research--again an ordinary, little-considered phenomenon, apparently of
no practical value, like the errors with which, indeed, it shares the
character of occurring in normals. But otherwise the conditions are
rather less favorable for our work. Errors had been neglected only by
science, which had paid little attention to them; but at least it was no
disgrace to occupy one's self with them. People said there are indeed
more important things, but perhaps something may come of it.
Preoccupation with the dream, however, is not merely impractical and
superfluous, but actually ignominious; it carries the odium of the
unscientific, awakens the suspicion of a personal leaning towards
mysticism. The idea of a physician busying himself with dreams when even
in neuropathology and psychiatry there are matters so much more
serious--tumors the size of apples which incapacitate the organ of the
psyche, hemorrhages, and chronic inflammations in which one can
demonstrate changes in the tissues under the microscope! No, the dream
is much too trifling an object, and unworthy of Science.
And besides, it is a condition which in itself defies all the
requirements of exact research--in dream investigation one is not even
sure of one's object. A delusion, for example, presents itself in clear
and definite outlines. "I am the Emperor of China," says the patient
aloud. But the dream? It generally cannot be related at all. If anyone
relates a dream, has he any guarantee that he has told it correctly, and
not changed it during the telling, or invented an addition which was
forced by the indefiniteness of his recollection? Most dreams cannot be
remembered at all, are forgotten except for small fragments. And upon
the interpretation of such material shall a scientific psychology or
method of treatment for patients be based?
A certain excess in judgment may make us suspicious. The objections to
the dream as an object of research obviously go too far. The question of
insignificance we have already had to deal with in discussing errors. We
said to ourselves that important matters may manifest themselves through
small signs. As concerns the indefiniteness of the dream, it is after
all a characteristic like any other. One cannot prescribe the
characteristics of an object. Moreover, there are clear and definite
dreams. And there are other objects of psychiatric research which suffer
from the same trait of indefiniteness, e.g., many compulsion ideas, with
which even respectable and esteemed psychiatrists have occupied
themselves. I might recall the last case which occurred in my practice.
The patient introduced himself to me with the words, "I have a certain
feeling as though I had harmed or had wished to harm some living
thing--a child?--no, more probably a dog--perhaps pushed it off a
bridge--or something else." We can overcome to some degree the
difficulty of uncertain recollection in the dream if we determine that
exactly what the dreamer tells us is to be taken as his dream, without
regard to anything which he has forgotten or may have changed in
recollection. And finally, one cannot make so general an assertion as
that the dream is an unimportant thing. We know from our own experience
that the mood in which one wakes up after a dream may continue
throughout the whole day. Cases have been observed by physicians in
which a psychosis begins with a dream and holds to a delusion which
originated in it. It is related of historical personages that they drew
their inspiration for important deeds from dreams. So we may ask whence
comes the contempt of scientific circles for the dream?
I think it is the reaction to their over-estimation in former times.
Reconstruction of the past is notoriously difficult, but this much we
may assume with certainty--if you will permit me the jest--that our
ancestors of 3000 years ago and more, dreamed much in the way we do. As
far as we know, all ancient peoples attached great importance to dreams
and considered them of practical value. They drew omens for the future
from dreams, sought premonitions in them. In those days, to the Greeks
and all Orientals, a campaign without dream interpreters must have been
as impossible as a campaign without an aviation scout to-day. When
Alexander the Great undertook his campaign of conquests, the most famous
dream interpreters were in attendance. The city of Tyrus, which was then
still situated on an island, put up so fierce a resistance that
Alexander considered the idea of raising the siege. Then he dreamed one
night of a satyr dancing as if in triumph; and when he laid his dream
before his interpreters he received the information that the victory
over the city had been announced to him. He ordered the attack and took
Tyrus. Among the Etruscans and the Romans other methods of discovering
the future were in use, but the interpretation of dreams was practical
and esteemed during the entire Hellenic-Roman period. Of the literature
dealing with the topic at least the chief work has been preserved to us,
namely, the book of Artemidoros of Daldis, who is supposed to have lived
during the lifetime of the Emperor Hadrian. How it happened subsequently
that the art of dream interpretation was lost and the dream fell into
discredit, I cannot tell you. Enlightenment cannot have had much part in
it, for the Dark Ages faithfully preserved things far more absurd than
the ancient dream interpretation. The fact is, the interest in dreams
gradually deteriorated into superstition, and could assert itself only
among the ignorant. The latest misuse of dream interpretation in our day
still tries to discover in dreams the numbers which are going to be
drawn in the small lottery. On the other hand, the exact science of
to-day has repeatedly dealt with dreams, but always only with the
purpose of applying its physiological theories to the dream. By
physicians, of course, the dream was considered as a non-psychic act, as
the manifestation of somatic irritations in the psychic life. Binz
(1876) pronounced the dream "a bodily process, in all cases useless, in
many actually pathological, above which the world-soul and immortality
are raised as high as the blue ether over the weed-grown sands of the
lowest plain." Maury compared it with the irregular twitchings of St.
Vitus' Dance in contrast to the co-ordinated movements of the normal
person. An old comparison makes the content of the dream analogous to
the tones which the "ten fingers of a musically illiterate person would
bring forth if they ran over the keys of the instrument."
Interpretation means finding a hidden meaning. There can be no question
of interpretation in such an estimation of the dream process. Look up
the description of the dream in Wundt, Jodl and other newer
philosophers. You will find an enumeration of the deviations of dream
life from waking thought, in a sense disparaging to the dream. The
description points out the disintegration of association, the suspension
of the critical faculty, the elimination of all knowledge, and other
signs of diminished activity. The only valuable contribution to the
knowledge of the dream which we owe to exact science pertains to the
influence of bodily stimuli, operative during sleep, on the content of
the dream. There are two thick volumes of experimental researches on
dreams by the recently deceased Norwegian author, J. Mourly Vold,
(translated into German in 1910 and 1912), which deal almost solely with
the consequences of changes in the position of the limbs. They are
recommended as the prototype of exact dream research. Now can you
imagine what exact science would say if it discovered that we wish to
attempt to find the meaning of dreams? It may be it has already said it,
but we will not allow ourselves to be frightened off. If errors can have
a meaning, the dream can, too, and errors in many cases have a meaning
which has escaped exact science. Let us confess to sharing the prejudice
of the ancients and the common people, and let us follow in the
footsteps of the ancient dream interpreters.
First of all, we must orient ourselves in our task, and take a bird's
eye view of our field. What is a dream? It is difficult to say in one
sentence. But we do not want to attempt any definition where a reference
to the material with which everyone is familiar suffices. Yet we ought
to select the essential element of the dream. How can that be found?
There are such monstrous differences within the boundary which encloses
our province, differences in every direction. The essential thing will
very probably be that which we can show to be common to all dreams.
Well, the first thing which is common to all dreams is that we are
asleep during their occurrence. The dream is apparently the psychic life
during sleep, which has certain resemblances to that of the waking
condition, and on the other hand is distinguished from it by important
differences. That was noted even in Aristotle's definition. Perhaps
there are other connections obtaining between the dream and sleep. One
can be awakened by a dream, one frequently has a dream when he wakes
spontaneously or is forcibly awakened from sleep. The dream then seems
to be an intermediate condition between sleeping and waking. Thus we are
referred to the problem of sleep. What, then, is sleep?
That is a physiological or biological problem concerning which there is
still much controversy. We can form no decision on the point, but I
think we may attempt a psychological characterization of sleep. Sleep is
a condition in which I wish to have nothing to do with the external
world, and have withdrawn my interest from it. I put myself to sleep by
withdrawing myself from the external world and by holding off its
stimuli. I also go to sleep when I am fatigued by the external world.
Thus, by going to sleep, I say to the external world, "Leave me in
peace, for I wish to sleep." Conversely, the child says, "I won't go to
bed yet, I am not tired, I want to have some more fun." The biological
intention of sleep thus seems to be recuperation; its psychological
character, the suspension of interest in the external world. Our
relation to the world into which we came so unwillingly, seems to
include the fact that we cannot endure it without interruption. For this
reason we revert from time to time to the pre-natal existence, that is,
to the intra-uterine existence. At least we create for ourselves
conditions quite similar to those obtaining at that time--warmth,
darkness and the absence of stimuli. Some of us even roll ourselves
into tight packages and assume in sleep a posture very similar to the
intra-uterine posture. It seems as if the world did not wholly possess
us adults, it has only two-thirds of our life, we are still one-third
unborn. Each awakening in the morning is then like a new birth. We also
speak of the condition after sleep with the words, "I feel as though I
had been born anew," by which we probably form a very erroneous idea of
the general feeling of the newly born. It may be assumed that the
latter, on the contrary, feel very uncomfortable. We also speak of birth
as "seeing the light of day." If that be sleep, then the dream is not on
its program at all, rather it seems an unwelcome addition. We think,
too, that dreamless sleep is the best and only normal sleep. There
should be no psychic activity in sleep; if the psyche stirs, then just
to that extent have we failed to reduplicate the foetal condition;
remainders of psychic activity could not be completely avoided. These
remainders are the dream. Then it really does seem that the dream need
have no meaning. It was different in the case of errors; they were
activities of the waking state. But when I am asleep, have quite
suspended psychic activity and have suppressed all but certain of its
remainders, then it is by no means inevitable that these remainders have
a meaning. In fact, I cannot make use of this meaning, in view of the
fact that the rest of my psyche is asleep. This must, of course, be a
question only of twitching, like spasmodic reactions, a question only of
psychic phenomena such as follow directly upon somatic stimulation. The
dream, therefore, appears to be the sleep-disturbing remnant of the
psychic activity of waking life, and we may make the resolution promptly
to abandon a theme which is so ill-adapted to psychoanalysis.
However, even if the dream is superfluous, it exists nevertheless and we
may try to give an account of its existence. Why does not the psyche go
to sleep? Probably because there is something which gives it no rest.
Stimuli act upon the psyche, and it must react to them. The dream,
therefore, is the way in which the psyche reacts to the stimuli acting
upon it in the sleeping condition. We note here a point of approach to
the understanding of the dream. We can now search through different
dreams to discover what are the stimuli which seek to disturb the sleep
and which are reacted to with dreams. Thus far we might be said to have
discovered the first common element.
Are there other common elements? Yes, it is undeniable that there are,
but they are much more difficult to grasp and describe. The psychic
processes of sleep, for example, have a very different character from
those of waking. One experiences many things in the dream, and believes
in them, while one really has experienced nothing but perhaps the one
disturbing stimulus. One experiences them predominantly in visual
images; feelings may also be interspersed in the dream as well as
thoughts; the other senses may also have experiences, but after all the
dream experiences are predominantly pictures. A part of the difficulty
of dream telling comes from the fact that we have to transpose these
pictures into words. "I could draw it," the dreamer says frequently,
"but I don't know how to say it." That is not really a case of
diminished psychic activity, like that of the feeble-minded in
comparison with the highly gifted; it is something qualitatively
different, but it is difficult to say wherein the difference lies. G. T.
Fechner once hazarded the conjecture that the scene in which dreams are
played is a different one from that of the waking perceptual life. To be
sure, we do not understand this, do not know what we are to think of it,
but the impression of strangeness which most dreams make upon us does
really bear this out. The comparison of the dream activity with the
effects of a hand untrained in music also fails at this point. The
piano, at least, will surely answer with the same tones, even if not
with melodies, as soon as by accident one brushes its keys. Let us keep
this second common element of all dreams carefully in mind, even though
it be not understood.
Are there still further traits in common? I find none, and see only
differences everywhere, differences indeed in the apparent length as
well as the definiteness of the activities, participation of effects,
durability, etc. All this really is not what we might expect of a
compulsion-driven, irresistible, convulsive defense against a stimulus.
As concerns the dimensions of dreams, there are very short ones which
contain only one picture or a few, one thought--yes, even one word
only--, others which are uncommonly rich in content, seem to dramatize
whole novels and to last very long. There are dreams which are as plain
as an experience itself, so plain that we do not recognize them as
dreams for a long time after waking; others which are indescribably
weak, shadowy and vague; indeed in one and the same dream, the
overemphasized and the scarcely comprehensible, indefinite parts may
alternate with each other. Dreams may be quite meaningful or at least
coherent, yes, even witty, fantastically beautiful. Others, again, are
confused, as if feeble-minded, absurd, often actually mad. There are
dreams which leave us quite cold, others in which all the effects come
to expression--pain deep enough for tears, fear strong enough to waken
us, astonishment, delight, etc. Dreams are generally quickly forgotten
upon waking, or they may hold over a day to such an extent as to be
faintly and incompletely remembered in the evening. Others, for example,
the dreams of childhood, are so well preserved that they stay in the
memory thirty years later, like fresh experiences. Dreams, like
individuals, may appear a single time, and never again, or they may
repeat themselves unchanged in the same person, or with small
variations. In short, this nightly psychic activity can avail itself of
an enormous repertoire, can indeed compass everything which the psychic
accomplishes by day, but yet the two are not the same.
One might try to give an account of this many-sidedness of the dream by
assuming that it corresponds to different intermediate stages between
sleeping and waking, different degrees of incomplete sleep. Yes, but in
that case as the psyche nears the waking state, the conviction that it
is a dream ought to increase along with the value, content and
distinctiveness of the dream product, and it would not happen that
immediately beside a distinct and sensible dream fragment a senseless
and indistinct one would occur, to be followed again by a goodly piece
of work. Surely the psyche could not change its degree of somnolence so
quickly. This explanation thus avails us nothing; at any rate, it cannot
be accepted offhand.
Let us, for the present, give up the idea of finding the meaning of the
dream and try instead to clear a path to a better understanding of the
dream by means of the elements common to all dreams. From the relation
of dreams to the sleeping condition, we concluded that the dream is the
reaction to a sleep-disturbing stimulus. As we have heard, this is the
only point upon which exact experimental psychology can come to our
assistance; it gives us the information that stimuli applied during
sleep appear in the dream. There have been many such investigations
carried out, including that of the above mentioned Mourly Vold. Indeed,
each of us must at some time have been in a position to confirm this
conclusion by means of occasional personal observations. I shall choose
certain older experiments for presentation. Maury had such experiments
made on his own person. He was allowed to smell cologne while dreaming.
He dreamed that he was in Cairo in the shop of Johann Marina Farina, and
therewith were linked further extravagant adventures. Or, he was
slightly pinched in the nape of the neck; he dreamed of having a mustard
plaster applied, and of a doctor who had treated him in childhood. Or, a
drop of water was poured on his forehead. He was then in Italy,
perspired profusely, and drank the white wine of Orvieto.
What strikes us about these experimentally induced dreams we may perhaps
be able to comprehend still more clearly in another series of stimulated
dreams. Three dreams have been recounted by a witty observer,
Hildebrand, all of them reactions to the sound of the alarm clock:
"I go walking one spring morning and saunter through the green fields to
a neighboring village. There I see the inhabitants in gala attire, their
hymn books under their arms, going church-ward in great numbers. To be
sure, this is Sunday, and the early morning service will soon begin. I
decide to attend, but since I am somewhat overheated, decide to cool off
in the cemetery surrounding the church. While I am there reading several
inscriptions, I hear the bell ringer ascend the tower, and now see the
little village church bell which is to give the signal for the beginning
of the service. The bell hangs a good bit longer, then it begins to
swing, and suddenly its strokes sound clear and penetrating, so clear
and penetrating that they make an end of--my sleep. The bell-strokes,
however, come from my alarm clock.
"A second combination. It is a clear winter day. The streets are piled
high with snow. I agree to go on a sleighing party, but must wait a long
time before the announcement comes that the sleigh is at the door. Then
follow the preparations for getting in--the fur coat is put on, the
footwarmer dragged forth--and finally I am seated in my place. But the
departure is still delayed until the reins give the waiting horses the
tangible signal. Now they pull; the vigorously shaken bells begin their
familiar Janizary music so powerfully that instantly the spider web of
the dream is torn. Again it is nothing but the shrill tone of the alarm
clock.
"And still a third example. I see a kitchen maid walking along the
corridor to the dining room with some dozens of plates piled high. The
pillar of porcelain in her arms seems to me in danger of losing its
balance. 'Take care!' I warn her. 'The whole load will fall to the
ground.' Naturally, the inevitable retort follows: one is used to that,
etc., and I still continue to follow the passing figure with
apprehensive glances. Sure enough, at the threshold she stumbles--the
brittle dishes fall and rattle and crash over the floor in a thousand
pieces. But--the endless racket is not, as I soon notice, a real
rattling, but really a ringing and with this ringing, as the awakened
subject now realizes, the alarm has performed its duty."
These dreams are very pretty, quite meaningful, not at all incoherent,
as dreams usually are. We will not object to them on that score. That
which is common to them all is that the situation terminates each time
in a noise, which one recognizes upon waking up as the sound of the
alarm. Thus we see here how a dream originates, but also discover
something else. The dream does not recognize the alarm--indeed the alarm
does not appear in the dream--the dream replaces the alarm sound with
another, it interprets the stimulus which interrupts the sleep, but
interprets it each time in a different way. Why? There is no answer to
this question, it seems to be something arbitrary. But to understand the
dream means to be able to say why it has chosen just this sound and no
other for the interpretation of the alarm-clock stimulus. In quite
analogous fashion, we must raise the objection to the Maury experiment
that we see well enough that the stimulus appears in the dream, but that
we do not discover why it appears in just this form; and that the form
taken by the dream does not seem to follow from the nature of the
sleep-disturbing stimulus. Moreover, in the Maury experiments a mass of
other dream material links itself to the direct stimulus product; as,
for example, the extravagant adventures in the cologne dream, for which
one can give no account.
Now I shall ask you to consider the fact that the waking dreams offer by
far the best chances for determining the influence of external
sleep-disturbing stimuli. In most of the other cases it will be more
difficult. One does not wake up in all dreams, and in the morning, when
one remembers the dream of the night, how can one discover the
disturbing stimulus which was perhaps in operation at night? I did
succeed once in subsequently establishing such a sound stimulus, though
naturally only in consequence of special circumstances. I woke up one
morning in a place in the Tyrolese Mountains, with the certainty that I
had dreamt the Pope had died. I could not explain the dream, but then my
wife asked me: "Did you hear the terrible bell ringing that broke out
early this morning from all the churches and chapels?" No, I had heard
nothing, my sleep is a sound one, but thanks to this information I
understood my dream. How often may such stimuli incite the sleeper to
dream without his knowing of them afterward? Perhaps often, perhaps
infrequently; when the stimulus can no longer be traced, one cannot be
convinced of its existence. Even without this fact we have given up
evaluating the sleep disturbing stimuli, since we know that they can
explain only a little bit of the dream, and not the whole dream
reaction.