used in dreams to symbolize the female sexual organs, you may learn from
mythologists how large a part has been played in the ideas and cults of
ancient times by “Mother Earth” and how the whole conception of
agriculture was determined by this symbolism. The fact that in dreams a
room represents a woman you may be inclined to trace to the German
colloquialism by which _Frauenzimmer_ (_lit._ “woman’s room”) is used
for _Frau_, that is to say, the human person is represented by the place
assigned for her occupation. Similarly we speak of the Porte, meaning
thereby the Sultan and his government, and the name of the ancient
Egyptian ruler, Pharaoh, merely means “great court.” (In the ancient
Orient the courts between the double gates of the city were places of
assembly, like the market-place in classical times.) But I think this
derivation is too superficial, and it strikes me as more probable that
the room came to symbolize woman on account of its property of enclosing
within it the human being. We have already met with the house in this
sense; from mythology and poetry we may take towns, citadels, castles
and fortresses to be further symbols for women. It would be easy to
decide the point by reference to the dreams of people who neither speak
nor understand German. Of late years I have mainly treated foreign
patients, and I think I recollect that in their dreams rooms stand in
the same way for women, even though there is no word analogous to our
_Frauenzimmer_ in their language. There are other indications that
symbolism may transcend the boundaries of language, a fact already
maintained by the old dream-investigator, Schubert, in 1862.
Nevertheless, none of my patients were wholly ignorant of German, so
that I must leave this question to be decided by those analysts who can
collect instances in other countries from persons who speak only one
language.[38]
Amongst the symbols for the male sexual organ, there is scarcely one
which does not appear in jests, or in vulgar or poetic phrases,
especially in the old classical poets. Here, however, we meet not only
with such symbols as occur in dreams but also with new ones, e.g. the
_implements_ employed in various kinds of work, first and foremost, the
_plough_. Moreover, when we come to male symbols, we trench on very
extensive and much-contested ground, which, in order not to waste time,
we will avoid. I should just like to devote a few remarks to the one
symbol which stands, as it were, by itself; I refer to the number
_three_. Whether this number does not in all probability owe its sacred
character to its symbolic significance is a question which we must leave
undecided, but it seems certain that many tripartite natural objects,
e.g. the clover-leaf, are used in coats-of-arms and as emblems on
account of their symbolism. The so-called “French” lily with its three
parts and, again, the “trisceles,” that curious coat-of-arms of two such
widely separated islands as Sicily and the Isle of Man (a figure
consisting of three bent legs projecting from a central point), are
supposed to be merely disguised forms of the male sexual organ, images
of which were believed in ancient times to be the most powerful means of
warding off evil influences (_apotropaea_); connected with this is the
fact that the lucky “charms” of our own time may all be easily
recognized as genital or sexual symbols. Let us consider a collection of
such charms in the form of tiny silver pendants: a four-leaved clover, a
pig, a mushroom, a horseshoe, a ladder and a chimney-sweep. The
four-leaved clover has taken the place of that with three leaves, which
was really more appropriate for the purposes of symbolism; the pig is an
ancient symbol of fruitfulness; the mushroom undoubtedly symbolizes the
penis, there are mushrooms which derive their name from their
unmistakable resemblance to that organ (_Phallus impudicus_); the
horseshoe reproduces the contour of the female genital opening; while
the chimney-sweep with his ladder belongs to this company because his
occupation is one which is vulgarly compared with sexual intercourse.
(Cf. _Anthropophyteia_.) We have learnt to recognize his ladder in
dreams as a sexual symbol: expressions in language show what a
completely sexual significance the word _steigen_, to mount, has, as in
the phrases: _Den Frauen nachsteigen_ (to run after women) and _ein
alter Steiger_ (an old roué). So, in French, where the word for “step”
is _la marche_, we find the quite analogous expression for an old rake:
_un vieux marcheur_. Probably the fact that with many of the larger
animals sexual intercourse necessitates a mounting or “climbing upon”
the female has something to do with this association of ideas.
Pulling off a branch to symbolize onanism is not only in agreement with
vulgar descriptions of that act, but also has far-reaching parallels in
mythology. But especially remarkable is the representation of onanism,
or rather of castration as the punishment for onanism, by the falling
out or extraction of teeth; for we find in folk-lore a counterpart to
this which could only be known to very few dreamers. I think that there
can be no doubt that circumcision, a practice common to so many peoples,
is an equivalent and replacement of castration. And recently we have
learnt that certain aboriginal tribes in Australia practise circumcision
as a rite to mark the attaining of puberty (at the celebration of the
boy’s coming of age), whilst other tribes living quite near have
substituted for this practice that of knocking out a tooth.
I will end my account with these examples. They are only examples; we
know more about this subject and you can imagine how much richer and
more interesting a collection of this sort might be made, not by
dilettanti like ourselves, but by real experts in mythology,
anthropology, philology and folk-lore. We are forced to certain
conclusions, which cannot be exhaustive, but nevertheless will give us
plenty to think about.
In the first place, we are confronted with the fact that the dreamer has
at his command a symbolic mode of expression of which he knows nothing,
and does not even recognize, in his waking life. This is as amazing as
if you made the discovery that your housemaid understood Sanscrit,
though you know that she was born in a Bohemian village and had never
learnt that language. It is not easy to bring this fact into line with
our views on psychology. We can only say that the dreamer’s knowledge of
symbolism is unconscious and belongs to his unconscious mental life, but
even this assumption does not help us much. Up till now we have only had
to assume the existence of unconscious tendencies which are temporarily
or permanently unknown to us; but now the question is a bigger one and
we have actually to believe in unconscious knowledge, thought-relations,
and comparisons between different objects, in virtue of which one idea
can constantly be substituted for another. These comparisons are not
instituted afresh every time, but are ready to hand, perfect for all
time; this we infer from their unanimity in different persons, even
probably in spite of linguistic differences.
Whence is our knowledge of this symbolism derived? The usages of speech
cover only a small part of it, whilst the manifold parallels in other
fields are for the most part unknown to the dreamer; we ourselves had to
collate them laboriously in the first instance.
In the second place, these symbolic relations are not peculiar to the
dreamer or to the dream-work by which they are expressed; for we have
discovered that the same symbolism is employed in myths and fairy tales,
in popular sayings and songs, in colloquial speech and poetic phantasy.
The province of symbolism is extraordinarily wide: dream-symbolism is
only a small part of it; it would not even be expedient to attack the
whole problem from the side of dreams. Many of the symbols commonly
occurring elsewhere either do not appear in dreams at all or appear very
seldom; on the other hand, many of the dream-symbols are not met with in
every other department, but, as you have seen, only here and there. We
get the impression that here we have to do with an ancient but obsolete
mode of expression, of which different fragments have survived in
different fields, one here only, another there only, a third in various
spheres perhaps in slightly different forms. At this point I am reminded
of the phantasy of a very interesting insane patient, who had imagined a
“primordial language” (_Grundsprache_) of which all these symbols were
survivals.
In the third place, it must strike you that the symbolism occurring in
the other fields I have named is by no means confined to sexual themes,
whereas in dreams the symbols are almost exclusively used to represent
sexual objects and relations. This again is hard to account for. Are we
to suppose that symbols originally of sexual significance were later
employed differently and that perhaps the decline from symbolic to other
modes of representation is connected with this? It is obviously
impossible to answer these questions by dealing only with
dream-symbolism; all we can do is to hold fast to the supposition that
there is a specially close relation between true symbols and sexuality.
An important clue in this connection has recently been given to us in
the view expressed by a philologist (H. Sperber, of Upsala, who works
independently of psycho-analysis), that sexual needs have had the
largest share in the origin and development of language. He says that
the first sounds uttered were a means of communication, and of summoning
the sexual partner, and that in the later development the elements of
speech were used as an accompaniment to the different kinds of work
carried on by primitive man. This work was performed by associated
efforts, to the sound of rhythmically repeated utterances, the effect of
which was to transfer a sexual interest to the work. Primitive man thus
made his work agreeable, so to speak, by treating it as the equivalent
of and substitute for sexual activities. The word uttered during the
communal work had therefore two meanings, the one referring to the
sexual act, the other to the labour which had come to be equivalent to
it. In time the word was dissociated from its sexual significance and
its application confined to the work. Generations later the same thing
happened to a new word with a sexual signification, which was then
applied to a new form of work. In this way a number of root-words arose
which were all of sexual origin but had all lost their sexual meaning.
If the statement here outlined be correct, a possibility at least of
understanding dream-symbolism opens out before us. We should comprehend
why it is that in dreams, which retain something of these primitive
conditions, there is such an extraordinarily large number of sexual
symbols; and why weapons and tools in general stand for the male, and
materials and things worked on for the female. The symbolic relation
would then be the survival of the old identity in words; things which
once had the same name as the genitalia could now appear in dreams as
symbolizing them.
Further, our parallels to dream-symbolism may assist you to appreciate
what it is in psycho-analysis which makes it a subject of general
interest, in a way that was not possible to either psychology or
psychiatry; psycho-analytic work is so closely intertwined with so many
other branches of science, the investigation of which gives promise of
the most valuable conclusions: with mythology, philology, folk-lore,
folk psychology and the study of religion. You will not be surprised to
hear that a publication has sprung from psycho-analytic soil, of which
the exclusive object is to foster these relations. I refer to _Imago_,
first published in 1912 and edited by Hanns Sachs and Otto Rank. In its
relation to all these other subjects, psycho-analysis has in the first
instance given rather than received. True, analysis reaps the advantage
of receiving confirmation of its own results, seemingly so strange,
again in other fields; but on the whole it is psycho-analysis which
supplies the technical methods and the points of view, the application
of which is to prove fruitful in these other provinces. The mental life
of the human individual yields, under psycho-analytic investigation,
explanations which solve many a riddle in the life of the masses of
mankind or at any rate can show these problems in their true light.
I have still given you no idea of the circumstances in which we may
arrive at the deepest insight into that hypothetical “primordial
language,” or of the province in which it is for the most part retained.
As long as you do not know this you cannot appreciate the true
significance of the whole subject. I refer to the province of neurosis;
the material is found in the symptoms and other modes of expression of
nervous patients, for the explanation and treatment of which
psycho-analysis was indeed devised.
My fourth point of view takes us back to the place from which we started
and leads into the track we have already marked out. We said that even
if there were no dream-censorship we should still find it difficult to
interpret dreams, for we should then be confronted with the task of
translating the symbolic language of dreams into the language of waking
life. SYMBOLISM, then, is a second and independent factor in
dream-distortion, existing side by side with the censorship. But the
conclusion is obvious that it suits the censorship to make use of
symbolism, in that both serve the same purpose: that of making the dream
strange and incomprehensible.
Whether a further study of the dream will not introduce us to yet
another contributing factor in the distortion, we shall soon see. But I
must not leave the subject of dream-symbolism without once more touching
on the puzzling fact that it has succeeded in rousing such strenuous
opposition amongst educated persons, although the prevalence of
symbolism in myth, religion, art and language is beyond all doubt. Is it
not probable that, here again, the reason is to be found in its relation
to sexuality?
ELEVENTH LECTURE
THE DREAM-WORK
When you have successfully grasped the dream-censorship and symbolic
representation, you will not, it is true, have mastered dream-distortion
in its entirety, but you will nevertheless be in a position to
understand most dreams. To do so, you will make use of the two
complementary methods: you will call up the dreamer’s associations till
you have penetrated from the substitute to the thought proper for which
it stands, and you will supply the meaning of the symbols from your own
knowledge of the subject. We will speak later of certain doubtful points
which may arise in the process.
We can now return to a task which we attempted earlier with inadequate
equipment, when we were studying the relations between dream-elements
and the thoughts proper underlying them. We then determined the
existence of four such main relations: substitution of the part for the
whole, hints or allusions, symbolic connection, and plastic
word-representation (images). We will now try to deal with this subject
on a larger scale, by a comparison of the _manifest_ dream-content as a
whole with the _latent_ dream as laid bare by our interpretation.
I hope you will never again confuse these two things. If you succeed in
distinguishing between them, you will have advanced further towards an
understanding of dreams than in all probability most of the readers of
my _Interpretation of Dreams_ have done. Let me again remind you that
_the process by which the latent dream is transformed into the manifest
dream is called_ THE DREAM-WORK; while the reverse process, which seeks
to progress from the manifest to the latent thoughts, is our work of
interpretation; the work of interpretation therefore aims at demolishing
the dream-work. In dreams of the infantile type in which the obvious
wish-fulfilments are easily recognized, the process of dream-work has
nevertheless been operative to some extent, for the wish has been
transformed into a reality and, usually, the thoughts also into visual
images. Here no interpretation is necessary; we only have to retrace
both these transformations. The further operations of the dream-work, as
seen in the other types of dreams, we call _dream-distortion_, and here
the original ideas have to be restored by our interpretative work.
Having had the opportunity of comparing many dream-interpretations, I am
in a position to give you a comprehensive account of the manner in which
the dream-work deals with the material of the latent dream-thoughts. But
please do not expect to understand too much: it is a piece of
description which should be listened to quietly and attentively.
The first achievement of the dream-work is CONDENSATION; by this term we
mean to convey the fact that the content of the manifest dream is less
rich than that of the latent thoughts, is, as it were, a kind of
abbreviated translation of the latter. Now and again condensation may be
lacking, but it is present as a rule and is often carried to a very high
degree. It never works in the opposite manner, i.e. it never happens
that the manifest dream is wider in range or richer in content than is
the latent dream. Condensation is accomplished in the following ways:
(1) certain latent elements are altogether omitted; (2) of many
complexes in the latent dream only a fragment passes over into the
manifest content; (3) latent elements sharing some common characteristic
are in the manifest dream put together, blended into a single whole.
If you prefer to do so, you can reserve the term ‘condensation’ for this
last process, the effects of which are particularly easy to demonstrate.
Taking your own dreams, you will be able without any trouble to recall
instances of the condensation of different persons into a single figure.
Such a composite figure resembles A. in appearance, but is dressed like
B., pursues some occupation which recalls C., and yet all the time you
know that it is really D. The composite picture serves, of course, to
lay special emphasis upon some characteristic common to the four people.
And it is possible also for a composite picture to be formed with
objects or places, as with persons, provided only that the single
objects or places have some common attribute upon which the latent dream
lays stress. It is as though a new and fugitive concept were formed, of
which the common attribute is the kernel. From the superimposing of the
separate parts which undergo condensation there usually results a
blurred and indistinct picture, as if several photographs had been taken
on the same plate.
The formation of such composite figures must be of great importance in
the dream-work, for we can prove that the common properties necessary to
their formation are purposely manufactured where at first sight they
would seem to be lacking, as, for example, by the choice of some
particular verbal expression for a thought. We have already met with
instances of condensation and composite-formation of this sort; they
played an important part in originating many slips of the tongue. You
will remember the case of the young man who wished to “insort” a lady
(_beleidigen_ = insult, _begleiten_ = escort, composite word
_begleitdigen_). Besides, there are jokes in which the technique is
traceable to condensation of this sort. Apart from this, however, we may
venture to assert that this process is something quite unusual and
strange. It is true that in many a creation of phantasy we meet with
counterparts to the formation of the composite persons of our dreams,
component parts which do not belong to one another in reality being
readily united into a single whole by phantasy, as, for instance, in the
centaurs and fabulous animals of ancient mythology or of Boecklin’s
pictures. “Creative” phantasy can, in fact, invent nothing new, but can
only regroup elements from different sources. But the peculiar thing
about the way in which the dream-work proceeds is this: its material
consists of thoughts, some of which may be objectionable and
disagreeable, but which nevertheless are correctly formed and expressed.
The dream-work transmutes these thoughts into another form, and it is
curious and incomprehensible that in this process of translation—of
rendering them, as it were, into another script or language—the means of
blending and combining are employed. The translator’s endeavour in other
cases must surely be to respect the distinctions observed in the text,
and especially to differentiate between things which are similar but not
the same; the dream-work, on the contrary, strives to condense two
different thoughts by selecting, after the manner of wit, an ambiguous
word which can suggest both thoughts. We must not expect to understand
this characteristic straight away, but it may assume great significance
for our conception of the dream-work.
Although condensation renders the dream obscure, yet it does not give
the impression of being an effect of the dream-censorship. Rather we
should be inclined to trace it to mechanical or economic factors;
nevertheless the censorship’s interests are served by it.
What condensation can achieve is sometimes quite extraordinary: by this
device it is at times possible for two completely different latent
trains of thought to be united in a single manifest dream, so that we
arrive at an apparently adequate interpretation of a dream and yet
overlook a second possible meaning.
Moreover, one of the effects of condensation upon the relationship
between the manifest and the latent dream is that the connection between
the elements of the one and of the other nowhere remains a simple one;
for by a kind of interlacing a manifest element represents
simultaneously several latent ones and, conversely, a latent thought may
enter into several manifest elements. Again, when we come to interpret
dreams, we see that the associations to a single manifest element do not
commonly make their appearance in orderly succession; we often have to
wait until we have the interpretation of the whole dream.
The dream-work, then, follows a very unusual mode of transcription for
the dream-thoughts; not a translation, word for word, or sign for sign;
nor yet a process of selection according to some definite rule, for
instance, as though the consonants only of the words were reproduced and
the vowels omitted; nor again what one might call a process of
representation, one element being always picked out to represent several
others. It works by a different and much more complicated method.
The second achievement of the dream-work is DISPLACEMENT. Fortunately
here we are not breaking perfectly fresh ground; indeed, we know that it
is entirely the work of the dream-censorship. Displacement takes two
forms: first, a latent element may be _replaced_, not by a part of
itself, but by something more remote, something of the nature of an
allusion; and, secondly, the _accent_ may be transferred from an
important element to another which is unimportant, so that the centre of
the dream is shifted as it were, giving the dream a foreign appearance.
Substitution by allusion is familiar to us in our waking thoughts also,
but with a difference; for it is essential in the latter that the
allusion should be easily comprehensible, and that the content of the
substitute should be associated to that of the thought proper. Allusion
is also frequently employed in wit, where the condition of association
in content is dispensed with and replaced by unfamiliar external
associations, such as similarity of sound, ambiguity of meaning, etc.
The condition of comprehensibility, however, is observed: the joke would
lose all its point if we could not recognize without any effort what is
the actual thing to which the allusion is made. But in dreams allusion
by displacement is unrestricted by either limitation. It is connected
most superficially and most remotely with the element for which it
stands, and for that reason is not readily comprehensible; and, when the
connection is traced, the interpretation gives the impression of an
unsuccessful joke or of a “forced,” far-fetched and “dragged in”
explanation. The object of the dream-censorship is only attained when it
has succeeded in making it impossible to trace the thought proper back
from the allusion.
Displacement of accent is not a legitimate device if our object be the
expression of thought; though we do sometimes admit it in waking life in
order to produce a comic effect. I can to some extent convey to you the
impression of confusion which then results, by reminding you of an
anecdote, according to which there was in a certain village a smith who
had committed a capital offence. The court decided that the smith was
guilty; but, since he was the only one of his trade in the village and
therefore indispensable, whereas there were three tailors living there,
one of these three was hanged in his place!