It is not surprising that for

those persons who have adopted a certain pose towards themselves,

psychoanalysis is at times a real torture, since in accordance with

the old mystic saying, "Give all thou hast, then only shalt thou

receive," there is first the necessity to get rid of almost all the

dearly cherished illusions, to permit the advent of something deeper,

finer, and greater, for only through the mystery of self-sacrifice is

it possible to be "born-again." It is indeed ancient wisdom which again

sees the daylight in psychoanalytic treatment, and it is a curious

thing that this kind of psychic re-education proves to be necessary at

the height of our modern culture; this education which in more than

one respect can be compared to the technique of Socrates, even though

psychoanalysis penetrates to much greater depths.

We always find in a patient some conflict, which at a particular

point, is connected with the great problems of society; so that when

the analysis has arrived at this point the apparently individual

conflict is revealed as a universal conflict of the environment and the

epoch. Neurosis is thus, strictly speaking, nothing but an individual

attempt, however unsuccessful, at a solution of the general problem;

it must be so, for a general problem, a "question," is not an end in

itself; it only exists in the hearts and heads of individual men and

women. The "question" which troubles the patient is--whether you like

it or not--the "sexual" question, or more precisely, the problem of

present-day _sexual morality_. His increased demands upon life and the

joy of life, upon glowing reality, can stand the necessary limitations

which _reality_ sets, but not the arbitrary, ill-supported prohibitions

of present-day morals, which would curb too much the creative spirit

rising up from the depths of the darkness of the beasts that perish.

For the _neurotic has in him the soul of a child_ that can but

ill-endure arbitrary limitations of which it does not see the meaning;

it tries to adopt the moral standard, but thereby only falls into

deeper disunion and distress within itself. On the one hand it tries to

suppress itself, and on the other to free itself--this is the struggle

that is called Neurosis. If this conflict were altogether clear to

consciousness it would of course never give rise to neurotic symptoms;

these only arise when we cannot see the other side of our character, and

the urgency of the problems of that other side. In these circumstances

symptoms arise which partially express what is unrecognised in the

soul. The symptom is, therefore, an indirect expression of unrecognised

desires, which, were they conscious, would be in violent opposition to

the sufferer's moral views. As we have already said, this dark side

of the soul does not come within the purview of consciousness, and

therefore the patient cannot deal with it, correct it, resign himself to

it, or renounce it, for he cannot be said to _possess_ the unconscious

impulses. By being repressed from the hierarchy of the conscious soul,

they have become _autonomous complexes_ which can be brought again

under control by analysis of the unconscious, though not without great

resistance. There are a great many patients whose great boast it is that

the erotic conflict does not exist for them; they are sure that the

sexual question is nonsense, that they have, so to say, no sexuality.

These people do not see that other things of unknown origin cumber their

path, such as hysterical whims, underhand tricks, from which they make

themselves, or those nearest them, suffer; nervous stomach-catarrh, pain

here and there, irritability without reason, and a whole host of nervous

symptoms. All which things show what is wrong with them, for relatively,

only a few specially favoured by fate, avoid the great conflict.

Analytical psychology has already been reproached with setting at

liberty the animal instincts of men, hitherto happily repressed, and

causing thereby untold harm. This childish apprehension clearly proves

how little trust is put in the efficacy of present-day moral principles.

It is pretended that only morals can restrain men from dissoluteness;

a much more efficient regulator, however, is _necessity_, which sets

much more real and convincing bounds than any moral principles. It is

true that analysis liberates animal instincts, but not, as some have

said, just in order to let them loose, but rather to make them available

for higher application, in so far as this is possible to the particular

individual, and in so far as such "sublimated" application is required.

Under all circumstances it is an advantage to be in full possession of

one's own personality, for otherwise the repressed desires will get in

the way in a most serious manner, and overthrow us just in that place

where we are most vulnerable. It is surely better that a man learn to

tolerate himself, and instead of making war on himself convert his inner

difficulties into real experiences, rather than uselessly repeat them

again and again in phantasy. Then at least he lives, and does not merely

consume himself in fruitless struggles. But when men are educated to

recognise the baser side of their own natures, it may be hoped they will

learn to understand and love their fellow-men better too. A decrease of

hypocrisy and an increase of tolerance towards oneself, can have only

good results in tolerance towards one's neighbours, for men are only too

easily disposed to extend to others the unfairness and violence which

they do to their own natures.

Freud's theory of repression does, indeed, seem to postulate the

existence only of people who, being too moral, are continually

repressing the immorality of their natural instincts. According to this

idea, the immoral man who allows his natural instincts an unbridled

existence should be proof against neurosis. But daily experience proves

this is obviously not the case; he may be just as neurotic as other men.

If we analyse him, we find that it is simply his decency that has been

repressed. Therefore, when an immoral man is neurotic, he represents

what Nietzsche appropriately described as "the pale criminal," a man who

does not stand upon the same level as his deed.[232]

The opinion may be held, that in such a case the repressed remnants

of decency are merely infantile traditional legacies, that impose

unnecessary fetters upon natural instincts, for which reason they should

be eradicated. The principle "écraser l'infâme" would be the natural

culmination of such an absolute let-instinct-live theory.[233] That

would obviously be quite phantastic and nonsensical. It should, indeed,

never be forgotten--and the Freudian School needs this reminder--that

morality was not brought down upon tables of stone from Sinai and forced

upon the people, but that morality is a function of the human soul,

which is as old as humanity itself. Morality is not inculcated from

without. Man has it primarily within himself--not the law indeed, but

the essence of morals.

After all, does a more moral view-point exist than the let-instinct-live

theory? Is there a more heroic morality than this? That is why

Nietzsche, the heroic, is especially partial to it. It is natural and

inborn cowardice that makes people say, "God preserve me from following

my instincts," thinking that they thus prove their high moral standard.

They do not understand that following one's bent is really much too

costly for them, too strenuous, too dangerous, and finally it cuts

somewhat against that sense of decency which most people associate

rather with taste than with a categorical imperative. The unpardonable

fault of the let-instinct-live theory is, that it is much too heroic,

too idealogic for the multitude.

There is, therefore, probably no other way for the immoral man but

to accept the moral corrective of his unconscious, just as he who

is moral must come to terms as best he may, with his demons of the

netherworld. It cannot be gainsaid that the Freudian School is so

convinced of the fundamental, and even exclusive importance of

sexuality in neurosis, that it has been courageous enough to face the

consequences of its convictions by heroically attacking the sexual

morality of the present day. Many different opinions prevail upon

this subject. What is significant is, that the problem of sexual

morality is being widely discussed at the present time. This is

doubtless both useful and necessary, for hitherto we have not really

had any sexual morality at all, but merely a low barbaric view, quite

insufficiently differentiated. In the Middle Ages, usury was considered

absolutely despicable, for at that time the morality of finance was

not casuistically differentiated; there was nothing but a kind of

lump-morality. So nowadays, there exists nothing but sexual morality in

the lump. A girl who has an illegitimate child is condemned, without

any inquiry as to whether she is a decent person or not. Any form of

love that has no legal sanction is immoral, no matter whether it occurs

between thoughtful people of value or irresponsible scamps. People are

still barbarically hypnotised by the thing itself, to such an extent

that they forget the individual.

Therefore the discussion of and attack upon sexual morality of the

present day signifies at bottom, a moral deed, constraining people

towards a differentiated and really ethical conception of the subject.

As already stated, Freud sees the great conflict between the ego

and natural instinct chiefly under its sexual aspect. This aspect

does exist, but a big query should be placed behind its actuality.

The question is whether what appears in a sexual form must always

essentially be sexuality? It is conceivable that one instinct may

disguise itself under another. Freud himself has supplied several

notable instances of such a disguise, proving therewith, convincingly,

that many of the deeds and aims of human kind are, at bottom, nothing

but somewhat figurative expressions substituted, on account of

embarrassment, in place of important elementary things. The substitution

is not seen through on account of reasons of mutual consideration.

There is nothing to hinder certain elementary things being also pushed

conveniently into the foreground, in place of more necessary but less

pleasant ones, under the illusion that the elementary things only are

really in question.

_The theory of sexuality although one-sided is absolutely right up to

a certain point. It would, therefore, be just as false to repudiate it

as to accept it as universally valid._

III.--THE OTHER VIEWPOINT: THE WILL TO POWER.

We have so far considered the problem of the psychology of unconscious

processes mainly from the point of view of Freud. We have thereby

doubtless gained an inkling of a real truth, which perhaps our pride,

our consciousness of civilisation, tries to deny, although something

else in us affirms it. This situation is extremely irritating to

some people, arousing resistances, and at the same time they are

terror-stricken by it, a fact which they are most unwilling to

acknowledge. There is something terrible in admitting this conflict,

for it is an acknowledgment of being swayed by instinct. Has it ever

been understood what it means to confess to the sway of instinct?

Nietzsche desired to be so swayed and advocated it most seriously. He

even sacrificed himself throughout his whole life, with rare passion, to

the idea of the Superman, that is to the idea of the man who, obeying

his instincts, transcends even his very self. And what was the course of

his life? It turned out as Nietzsche himself prophesied in the passage

in "Zarathustra" relating to the fatal fall of the rope-dancer, of the

man who did not want to be "surpassed." Zarathustra says to the dying

rope-dancer: "Thy soul will be dead even sooner than thy body." And

later, the dwarf says to Zarathustra: "Oh, Zarathustra, thou stone of

wisdom! Thou threwest thyself high, but every thrown-stone must fall!

Condemned of thyself, and to thine own stoning: oh, Zarathustra, far

indeed threwest thou the stone--but upon _thyself_ will it recoil!"

When he cried his "ecce homo" over himself, it was again too late, and

the crucifixion of the soul began even before the body was dead. He

who thus taught _yea-saying_ to the instincts of life, must have his

own career looked at critically, in order to discover the effects of

this teaching upon the teacher. But if we consider his life from this

point of view, we must say that Nietzsche lived _beyond instinct_, in

the lofty atmosphere of heroic "sublimity." This height could only be

maintained by means of most careful diet, choice climate and above all

by many opiates. Finally, the tension of this living shattered his

brain. He spoke of yea-saying, but lived the nay. His horror of people,

especially of the animal man, who lives by instinct, was too great. He

could not swallow the toad of which he so often dreamt, and which he

feared he must yet gulp down. The Zarathustrian lion roared all the

"higher" men, who craved for life, back into the cavernous depths of the

unconscious. That is why his life does not convince us of the truth of

his teaching. The "higher man" should be able to sleep without chloral,

and be competent to live in Naumburg or Basle despite "the fogs and

shadows." He wants woman and offspring; he needs to feel he has some

value and position in the herd, he longs for innumerable commonplaces,

and not least for what is humdrum: it is this instinct that Nietzsche

did not recognise; it is, in other words, the natural animal instinct

for life.

But how did he live if it was not from natural impulse? Should Nietzsche

really be accused of a practical denial of his natural instincts? He

would hardly agree to that; indeed he might even prove, and that without

difficulty, that he really was following his instincts in the highest

sense. But we may well ask how is it possible that human instincts

could have led him so far from humanity, into absolute isolation,

into an aloofness from the herd which he supported with loathing and

disgust? One would have thought that instinct would have united, would

have coupled and begot, that it would tend towards pleasure and good

cheer, towards gratification of all sensual desires. But we have quite

overlooked the fact that this is only one of the possible directions

of instinct. There exists not only the instinct for the preservation

of the species (the sexual instinct), but also the instinct for the

preservation of the self.

Nietzsche obviously speaks of this latter instinct, that is of _the

will to power_. Whatever other kinds of instinct may exist are for him

only a consequence of the will to power. Viewed from the standpoint

of Freud's sexual-psychology this is a gross error, a misconception

of biology, a bad choice made by a decadent neurotic human being. For

it would be easy for any adherent of sexual psychology to prove that

all that was too lofty, too heroic, in Nietzsche's conception of the

world and of life, was nothing but a consequence of the repression

and misconception of "instinct," that is of the instinct that _this_

psychology considers fundamental.

This brings us to the _question of perception_, or rather it were

better to say of the various lenses through which the world may be

perceived. For it would hardly be permissible to pronounce a judgment

on a life like Nietzsche's. It was lived with rare consistency, from

the beginning to the fateful end, in accordance with his underlying

natural fundamental instinct for power. It would hardly do to pronounce

it to be merely figurative, otherwise we should make the same unjust

condemnation that Nietzsche pronounced upon his polar opposite Richard

Wagner, of whom he said, "_Everything in him is false_; what is genuine

is hidden or disguised. He is an actor, in every bad and good meaning

of the word." Why this judgment? Wagner is a precise representative of

that other fundamental instinct, which Nietzsche overlooked, and upon

which Freud's psychology is based. If we inquire whether the other main

instinct--that of power--was unconsidered by Freud, we shall find that

he has included it under the name of the "ego instinct." But these ego

instincts drag out an obscure existence, according to his psychology,

alongside the broad, all-too-broad, development of the sexual theme.

In reality, however, human nature wages a cruel and hardly-to-be-ended

warfare between the ego-principle and that of formless instinct. The ego

is all barriers; instinct, on the other hand, is without any limits.

Both principles are equally powerful. In a certain sense men may account

themselves fortunate in being conscious of only one instinct: therefore

he who is wise avoids getting to know the other. But if, after all,

he does get to know the other instinct, he is indeed a lost man. For

then he enters upon the Faustian conflict. Goethe has shown us in the

first part of "Faust" what the acceptance of instinct involves, and in

the second part, what the acceptance of the ego and of his gruesome

unconscious world would signify. Everything that is insignificant,

_petty_, and cowardly in us shrinks from it, and would avoid it--and

there is one admirable means of doing so. Namely, by discovering that

the other thing in us is "another fellow," a live man who actually

thinks, feels, does and desires all the things that are despicable

and odious. In this way the bogey is seized, and the battle against

him is begun to our satisfaction. Hence arise, also, those chronic

idiosyncrasies of which the history of morals has preserved a few

examples for us. The instance of Nietzsche contra Wagner, already cited,

is particularly transparent. But ordinary human life is crammed full of

such cases. It is by these ingenuous devices that man saves himself from

the Faustian catastrophe for which he evidently lacks both courage and

strength. But a sincere man knows that even his bitterest opponent, or

any number of them, does not by any means equal his one worst adversary,

that is his other self who "bides within his breast." Nietzsche

unconsciously had Wagner _in himself_, that is why he envied him his

Parsifal. But even worse, he was a Saul and also had Paul within. That

is why Nietzsche became a stigmatised outcast of the Spirit; he had like

Saul to experience Christification when "the other self" inspired him

with his "ecce homo." Which man in him "broke down before the cross,"

Wagner or Nietzsche?

It was ordained by destiny that one of Freud's earliest pupils,

Adler,[234] should formulate a view of neurosis as founded exclusively

upon the principle of power. It is interesting and even fascinating to

observe how totally different the same things appear when viewed in

another light. In order to emphasise the main contrast, I would like at

once to draw attention to the fact that, according to Freud, everything

is a strictly causal consequence of previously-occurring facts; Adler,

on the contrary, sees everything as a finally conditioned arrangement.

To take a simple example: A young woman begins to have attacks of

terror. She wakes at night from some nightmare with a piercing cry;

calming herself with difficulty, she clings to her husband, imploring

him not to leave her, making him repeat again and again that he loves

her, etc. Gradually a nervous asthma develops, attacks of which also

come on during the day.

In such a case, the Freudian system begins at once to burrow in the

inner causality of the illness: What did the initial anxiety-dreams

contain. She recalls wild bulls, lions, tigers, bad men. What does the

patient associate with them? She told a story of something that had

happened to her when she was still single. It ran as follows: She was

staying at a summer-resort in the mountains, a great deal of tennis

was played, the usual acquaintances being made. There was a young

Italian who played particularly well, and who also knew how to handle

the guitar in the evenings. A harmless flirtation developed, leading

once to a moon-light walk. On this occasion, the Italian temperament

"unexpectedly" broke through, running away with the young man to the

great terror of the unsuspecting girl. He "looked at her with such a

look," that she could never forget it. This look follows her even in

her dreams; the wild animals that persecuted her had it. As a matter

of fact, does this look originally come from the Italian? Another

reminiscence enlightens us. The patient had lost her father through an

accident, when she was about fourteen years old. The father was a man

of the world, and travelled a great deal. Not long before his death

he took her to Paris, where, among other things, they visited the

_Follies Bergères_. Something happened there that at the time made a

deep impression upon her. As they were leaving the theatre, a rouged

female suddenly pressed close up to her father in an impertinent way.

She looked at her father in fear as to what he would do--and then she

saw that look, that animal glare in his eyes. An inexplicable something

clung to her day and night. From this moment her attitude to her father

was quite changed. At one instant she was irritable and full of venomous

moods, at another she loved him extravagantly; then causeless fits of

crying suddenly began, and, for a time, whenever her father was at home,

she was tormented by terrible choking at table, with apparent attacks of

suffocation, which were usually followed by voicelessness lasting from

one to two days. When the news of her father's sudden death arrived, she

was overcome by uncontrolled grief ending in hysterical laughter. But

she soon calmed down, her condition improving quickly, and the neurotic

symptoms disappearing almost completely. It seemed as if a veil of

forgetfulness had descended over the past. Only the experience with the

Italian roused something in her of which she was afraid. She had broken

off completely with the young man. A few years later she married. The

present neurosis only began after the birth of her second child, that is

at the moment when she discovered that her husband took a certain tender

interest in another woman.

This history raises a number of questions. For instance, what do we know

about the mother? It should be said of her that she was very nervous,

and had tried many kinds of sanatoria and systems of cure. She also

had symptoms of fear and nervous asthma. The relations between her and

her husband had been very strained as far back as the patient could

remember. The mother did not understand the father; the daughter always

felt that she understood him better. She was moreover her father's

declared favourite, being inwardly correspondingly cool towards her

mother.

These facts are indications for a survey of the meaning of the illness.

Behind the present symptoms phantasies are operative, connected in

the first place with the young Italian, but further clearly referring

to the father, whose unhappy marriage furnished the little daughter

with an early opportunity of acquiring a position that really should

have been filled by her mother. Behind this conquest there lies, of

course, a phantasy of being the woman who was really suited to her

father. The first attack of neurosis broke out at the moment when

this phantasy received a violent shock, presumably similar to that the

mother had once experienced (a fact that was, however, unknown to the

child). The symptoms are easily comprehensible as the expression of

disappointed and rejected love. The choking is based upon a sensation of

tightening in the throat that is a well-known accompanying phenomenon

of violent effects which we cannot quite "swallow." The metaphors of

language often refer to similar physiological occurrences. When the

father died, it seemed that her consciousness sorrowed deeply but her

unconscious laughed, after the manner of Till Eulenspiegel, who was sad

when he went downhill but was jolly when climbing laboriously, happy

in anticipation of what was coming. When the father was at home the

girl was low-spirited and ill, but whenever he was away she felt much

better. Herein she resembles numerous husbands and wives who as yet are

mutually hiding from each other the secret that they are not under all

circumstances indispensable to one another.

That the unconscious had some right to laugh was shown by the subsequent

period of good health. She succeeded in letting all that had passed

retire behind the trap-door. The experience with the Italian, however,

threatened to bring the netherworld up again. But she quickly pulled the

handle and shut the door. She remained quite well until the dragon of

neurosis came creeping in, just when she imagined herself to be already

safely out of her troubles, in the so-to-say perfected state of wife and

mother. Sexual psychology finds the cause of the neurosis in the fact

that the patient is not at bottom free from the father. This forces her

to resuscitate her former experience at the moment when she discovered

in the Italian the very same disturbing something that had formerly made

such a deep impression upon her when perceived in her father. These

recollections were naturally revived by the analogous experience with

another man, and formed the starting-point of the neurosis. It might

therefore be said that the content and cause of the neurosis lay in the

conflict between the phantastic infantile-erotic relation to the father

on the one hand, and her love for the husband on the other.

But if we now consider the course of the same illness from the

standpoint of the other instinct, that is, of the will to power, a

different complexion is put upon the matter. Her parents' unhappy

marriage afforded an excellent opportunity for the exhibition of

childish instinct for power. The instinct for power desires that, under

all circumstances, the ego should be "on top," whether by straight or

crooked means. At all costs the integrity of the personality must be

preserved.

Every attempt, even what appears to be an attempt of the surroundings,

to bring about the slightest subjection of the individual, is retorted

to by the "masculine protest," as Adler expresses it. The mother's

disappointment and her taking refuge in a neurosis brought about an

opportunity for the development of power and the attainment of a

dominating position. Love and excellence of conduct are, as everybody

knows, extremely well-adapted weapons for the purposes of the instinct

for power. Virtue is not seldom made the means of _forcing_ recognition

from others. Already as a child she knew how to obtain a privileged

position with her father by means of specially pleasing and amiable

behaviour, even occasionally to supplant her mother. This was not out

of love for her father, although love was a good means of obtaining the

coveted superiority. The hysterical laughter at the death of her father

is a striking proof of this fact. One is inclined to consider such an

explanation as a deplorable depreciation of love, if not actually a

malicious insinuation. But let us pause a moment, reflect, and look

at the world as it really is. Have we never seen those innumerable

people who love, and believe in their love, only until its purpose is

achieved, and who then turn away as if they had never loved? And, after

all, does not Nature herself do the same? In fact, is a "purposeless"

love possible? If so, it belongs to the highest human virtues, which

confessedly are extremely rare. Perhaps there is a general disposition

to reflect as little as possible about the nature and purpose of love;

discoveries might be made which would show the value of one's own love

to be less considerable than we had supposed. However, it were dangerous

to life to subtract anything from the value of fundamental instincts,

perhaps specially so to-day, when we seem to have only a minimum of

values left.

So the patient had an attack of hysterical laughter at the death of her

father; she had finally arrived at the top. It was hysterical laughter,

therefore a psychogenic symptom, that is, something proceeding from

unconscious motives and not from those of the conscious ego. That is a

difference that should not be underrated, for it enables us to recognise

whence and how human virtues arise. Their contraries led to hell, that

is, in modern terms, to the unconscious, where the counterparts of our

conscious virtue have long been gathering. That is why our very virtue

makes us desire to know nothing of the unconscious; indeed, it is even

the summit of virtuous wisdom to maintain that there is no unconscious

at all. But unfortunately we are all in a like predicament with Brother

Medardus in E. T. A. Hoffman's "The Elixir of the Devil": somewhere

or other there exists a sinister, terrible brother, our own incarnate

counterpart bound to us by flesh and blood, who comprehends everything,

maliciously hoarding whatever we most desire should disappear beneath

the table.

The first outbreak of neurosis occurred in our patient at the moment

when she became aware of the fact that there was something in her

father which she did not control. And then it dawned upon her of what

use her mother's neurosis was. When one meets with an obstacle that

cannot be overcome by sensible and charming means, there yet exists an

arrangement hitherto unknown to her which her mother had been beforehand

in discovering, and that is neurosis. That is the reason why she now

imitates her mother. But, the astonished reader asks, what is supposed

to be the use of neurosis? What does it effect? Whoever has had a

pronounced case of neurosis in his immediate environment, knows all

that can be "effected" by a neurosis. In fact, there is altogether no

better means of tyrannising over a whole household than by a striking

neurosis. Heart attacks, choking fits, convulsions of all kinds achieve

enormous effects, that can hardly be surpassed. Picture the fountains

of pity let loose, the sublime anxiety of the dear kind parents, the

hurried running to and fro of the servants, the incessant sounding

of the call to the telephone, the hasty arrival of the physicians,

the delicacy of the diagnosis, the detailed examinations, the lengthy

courses of treatment, the considerable expense; and there, in the midst

of all the uproar, lies the innocent sufferer, to whom the household is

even overflowingly grateful, when he has recovered from the "spasms."

The girl discovered this incomparable "arrangement" (to use Adler's

term), applying it on occasion when the father was there with success.

It became unnecessary when the father died, for now she was finally

uppermost. The Italian was soon dismissed, because he laid too much

stress upon her femininity by an inopportune reminder of his manliness.

When the way opened to the possibility of a suitable marriage, she

loved, adapting herself without any complaint to the deplorable rôle of

the queen bee. As long as she held the position of admired superiority,

everything went splendidly. But when her husband evinced a small outside

interest, she was obliged again to have recourse to the extremely

efficacious "arrangement," that is, to the indirect application of

power, because she had once again come upon that thing--this time in

her husband--that had already previously withdrawn her father from her

influence.

That is how the matter appears from the standpoint of the psychology of

power. I fear that the reader will feel as did the Kadi, before whom

the counsel of one party spoke first. When he had ended, the Kadi said:

"Thou hast spoken well. I perceive that thou art right." Then spoke the

counsel for the other party, and when he had ended, the Kadi scratched

himself behind his ear and said: "Thou hast spoken well. I perceive

that thou also art right." There is no doubt that the instinct for

power plays a most extraordinary part. It is true that the complexes of

neurotic symptoms are also exquisite "arrangements," that inexorably

realise their aims with incredible obstinacy and unequalled cunning. The

neurosis is final; that is, it is directed towards an aim. Adler merits

considerable distinction for having demonstrated this.

Which of the two points of view is right? That is a question that might

well cause much brain-racking. For the two explanations cannot be simply

combined, being absolutely contradictory. In one case, it is love and

its course that is the principal and decisive fact; and in the other

case, it is the power of the ego. In the first case the ego is merely

a kind of appendage to the passion for love; and in the second love is

upon occasion merely a means to the end, that of gaining the upper hand.

Whoever has the power of the ego most at heart rebels against the former

conception, whilst he who cares most about love, will never be able to

be reconciled to the latter.

IV.--THE TWO TYPES OF PSYCHOLOGY.

It is at this point that our most recent researches may suitably be

introduced. We have found, in the first place, that there are two types

of human psychology.[235] In the one type the fundamental function is

feeling, and in the other it is thought. The one feels his way into

the object, the other thinks about it. The one adapts himself to his

surroundings by feeling, thinking coming later; whilst the other adapts

himself by means of thought, preceded by understanding. The one who

feels his way transfers himself to some extent to the object; whilst the

other withdraws himself from the object to some extent, or pauses before

it and reflects about it. The first we called the _extroverted_ type,

because in the main he goes outside himself to the object, the latter is

called the _introverted_ type, because in a major degree he turns away

from the object, withdrawing into himself and thinking about it.

These remarks only give the broadest outline of the two types. But

even this quite inadequate sketch enables us to recognise that the

two theories are the outcome of the contrast between the two types.

The sexual theory is promulgated from the standpoint of feeling, the

power theory from that of thought; for the extrovert always places the

accent upon the feelings that are connected with the object, whereas the

introvert always puts the accent upon the ego, and is as much detached

by thought from the object as possible.

_The irreconcilable contradictions of the two theories are now to

be understood, because both theories are the product of a one-sided

psychology._ We find an instance of the contrast of types in Nietzsche

and Wagner. The dissension between the two is due to the contrast in

their ideas of psychological values. What is most prized by the one is

"affectation" for the other, and is deemed false to the very core. Each

depreciates the other.

If we apply the sexual theory to an extrovert it tallies with the facts

of the case; but if we apply it to an introvert, we simply maltreat

and do violence to his psychology. The same applies to the contrary

case. The relative rightness of the two hostile theories is explained

by the fact that each one draws its material from cases that prove the

correctness of the theory. There is a remnant of persons whom neither

theory fits--has not every rule its exceptions?

Criticism of both theories is indispensable. Recognition of facts showed

the necessity of overcoming their contrast, and of evolving a theory

that should do justice not only to one or the other type, but equally to

both.

Even the layman will to some extent have been struck by the fact that in

spite of their correctness both theories really have a very unpleasant

character and one not altogether pertinent under all circumstances

to the strict views of science. The sexual theory is unæsthetic and

unsatisfying intellectually. The power theory, on the other hand, is

decidedly venomous. Both inevitably reduce high-flown ideals, heroic

attitudes, pathos, and deep convictions, in a painful manner to a

reality which is hackneyed and trite; that is, if these theories are

applied to such things--but they should certainly not be so applied.

Both theories are really only therapeutic instruments out of the

tool-chest of the physician, whose sharp and merciless knife cuts out

all that is pernicious and diseased. It was just such a misapplication

of theory Nietzsche tried with his destructive criticism of ideals.

He regarded ideals as rampant diseases of the soul of humanity; as

indeed they really are. However, in the hands of a good physician who

really knows the human soul, who, as Nietzsche says, "has a finger

for the slightest shade," who applies the treatment only to what is

really diseased in a soul--in such hands both theories prove wholesome

caustics. The application must be adapted to the individual case. It is

a dangerous therapy in the hands of those who do not understand how to

deal out the treatment. These applications of criticism do good when

there is something that should and must be destroyed, dissolved or

brought low, but can easily damage what is being built up, or growing in

response to life's requirements.

Both theories might, therefore, be allowed to pass without attack, in

so far as they, like medicinal poisons, are entrusted to the safe hands

of the physician. But fate has ordained that they should not remain

solely in the care of those who are qualified to use them. First of all

they naturally became known to the medical public. Every practising

physician has an indefinitely high percentage of neurotics among his

patients; he is therefore more or less obliged to look out for new and

suitable systems of treatment. He ultimately lights upon the difficult

method of psychoanalysis. He is at first not competent for this, for how

should he have learnt about the secrets of the human soul? Certainly

not through his academic studies. The smattering of psychiatry that he

acquired for his examination barely suffices to enable him to recognise

the symptoms of the commonest mental disturbances, and is far from

giving him any sufficient insight into the human soul. He is, therefore,

practically quite unprepared to apply the analytic method. An unusually

far-reaching knowledge of the soul is indeed necessary in order to be

able to apply this caustic treatment with advantage. One must be in

a position to differentiate elements that are diseased and should be

discarded, from those which are valuable and should be retained. This

is plainly a matter of great difficulty. Any one who wishes to get a

vivid impression of the way in which a psychologysing physician may

unwarrantably violate a patient through an ignoble pseudo-scientific

prejudice, should read what Moebius has written about Nietzsche. Or he

may study various psychiatric writings about the "case of Christ," and

will surely not hesitate to lament the lot of the patient whose fate it

is to meet with such "understanding." Psychoanalysis--greatly to the

regret of the medical man who, however, had not accepted it--then passed

over into the hands of the teaching profession. This is right: for it is

really, when rightly understood and handled, an educational method, and

one of the social sciences. I would, however, never personally recommend

that Freud's purely sexual analysis should be exclusively applied as an

educational method. It might do much harm because of its one-sidedness.

In order to make psychoanalysis available for educational purposes, all

the metamorphoses that have been the work of the last few years were

needed. The method had to be expanded from a general psychological point

of view.

But the two theories of which I have spoken are not general theories.

They are, as I have said, caustics to be applied, so to say, "locally,"

for they are both destructive and reductive. They explain to the patient

that his symptoms come from here or there, and are "nothing but" this or

that. It would be very unjust to wish to maintain that this reductive

theory is wrong in a given case, but when exalted into a general

explanation of the nature of the soul--whether sick or healthy--_a

reductive theory becomes impossible_. For the human soul, whether it be

sick or healthy, cannot be _merely_ reductively explained. Sexuality

it is true is always and everywhere present; the instinct for power

certainly does penetrate the heights and the depths of the soul; but

the soul itself is not solely either the one or the other, or even both

together, it is also that which it has made and will make out of them

both. A person is only half understood when one knows how everything

in him came about. Only a dead man can be explained in terms of the

past, a living one must be otherwise explained. Life is not made up

of yesterdays only, nor is it understood nor explained by reducing

to-day to yesterday. Life has also a to-morrow, and to-day is only

understood if we are able to add the indications of to-morrow to our

knowledge of what was yesterday. This holds good for all expressions of

psychological life, even for symptoms of disease. Symptoms of neurosis

are not merely consequences of causes that once have been, whether they

were "infantile sexuality" or "infantile instinct for power." They are

endeavours towards a new synthesis of life. It must immediately be

added, however, they are endeavours that have miscarried. None the less

they are attempts; they represent the germinal striving which has both

meaning and value. They are embryos that failed to achieve life, owing

to unpropitious conditions of an internal and external nature.

The reader will now probably propound the question: What possible value

and meaning can a neurosis have? Is it not a most useless and repulsive

pest of humanity? Can being nervous do anybody good? Possibly, in a way

similar to that of flies and other vermin, which were created by God

in order that man might exercise the useful virtue of patience. Stupid

as this thought is from the standpoint of natural science, it might be

quite shrewd from that of psychology; that is, if we substitute "nervous

symptoms" in the place of "vermin." Even Nietzsche, who had an uncommon

disdain for anything stupid and trite in thought, more than once

acknowledged how much he owed to his illness. I have known more than one

person who attributed all his usefulness, and the justification for his

existence even, to a neurosis, that hindered all decisive stupidities

of his life, _compelling_ him to lead an existence which developed what

was valuable in him; material that would have been crushed had not the

neurosis with its iron grip forced the man to keep to the place where

he really belonged. There are people the meaning of whose life--whose

real significance--lies in the unconscious; in consciousness lies only

all that is vain and delusive. With others the reverse is the case, and

for them the neurosis has another significance. An extended reduction is

appropriate to the one, but emphatically unsuitable to the other.

The reader will now, indeed, be inclined to agree to the possibility

of certain cases of neurosis having such a significance but will

nevertheless be ready to deny an expediency that is so far-reaching

and full of meaning to ordinary cases of this illness. What value, for

instance, might there be in the afore-mentioned case of asthma and

hysterical attacks of fear? I confess that the value here is not so

obvious, especially if the case be looked at from the standpoint of a

reductive theory, that is, from that of a _chronique scandaleuse_ of the

psychological development of an individual.

We perceive that both the theories hitherto discussed have this one

point in common, viz. they relentlessly disclose everything that is

valueless in people. They are theories, or rather hypotheses, which

explain wherein the cause of the sickness lies. They are accordingly

concerned not with the _values_ of a person, but with his lack of value

that makes itself evident in a disturbing way. From this point of view,

it is possible to be reconciled to both standpoints.

A "value" is a possibility by means of which energy may attain

development. But in so far as a negative value is also a possibility

through which energy may attain development--as may, for instance,

be clearly seen in the very considerable manifestations of energy

shown in neurosis--it also stands for a value, albeit it brings about

manifestations of energy which are useless and harmful. In itself energy

is neither useful nor harmful, neither full of value nor lacking in it;

it is indifferent, everything depending upon the _form_ into which it

enters. The form gives the quality to the energy. On the other side,

mere form without energy is also indifferent. Therefore in order to

bring about a positive value, on the one hand energy is necessary,

and upon the other a valuable form. In a neurosis psychic energy is

undoubtedly present, but in an inferior and not realisable form. Both

the analytic methods that have been discussed above are of service only

as solvents of this inferior form. They prove themselves good here as

caustics.

By these methods we gain energy that is certainly free, but which, being

as yet unapplied, is indifferent. Hitherto the supposition prevailed,

that this newly acquired energy was at the patient's conscious disposal,

that he might apply it in any way he liked. In so far as it was thought

that the energy was nothing but the sexual impulse, people spoke of

a sublimated application of the same, under the presumption that the

patient could, without further ado, transfer what was thought of as

sexual energy into a "sublimation"; that is, into a non-sexual form

of use. It might, for instance, be transferred to the cultivation of

an art, or to some other good or useful activity. According to this

concept, the patient had the possibility of deciding, either arbitrarily

or from inclination, how his energy should be sublimated.

This conception may be accorded a justification for its existence, in

so far as it is at all possible for a human being to assign a definite

direction to his life, in which its course should run. But we know that

there is no human forethought nor philosophy which can enable us to give

our lives a prescribed direction, except for quite a short distance.

Destiny lies before us, perplexing us, and teeming with possibilities,

and yet only one of these many possibilities is our own particular right

way. Who should presume to designate the one possibility beforehand,

even though he have the most complete knowledge of his own character

that a man can have? Much can certainly be attained by means of

will-power. But having regard to the fate of certain personalities with

particularly strong wills, it is entirely misleading for us to want

at all costs to change our own fate by power of will. Our will is a

function that is directed by our _powers of reflection_; it depends,

therefore, upon how our powers of reflection are constituted. In order

to deserve its name reflection must be _rational_, that is, according

to reason. But has it ever been proved, or can it ever be proved, that

life and destiny harmonise with our human reason, that is, that they

are exclusively rational? On the contrary, we have ground for supposing

that they are also irrational, that is to say, that in the last resort

they too are based in regions beyond the human reason. The irrationality

of the great process is shown by its so-called _accidentalness_, which

perforce we ought to deny, since, obviously, we cannot think of a

process not being causally and necessarily conditioned. But actually,

accidentality exists everywhere, and does so indeed so obtrusively that

we might as well pocket our causal philosophy! The rich store of life

both is, and is not, determined by law; it is at the same time rational

and irrational. Therefore, the reason and the will founded upon it are

only valid for a short distance. The further we extend this rationally

chosen direction, the surer we may be that we are thereby excluding the

irrational possibilities of life, which have, however, just as good

a right to be lived. Aye, we even injure ourselves, since we cut off

the wealth of accidental eventualities by a too rigid and conscious

direction. It was certainly very expedient for man to be able to give

his life a direction; it would, therefore, be quite right to maintain

that the attainment of reasonableness was the greatest achievement of

mankind. But that is not to say that under all circumstances, this must

or will always continue to be the case. The present fearful catastrophic

world-war has tremendously upset the most optimistic upholder of

rationalism and culture.

In 1913 Ostwald wrote[236] as follows: "The whole world agrees that the

present state of armed peace is untenable, and is gradually becoming an

impossible condition. It demands tremendous sacrifices from individual

nations far surpassing the outlay for cultural purposes, without any

positive values being gained thereby. Therefore, if mankind could

discover ways and means of putting an end to these preparations for a

war _that will never come_, this conscripting of a considerable part

of the nation at the best and most capable age for training for war

purposes, if it could overcome all the innumerable other injuries caused

by the present customs, such an enormous saving of energy would be

effected, that an undreamt-of development of the evolution of culture

might be expected. For like a hand-to-hand fight, war is the oldest, and

also the most unsuitable of all possible means of solving a conflict

between wills, being indeed accompanied by the most deplorable waste of

energy. The complete setting aside of potential as well as of actual

warfare is, therefore, absolutely one of the most important tasks of

culture in our time, a real necessity from the point of view of energy."

But the irrationality of destiny ordained otherwise than the rationality

of the well-meaning thinker; since it not only determined to use the

piled-up weapons and soldiers, but much more than that, it brought about

a tremendous insane devastation and unparalleled slaughter. From this

catastrophe humanity may possibly draw the conclusion, that only one

side of fate can be mastered by rational intention.

What can be said of mankind in general applies also to individuals, for

mankind as a whole consists of nothing but individuals. And whatever

the psychology of mankind is, that is also the psychology of the

individual. We are experiencing in the world-war a fearful balancing-up

with the rational intentionality of organised culture. What is called

"will" in the individual, is termed "imperialism" among nations, for

the will is a demonstration of power over fate, that is, exclusion

of what is accidental. The organisation of culture is a rational and

"expedient" sublimation of free and indifferent energies, brought about

by design and intention. The same is the case in the individual. And

just as the hope of a universal international organisation of culture

has experienced a cruel right-about through this war, so also must

the individual, in the course of his life, often find that so-called

"disposable" energies do not suffer themselves to be disposed of.

I was once consulted by a business man of about forty-five, whose case

is a good illustration of the foregoing. He was a typical American

self-made man, who had worked himself up from the bottom. He had been

successful, and had founded a very extensive business. He had also

gradually organised the business in such a way that he could now retire

from its management. He had indeed resigned two years before I saw him.

Until then he had only lived for his business, concentrating all his

energy upon it, with that incredible intensity and one-sidedness that is

so peculiar to the successful American man of business. He had bought

himself a splendid country seat, where he thought he would "live,"

which he imagined to mean keeping horses, automobiles, playing golf and

tennis, attending and giving parties, etc. But he had reckoned without

his host. The energy that had become "disposable" did not enter into

these tempting prospects, but betook itself capriciously to quite other

ways. A couple of weeks after the commencement of his longed-for life

of bliss, he began to brood over peculiar vague physical sensations. A

few more weeks sufficed to plunge him into an unprecedented state of

hypochondria. His nerves broke down completely. He, who was physically

an uncommonly strong and exceptionally energetic man, became like a

whining child. And that put an end to all his paradise. He fell from

one apprehension to another, worrying himself almost to death. He

then consulted a celebrated specialist, who immediately perceived

quite rightly that there was nothing wrong with the man but lack of

employment. The patient saw the sense of this, and betook himself to

his former position. But to his great disappointment no interest for

his business presented itself. Neither the application of patience nor

determination availed to help. His energy would not by any means be

forced back into the business. His condition naturally became worse than

before. Energy that hitherto had been actively creative was now turned

back into himself, with fearfully destructive force. His creative genius

rose up, so to speak, in revolt against him, and instead of, as before,

producing great organisations in the world, his demon now created

equally clever systems of hypochondriac fallacies, by which the man was

absolutely crushed. When I saw him, he was already a hopeless moral

ruin. I tried to make clear to him that such a gigantic amount of energy

might indeed be withdrawn from business, but the problem remained as

to where it should go. The finest horses, the fastest automobiles, and

the most amusing parties are in themselves no inducement for energy,

although it is certainly quite rational to think that a man who has

devoted his whole life to serious work, has a natural right to enjoy

himself. This would necessarily be the case if things happened "humanly"

in destiny; first would come work, then well-earned leisure. But things

happen irrationally and inconveniently enough, energy requires a

congenial channel, otherwise it is dammed up and becomes destructive. My

arguments met with no response, as was indeed to be expected. Such an

advanced case can only be taken care of till death; it cannot be cured.

This case clearly illustrates the fact that it does not lie in our power

to transfer a "disposable" energy to whatever rationally chosen object

we may like. Exactly the same may be said of those apparently available

energies that are made available by the fact that the psychoanalytical

caustic has destroyed their unsuitable forms. These energies can be

arbitrarily applied, as has already been said, at the very most only

for a short time. They resist following the rationally presented

possibilities for any length of time. Psychic energy is indeed a

fastidious thing, that insists upon having its own conditions fulfilled.

There may be ever so much energy existing, but we cannot make it useful,

so long as we do not succeed in finding a congenial channel for it.

The whole of my research work for the last years has been concentrated

upon this question. The _first stage_ of this work was to discover

the extent to which the two theories discussed above were tenable.

The _second stage_ consisted in the recognition of the fact, that

these two theories correspond to two opposite psychological types,

which I have designated the introversion and the extroversion types.

William James[237] was struck by the existence of these two types

among thinkers. He differentiated them as the "tough-minded," and

the "tender-minded." Similarly, Ostwald[238] discovered an analogous

difference in the classical and romantic types among great scholars.

I am not therefore alone in my ideas about the types, as is testified

by mentioning only these two well-known names out of many others.

Historical researches have proved to me that not a few of the great

controversies in the history of thought were based upon the contrast

between the types. The most significant case of this kind is the

contrast between nominalism and realism, which, beginning with the

difference between the Platonic and the Megarian schools, descended

to scholastic philosophy, where Abelard won the immortal distinction

of at least having ventured an attempt to unite the two contradictory

standpoints in conceptualism. This conflict has continued down to the

present day, where it finds expression in the antagonism of spiritualism

and materialism.

Just as in the general history of thought, so too every individual has

a share in this contrast of types. Close investigation proves that

people of opposite types have an unconscious predilection for marrying

each other, that they may mutually complement one another. Each type

has one function that is specially well developed, the introvert using

his thought as the function of adaptation, thinking beforehand about

how he shall act; whilst the extrovert, on the contrary, feels his way

into the object by acting. To some extent he acts beforehand. Hence

by daily application the one has developed his thought, and the other

his feeling. In extreme cases the one limits himself to thinking and

observing, and the other to feeling and acting. It is true that the

introvert feels also, very deeply indeed, almost too deeply; that is

why an English investigator[239] has gone so far as to describe his as

"the emotional type." True, the emotion is there, but it all remains

inside, and the more passionate and deeper his feeling is, the quieter

is his outward demeanour. As the proverb puts it, "Still waters run

deep." Similarly, the extrovert _thinks_ also, but that likewise mostly

inside, whilst his feelings visibly go outside, that is why he is held

to be full of feeling whilst the introvert is considered cold and dry.

But as the feeling of the thinker goes inwards, it is not developed as

a function adapted to external situations, but remains in a relatively

undeveloped state. Similarly the thinking of one who feels remains also

relatively undeveloped.

But if comparatively well-adapted individuals are under consideration,

then the introvert will normally be found to have his feeling directed

outwards, and the result may be extraordinarily deceptive. He shows

feelings; he is amiable, sympathetic, even emotional. But a critical

examination of the expressions of his feelings reveals that they are

markedly conventional. They are not individualised. He shows to every

one, without any essential difference, the same friendliness and the

same sympathy; whilst the extrovert's expressions of feeling are

throughout delicately graded and individualised. With the introvert

the expression of feelings is really a gesture that is artificially

adopted and conventional. Similarly, the extrovert may apparently

think, and that even very clearly and scientifically. But upon closer

investigation, his thoughts are found to be really foreign property,

merely conventional forms which have been artificially acquired. They

lack anything individual and original, and are just as lukewarm and

colourless as the conventional feelings of the introvert. Under these

conventional disguises, quite other things are slumbering in both, which

occasionally when awakened by some overpowering effect, suddenly break

out to the astonishment and horror of the environment.

Most civilised people incline more to one type than the other. Taken

together they would supplement each other exceedingly well. That is why

they are so apt to marry one another, and so long as they are fully

occupied with adapting themselves to the necessities of life they suit

one another splendidly. But if the man has earned a competence, or if

a big legacy drop from the sky, terminating the external urgencies of

life, then they have time to occupy themselves with each other. Until

now they stood back to back, defending themselves against want. But

now they turn to each other expecting to understand one another; and

they make the discovery that they have never understood one another.

They speak different languages. Thus the conflict between the two types

of psychology begins. This conflict is venomous, violent and full of

mutual depreciation, even if it be conducted very quietly in the utmost

intimacy. _This is so because the value of the one is the worthlessness

of the other._ The one, starting from the standpoint of his valuable

thinking, takes for granted that the feelings of the other correspond

to his own inferior feelings, this because he knows absolutely nothing

of any other feelings. But the other, starting from the standpoint of

his valuable feelings, assumes that his partner has the same inferior

thought that he himself has. Evidently there is plenty of work here for

Goethe's Homunculus, who had to find out "why husband and wife get on so

badly." Now as many cases of neurosis have a basis in such differences,

I, as a physician, found myself obliged to relieve the Homunculus of

some of his ungrateful task. I am glad to be able to say that many a

sufferer has been helped in grave difficulties by the enlightenment I

could give.

The _third stage_ of the path of increasing understanding consisted

in formulating a theory of the psychology of types which would be of

practical use for the development of man. Viewed from the newly-gained

standpoint, there resulted, first of all, _a totally new theory of

psychogenic disturbances_.

The foundation of the facts remains the same: the first hypothesis of

every neurosis is the existence of an unconscious conflict. According to

Freud's theory, this is an erotic conflict, or to speak more exactly,

a battle of the moral consciousness against the unconscious infantile

sexual world of phantasy and its transference to external objects.

According to Adler's theory, it is a battle of the superiority of the

ego against all oppressive influences, whether from inside or outside.

But the new idea asserts that _the neurotic conflict always takes

place between the adapted function and the co-function that is

undifferentiated, and that lies to a great extent in the unconscious_;

therefore in the case of the introvert, between thought and unconscious

feeling, but in that of the extrovert, between feeling and unconscious

thought.[240] Another theory of the etiological moment results from

this. If a man who naturally adapts himself by thinking is faced by

a demand that cannot be met by thinking alone, but which requires

differentiated feeling, the traumatic or pathogenic conflict breaks

out. On the contrary, the critical moment comes to the man who adapts

by feeling when he is faced by a problem requiring differentiated

thought. The afore-mentioned case of the business man is a clear

example of this. The man was an introvert, who all through his life

had left every consideration of sentiment in the background, that is,

in the unconscious. But when, for the first time in his life, he found

himself in a situation in which nothing could be done except by means

of differentiated feeling, he failed utterly. At the same time, a very

instructive phenomenon occurred; his unconscious feelings manifested

themselves as _physical sensations_ of a vague nature. This fact

harmonises with a generally accepted experience in our psychology,

to wit, that undeveloped feelings partake of the character of vague

physical sensations, since undifferentiated feelings are as yet

identical with subjective physical sensations. Differentiated feelings

are of a more "abstract" objective nature. This phenomenon may well

be the unconscious basis of the earliest statement of psychological

types that is known to me; namely, the three types of the Valentinian

School. They held the undifferentiated type to be the so-called hylic

(material) man. He was ranked below the differentiated types, that is,

the psychic (soulful) man, who corresponds to the extroversion type;

and the pneumatic (spiritual) man, who corresponds to the introversion

type. For these gnostics the "pneumatikos" stood of course the highest.

Christianity, with its "psychic" (spiritual) nature (principle of love),

has indeed contested this privilege of the gnosis. But even this page

may be turned in the course of time: since, if the signs of the age are

not deceptive, we are now in the great final settlement of the Christian

epoch. We know that, evolution not being uniformly continuous, when one

form of creation has been outlived, the evolutionary tendency harks

back to resume that form which, after having made a beginning, was left

behind in an undeveloped state.

After this brief digression to generalities, let us return to our case.

If a similar disturbance were to take place in an extrovert, he would

have what are called hysterical symptoms, that is, symptoms that are

also of an apparently physical nature, which, as our theory indicates,

would this time represent the patient's unconscious undifferentiated

thought. As a matter of fact, we find also a widespread region of

phantasy as the basis of hysterical symptoms, of which many have

been described in detail in the literature of the subject. They are

phantasies of a pronounced sexual, that is physical complexion. But in

reality they are undifferentiated thoughts, which in common with the

undifferentiated feelings are to some extent physical, and therefore

appear as what may be called physical symptoms.

By taking up again here the thread that was dropped before, we can now

clearly see why it is precisely in the neurosis that those values which

are most lacking to the individual lie hidden. We might also now return

to the case of the young woman, and apply to it the newly-won insight.

She is an extrovert with an hysterical neurosis. Let us suppose that

this patient had been "analysed," that is, that the treatment having

made it clear to her what kind of unconscious thoughts lay behind her

symptoms, she had regained possession of the psychic energy which by

becoming unconscious had constituted the strength of the symptoms. The

following practical question now arises: what can be done with the

so-called available energy? It would be rational, and in accordance

with the psychological type of the invalid, to extrovert this energy

again, that is to transfer it to an object, as for instance to

philanthropic or some other useful activities. This way is possible only

in exceptional cases--there are energetic natures who do not shrink from

care and trouble in a useful cause, there are people who care immensely

about just such occupations--otherwise it is not feasible. For it must

not be forgotten, that in the case under consideration, the libido (that

is the technical expression for the psychic energy) has found its object

already unconsciously in the young Italian, or an appropriate real human

substitute. Under these circumstances such a desirable sublimation,

however natural, is out of the question. For the object of the energy

usually affords a better channel than an ethical activity, however

attractive. Unfortunately there are many people who always speak of a

person, not as he is, but as he would be if their desires for him were

realised. But the physician is necessarily concerned with the actual

personality, which will obdurately remain the same, until its real

character has been recognised on all sides. An analysis must necessarily

be based upon the recognition of naked reality, not upon any arbitrarily

selected phantasies about a person, however desirable.

The fact is that the so-called available energy unfortunately cannot be

arbitrarily directed as desired. It follows its own channel, one which

it had already found, even before we had quite released it from its

bondage to the unadapted form. For we now make the discovery that the

phantasies which were formerly occupied with the young Italian, have

been transferred to the physician himself. The physician has therefore

himself become the object of the unconscious libido. If this is not

the case, or if the patient will on no account acknowledge the fact of

transference, or again, if the physician either does not understand the

phenomenon at all, or does so wrongly, then violent resistances make

their appearance, which aim at completely breaking off relations with

the doctor. At this point patients leave and look for another doctor or

for people who "understand" them; or if they hopelessly relinquish this

search they go to pieces.

But if the transference to the physician takes place and is accepted,

a natural channel has thereby been found, which not only replaces the

former, but also makes a discharge of the energic process possible, and

provides a course that is relatively free from conflict. Therefore if

the libido is allowed its natural course, it will of its own accord find

its way into the transference. Where this is not the case, it is always

a question either of arbitrary rebellion against the laws of Nature, or

of some deficiency in the physician's work.

Into the transference every conceivable infantile phantasy is first of

all projected; these must then be subjected to the caustic, that is,

analytically dissolved. This was formerly called the _dissolution of the

transference_. Thereby the energy is freed from this unsuitable form

also, and once again we are confronted by the problem of disposable

energy. We shall find that an object affording the most favourable

channel has been chosen by Nature even before our search began.

V.--THE PERSONAL AND THE IMPERSONAL UNCONSCIOUS

The fourth stage of our newly won insight is now reached. The analytical

dissolution of the infantile transference phantasies was continued until

it became sufficiently clear, even to the patient, that he was making

his physician into father, mother, uncle, guardian, teacher, friend or

any other kind of surrogate for parental authority conceivable. But,

as experience is constantly proving, further phantasies make their

appearance, representing the physician as saviour or as some other

divine being. Obviously this is in flagrant contradiction to the sane

reasoning of consciousness. Moreover, it appears that these divine

attributes considerably overstep the bounds of the Christian conception

in which we grew up. They even assume the guise of heathen allurements,

and, for instance, not infrequently assume the form of animals.

The transference is in itself nothing but a projection of unconscious

contents on to the analyst. At first it is the so-called superficial

contents that are projected. During this stage the physician is

interesting as a possible lover (somewhat after the manner of the young

Italian in our case). Later on, he is a representation of the father,

and is the symbol either of kindness or of severity, according to what

the patient formerly imputed to his real father. Occasionally the doctor

even appears to the patient as a kind of mother, which, though sounding

somewhat strange, really lies well within the bounds of possibility.

All these projections of phantasy have an underlying basis of personal

reminiscences.

But presently other forms of phantasy appear, bearing an extravagantly

effusive and impossible character. The physician now appears to

be endowed with uncanny qualities; he may be either a wizard or a

demoniacal criminal, or his counterpart of virtue, a saviour. Later on

he appears as an incomprehensible mixture of both sides. It should be

clearly understood that the physician does not appear to the patient's

consciousness in these forms, but that phantasies come up to the surface

representing the doctor in this guise. If, as is not seldom the case,

the patient cannot forthwith perceive that his view of the physician

is a projection of his own unconscious, then he will probably behave

rather foolishly. Difficulties often arise at this stage of analysis,

making severe demands upon the good will and patience of both physician

and patient. In a few exceptional cases, a patient cannot refrain

from disseminating the stupidest tales about the physician. Such

people cannot get it into their head that, as a matter of fact, their

phantasies originate in themselves, and have nothing or very little to

do with the physician's actual character. The pertinacity of this error

arises from the circumstance that there is no foundation of personal

memory for this particular kind of projection. It is occasionally

possible to prove that similar phantasies, for which neither parent gave

reasonable occasion, had at some time in childhood been attached to the

father or mother.

In one of his shorter books, Freud has shown how Leonardo da Vinci

was influenced in his later life by the fact that he had two mothers.

The fact of the two mothers (or the double descent) had indeed a

reality in Leonardo's case, but it plays a part with other artists as

well. Benvenuto Cellini had this phantasy of a double descent. It is

unquestionably a mythological theme; many heroes of legend have two

mothers. The phantasy is not founded upon the actual fact of the hero's

having two mothers, but is a widespread "primordial image" belonging

to the secrets of the universal history of the human mind. It does not

belong to the sphere of personal reminiscences.

In every individual, in addition to the personal memories, there are

also, in Jacob Burckhardt's excellent phrase, the great "primordial

images," the inherited potentialities of human imagination. They have

always been potentially latent in the structure of the brain. The fact

of this inheritance also explains the otherwise incredible phenomenon,

that the matter and themes of certain legends are met with all the

world over in identical forms. Further, it explains how it is that

persons who are mentally deranged are able to produce precisely the

same images and associations that are known to us from the study of old

manuscripts. I gave some examples of this in my book on "The Psychology

of the Unconscious." I do not hereby assert the _transmission of

representations_, but only of the _possibility of such representations_,

which is a very different thing.

It is therefore in this further stage of the transference that those

phantasies are produced that have no basis in personal reminiscence.

Here it is a matter of the manifestation of the deeper layers of the

unconscious, where the primordial universally-human images are lying

dormant.

This discovery leads to the fourth stage of the new conception: that is,

to the recognition of a _differentiation in the unconscious itself_.

We are now obliged to differentiate a personal unconscious and an

impersonal or super-personal unconscious. We also term the latter the

_absolute or collective_ unconscious, because it is quite detached

from what is personal, and because it is also absolutely universal,

wherefore its contents may be found in every head, which of course is

not the case with the personal contents.

The primordial images are quite the most ancient, universal, and deep

thoughts of mankind. They are feeling just as much as thought, and might

therefore be termed _original thought-feelings_.

We have therewith now found the object selected by the libido when it

was freed from the personal-infantile form of transference. Namely, that

it sinks down into the depths of the unconscious, reviving what has

been dormant there from immemorial ages. It has discovered the buried

treasure out of which mankind from time to time has drawn, raising

thence its gods and demons, and all those finest and most tremendous

thoughts without which man would cease to be man.

Let us take as an example one of the greatest thoughts to which the

nineteenth century gave birth--the idea of the _conservation of energy_.

_Robert Mayer_ is the originator of this idea. He was a physician, not

a physicist nor a natural philosopher, to either of whom the creation

of such an idea would have been more germane. It is of great importance

to realise that in the real sense of the word, Robert Mayer's idea

was not _created_. Neither was it brought about through the fusion

of the then-existent conceptions and scientific hypotheses. It grew

in the originator, and was conditioned by him. Robert Mayer wrote

(1841) to Griesinger as follows: "I by no means concocted the theory

at the writing-desk." He goes on to report about certain physiological

investigations that he made in 1840-41 as doctor on board ship, and

continues: "If one wishes to be enlightened about physiological

matters, some knowledge of physical processes is indispensable, unless

one prefers to work from the metaphysical side, which is immensely

distasteful to me. I therefore kept to physics, clinging to the subject

with such ardour that, although it may well seem ridiculous to say so,

I cared little about what part of the world we were in. I preferred to

remain aboard where I could work uninterruptedly, and where many an

hour gave me such a feeling of _being inspired_ in a way I can never

remember having experienced either before or since.

"A few flashes of thought that thrilled through me"--this was in the

harbour of Surabaja--"were immediately diligently pursued, leading again

in their turn to new subjects. Those times are passed, but subsequent

quiet examination _of what then emerged_, has taught me that it was

a truth which can _not only be subjectively felt_, but also proved

objectively; whether this could be done by _one who has so little

knowledge_ of physics as I have, is a matter which obviously, I must

leave undecided."

Heim, in his book on Energetics, expresses the opinion: "that Robert

Mayer's new thought did not gradually detach itself by dint of revolving

it in his mind, from the conceptions of power transmitted from the past,

_but belongs to those ideas that are intuitively conceived, which,

originating in other spheres of a mental kind, surprise thought, as it

were, compelling it to transform its inherited notions conformably with

those ideas_."

The question now arises, whence did this new idea that forced itself

upon consciousness with such elemental power spring? And whence did

it derive such strength that it was able to effect consciousness so

forcibly that it could be completely withdrawn from all the manifold

impressions of a first voyage in the tropics? These questions are not

easy to answer. If we apply our theory to this case the explanation

would run as follows: _The idea of energy and of its conservation must

be a primordial image that lay dormant in the absolute unconscious_.

This conclusion obviously compels us to prove that a similar primordial

image did really exist in the history of the human mind, and continued

to be effective through thousands of years. As a matter of fact,

evidence of this can be produced without difficulty. _Primitive

religions, in the most dissimilar regions of the earth, are founded upon

this image._ These are the so-called _dynamistic religions_, whose sole

and distinctive thought is the existence of some universal magical power

upon which everything depends. The well-known English scholars, Taylor

and Frazer, both wrongly interpreted this idea as animism. Primitive

peoples do not mean souls or spirits by their conception of power, but

in reality something that the American investigator _Lovejoy_[241] most

aptly terms "primitive energetics."

In an investigation appertaining to this subject, I showed that this

notion comprises the idea of soul, spirit, God, health, physical

strength, fertility, magic power, influence, might, prestige, curative

remedies, as well as certain states of mind which are characterised

by the setting loose of affects. Among certain Polynesians "Melungu"

(that is this primitive concept of energy) is spirit, soul, demoniacal

being, magic, prestige. If anything astonishing happens, the people

cry "Melungu." This notion of power is also the first rendering of the

concept of God among primitive peoples. The image has undergone many

variations in the course of history. In the Old Testament this magic

power is seen in the burning bush, and shines in the face of Moses.

It is manifest in the Gospels as the outpouring of the Holy Spirit,

as cloven tongues of fire from heaven. In Heraclitus it appears as

universal energy, as "eternally living fire"; for the Persians it is the

fiery brightness, haôma, divine mercy; for the Stoics it is heimarmene,

the power of destiny. In mediæval legend it is seen as the aura, or the

halo of the saint. It blazes forth in great flames from the hut where

the saint is lying in ecstasy. The saints reflect the sum of this power,

the storehouse of light, in their faces. According to ancient concepts

this power is the soul itself; the idea of its immortality contains

that of its _conservation_. The Buddhistic and primitive conception of

the metempsychosis (transmigration of souls) contains the idea of its

_unlimited capacity for transformation under constant conservation_.

This thought has obviously therefore been imprinted on the human brain

for untold ages. That is why it lies ready in the unconscious of every

one. Only certain conditions are needed in order to let it appear

again. These conditions were obviously fulfilled in the example of

Robert Mayer. The greatest and best thoughts form themselves upon these

primordial images, which are the ancient common property of humanity.

After this instance of the nascence of new ideas out of the treasury

of primordial images, we will resume the further delineation of the

process of transference. It was seen that the libido of the patient

seizes upon its new object in those apparently preposterous and

peculiar phantasies, namely the contents of the absolute unconscious.

As I already observed, the unacknowledged projection of primordial

images upon the physician constitutes a danger for further treatment

which should not be undervalued. The images contain not only every

beautiful and great thought and feeling of humanity, but also every

deed of shame and devilry of which human beings have ever been capable.

Now, if the patient cannot differentiate the physician's personality

from these projections, there is an end to mutual understanding, and

human relations become impossible. If however the patient avoids this

Charybdis, he falls into the Scylla of _introjecting_ these images,

that is, he does not ascribe their qualities to the physician but to

himself. This peril is just as great. If he projects, he vacillates

between an extravagant and morbid deification, and a spiteful contempt

of his physician. In the case of introjection, he falls into a ludicrous

self-deification or moral self-laceration. The mistake that he makes

in both cases consists in attributing the contents of the absolute

unconscious to himself personally. Thus he makes himself into both

God and devil. This is the psychological reason why human beings have

always needed demons, and could not live without gods. There is the

exception, of course, of a few specially clever specimens of the _homo

occidentalis_ of yesterday and the day before--supermen whose God is

dead, wherefore they themselves become gods. There is also the example

of Nietzsche, who confessedly required chloral in order to be able

to exist. These supermen even become rationalistic petty gods, with

thick skulls and cold hearts. The concept of God is simply a necessary

psychological function of an irrational nature that has altogether no

connection with the question of God's existence. This latter question

is one of the most fatuous that can be put. It is indeed sufficiently

evident that man cannot conceive a God, much less realise that he

actually exists, so little is he able to imagine a process that is

not causally conditioned. Theoretically, of course, no accidentality

can exist, that is certain, once and for all. On the other hand, in

practical life, we are continually stumbling upon accidental happenings.

It is similar with the existence of God; it is once and for all an

absurd problem. But the _consensus gentium_ has spoken of gods for

æons past, and will be speaking of them in æons to come. Beautiful and

perfect as man may think his reason, he may nevertheless assure himself

that it is only one of the possible mental functions, coinciding merely

with the corresponding side of the phenomena of the universe. All around

is the irrational, that which is not congruous with reason. And this

irrationalism is likewise a psychological function, namely the absolute

unconscious; whilst the function of consciousness is essentially

rational. Consciousness must have rational relations, first of all in

order to discover some order in the chaos of disordered individual

phenomena in the universe; and secondly, in order to labour at whatever

lies within the area of human possibility. We are laudably and usefully

endeavouring to exterminate so far as is practicable the chaos of

what is irrational, both in and around us. Apparently we are making

considerable progress with this process. A mental patient once said to

me, "Last night, doctor, I disinfected the whole heavens with sublimate,

and yet did not discover any God." Something of the kind has happened

to us. Heraclitus, the ancient, that really very wise man, discovered

the most wonderful of all psychological laws, namely, the _regulating

function of antithesis_. He termed this "enantiodromia" (clashing

together), by which he meant that at some time everything meets with

its opposite. (Here I beg to remind the reader of the case of the

American business man, which shows the enantiodromia most distinctly.)

The rational attitude of civilisation necessarily terminates in its

antithesis, namely in the irrational devastation of civilisation. Man

may not _identify_ himself with reason, for he is not wholly a rational

being, and never can or ever will become one. That is a fact of which

every pedant of civilisation should take note. What is irrational

cannot and may not be stamped out. The gods cannot and may not die.

Woe betide those men who have disinfected heaven with rationalism;

God-Almightiness has entered into them, because they would not admit God

as an absolute function. They are identified with their unconscious, and

are therefore its sport. (For where God is nearest, there the danger is

greatest.) Is the present war supposed to be a war of economics? That

is a neutral American "business-like" standpoint, that does not take

the blood, tears, unprecedented deeds of infamy and great distress into

account, and which completely ignores the fact that this war is really

an _epidemic of madness_. The several parties project their unconscious

upon each other, hence the mad confusion of ideas in every head. This is

the enantiodromia that occurs in the individual life of man, as well as

in that of peoples. The legend of the Tower of Babel turns out to be a

tenable truth.

Only he escapes from the cruel law of enantiodromia who knows how to

separate himself from the unconscious--not by repressing it, for then

it seizes him from behind--_but by presenting it visibly to himself as

something that is totally different from him_.

This gives the solution of the Scylla and Charybdis problem which

I described above. The patient must learn to differentiate in his

thoughts between what is the ego and what is the non-ego. The latter is

the collective psyche or absolute unconscious. By this means he will

acquire the material with which henceforward, for a long time, he will

have to come to terms. Thereby the energy, that before was invested

in unsuitable pathological forms, will have found its appropriate

sphere. In order to differentiate the psychological ego from the

psychological non-ego, man must necessarily stand _upon firm feet_

in his ego-function; that is, _he must fulfil his duty towards

life completely, so that he may in every respect be a vitally living

member of human society_. Anything that he neglects in this respect

descends into the unconscious and reinforces its position, so that he

is in danger of being swallowed up by it, if his ego-function is not

established. Severe penalties are attached to that. As indicated by old

Synesius, the "spiritualised soul (pneumatike psyché) becomes god and

demon, a state in which it suffers the divine penalties," that is, it

suffers being torn asunder by the Zagreus, an experience which Nietzsche

also underwent at the beginning of his insanity, where, in "Ecce Homo,"

the God whom he was despairingly resisting in front assailed him from

behind. Enantiodromia is the being torn asunder into the pairs of

opposites, which opposites are only proper to "the god," and therefore

also to the deified man, who owes likeness to God to his having

prevailed over his gods.