Part 2

I would very energetically oppose any attempt to count the principles of repression and resistance as mere assumptions instead of results of psychoanalysis. Such assumptions of a general psychological and biological nature exist, and it would be quite to the point to deal with them in another place. The principle of repression, however, is an acquisition of the psychoanalytic work, won by legitimate means, as a theoretical extract from very numerous experiences. Just such an acquisition, but of much later days, is the theory of the infantile sexuality, of which no count was taken during the first years of tentative analytic investigation. At first it was only noticed that the effect of actual impressions had to be traced back to the past. However, “the seeker often found more than he bargained for.” He was tempted always further back into this past and finally hoped to be permitted to tarry in the period of puberty, the epoch of the traditional awakening of the sexual impulses. His hopes were in vain. The tracks led still further back into childhood and into its earliest years. In the process of this work it became almost fatal for this young science. Under the influence of the traumatic theory of hysteria, following Charcot, one was easily inclined to regard as real and as of etiological importance the accounts of patients who traced back their symptoms to passive sexual occurrences in the first years of childhood, that is to say, speaking plainly, to seductions. When this etiology broke down through its own unlikelihood, and through the contradiction of well-established circumstances, there followed a period of absolute helplessness. The analysis had led by the correct path to such infantile sexual traumas, and yet these were not true. Thus the basis of reality had been lost. At that time I would gladly have let the whole thing slide, as did my respected forerunner Breuer, when he made his unwished-for discovery. Perhaps I persevered only because I had no longer any choice of beginning something else. Finally I reflected that, after all, no one has a right to despair if he has been disappointed only in his expectations. He merely needs to review them. If hysterics refer their symptoms to imaginary traumas, then this new fact signifies that they create such scenes in their phantasies, and hence psychic reality deserves to be given a place next to actual reality. This was soon followed by the conviction that these phantasies serve to hide the autoerotic activities of the early years of childhood, to idealize them and place them on a higher level, and now the whole sexual life of the child made its appearance behind these phantasies.

In this sexual activity of the first years of childhood, the concomitant constitution could finally attain its rights. Disposition and experience here became associated into an inseparable etiological unity, in that the disposition raised certain impressions to inciting and fixed traumas, which otherwise would have remained altogether banal and ineffectual, whilst the experiences evoked factors from the disposition which, without them, would have continued to remain dormant, and, perhaps, undeveloped. The last word in the question of traumatic etiology was later on said by Abraham, when he drew attention to the fact that just the peculiar nature of the child’s sexual constitution enables it to provoke sexual experiences of a peculiar kind, that is to say, traumas.

My formulations concerning the sexuality of the child were founded at first almost exclusively on the results of the analyses of adults, which led back into the past. I was lacking in opportunity for direct observation of the child. It was, therefore, an extraordinary triumph when, years later, my discoveries were successfully confirmed for the greater part by direct observation and analyses of children of very early years, a triumph that appeared less and less on reflecting that the discovery was of such a nature that one really ought to be ashamed of having made it. The deeper one penetrated into the observation of the child, the more self-evident this fact seemed, and the more strange, too, became the circumstances that such pains had been taken to overlook it.

To be sure, so certain a conviction of the existence and significance of the infantile sexuality can be obtained only, if one follows the path of analysis, if one goes back from the symptoms and peculiarities of neurotics to their uttermost sources, the discovery of which explains what is explainable in them, and permits of modifying what can be changed. I understand that one can arrive at different conclusions if, as was recently done by C. G. Jung, one first forms for one’s self a theoretical conception of the nature of the sexual impulse and thereby tries to understand the life of the child. Such a conception can only be chosen arbitrarily or with regard to secondary considerations, and is in danger of becoming inadequate to the sphere in which it was to be utilized. Doubtless, the analytic way also leads to certain final difficulties and obscurities in regard to sexuality and its relation to the whole life of the individual; but these cannot be set aside by speculations, and must wait till solutions will be found by means of other observations or of observations in other spheres.

I shall briefly discuss the history of dream interpretation. This came to me as the first-fruits of the technical innovation, after, following a dim presentiment, I had decided to replace hypnosis with free associations. It was not the understanding of dreams towards which my curiosity was originally directed. I do not know of any influences which had guided my interest to this or inspired me with any helpful expectations. Before the cessation of my intercourse with Breuer I hardly had time to tell him, in so many words, that I now knew how to translate dreams. During the development of these discoveries the symbolism of the language of dreams was about the last thing which became known to me, since, for the understanding of symbols, the associations of the dreamer offer but little help. As I have held fast to the habit of first studying things themselves, before looking them up in books, I was able to ascertain for myself the symbolism of dreams before I was directed to it by the work of Sherner. Only later I came to value fully this means of expression of dreams. This was partly due to the influence of the works of Stekel, who was at first very meritorious but who later became most perfunctory. The close connection between the psychoanalytic interpretation of dreams and the once so highly esteemed art of dream interpretation of the ancients only became clear to me many years afterwards. The most characteristic and significant portion of my dream theory, namely, the reduction of the dream distortion to an inner conflict, to a sort of inner dishonesty, I found later in an author to whom medicine but not philosophy is unknown. I refer to the engineer J. Popper, who had published “Phantasies of a Realist” under the name of Lynkeus.

The interpretation of dreams became for me a solace and support in those difficult first years of analysis, when I had to master at the same time the technique, the clinic and the therapy of the neuroses, when I stood entirely alone, and in the confusion of problems and the accumulation of difficulties I often feared to lose my orientation and my confidence. It often took a long time before the proof of my assumption, that a neurosis must become comprehensible through analysis, was seen by the perplexed patient, but the dreams, which might be regarded as analogous to the symptoms, almost regularly confirmed this assumption.

Only because of these successes was I in condition to persevere. I have, therefore, acquired the habit of measuring the grasp of a psychological worker by his attitude to the problem of dream interpretation, and I have noticed, with satisfaction, that most of the opponents of psychoanalysis avoided this field altogether, or if they ventured into it, they behaved most awkwardly. The analysis of myself, the need of which soon became apparent to me, I carried out by the aid of a series of my own dreams which led me through all the happenings of my childhood years. Even today I am of the opinion that in the case of a prolific dreamer and a person not too abnormal, this sort of analysis may be sufficient.

By unfurling this developmental history, I believe I have shown what psychoanalysis is, better than I could have done by a systematic presentation of the subject. The special nature of my findings I did not then recognize. I sacrificed, unhesitatingly, my budding popularity as a physician and an extensive practice among nervous patients, because I searched directly for the sexual origin of their neuroses. In this way I gained a number of experiences which definitely confirmed my conviction of the practical significance of the sexual factor. Without any apprehension, I appeared as speaker at the Vienna Neurological Society, then under the presidency of Krafft-Ebing, expecting to be compensated, by the interest and recognition of my colleagues, for my own voluntary sacrifices. I treated my discoveries as indifferent contributions to science and hoped that others would treat them in the same way. Only the silence that followed my lectures, the space that formed about my person, and the insinuations directed towards me caused me to realize, gradually, that statements about the part played by sexuality in the etiology of the neuroses cannot hope to be treated like other communications. I realized that from then on I would belong to those who, according to Hebbel’s expression, “have disturbed the world’s sleep,” and that I could not count upon being treated objectively and with toleration. But as my conviction of the average correctness of my observations and the conclusions grew greater and greater, and as my faith in my own judgment was not small, any more than was my moral courage, there could be no doubt as to the issue of this situation. I decided to believe that it fell to my lot to discover particularly significant associations, and felt prepared to bear the fate which sometimes accompanies such discoveries.

This fate I pictured to myself in the following manner. I would probably succeed in sustaining myself through the therapeutic successes of the new treatment, but science would take no notice of me in my lifetime. Some decades later, another would surely stumble upon the same, now untimely things, compel their recognition and thus bring me to honor as a necessarily unfortunate forerunner. Meantime I arrayed myself as comfortably as possible à la Robinson Crusoe upon my lonely island. When I look back to those lonely years, from the perplexities and vexatiousness of the present, it seems to me it was a beautiful and heroic time. The “splendid isolation” did not lack its privileges and charms. I did not need to read any literature nor to listen to badly informed opponents. I was subject to no influences, and no pressure was brought to bear on me. I learned to restrain speculative tendencies and, following the unforgotten advice of my master, Charcot, I looked at the same things again and often until they began of themselves to tell me something. My publications, for which I found shelter despite some difficulty, could safely remain far behind my state of knowledge. They could be delayed as long as I pleased, as there was no doubtful “priority” to be defended. “The Interpretation of Dreams,” for example, was completed in all essentials in the beginning of 1896, but was written down only in 1899. The treatment of “Dora” was finished at the end of 1899. The history of her illness was completed in the next two weeks, but was only published in 1905. Meantime my writings were not in the reviewed professional literature of the day. If an exception was made they were always treated with scornful or pitying condescension. Sometimes a colleague would refer to me in one of his publications in very short and unflattering terms, such as “unbalanced,” “extreme,” or “very odd.” It happened once that an assistant at the clinic in Vienna asked me for permission to attend one of my lecture courses. He listened devoutly and said nothing, but after the last lecture he offered to accompany me. During this walk he disclosed to me that, with the knowledge of his chief, he had written a book against my teachings, but he expressed much regret that he had only come to know these teachings better through my lectures. Had he known these before, he would have written very differently. Indeed, he had inquired at the clinic if he had not better first read “The Interpretation of Dreams,” but had been advised against doing so, as it was not worth the trouble. As he now understood it, he compared my system of instruction with the Catholic Church. In the interests of his soul’s salvation I will assume that this remark contained a bit of sincere recognition. But he ended by saying that it was too late to alter anything in his book as it was already printed. This particular colleague did not consider it necessary later on to tell the world something of the change in his opinions concerning my psychoanalysis. On the contrary, as permanent reviewer of a medical journal, he showed a preference to follow its development with his hardly serious comments.

Whatever I possessed of personal sensitiveness was blunted in those years, to my advantage. But I was saved from becoming embittered by a circumstance that does not come to the assistance of all lonely discoverers. Such a one usually frets himself to find out the cause of the lack of sympathy or of the rejection he receives from his contemporaries, and perceives them as a painful contradiction against the certainty of his own conviction. That did not trouble me, for the psychoanalytic fundamental principles enabled me to understand this attitude of my environment as a necessary sequence. If it was true that the associations discovered by me were kept from the knowledge of the patient by inner affective resistances, then this resistance must manifest itself also in normal persons as soon as the repressed material is conveyed to them from the outside. It was not strange that these latter knew how to give intellectual reasons for their affective rejections of my ideas. This happened just as often with the patients, and the arguments advanced—arguments are as common as blackberries, to borrow from Falstaff’s speech—were the same and not exactly brilliant. The only difference was that in the case of patients one had the means of bringing pressure to bear, in order to help them recognize and overcome their resistances, but in the case of those seemingly normal, such help had to be omitted. To force these normal people to a cool and scientifically objective examination of the subject was an unsolved problem, the solution of which was best left to time. In the history of science it has often been possible to verify that the very assertion which, at first, called forth only opposition, received recognition a little later without the necessity of bringing forward any new proofs.

That I have not developed any particular respect for the opinion of the world or any desire for intellectual deference during those years, when I alone represented psychoanalysis, will surprise no one.

II

Beginning with the year 1902 a number of young doctors crowded about me with the expressed intention to learn psychoanalysis, to practice it and to spread it. The impetus for this came from a colleague who had himself experienced the beneficial effects of the analytic therapy. We met on certain evenings at my residence, and discussed subjects according to certain rules. The visitors endeavored to orient themselves in this strange and new realm of investigation, and to interest others in the matter. One day a young graduate of the technical school found admission to our circle by means of a manuscript which showed extraordinary sense. We induced him to go through college and enter the university, and then devote himself to the non-medical application of psychoanalysis. Thus the little society gained a zealous and reliable secretary, and I acquired in Otto Rank a most faithful helper and collaborator.

Soon the little circle expanded, and in the course of the next few years changed a good deal in its composition. On the whole, I could flatter myself that in the wealth and variety of talent our circle was hardly inferior to the staff of any clinical teacher. From the very beginning it included those men who later were to play a considerable, if not always a delectable, part in the history of the psychoanalytic movement. But these developments could not have been guessed at that time. I was satisfied, and I believe I did all I could, to convey to the others what I knew and had experienced. There were only two inauspicious circumstances which at least mentally estranged me from this circle. I could not succeed in establishing among the members that friendly relation which should obtain among men doing the same difficult work, nor could I crush out the quarrels about the priority of discoveries, for which there were ample opportunities in those conditions of working together. The difficulties of teaching the practise of psychoanalysis, which are particularly great, and are often to blame for the present rejection of psychoanalysis, already made themselves felt in this Viennese private psychoanalytic society. I myself did not dare to present an as yet incomplete technique, and a theory still in the making, with that authority which might have spared the others many a blind alley and many a final tripping up. The self-dependence of mental workers, their early independence of the teacher, is always gratifying psychologically, but it can only result in a scientific gain when during these labors certain, not too frequently occurring, personal relations are also fulfilled. Psychoanalysis particularly should have required a long and severe discipline and training of self-control. On account of the courage displayed in devotion to so ridiculed and fruitless a subject, I was inclined to tolerate among the members much to which otherwise I would have objected. Besides, the circle included not only physicians, but other cultured men who had recognized something significant in psychoanalysis. There were authors, artists, and so forth. The “Interpretation of Dreams,” the book on “Wit,” and other writings, had already shown that the principles of psychoanalysis cannot remain limited to the medical field, but are capable of application to various other mental sciences.

In 1907 the situation suddenly altered and quite contrary to all expectations; it became evident that psychoanalysis had unobtrusively awakened some interest and gained some friends, that there were even some scientific workers who were prepared to admit their allegiance. A communication from Bleuler had already acquainted me with the fact that my works were studied and applied in Burghölzli.[4] In January, 1907, the first man attached to the Zürich Clinic, Dr. Eitingon, visited me at Vienna. Other visitors soon followed, thus causing a lively exchange of ideas. Finally, by invitation of C. G. Jung, then still an assistant physician at Burghölzli, the first meeting took place at Salzburg, in the spring of 1908, where the friends of psychoanalysis from Vienna, Zürich, and other places met together. The result of this first psychoanalytic congress, was the founding of a periodical, which began to appear in 1909, under the name of “Jahrbuch für Psychoanalytische und Psychopathologische Forschungen,” published by Bleuler and Freud, and edited by Jung. An intimate comradeship in the work done at Vienna and Zürich found its expression in this publication.

I have repeatedly and gratefully acknowledged the efforts of the Zürich Psychiatric School in the spreading of psychoanalysis, especially those of Bleuler and Jung, and I do not hesitate to do the same today, even under such changed circumstances. It was certainly not the partisanship of the Zürich School which at that time first directed the attention of the scientific world to the subject of psychoanalysis. This latency period had just come to an end, and psychoanalysis everywhere became the object of constantly increasing interest. But whilst in all the other places this manifestation of interest resulted first in nothing but a violent and emphatic repudiation of the subject, in Zürich, on the contrary, the main feeling of the situation was that of agreement. In no other place was so compact a little gathering of adherents to be found, nowhere also was it possible to place a public clinic at the service of psychoanalytic investigation, or to find a clinical teacher who regarded the principles of psychoanalysis as an integral part of the teaching of psychiatry. The Zürich doctors became, as it were, the nucleus of the little band which was fighting for the recognition of psychoanalysis. Only in Zürich was there a possible opportunity to learn the new art and to apply it in practice. Most of my present-day followers and co-workers came to me via Zürich, even those who might have found, geographically speaking, a shorter road to Vienna than to Switzerland. Vienna lies in an eccentric position from western Europe, which houses the great centers of our culture. For many years it has been much affected by weighty prejudices. The representatives of the most prominent nations stream into Switzerland, which is so mentally active, and an infective lesion in this place was sure to become very important for the dissemination of the “psychic epidemic,” as Hoche of Freiburg called it.

According to the testimony of a colleague who was an eyewitness of the developments at Burghölzli, it may be asserted that psychoanalysis awakened an interest there very early. Already in Jung’s work on occult phenomena, published in 1902, there was an allusion to dream interpretation. Ever since 1903 or 1904, according to my informer, psychoanalysis came into prominence. After the establishment of personal relations between Vienna and Zürich, a society was also founded in Burghölzli in 1907 which discussed the problems of psychoanalysis at regular meetings. In the bond that united the Vienna and Zürich schools, the Swiss were by no means the merely recipient part. They had themselves already performed respectable scientific work, the results of which were of much use to psychoanalysis. The association-experiment, started by the Wundt School, had been interpreted by them in the psychoanalytic sense and had proved itself of unexpected usefulness. Thus it had become possible to get rapid experimental confirmation of psychoanalytic facts, and to demonstrate experimentally to beginners certain relationships which the analyst could only have talked about otherwise. The first bridge leading from experimental psychology to psychoanalysis had thus been constructed.

In psychoanalytic treatment, however, the association-experiment enables one to make only a preliminary, qualitative analysis of the case, it offers no essential contribution to the technique, and is really not indispensable in the work of analysis. Of more importance, however, was another discovery of the Zürich School, or rather, of its two leaders, Bleuler and Jung. The former pointed out that a great many purely psychiatric cases can be explained by the same psychoanalytic process as those used in dreams and in the neuroses (Freudsche Mechanismen). Jung employed with success the analytic method of interpretation in the strangest and most obscure phenomena of dementia præcox, the origin of which appeared quite clear when correlated with the life and interests of the patient. From that time on it became impossible for the psychiatrists to ignore psychoanalysis. Bleuler’s great work on Schizophrenie (1911), in which the psychoanalytic points of view are placed on an equal footing with the clinical-systematic ones, brought this success to completion.