Part 2
As far as “words, words, words” are concerned, they are surely not to be looked down upon. Words, after all, are a powerful instrument, the means by which we express our feelings to each other, the agent through which we influence one another. Words are able to benefit us in the extreme, or liable to hurt us to the quick. Doubtless, “in the beginning was the Deed” and the Word came only later. Under certain circumstances, the reduction of the Deed to the mere Word may even prove a cultural achievement. At any rate, the Word was originally an implement of sorcery, a magic manifestation which even today still retains much of its old potency.
Mr. Referee now remarks: “Assuming that the patient is not any better prepared for the understanding of psychoanalytical treatment, than I myself, how are you going to induce him to believe in the Magic of the Word, that is to deliver him from his sufferings?”
Of course, some preparatory work is necessary, but that is easily accomplished in a simple manner. The patient is asked to be absolutely frank with the psychoanalyst, not to withhold intentionally anything that crowds itself into his mind, and to overcome gradually all such influences as may exert themselves to prevent certain of his thoughts or memories from being communicated to the psychoanalyst.
There is not one of us but does not know that there are certain things which we hate to tell anybody else, or which we are utterly unable to express at all. These are the so-called “most intimate” things. We also surmise—and this proves the great progress that has been made in the psychological understanding of our Selves—that there are some other things which we hate to admit to ourselves, which we try to hide from ourselves and which, once they are accidentally touched upon, we immediately endeavor to crowd out of our thoughts.
Doubtless, the root of a very remarkable psychological problem manifests itself in the fact that there are certain of our thoughts which we try to hide from our very own Self! That would seem to indicate that our very own Self is not an indivisible unit, as we have always considered it! Rather, that there is a certain something which may rise in opposition to our very own Self! Vaguely, then, we surmise that our own Self and our soul life may be two different things! If, now, the patient submits to the demand of psychoanalysis to express everything in words that comes to his mind, he comes to believe that an interchange of thoughts, under such extraordinary conditions, is liable to lead to extraordinary results.
“I understand you very well,” Mr. Referee says. “You simply assume that everybody suffering from a nervous disturbance is harboring something that depresses him, some dark secret, perhaps, and by inducing him to impart this secret to you, you relieve him of that depression, thus alleviating his suffering. That, after all, is the very principle of the Confessional which the Catholic church has employed for centuries to wield her influence over her communicants.”
Yes and no, is our answer to this. The Confessional, to a certain extent, may be considered as belonging into the realm of psychoanalysis; leading up to it, as it were. However, the Confessional as such is far removed from coinciding with the very being of psychoanalysis, and it is unable to explain the results of psychoanalytical treatment. In the Confessional, the sinner tells what he knows, but in the Analysis, the neurotic is expected to reveal much more. Besides, there are no known cases where the Confessional proved effective enough to remedy direct symptoms of ailments.
“Then I don’t understand you after all,” Mr. Referee interjects. “What do you mean by stating that the neurotic is ‘expected to reveal more’ in the course of psychoanalytical treatment? Of course, I can very well imagine that you, as a psychoanalyst, may wield a greater influence over your patient than the Father Confessor over a penitent, for the simple reason that you become better acquainted with him, employing your growing influence to talk unhealthy thoughts out of your patient, as it were, disseminating his apprehensions, and so forth. Frankly, it appears most remarkable to me that by such a procedure, it should be possible to alleviate purely physical manifestations, such as nausea, diarrhœa, and cramps. I know that such results are possible by taking recourse to hypnosis. Most probably, through prolonged association with your patient, you gradually succeed in establishing hypnotic relations between you and him. By this I mean that you inadvertently come to exert upon him a suggestive influence. Thus, the miracle wrought by your therapy is nothing other than the result of hypnotic suggestion. However, as far as I know, results by hypnotic therapy are procured much quicker than by psychoanalysis which you yourself admit takes months, and sometimes even years.”
After all, Mr. Referee does not seem to be so utterly uninformed and helplessly at sea as we had considered him in the beginning. Doubtless, he is eagerly bent upon grasping the essence of psychoanalysis, on the basis of certain knowledge which he has acquired. He endeavors to connect psychoanalysis with something he already knows.
Thus, he forces upon us the difficult task of explaining to him that he will never succeed in comprehending psychoanalysis in this way, because psychoanalysis is a process _sui generis_, something new and peculiar, understandable only with the assistance of new conceptions, or presumptions.
However, we still owe our inquisitive friend a reply to a point raised by him.
What you, Mr. Referee, mentioned before about the personal influence exerted by the psychoanalyst on his patient, should not go without comment. Such an influence actually prevails in the analysis, playing an important rôle. However, this influence is utterly unlike the influence induced by hypnosis.
I shall have to prove to you that the situations in these two cases decidedly differ from each other. However, for the time being, the statement may suffice that this personal influence—this “suggestive element” if you wish—is not drawn upon for the purpose of suppressing symptoms of nervous afflictions analogous to treatment by hypnotic suggestions. Besides, it is absolutely wrong to assume that this “suggestive element” is the agent and promoter of analytical treatment. It may be that such is the case right at the beginning of the treatment. Later, however, this very same “suggestive element” proves itself an opposing factor, forcing us to resort to extensive counter-measures.
Just let me explain to you how thoroughly opposed the technique of analysis is to anything and everything resembling the hypnotic technique of diverting or dissipating a patient’s apprehensions.
Assumed that our patient is obsessed with an intense feeling of being guilty of, say, some horrible crime, we do not advise him to stifle the qualms of his conscience simply on the strength of the fact that there is no doubt as to his innocence. He himself has already proceeded along this trend of reasoning, but to no avail. On the contrary, we try to impress him with the possibility that there may be something tangible at the bottom of so profound a feeling of guilt, and that it may be possible to detect this disturbing something.
“I should be greatly astonished,” Mr. Referee interrupts, “if you could really assuage your patient’s feeling of guilt by agreeing that there may be some tangible reason for his apprehension. But what is the mode of procedure which is applied in your analysis, and to what treatment do you subject your patient?”
III
To make myself perfectly plain to you, it will be necessary for me to acquaint you with certain psychological teachings which are not known beyond the circle of analysts and accordingly, not appreciated beyond this group. On the basis of this theory, it will be easy for you to deduce what we expect of the patient and how we go about obtaining it.
In explaining matters to you, I will allude to our theory dogmatically, as if it already were an accepted doctrine. Nevertheless, I do not want you to assume that our theory, as I shall presently put it before you, came into being as a fully developed, well-rounded out philosophical system. The development of our theory came about only very gradually, little by little, and was built up through continuous contact with observations. Moreover, our theory, in accordance with these observations, was continually modified until it finally evolved in a manner apparently satisfactory for our purposes.
Only so short a time as a few years back, it would have been necessary for me to express this theory in somewhat different terms. And even today, I cannot guarantee that the terms I am using are definitely fixed and will not be modified again. You know very well that scientific truths do not burst upon us with the unexpectedness of a sudden phenomenon. As a rule, any science, long after its early stages, lacks the character of definiteness, unchangeability, and infallibility for which our human way of thinking longs so intensely. However, any science, as it presents itself to contemporaries, is science as its best, so far as contemporaries are able to judge.
My introductory remarks, I hope, will assist you in gaining a correct perspective in reference to psychoanalysis, especially when I ask you to bear in mind that our specific science is still very young—hardly as old as our century, as a matter of fact—and deals with about the most difficult matter presenting itself to human research. Let me therefore encourage you to interrupt me unabashedly in my explanations, when you do not grasp the full meaning of my words and require further elucidation.
“I am already interrupting you, even before you really start. You say that you are going to acquaint me with a new psychology. But I was always under the impression that psychology as such is no new science. As a matter of fact, it seems to me there always has been enough psychology and enough psychologists. In college, I learned of the great things achieved in this realm of human endeavor.”
Far be it from me to deny these achievements. However, scrutinizing them closely, you will find that they rather belong in the category of sensory psychology. A doctrine of soul life never had a chance for development, because its conception was obstructed by one very essential misunderstanding. After all, what does psychology embrace today, as it is taught in colleges? Aside from a few important sensorimotoric perceptions, there are just a number of classifications and definitions referring to certain processes of the soul which, thanks to the fact that these terms have become a part of our living language, are now the common property of all educated people. To all appearances, such limited information does not enable us to clearly grasp our soul life.
Did you ever notice that every philosopher, poet, historian and biographer evolves his own psychology, based on individual presumptions, in regard to the connection and the ultimate purpose of psychological phenomena, all of which are more or less acceptable but altogether and equally unreliable? Seemingly, a common foundation is missing. Thus it happens that in the realm of psychology, there is an utter lack of respect and authority. There, obviously, anybody is permitted to “poach” or “freelance” to his heart’s content.
If you touch upon a question of physiology or chemistry, nobody will dare speak up, unless he is in possession of authentic information. However, when discussing psychological questions, you may expect everybody to venture an opinion, or raise his voice in protest. Evidently, there is no “professional knowledge” in his realm! Inasmuch as everybody has a soul life, everybody considers himself a born psychologist.
There is a story of an old woman who offered her services to take care of babies. When asked whether she knew anything about babies, her answer was: Why, sure, haven’t I been a baby myself once?
“And this common foundation of soul life, overlooked by all psychologists, you claim to have discovered through the observation of ailing people?”
I do not believe that the origin of our findings minimizes their value. Embryology, for example, would not enjoy any confidence as a science if it were unable to explain clearly the origin of pre-natal deformities.
You will remember that I have mentioned before persons whose thoughts insist upon travelling their own way. To such an extent as a matter of fact, that such persons are forced to ponder about problems which do not interest them at all.
Do you believe that psychology, as generally taught, will be in a position to render even so much as the slightest assistance for the explanation of such anomalies? And after all, there is not one of us whose thoughts, during the night, do not travel their very own way, creating visions which we are unable to interpret, which we are at a loss to understand, and which frequently appear to be, to an almost disquieting extent, products of morbidity.
I am now referring to our dream life! Among the majority of people, the opinion always prevailed, and still prevails, that there is an inherent meaning to dreams, that some attention ought to be paid to our nocturnal visions, that a certain interpretative value is attached to them. Orthodox psychologists have never been able to interpret the meaning of dreams. To them, dreams were something with which they did not know what to do. And as soon as orthodox psychology tried to interpret our dream life, their explanations ventured far afield from psychology proper. Dreams, according to them, were nothing other than the result of physiological sensations, originating from an unequal soundness of sleep in different parts of the brain. I venture to state right here, that any psychology unable to explain the essence of our dreams is also inapplicable to the understanding of normal soul life and cannot be expected to be recognized as science.
“You are becoming so aggressive that I surmise one of your sensitive spots has been touched upon. I have heard before that in psychoanalysis great value is attached to dreams, that dreams are interpreted and behind them old memories of actual events are sought. On the other hand, I also know that the interpretation of dreams is left to the arbitrary conception of the analyst and that the analysts between themselves have frequent squabbles, in regard to the question of how to interpret a certain dream and the justification of arriving at certain conclusions. If this is really the case, I do not think you should stress the advantage of psychoanalysis, in regard to orthodox psychology.”
There you have said something very appropriate. It is only too true that the interpretation of dreams in theory, as well as practice of psychoanalysis, has achieved incomparable importance.
If at this point, I appear to be aggressive to you, this must be looked upon as a defense mechanism. When I reflect upon all the nuisance brought about by some of our analysts in connection with the interpretation of dreams, I could despair. I feel like quoting the pessimistic truism of our great satirist Nestroy, who once said: “Any progress is only half as great as it seems to be in the beginning!” But haven’t you noticed that we mortals are always bent upon confounding everything and distorting it? Nevertheless, with a little caution and self-training, most of the dangers lurking behind the interpretation of dreams can be avoided.
But it will never be possible for me to get down to the explanation of our new science which I promised you, if we continually digress.
“If I understood you correctly, you were going to speak about the fundamental presumptions underlying the new psychology.”
It was not my intention to start with that. Rather, I intend to tell you what we have learned of the soul apparatus, in the course of our analytical studies.
“What do you mean by ‘soul apparatus’ and what is it made of, may I ask?”
You will soon enough see what the soul apparatus is. It is irrelevant to ask of what material it is made, as this question has no psychological interest. As far as psychology is concerned, the question of material is just as unimportant as the question would be in the realm of optic, of whether a telescope is made of metal or cardboard. The question of matter does not enter here at all, but there is great importance attached to the aspect of space.
This obscure soul apparatus, which serves as the agent for all processes of our soul, is conceived by us as an instrument consisting of several parts. Each of these parts we shall call a stage. There is an individual function attached to each of these stages, and all of them are correlated to each other in reference to space. Aspects of space like “near” and “far,” and “above” and “below,” for the time being, only serve to illustrate the regular sequence of the functions allotted to the different stages of the soul apparatus.—Do you still follow me?
“Hardly! However, I hope I will understand you eventually. At any rate, your explanation appeals to me as a somewhat peculiar description of the anatomy of the soul, which, according to biologists, is nonexistent.”
I will grant that what you call my “somewhat peculiar description of the anatomy of the soul,” is merely a parallel drawn upon for the purpose of elucidation, as is so often done in sciences. In the early stages of a new science such parallels have always been quite primitive,—open to revision, as it were. I consider it superfluous to strengthen my argument by referring to the frequently applied “if,” as is quite popular in such cases. The actual value of such “if” argumentations—“fiction” the philosopher Vaihinger would call it—greatly depends on how advantageously this argumentation may be applied to the case in question.
However, for argument’s sake, let us accept the popular conception and assume that within us there is a psychical organization, recording sensations and perceptions of physical wants on one hand, and releasing motoric actions on the other. This medium for establishing this definite coöperation we call the “I.”
Of course, this is nothing new. Each one of us takes this for granted, if he is not a philosopher, and some despite being philosophers. However, our description of the psychical apparatus is not by far complete.
Aside from the “I,” we perceive another region of the soul, much more extensive, much more impressive, and much more obscure than the “I,” which we designate the “It.”
It is the relation between the “I” and the “It” upon which we shall dwell first.
Doubtless, you will raise an objection against our intention to refer to these two regions or stages of the soul with simple pronouns, instead of giving them beautiful euphonious Greek names. However, in psychoanalysis, we prefer to remain in contact with the popular way of thinking, and attach commonplace terms to our scientific conceptions, rather than look upon such nomenclature in contempt. We do not expect to receive credit for this popularization of psychoanalytical terms, inasmuch as we are forced to do this in order to make ourselves plain to our patients who are frequently very intelligent, but not always exactly learned people.
The impersonal pronoun “It” is most appropriate for our purposes, as is plainly proved by the fact that we frequently speak of something, averring that “‘It’ came to me quite suddenly”; “‘It’ gave me a shock”; “‘It’ was stronger than I.” “_C’était plus fort que moi._”
In the realm of psychology, we can only make ourselves understood by taking recourse to comparisons. This, after all, is no special peculiarity of psychology, inasmuch as other sciences also find it necessary to avail themselves of analogous expedients. These comparisons, however, must be modified time and again, as their application generally proves too limited. If you are seeking an explanation of the relation of the “I” to the “It,” it would be well to remember that the “I” serves as a foreground to the “It.” The “I” is, as it were, the outer, front layer of the “It.” We may so much more readily accept this comparison, inasmuch as layers—say, of a tree—owe their peculiar characteristics to the modifying influence of that exterior medium with which they are in contact. Thus, we visualize that the “I,” being the outer layer of the psychical apparatus, is the “It,” modified in accordance with the influence which the outer world exerts upon it.
Here you will perceive how conceptions of space apply to psychoanalysis. To all intents and purposes, the “I” is actually the front layer, the obvious, whereas the “It” is the inner layer, the hidden. To make it even more plain: The “I” is inserted between the reality of the outer world and the “It,” the latter constituting the soul proper, the essence of the soul, as it were.
“I am not going to inquire how you came to know all this. I should first like to know how this differentiation between the ‘I’ and the ‘It’ assists you in your psychoanalytical work, and why you need it.”
Your question clearly shows me how to proceed.
It is most important and extremely valuable to know that the “I” and the “It,” in many instances, greatly differ from each other. As far as the “I” is concerned, psychical activations are subject to a different rule than the one applying to the “It.” The “I” has different intentions from the “It,” availing itself of means other than those resorted to by the “It.”
Of course, much could be said in this respect, but perhaps it will be best if I give you a new comparison and a new example. Just remember the differences which developed, during the late war, between the actual front and the hinterland. We were apparently never surprised to observe that there were certain things going on at the front, utterly different from analogous developments in the hinterland, and that in the hinterland many a thing was permissible which had to be strictly prohibited at the front. In the war, the deciding factor, of course, was the proximity of the enemy. In our psychical life, the deciding factor is the proximity of the outer world. Remember that in ancient times “outside,” “strange,” “hostile,” used to be identical conceptions.
And now, the example I promised you: The “It” is never assailed by any conflicts. Within the “It,” contradiction and opposition dwell undisturbed in close proximity to each other, frequently equalizing one another by means of compromise. However, while the “It” thus remains undisturbed, the “I” cannot avoid facing conflicts, and the only way for the “I” to escape the dilemma is by renouncing some particular intention, or urge, for the benefit of the other.
The “I” is controlled by a very remarkable trend for unification, for synthesis—a characteristic utterly lacking in the “It.” The latter never manifests such unity of intention, but rather displays a tendency towards dissipation and a diversity of aims, utterly independent of one another, and without regard to each other.
“If there really is such an important hinterland of the soul, how do you explain the fact that it was never discovered before the advent of psychoanalysis?”
By this question, you are leading us back to one of your former inquiries. Let me advise you, then, that orthodox psychology blocked its own way to the “It,” by holding on tenaciously to a presumption which, in itself, seemed obviously enough but which, nevertheless, cannot be successfully sustained any more. It was presumed that all psychical activations are conscious, that consciousness is the characteristic of any psychological process, and that if there really were unconscious processes of our brain, these processes did not deserve to be termed psychological processes, having nothing at all to do with psychology proper.