still another possible way of following it out. Obviously it is a matter
of indifference what disturbs sleep and causes the mind to dream. If it
cannot always be something external acting as a stimulus to one of the
senses, it is possible that, instead, a stimulus operates from the
internal organs—a so-called somatic stimulus. This supposition lies very
close, and moreover it corresponds to the view popularly held with
regard to the origin of dreams, for it is a common saying that they come
from the stomach. Unfortunately, here again we must suppose that in very
many cases information respecting a somatic stimulus operating during
the night would no longer be forthcoming after waking, so that it would
be incapable of proof. But we will not overlook the fact that many
trustworthy experiences support the idea that dreams may be derived from
somatic stimuli; on the whole it is indubitable that the condition of
the internal organs can influence dreams. The relation of the content of
many dreams to distention of the bladder or to a condition of excitation
of the sex-organs is so plain that it cannot be mistaken. From these
obvious cases we pass to others, in which, to judge by the content of
the dream, we are at least justified in suspecting that some such
somatic stimuli have been at work, since there is something in this
content which can be regarded as elaboration, representation, or
interpretation of these stimuli. Scherner, the investigator of dreams
(1861), emphatically supported the view which traces the origin of
dreams to organic stimuli, and contributed some excellent examples
towards it. For instance, he sees in a dream “two rows of beautiful
boys, with fair hair and delicate complexions, confronting each other
pugnaciously, joining in combat, seizing hold of one another, and again
letting go their hold, only to take up the former position and go
through the whole process again”; his interpretation of the two rows of
boys as the teeth is in itself plausible and seems to receive full
confirmation when after this scene the dreamer “pulls a long tooth from
his jaw.” Again, the interpretation of “long, narrow, winding passages”
as being suggested by a stimulus originating in the intestine seems
sound and corroborates Scherner’s assertion that dreams primarily
endeavour to represent, by like objects, the organ from which the
stimulus proceeds.
We must therefore be prepared to admit that internal stimuli can play
the same rôle in dreams as external ones. Unfortunately, evaluation of
this factor is open to the same objections. In a great number of
instances the attribution of dreams to somatic stimuli must remain
uncertain or incapable of proof; not all dreams, but only a certain
number of them, rouse the suspicion that stimuli from internal organs
have something to do with their origin; and lastly, the internal somatic
stimulus will suffice no more than the external sensory stimulus to
explain any other part of the dream than the direct reaction to it. The
origin of all the rest of the dream remains obscure.
Now, however, let us direct our attention to a certain peculiarity of
the dream-life which appears when we study the operation of these
stimuli. The dream does not merely reproduce the stimulus, but
elaborates it, plays upon it, fits it into a context, or replaces it by
something else. This is a side of the dream-work which is bound to be of
interest to us because possibly it may lead us nearer to the true nature
of dreams. The scope of a man’s production is not necessarily limited to
the circumstance which immediately gives rise to it. For instance,
Shakespeare’s _Macbeth_ was written as an occasional drama on the
accession of the king who first united in his person the crowns of the
three kingdoms. But does this historical occasion cover the whole
content of the drama, or explain its grandeur and its mystery? Perhaps
in the same way the external and internal stimuli operating upon the
sleeper are merely the occasion of the dream and afford us no insight
into its true nature.
The other element common to all dreams, their peculiarity in mental
life, is on the one hand very difficult to grasp and on the other seems
to afford no clue for further inquiry. Our experiences in dreams for the
most part take the form of visual images. Can these be explained by the
stimuli? Is it really the stimulus that we experience? If so, why is the
experience visual, when it can only be in the very rarest instance that
any stimulus has operated upon our eyesight? Or, can it be shown that
when we dream of speech any conversation or sounds resembling
conversation reached our ears during sleep? I venture to discard such a
possibility without any hesitation whatever.
If we cannot get any further with the common characteristics of dreams
as a starting-point, let us try beginning with their differences. Dreams
are often meaningless, confused, and absurd, yet there are some which
are sensible, sober, and reasonable. Let us see whether these latter
sensible dreams can help to elucidate those which are meaningless. I
will tell you the latest reasonable dream which was told to me, the
dream of a young man: “I went for a walk in the Kärntnerstrasse and
there I met Mr. X.; after accompanying him for a short time I went into
a restaurant. Two ladies and a gentleman came and sat down at my table.
At first I was annoyed and refused to look at them, but presently I
glanced across at them and found that they were quite nice.” The
dreamer’s comment on this was that the evening before he had actually
been walking in the Kärntnerstrasse, which is the way he usually goes,
and that he had met Mr. X. there. The other part of the dream was not a
direct reminiscence, but only bore a certain resemblance to an
occurrence of some time previously. Or here we have another prosaic
dream, that of a lady. “Her husband says to her: ‘Don’t you think we
ought to have the piano tuned?’ and she replies: ‘It is not worth it,
for the hammers need fresh leather anyhow.’” This dream repeats a
conversation which took place in almost the same words between herself
and her husband the day before the dream. What then do we learn from
these two prosaic dreams? Merely that there occur in them recollections
of daily life or of matters connected with it. Even that would be
something if it could be asserted of all dreams without exception. But
that is out of the question; this characteristic too belongs only to a
minority of dreams. In most dreams we find no connection with the day
before, and no light is thrown from this quarter upon meaningless and
absurd dreams. All we know is that we have met with a new problem. Not
only do we want to know what a dream is saying, but if as in our
examples that is quite plain, we want to know further from what cause
and to what end we repeat in dreams this which is known to us and has
recently happened to us.
I think you would be as tired as I of continuing the kind of attempts we
have made up to this point. It only shows that all the interest in the
world will not help us with a problem unless we have also an idea of
some path to adopt in order to arrive at a solution. Till now we have
not found this path. Experimental psychology has contributed nothing but
some (certainly very valuable) information about the significance of
stimuli in the production of dreams. Of philosophy we have nothing to
expect, unless it be a lofty repetition of the reproach that our object
is intellectually contemptible; while from the occult sciences we surely
do not choose to borrow. History and the verdict of the people tell us
that dreams are full of meaning and importance, and of prophetic
significance; but that is hard to accept and certainly does not lend
itself to proof. So then our first endeavours are completely baffled.
But unexpectedly there comes a hint from a direction in which we have
not hitherto looked. Colloquial speech, which is certainly no matter of
chance but the deposit, as it were, of ancient knowledge—a thing which
must not indeed be made too much of—our speech, I say, recognizes the
existence of something to which, strangely enough, it gives the name of
“day-dreams.” Day-dreams are phantasies (products of phantasy); they are
very common phenomena, are observable in healthy as well as in sick
persons, and they also can easily be studied by the subject himself. The
most striking thing about these ‘phantastic’ creations is that they have
received the name of “day-dreams,” for they have nothing in common with
the two universal characteristics of dreams. Their name contradicts any
relationship to the condition of sleep and, as regards the second
universal characteristic, no experience or hallucination takes place in
them, we simply imagine something; we recognize that they are the work
of phantasy, that we are not seeing but thinking. These day-dreams
appear before puberty, often indeed in late childhood, and persist until
maturity is reached when they are either given up or retained as long as
life lasts. The content of these phantasies is dictated by a very
transparent motivation. They are scenes and events which gratify either
the egoistic cravings of ambition or thirst for power, or the erotic
desires of the subject. In young men, ambitious phantasies predominate;
in women, whose ambition centres on success in love, erotic phantasies;
but the erotic requirement can often enough in men too be detected in
the background, all their heroic deeds and successes are really only
intended to win the admiration and favour of women. In other respects
these day-dreams show great diversity and their fate varies. All of them
are either given up after a short time and replaced by a new one, or
retained, spun out into long stories, and adapted to changing
circumstances in life. They march with the times, receiving as it were
“date-stamps” upon them which show the influence of new situations. They
form the raw material of poetic production; for the writer by
transforming, disguising, or curtailing them creates out of his
day-dreams the situations which he embodies in his stories, novels, and
dramas. The hero of a day-dream is, however, always the subject himself,
either directly imagined in the part or transparently identified with
someone else.
Perhaps day-dreams are so called on account of their similar relation to
reality, as an indication that their content is no more to be accepted
as real than is that of dreams. But it is possible that they share the
name of dreams because of some mental characteristic of the dream which
we do not yet know but after which we are seeking. On the other hand, it
is possible that we are altogether wrong in regarding this similarity of
name as significant. That is a question which can only be answered
later.
SIXTH LECTURE
PRELIMINARY HYPOTHESES AND TECHNIQUE OF INTERPRETATION
We thus realize our need of a new way of approach, a definite method, if
we are to make any advance in our researches into dreams. I will now
offer an obvious suggestion: let us accept as the basis of the whole of
our further enquiry the following hypothesis—that dreams are not a
somatic, but a mental, phenomenon. You know what this means; but what is
our justification in making this assumption? We have none, but on the
other hand there is nothing to prevent us. The position is this: if the
dream is a somatic phenomenon it does not concern us; it can only be of
interest to us on the hypothesis that it is a mental phenomenon. So we
will assume that this hypothesis is true, in order to see what happens
if we do so. The results of our work will determine whether we may
adhere to the assumption, and uphold it in its turn as an inference
fairly drawn. Now what exactly is the object of this enquiry of ours, or
to what are we directing our efforts? Our object is that of all
scientific endeavour—namely, to achieve an understanding of the
phenomena, to establish a connection between them, and, in the last
resort, wherever it is possible to increase our power over them.
So we continue our work on the assumption that dreams are a mental
phenomenon. In that event, they are a performance and an utterance on
the part of the dreamer, but of a kind that conveys nothing to us, and
which we do not understand. Now supposing that I give utterance to
something that you do not understand, what do you do? You ask me to
explain, do you not? Why may not we do the same—_ask the dreamer the
meaning of the dream_?
Remember, we have already found ourselves in a similar position. It
was when we were enquiring into certain errors, and the instance we
took was a slip of the tongue. Someone had said: “Then certain things
were _refilled_,” and thereupon we asked—no, fortunately it was not
_we_ who asked, but other people who had nothing to do with
psycho-analysis—_they_ asked what he meant by this enigmatic
expression. He answered at once that what he had intended to say was:
“That was a filthy business,” but had checked himself and substituted
the milder words: “Things were revealed there.” I explained to you
then that this enquiry was the model for every psycho-analytic
investigation, and you understand now that psycho-analytic technique
endeavours as far as possible to let the persons being analysed give
the answer to their own problems. The dreamer himself then should
interpret his dream for us.
That is not so simple with dreams, however, as we all know. Where errors
were concerned, this method proved possible in many cases; there were
others where the person questioned refused to say anything and even
indignantly repudiated the answer suggested to him. With dreams,
instances of the first type are entirely lacking; the dreamer always
says he knows nothing about it. He cannot very well repudiate our
interpretation, since we have none to offer him. Shall we have to give
up our attempt then? Since _he_ knows nothing, and _we_ know nothing,
and a third person can surely know nothing either, there cannot be any
prospect of finding the answer. Well, if you like, give up the attempt.
But if you are not so minded, you can accompany me. For I assure you
that it is not only quite possible, but highly probable, that the
dreamer really does know the meaning of his dream; _only he does not
know that he knows, and therefore thinks that he does not_.
At this point you will probably call my attention to the fact that I am
again introducing an assumption, the second in quite a short context,
and that by so doing I greatly detract from the force of my claim to a
trustworthy method of procedure. Given the hypothesis that dreams are a
mental phenomenon, and given further the hypothesis that there are in
the minds of men certain things which they know without knowing that
they know them—and so forth! You have only to keep in view the intrinsic
improbability of both these hypotheses, and you may with an easy mind
abandon all interest in the conclusions to be drawn from them.
Well, I have not brought you here either to delude you or to conceal
anything from you. True, I announced that I would give a course of
lectures entitled Introductory Lectures on Psycho-Analysis; but it was
no part of my purpose to play the oracle, professing to show you an easy
sequence of facts, whilst carefully concealing all difficulties, filling
up gaps, and glossing over doubtful points, so that you might
comfortably enjoy the belief that you have learnt something new. No, it
is the very fact that you are beginners that makes me anxious to show
you our science as it is, with all its excrescences and crudities, the
claims that it makes and the criticism to which it may give rise. I know
indeed that it is the same in every science and that, especially in the
beginnings, it cannot be otherwise. I know too that, in teaching other
sciences, an effort is made at first to hide these difficulties and
imperfections from the learner. But that cannot be done in
psycho-analysis. So I really have set up two hypotheses, the one within
the other; and anyone who finds it all too laborious, or too uncertain,
or who is used to higher degrees of certainty, or to more refined
deductions, need go no further with me. Only I should advise him to
leave psychological problems altogether alone, for it is to be feared
that this is a field in which he will find no access to such exact and
sure paths as he is prepared to tread. And, further, it is quite
superfluous for any science which can offer a real contribution to
knowledge to strive to make itself heard and to win adherents. Its
reception must depend upon its results, and it can afford to wait until
these have compelled attention.
But I may warn those of you who are not to be deterred in this way that
my two assumptions are not of equal importance. The first, that dreams
are a mental phenomenon, is the hypothesis which we hope to prove by the
results of our work. The second has already been proved in a different
field, and I am merely taking the liberty of transferring it thence to
our problems.
Where, and in what connection, is it supposed to have been proved that a
man can possess knowledge without knowing that he does so, which is the
assumption we are making of the dreamer? Surely that would be a
remarkable and surprising fact, which would change our conception of
mental life and would have no need of concealment. Incidentally, it
would be a fact belied in the very statement of it, which yet attempts
to be literally true—a contradiction in terms. There is not, however,
any attempt at concealment. We cannot blame the fact for people’s
ignorance of it, or lack of interest in it, any more than we ourselves
are to blame because all these psychological problems have been passed
in judgement by persons who have held aloof from all the observations
and experiments which alone can be conclusive.
The proof to which I refer was found in the sphere of hypnotic
phenomena. In the year 1889 I was present at the remarkably impressive
demonstrations by Liébault and Bernheim, in Nancy, and there I witnessed
the following experiment. A man was placed in a condition of
somnambulism, and then made to go through all sorts of hallucinatory
experiences. On being wakened, he seemed at first to know nothing at all
of what had taken place during his hypnotic sleep. Bernheim then asked
him in so many words to tell him what had happened while he was under
hypnosis. The man declared that he could not remember anything.
Bernheim, however, insisted upon it, pressed him, and assured him that
he did know and that he must remember, and lo and behold! the man
wavered, began to reflect, and remembered in a shadowy fashion first one
of the occurrences which had been suggested to him, then something else,
his recollection growing increasingly clear and complete until finally
it was brought to light without a single gap. Now, since in the end he
had the knowledge without having learnt anything from any other quarter
in the meantime, we are justified in concluding that these recollections
were in his mind from the outset. They were merely inaccessible to him;
he did not know that he knew them but believed that he did not know. In
fact, his case was exactly similar to what we assume the dreamer’s to
be.
I hope you are duly surprised that this fact is already established and
that you will ask me: “Why did you not refer to this proof before, when
we were considering errors and came to the point of ascribing to a man
who had made a slip of the tongue intentions behind his speech, of which
he knew nothing, and which he denied? If it is possible for a man to
believe that he knows nothing of experiences of which nevertheless he
does possess the recollection, it seems no longer improbable that there
should be other mental processes going on within him about which also he
knows nothing. We should certainly have been impressed by this argument
and should have been in a better position to understand about errors.”
Certainly, I might have brought forward this proof then, but I reserved
it for a later occasion when there would be more need for it. Some of
the errors explained themselves, others suggested to us that in order to
understand the connection between the phenomena it would be advisable to
postulate the existence of mental processes of which the person is
entirely ignorant. With dreams we are compelled to seek our explanations
elsewhere, and besides, I am counting on your being more ready to accept
in this connection a proof from the field of hypnosis. The condition in
which we perform errors must seem to you normal and, as such, to bear no
similarity to that of hypnosis. On the other hand there exists a clear
relationship between the hypnotic state and sleep, the essential
condition of dreaming. Hypnosis is actually called artificial sleep; we
say to the people whom we hypnotize: “Sleep,” and the suggestions made
to them are comparable to the dreams of natural sleep. The mental
situation is really analogous in the two cases. In natural sleep we
withdraw our interest from the whole outer world; so also in hypnotic
sleep, with the exception of the one person who has hypnotized us and
with whom we remain in rapport. Again, the so-called “nurse’s sleep” in
which the nurse remains in rapport with the child and can be wakened
only by him is a normal counterpart of hypnotic sleep. So it does not
seem so very audacious to carry over to natural sleep something which is
a condition in hypnosis. The assumption that some knowledge about his
dream exists in the dreamer and that this knowledge is merely
inaccessible to him, so that he himself does not believe he has it, is
not a wild invention. Incidentally, we observe here that a third way of
approaching the study of dreams is thus opened out for us; we may
approach it by the avenue of sleep-disturbing stimuli, by that of
day-dreams, and now by that of the dreams suggested during hypnosis.
Now perhaps we shall return to our task with greater confidence. We see
it is very probable that the dreamer knows something about his dream;
the problem is how to make it possible for him to get at his knowledge
and impart it to us. We do not expect him immediately to tell us what
his dream means, but we do think he will be able to discover its source,
from what circle of thoughts and interests it is derived. With errors,
you will remember the man was asked how the slip of the tongue
“refilled” had come about, and his first association gave us the
explanation. The technique we employ in the case of dreams is very
simple and is modelled on this example. Here again we shall ask the
dreamer how he came to have the dream, and his next words must be
regarded as giving the explanation in this case also. It makes no
difference to us therefore, whether he thinks that he does or does not
know anything about it, and we treat both cases alike.
This technique is certainly very simple, nevertheless I am afraid it
will provoke most strenuous opposition in you. You will say: “Another
assumption, the third! And the most improbable of all! When I ask the
dreamer what ideas come to him about the dream, do you mean to say that
his very first association will give the desired explanation? But surely
he might have no association at all, or heaven only knows what the
association might be. We cannot imagine upon what grounds such an
expectation is based. It really implies too much trust in Providence,
and this at a point where rather more exercise of the critical faculty
would better meet the case. Besides, a dream is not like a single slip
of the tongue but is made up of many elements. That being so, upon which
association is one to rely?”
You are right in all the unessentials. It is true that a dream differs
from a slip of the tongue in the matter of its many elements as well as
in other points. We must take account of that in our technique. So I
suggest to you that we divide the dream up into its various elements,
and examine each element separately; then we shall have re-established
the analogy with a slip of the tongue. Again, you are right in saying
that the dreamer when questioned on the single elements of the dream may
reply that he has no ideas about them. There are cases in which we
accept this answer, and later I will tell you which these are; curiously
enough, they are cases about which we ourselves may have certain
definite ideas. But in general, when the dreamer declares that he has no
ideas, we shall contradict him, press him to answer, assure him that he
must have some idea and—shall find we are right. He will produce an
association, any one, it does not matter to us what it is. He will be
especially ready with information which we may term historical. He will
say: “That is something which happened yesterday” (as in the instance of
the two “prosaic” dreams quoted above) or: “That reminds me of something
which happened recently,” and in this way we shall come to notice that
dreams are much more often connected with impressions of the day before
than we thought at first. Finally, with the dream as his starting-point,
he will recall events which happened less recently, and at last even
some which lie very far back in the past.
In regard to the main issue, however, you are wrong. When you think it
arbitrary to assume that the first association of the dreamer must give
us just what we are looking for, or at any rate lead to it, and further,
that the association is much more likely to be quite capricious and to
have no connection with what we are looking for, and that it only shows
my blind trust in Providence if I expect anything else—then you make a
very great mistake. I have already taken the liberty of pointing out to
you that there is within you a deeply-rooted belief in psychic freedom
and choice, that this belief is quite unscientific, and that it must
give ground before the claims of a determinism which governs even mental
life. I ask you to have some respect for the _fact_ that that one
association, and nothing else, occurs to the dreamer when he is
questioned. Nor am I setting up one belief against another. It can be
proved that the association thus given is not a matter of choice, not
indeterminate, and that it is not unconnected with what we are looking
for. Indeed, I have recently learnt—not that I attach too much
importance to the fact—that experimental psychology itself has brought
forward similar proofs.