from that of slips of the tongue or the pen. One of the two conflicting
tendencies is here replaced by a sensory excitation and is perhaps
therefore less tenacious. What one is reading is not a product of one’s
own mind, as is that which one is going to write. In the large majority
of cases, therefore, misreading consists in complete substitution. A
different word is substituted for the word to be read, without there
necessarily being any connection in the content between the text and the
effect of the mistake, and usually by means of a resemblance between the
words. Lichtenberg’s example of this, “_Agamemnon_” instead of
“_angenommen_,” is the best of this group. To discover the interfering
tendency which causes the mistake one may put aside the original text
altogether; the analytic investigation may begin with two questions:
What is the first idea occurring in free association to the effect of
the misreading (the substitute), and in what circumstances did the
misreading occur? Occasionally a knowledge of the latter is sufficient
in itself to explain the misreading, as, for instance, when someone
wandering about a strange town, driven by urgent needs, reads the word
“_Closethaus_” on a large sign on the first storey. He has just time to
wonder that the board has been fixed at that height when he discovers
that the word on it is actually “_Corsethaus_.” In other cases where
there is a lack of connection in content between the text and the slip a
thorough analysis is necessary, which cannot be accomplished without
practice in psycho-analytic technique and confidence in it. But it is
not usually so difficult to come by the explanation of a case of
misreading. In the example “_Agamemnon_,” the substituted word betrays
without further difficulty the line of thought from which the
disturbance arose. In this time of war, for instance, it is very common
for one to read everywhere names of towns, generals, and military
expressions, which are continually in one’s ears, wherever one sees a
word at all resembling them. Whatever interests and occupies the mind
takes the place of what is alien and as yet uninteresting. The shadows
of thoughts in the mind dim the new perceptions.
Another kind of misreading is possible, in which the text itself arouses
the disturbing tendency, whereupon it is usually changed into its
opposite. Someone is required to read something which he dislikes, and
analysis convinces him that a strong wish to reject what is read is
responsible for the alteration.
In the first-mentioned, more frequent cases of misreading two factors to
which we ascribed great importance in the mechanism of errors are
inconspicuous; these are, the conflict between two tendencies and the
forcing back of one of them which compensates itself by producing the
error. Not that anything contradictory of this occurs in misreading, but
nevertheless the importunity of the train of thought tending to the
mistake is far more conspicuous than the restraint which it may have
previously undergone. Just these two factors are most clearly observable
in the different situations in which errors occur through forgetfulness.
The forgetting of resolutions has positively but one meaning; the
interpretation of it, as we have heard, is not denied even by the
layman. The tendency interfering with the resolution is always an
opposing one, an unwillingness, concerning which it only remains to
enquire why it does not come to expression in a different and less
disguised form; for the existence of this opposing tendency is beyond
doubt. Sometimes it is possible, too, to infer something of the motives
which necessitate the concealment of this antipathy; one sees that it
would certainly have been condemned if it declared its opposition
openly, whereas by craft, in the error, it always achieves its end. When
an important change in the mental situation occurs between the formation
of the resolution and its execution, in consequence of which the
execution would no longer be required, then if it were forgotten the
occurrence could no longer come within the category of errors. There
would be nothing to wonder at in the error, for one recognizes that it
would have been superfluous to remember the resolution; it had been
either permanently or temporarily cancelled. Forgetting to carry out a
resolution can only be called an error when there is no reason to
believe that any such cancellation has occurred.
Cases of forgetting to carry out resolutions are usually so uniform and
transparent, that they are of no interest for our researches. There are
two points, nevertheless, at which something new can be learnt by
studying this type of error. We have said that forgetting and not
executing a resolution indicates an antagonistic tendency in opposition
to it. This is certainly true, but our own investigations show that this
‘counter-will’ may be of two kinds, either immediate or mediate. What is
meant by the latter is best explained by one or two examples. When the
patron forgets to say a good word for his protégé to some third person,
it may happen because he is actually not much interested in the protégé
and therefore has no great inclination to do it. This, in any case, will
be the protégé’s view of the patron’s omission. But the matter may be
more complicated. The antipathy against executing the resolution may
come from some other source in the patron and be directed to some other
point. It need have nothing at all to do with the protégé, but is
perhaps directed against the third person to whom the recommendation was
to be made. Here again, you see, what objections there are against
applying our interpretations practically. In spite of having correctly
interpreted the error, the protégé is in danger of becoming too
suspicious and of doing his patron a grave injustice. Again, if someone
forgets an appointment which he had promised and was resolved to attend,
the commonest cause is certainly a direct disinclination to meet the
other person. But analysis might produce evidence that the interfering
tendency was concerned, not with the person, but with the place of
meeting, which was avoided on account of some painful memory associated
with it. Or if one forgets to post a letter the opposing tendency may be
concerned with the contents of the letter; but this does not exclude the
possibility that the letter in itself is harmless and becomes the
subject of a counter-tendency only because something in it reminds the
writer of another letter, written previously, which did in fact afford a
direct basis for antipathy. It may then be said that the antipathy has
been _transferred_ from the earlier letter, where it was justified, to
the present one where it actually has no object. So you see that
restraint and caution must be exercised in applying our quite
well-founded interpretations; that which is psychologically equivalent
may in actuality have many meanings.
That such things should be must seem very strange to you. Perhaps you
will be inclined to assume that the “indirect” counter-will is enough to
characterize the incident as pathological. But I can assure you that it
is also found within the boundaries of health and normality. And
further, do not misunderstand me; this is in no sense a confession on my
part that our analytic interpretations are not to be relied on. I have
said that forgetting to execute a plan may bear many meanings, but this
is so only in those cases where no analysis is undertaken and which we
have to interpret according to our general principles. If an analysis of
the person in the case is carried out it can always be established with
sufficient certainty whether the antipathy is a direct one, or what its
source is otherwise.
The following is a second point: when we find proof in a large majority
of cases that the forgetting of an intention proceeds from a
counter-will, we gain courage to extend this solution to another group
of cases in which the person analysed does not confirm, but denies, the
presence of the counter-will inferred by us. Take as an example of this
such exceedingly frequent occurrences as forgetting to return borrowed
books or to pay bills or debts. We will be so bold as to suggest, to the
person in question, that there is an intention in his mind of keeping
the books and not paying the debts, whereupon he will deny this
intention but will not be able to give us any other explanation of his
conduct. We then insist that he has this intention but is not aware of
it; it is enough for us, though, that it betrays itself by the effect of
the forgetting. He may then repeat that he had merely forgotten about
it. You will recognize the situation as one in which we have already
been placed once before. If we intend to carry through, to their logical
conclusions, the interpretations of errors which have been proved
justified in so many cases, we shall be unavoidably impelled to the
assumption that tendencies exist in human beings which can effect
results without their knowing of them. With this, however, we place
ourselves in opposition to all views prevailing in life and in
psychology.
Forgetting proper names, and foreign names and words, can be traced in
the same way to a counter-tendency aiming either directly or indirectly
against the name in question. I have already given you several examples
of such direct antipathy. Indirect causation is particularly frequent
here and careful analysis is generally required to elucidate it. Thus,
for instance, in the present time of war which forces us to forego so
many of our former pleasures, our ability to recall proper names suffers
severely by connections of the most far-fetched kind. It happened to me
lately to be unable to remember the name of the harmless Moravian town
of Bisenz; and analysis showed that I was guilty of no direct antagonism
in the matter, but that the resemblance to the name of the Palazzo
Bisenzi in Orvieto, where I had spent many happy times in the past, was
responsible. As a motive of the tendency opposing the recollection of
this name, we here for the first time encounter a principle which will
later on reveal itself to be of quite prodigious importance in the
causation of neurotic symptoms: namely, the aversion on the part of
memory against recalling anything connected with painful feelings that
would revive the pain if it were recalled. In this tendency towards
_avoidance of pain_ from recollection or other mental processes, this
flight of the mind from that which is unpleasant, we may perceive the
ultimate purpose at work behind not merely the forgetting of names, but
also many other errors, omissions, and mistakes.
The forgetting of names seems, however, to be especially facilitated
psycho-physiologically, and therefore does occur on occasions where the
intervention of an unpleasantness-motive cannot be established. When
anyone has a tendency to forget names, it can be confirmed by analytic
investigation that names escape, not merely because he does not like
them or because they remind him of something disagreeable, but also
because the particular name belongs to some other chain of associations
of a more intimate nature. The name is anchored there, as it were, and
is refused to the other associations activated at the moment. If you
recall the devices of memory systems you will realize with some surprise
that the same associations which are there artificially introduced, in
order to save names from being forgotten, are also responsible for their
being forgotten. The most conspicuous example of this is afforded by
proper names of persons, which naturally possess quite different values
for different people. For instance, take a first name, such as Theodore.
For some of you it will have no particular significance; for others it
will be the name of father, brother, friend, or your own name. Analytic
experience will show you that the former among you will be in no danger
of forgetting that some stranger bears this name; whereas the latter
will be continually inclined to grudge to strangers a name which to them
seems reserved for an intimate relationship. Now let us assume that this
inhibition due to associations may coincide with the operation of the
“pain”-principle, and in addition with an indirect mechanism; you will
then be able to form a commensurate idea of the complexity, in
causation, of such temporary forgetting of names. An adequate analysis
that does justice to the facts will, however, completely disclose all
these complications.
The forgetting of impressions and experiences shows the working of the
tendency to ward off from memory that which is unpleasant much more
clearly and invariably than the forgetting of names. It does not of
course belong in its entirety to the category of errors, but only in so
far as it appears to us remarkable and unjustified, judged by the
standard of general experience; as, for instance, where recent or
important impressions are forgotten, or where one memory is forgotten
out of an otherwise well-remembered sequence. How and why we have the
capacity of forgetting in general, particularly how we are able to
forget experiences which have certainly left the deepest impression on
us, such as the events of our childhood, is quite a different problem,
in which the defence against painful associations plays a certain part
but is far from explaining everything. That unwelcome impressions are
easily forgotten is an indubitable fact. Various psychologists have
remarked it; and the great Darwin was so well aware of it that he made a
golden rule for himself of writing down with particular care
observations which seemed unfavourable to his theory, having become
convinced that just these would be inclined to slip out of recollection.
Those who bear for the first time of this principle of defence against
unpleasant memory by forgetfulness seldom fail to raise the objection
that, on the contrary, in their experience it is just that which is
painful which it is hard to forget, since it always comes back to mind
to torture the person against his will—as, for example, the recollection
of grievances or humiliations. This fact is quite correct, but the
objection is not sound. It is important to begin early to reckon with
the fact that the mind is an arena, a sort of tumbling-ground, for the
struggles of antagonistic impulses; or, to express it in non-dynamic
terms, that the mind is made up of contradictions and pairs of
opposites. Evidence of one particular tendency does not in the least
preclude its opposite; there is room for both of them. The material
questions are: How do these opposites stand to one another and what
effects proceed from one of them and what from the other?
Losing and mislaying objects is of especial interest on account of the
numerous meanings it may have, and the multiplicity of the tendencies in
the service of which these errors may be employed. What is common to all
the cases is the wish to lose something; what varies in them is the
reason for the wish and the aim of it. One loses something if it has
become damaged; if one has an impulse to replace it with a better; if
one has ceased to care for it; if it came from someone with whom
unpleasantness has arisen; or if it was acquired in circumstances that
one no longer wishes to think of. Letting things fall, spoiling, or
breaking things, serves the same tendency. In social life it is said
that unwelcome and illegitimate children are found to be far more often
weakly than those conceived in happier circumstances. This result does
not imply that the crude methods of the so-called baby-farmer have been
employed; some degree of carelessness in the supervision of the child
should be quite enough. The preservation, or otherwise, of objects may
well follow the same lines as that of children.
Then too it may happen that a thing will become destined to be lost
without its having shed any of its value—that is, when there is an
impulse to sacrifice something to fate in order to avert some other
dreaded loss. According to the findings of analysis, such conjurings of
fate are still very common among us, so that our losses are often
voluntary sacrifices. Losing may equally well serve the impulses of
spite or of self-punishment; in short, the more remote forms of
motivation behind the impulse to do away with something by losing cannot
easily be exhausted.
Mistaking of objects, or erroneous performance of actions, like other
errors, is often made use of to fulfil a wish which should be denied;
the intention masquerades as a lucky chance. Thus, as once happened to
one of our friends, one has to take a train, most unwillingly, in order
to pay a visit in the suburbs and then, in changing trains at a
connection, one gets by mistake into one which is returning to town; or,
on a journey one would greatly like to make a halt at some
stopping-place, which cannot be done owing to fixed engagements
elsewhere, whereupon one mistakes or misses the connection, so that the
desired delay is forced upon one. Or, as happened to one of my patients
whom I had forbidden to telephone to the lady he was in love with, he
“by mistake” and “thoughtlessly” gave the wrong number when he meant to
telephone to me, so that he was suddenly connected with her. The
following account by an engineer is a pretty example of the conditions
under which damage to material objects may be done, and also
demonstrates the practical significance of directly faulty actions.
“Some time ago I worked with several colleagues in the laboratory of a
High School on a series of complicated experiments in elasticity, a
piece of work we had undertaken voluntarily; it was beginning to take up
more time, however, than we had anticipated. One day, as I went into the
laboratory with my friend F., he remarked how annoying it was to him to
lose so much time to-day as he had so much to do at home; I could not
help agreeing with him and said half-jokingly, referring to an occasion
the week before: ‘Let us hope the machine will break down again so that
we can stop work and go home early.’ In arranging the work it happened
that F. was given the regulation of the valve of the press; that is to
say, he was, by cautiously opening the valve, to let the liquid pressure
out of the accumulator slowly into the cylinder of the hydraulic press.
The man who was conducting the experiment stood by the pressure gauge,
and, when the right pressure was reached, called out loudly, ‘Stop.’ At
this command F. seized the valve and turned with all his might—to the
left! (All valves without exception close to the right.) Thereby the
whole pressure in the accumulator suddenly came into the press, a strain
for which the connecting-pipes are not designed, so that one of them
instantly burst—quite a harmless accident, but one which forced us,
nevertheless, to cease work for the day and go home. It is
characteristic, by the way, that not long after, when we were discussing
the affair, my friend F. had no recollection whatever of my remark,
which I recalled with certainty.”
So with this in mind you may begin to suspect that it is not always a
mere chance which makes the hands of your servants such dangerous
enemies to your household effects. And you may also raise the question
whether it is always an accident when one injures oneself or exposes
oneself to danger—ideas which you may put to the test by analysis when
you have an opportunity.
This is far from being all that could be said about errors. There is
still much to be enquired into and discussed. But I shall be satisfied
if you have been shaken somewhat in your previous beliefs by our
investigations, so far as they have gone, and if you have gained a
certain readiness to accept new ones. For the rest, I must be content to
leave you with certain problems still unsolved. We cannot prove all our
principles by the study of errors, nor are we indeed by any means solely
dependent on this material. The great value of errors for our purpose
lies in this, that they are such common occurrences, may easily be
observed in oneself, and are not at all contingent upon illness. I
should like to mention one more of your unanswered questions before
concluding: “If, as we see from so many examples, people come so close
to understanding errors and so often act as if they perceived their
meaning, how is it possible that they should so generally consider them
accidental, senseless, and meaningless, and so energetically oppose the
psycho-analytic explanation of them?”
You are right: this is indeed striking and requires an explanation. But
I will not give it to you; I will rather guide you slowly towards the
connections by which the explanation will be forced upon you without any
aid from me.
_PART II_
DREAMS
FIFTH LECTURE
DIFFICULTIES AND PRELIMINARY APPROACH TO THE SUBJECT
One day the discovery was made that the symptoms of disease in certain
nervous patients have meaning.[25] It was upon this discovery that the
psycho-analytic method of treatment was based. In this treatment it
happened that patients in speaking of their symptoms also mentioned
their dreams, whereupon the suspicion arose that these dreams too had
meaning.
However, we will not pursue this historical path, but will strike off in
the opposite direction. Our aim is to demonstrate the meaning of dreams,
in preparation for the study of the neuroses. There are good grounds for
this reversal of procedure, since the study of dreams is not merely the
best preparation for that of the neuroses, but a dream is itself a
neurotic symptom and, moreover, one which possesses for us the
incalculable advantage of occurring in all healthy people. Indeed, if
all human beings were healthy and would only dream, we could gather
almost all the knowledge from their dreams which we have gained from
studying the neuroses.
So dreams become the object of psycho-analytic research—another of these
ordinary, under-rated occurrences, apparently of no practical value,
like “errors,” and sharing with them the characteristic of occurring in
healthy persons. But in other respects the conditions of work are rather
less favourable. Errors had only been neglected by science, people had
not troubled their heads much about them, but at least it was no
disgrace to occupy oneself with them. True, people said, there are
things more important but still something may possibly come of it. To
occupy oneself with dreams, however, is not merely unpractical and
superfluous, but positively scandalous: it carries with it the taint of
the unscientific and arouses the suspicion of personal leanings towards
mysticism. The idea of a medical student troubling himself about dreams
when there is so much in neuropathology and psychiatry itself that is
more serious, tumours as large as apples compressing the organ of the
mind, hæmorrhages, chronic inflammatory conditions in which the
alterations in the tissues can be demonstrated under the microscope! No,
dreams are far too unworthy and trivial to be objects of scientific
research.
There is yet another factor involved which, in itself, sets at defiance
all the requirements of exact investigation. In investigating dreams
even the object of research, the dream itself, is indefinite. A
delusion, for example, presents clear and definite outlines. “I am the
Emperor of China,” says your patient plainly. But a dream? For the most
part it cannot be related at all. When a man tells a dream, has he any
guarantee that he has told it correctly, and not perhaps altered it in
the telling or been forced to invent part of it on account of the
vagueness of his recollection? Most dreams cannot be remembered at all
and are forgotten except for some tiny fragments. And is a scientific
psychology or a method of treatment for the sick to be founded upon
material such as this?