Part 3

“I should say that this is self-evident!”

Of course. That is exactly what all the orthodox psychologists claim. However, it is easy enough to prove that such a view is incorrect, or rather amounts to an impractical separation. Observing ourselves, we easily perceive that many of our thoughts could not have arisen unless they were induced by certain premises. However, of the preparatory stages of these thoughts, which must have been psychical, too, we are unaware, inasmuch as only the complete result enters into our consciousness. Once in a while, it may be possible for us to reconstruct the development of a thought by retrospective contemplation.

“Most probably, our attention had been diverted so that we missed observing the development of the thought in the making, so to speak.”

That’s just an obvious excuse!—insufficient to obscure the fact that quite frequently psychical activations—and often highly complicated ones, too—may occur in our soul life without our becoming actually aware of them. Alas, you may be ready to accept the hypothesis that just a little more or less of your “attention” may prove sufficient to transmute a non-psychical action into a psychical one. But why squabble? The existence of unconscious thoughts has been proven in hypnotic experiments, time and again, to the satisfaction of everybody.

“I don’t wish to deny that, and I actually believe I am now beginning to understand you at last. What you are terming the ‘I’ is the Conscious while the ‘It’ describes the so-called Subconscious, which is so much discussed just now. But why, pray, this masquerade of new terms, if I may ask?”

This is no masquerade, inasmuch as other terms cannot be employed here properly. Besides, let me ask you not to substitute literature for science. If somebody refers to the Subconscious, I don’t know whether he is alluding to it as a stratum, that is, something dwelling in the soul beneath the Conscious, or whether he refers to it as to quality, that is, another consciousness, a subterranean one, so to say. To be sure, the greatest probability seems to be that anybody juggling such terms is himself not at all sure of what he really means. The only permissible differentiation is one between Conscious and Unconscious.

Nevertheless, it would be a severe error to believe that a differentiation between Conscious and Unconscious would be analogous to a differentiation between the “I” and the “It.” It would be too wonderful, if it were as simple as all that, and it would be easy going for our theory then. But, it is not so simple! Correct only is that everything that occurs within the “It” is and remains unconscious, and that only activities of the “I” may become conscious. However, not _all_ these activities are conscious, nor are they _always_ conscious, nor do they necessarily _have_ to become conscious. Parts of the “I” may remain permanently unconscious.

The penetration into Consciousness of a psychical process is quite complicated. I cannot avoid demonstrating to you—dogmatically once more—what our hypothesis is in this respect. You will remember that the “I” is the outer, peripheral layer of the “It.” We now assume that on this outermost surface of the “I,” there is a peculiar device, a system, an organ if you wish, by whose exclusive actuation that phenomenon is created which we call Consciousness. This organ may be actuated from the outside—that is, our sensory nerves may convey to it sensations of an outer world—as well as from the inside, where first it may perceive the sensations from the “It” and, later on, the processes of the “I.”

“This is getting worse and worse, and more and more beyond my understanding. Did you not invite me to discuss with you the question of whether or no, medically trained laymen should be permitted to apply psychoanalysis? Why, then, all these ramblings of vague and dark theories, whose correctness you will be unable to prove to me?”

Only too well do I realize that I cannot convince you. As that would be beyond all possibilities, I have, therefore, surrendered such intentions. Even when instructing our own disciples in the theory of psychoanalysis, we always observe how little impression we make on them in the beginning. They accept the analytical teachings with just as much equanimity as any other abstractions which have been fed to them. Some of them may have the earnest desire to be convinced, but there is no trace that they ever really are convinced.

We demand that anyone who intends to analyse somebody else, should first submit to an analysis. Only if in the course of this “self-analysis”—as it is usually incorrectly called—a disciple experiences the truth of psychoanalytical teachings on his own body—or rather on his own soul—then, and only then, he gains those convictions which later on will guide him in his work as an analyst.

How, then, may I expect to convince you, Mr. Referee, of the correctness of our theories, especially as I can only give you an incomplete, abbreviated, and, therefore, none too lucid outline of psychoanalytical teachings, without your being able to corroborate it through your own experiences?

But such is not my intention at all! We are not discussing here the question of whether psychoanalysis is sense or nonsense, nor whether the premises of psychoanalysis are correct or full of grave fallacies. I am simply presenting our theories to you, because in this way it seems easiest to me to explain to you what is the real essence of psychoanalysis, what are its premises in reference to individual patients, and just what the treatment is that is administered to them. In this way, the problem of lay-analyses is projected in a striking light. If you have followed me up to now, you may rest assured that the worst is over and that from now on, everything will be much more comprehensible to you.

And now let me pause for a moment.

IV

“I expect that, on the basis of psychoanalytical theories, you will explain to me how the development of a nervous ailment may be conceived!”

I shall try. For this purpose, however, it is necessary that we study our “I” and “It” from a new point of view. We shall have to look upon these two factors as to their dynamic values, that is, in regard to the forces active in and between them. You will remember that previously we restricted ourselves to the description of the psychical apparatus.

“I am only hoping that things won’t be so impossible to grasp.”

I do not think so. As a matter of fact, I believe that you will soon comprehend the whole system. To start with, let us assume that those forces which actuate the soul apparatus are generated by the different organs of our system, as the result of important needs of our body. Don’t forget what the poet-philosopher Schiller once said:

Until philosophy sublime, Supremely rules the course of time, The world, in oldest fashion, By hunger moves, and passion.

Hunger and Passion are two very powerful agents!

The needs of our body which stimulate the soul into action—actuate the soul, as I referred to it before—we call urges.

It is these urges which fill the “It.” All energies generated by the “It” were incepted by these urges. The powers of the “I” have no other origin either, inasmuch as they are derived from the “It.”

What, now, do these urges want?

They want to be satisfied, that is, they endeavor to create such situations whereby the needs of our body are gratified.

As soon as any tension, created by our urges, slackens simultaneously with the satisfied cravings of our body, our Consciousness experiences a pleasurable sensation, whereas an intensification of our urges will soon enough result in decided displeasure. In accordance with these fluctuations of pleasurable and distressing sensations, our soul apparatus regulates its activity. Thus, the rule of the Pleasure Principle manifests itself.

Intolerable conditions develop in case the urges of the “It” are not satisfied. Experience proves that situations of complete gratification can only be achieved in contact with the outer world. Thus, that part of the “It” which faces the outer world, i. e., the “I,” assumes its functions. While the driving power is produced by the “It,” it is the “I” which then assumes the management, takes the steering wheel in hand, so to speak, without which the coveted goal could never be reached.

It is characteristic of the urges of the “It” that they are always bent upon immediate, rash gratification without ever attaining their ends, but frequently exposing themselves to severe harm. Therefore, it devolves upon the “I” to forestall such failure, by mediating between the reckless demands of the “It” and the practical outer world. Thus, the censorial activity of the “I” makes itself felt in two different directions.

On one hand, the “I,” assisted by that organ which conveys to it the reactions of an outer world, scans the horizon, as it were, in an attempt to seize upon the most opportune moment for a harmless gratification of the urges prompting it. On the other hand, the “I” exerts a restraining influence on the “It,” controlling its “passions” and inducing its urges to postpone their gratification, or modify them, or renounce them for some compensation, as the case may be.

Restraining the reckless “It” in such a way, the “I” replaces the formerly predominant Pleasure Principle with the so-called Reality Principle which, although striving for the same ends as the Pleasure Principle, nevertheless considers such practical necessities as the outer world imposes.

Later on, the “I” discovers that there is another way of insuring gratification of urges than adaptation to the outer world. This newly discovered method consists of changing conditions in the outer world in such a way as to bring about circumstances favorable for gratification. This activity of the “I” constitutes its most supreme achievement. Sufficient discernment to perceive when it is opportune to stifle passions and when it is opportune to either face or fight the realities of the outer world is, after all, the Alpha and Omega of practical wisdom.

“As I understand you, the ‘It’ is by far the stronger of the two. How, then, is it possible that the ‘It’ will permit the weaker ‘I’ to hold sway over it?”

The “I” is well in a position to exert such influence over the “It,” provided its organization and efficiency is in no way hampered. Besides, access to all parts of the “It” must be such as to enable the “I” to bear sufficient influence on the “It.” There is no inherent opposition between the “I” and the “It,” both belonging together. In cases of normal health, it is practically impossible to distinguish between the two.

“All this appears quite clear to me. However, what I cannot understand is that under such ideal conditions, there could be any chance at all for disturbances to arise?”

You are perfectly right! As long as the “I” discharges its duties fully, and its relations to the “It” are maintained in a satisfactory manner, no nervous disturbances will develop. However, disturbances are liable to arise at some unsuspected spot. This will not surprise the well-informed pathologist, but merely confirms the fact that the most essential developments and evolvements contain the very germ for diseased conditions and the break down of functions.

“This is too learned for me! I cannot follow you any more!”

I shall have to digress for a little. You will admit that a human being is a puny, helpless thing in comparison to that tremendous outer world, full of destructive agencies. Any primitive being who did not develop a sufficiently strong “I” organisation, is subject to all these “traumata.” Such a primitive being will achieve no more than just a “blind” gratification of its urges, frequently to be destroyed in this way.

The evolvement of an “I” is, most of all, a step towards insuring maintenance of life. Destruction as such does not teach anything. But after overcoming a trauma successfully, attention will be attracted by similar situations and danger will be signalized by a fear affect—a shortened reproduction of what was lived through during the trauma. This reaction to approaching danger results in an attempt at flight, which is maintained until sufficient strength is generated to oppose the danger arising from the outer world in an active manner, perhaps even by taking recourse to aggression.

“All this seems to be far, far different from what you promised me.”

You don’t realize how close I have already come to the fulfillment of my promise to you. Even in such living beings who later on develop an efficient “I” organisation, this “I” is quite weak in the years of childhood and only slightly different from the “It.”

And now, I ask you to visualize what would happen in case this powerless “I” is actuated by an urge arising from the “It”—an urge which the weak “I” would like to resist, because it feels that a gratification of this urge may involve danger, may result in a traumatic situation, a collision with the outer world.

Alas, the weak “I” cannot sum up enough strength to resist.

Then what?

Then, the “I” deals with the danger, arising from an “It”-inspired urge, in exactly the same way that an exterior danger would have to be faced. The “I” makes an attempt at flight, deserting this specific part of the “It” and leaving it to its fate. It refuses all such assistance as it usually renders to urges arising from the “It.” We refer to such a case as a repression of urges by the “I.”

For the time being, danger is thus parried, but to confound inner and outer world is certain to invite punishment. Running away from oneself is a thing that cannot be done! In a case of repression, the “I” succumbs to the Pleasure Principle which it otherwise strives to correct. Thus, it is the “I” upon which damage is inflicted in such cases of repression. This damage consists of the “I” experiencing a lasting restriction in its own sphere of rule. The repressed urge is now isolated, left to itself, unapproachable, and cannot be influenced. The repressed urge now goes its own way. Frequently, even after the “I” has attained power, it proves impossible to release this repression. With its synthesis disturbed, a part of the “It” remains forbidden ground to the “I.”

The isolated urge does not remain idle, however. Because normal gratification was denied it, it contrives to compensate itself by engendering psychical derivates which take its place and, connecting with other psychical activations, estrange them to the “I.” Finally, in the form of an unrecognizable substitute, the isolated urge penetrates to the “I” and to consciousness, presenting itself as what is known as a “symptom.”

We now become aware of what a nervous disturbance is. We perceive an “I” hampered in its synthesis, unable to exert any influence on certain parts of the “It.” In addition, the “I” must renounce some of its inherent activities, to avoid new collisions with the repressed urge. We perceive an “I” exhausting itself in mostly unavailing defensive measures against symptoms that are nothing other than results of the repression. Moreover, it becomes evident now that in the “It,” some urges have assumed independence. They aim at their own gratification without any concern for the whole, subject only to such primitive psychology as reigns in the lowermost depths of the “It.”

Observing such a state of affairs, we face the quite simple situation in which the “I,” attempting to repress certain parts of the “It,” proceeded in an utterly unsuitable manner. Consequently, the “I” has failed in its intention and now the “It” is taking revenge on the “I.” This revenge of the “It” on the “I” resulted in nothing less than a neurosis.

Accordingly, a neurosis is the result of a conflict between the “I” and the “It,” a conflict—as investigations will show—forced upon the “I,” because the latter insisted on maintaining its state of pliability, in reference to an outer world. The conflict, in fact, is one between the “It” and the outer world. However, because the “I,” faithful and true, takes sides with the outer world, it becomes entangled in this conflict of the “It” with the outer world.

Note that the condition of nervous disturbances is not induced by the conflict between the “I” and the “It” but rather by the fact that the “I,” for the purpose of settling this conflict, availed itself of the unsuitable agent of repression. As a rule, conflicts between reality and the “It” are unavoidable, and it is a routine task for the “I” to act as a mediator in such cases. That in the case of this specific conflict which we have under observation just now, the “I” took recourse to repression as agent, is due to the fact that at this time the “I” was powerless and immature. After all, repressions of lasting importance occur exclusively during early childhood!

“What a roundabout route you are taking! However, I shall heed your advice and will try not to criticize you. You were going to explain to me what psychoanalysis assumes to be the reason for neurosis and how such conditions may be combated. There are quite a number of questions which I shall ask you later on. At present, I am tempted to venture a theory based on your own trend of thought.

“You have pointed out to me this interrelation between outer world, and the ‘I’ and the ‘It.’ As an indispensable condition for the development of a neurosis, you have mentioned the fact that the ‘I,’ on account of its dependency on the outer world, opposes the ‘It.’ However, is not some other course for the ‘I’ possible? For example, could not the ‘I,’ in such a conflict be simply swept off its feet by the ‘It,’ so to speak, renouncing all dependency on the outer world?

“What, then, happens in such a case?

“Of course, I have merely the conception of the typical lay mind when it comes to visualizing the development of mental diseases, but it seems to me that such diseases may be easily induced if the ‘I’ would really decide to side with the ‘It.’ To all appearances, such disregard for realities is the very reason for mental diseases!”

Of course, I have thought of this myself. I even believe this assumption to be correct. But in order to prove this hypothesis, quite a complicated discussion would be necessary. Neurosis and Psychosis, to all appearances, are closely related to one another. However, at some important point, they widely diverge from each other. The partisanship of the “I” with the “It,” in a case of conflict, may prove to be the crossroad where the two seek different directions. In both cases, the “It” would persist in its character of blind obstinacy.

“But, pray, tell me what advice your theory offers for the treatment of neurotic conditions?”

It is quite simple to describe our therapeutic goal: We aim at restituting the “I” and liberating it from its restrictions, restoring to the “I” once more the sovereignty over the “It” which it lost, on account of early repressions. Psychoanalysis, in general, aims at this goal; our whole technique strives for this end. It is up to us to discover those repressions, to induce the “I” to correct them with our assistance, and to settle conflicts more satisfactory than by a mere flight. Inasmuch as these repressions are part of our early childhood, psychoanalysis must needs go back to those years of our life.

The way to those mostly forgotten conflict situations, which we must revive in the memory of our “cases,” is pointed out to us by symptoms, dreams, and “free associations” of the patient. Of course, all these hints must first be interpreted, translated, as it were, because these symptoms and dreams, under the influence of the psychology of the “It,” have assumed various disguises which it is our purpose to penetrate.

If a patient communicates to us certain ideas, thoughts and memories after long hesitation only, we feel safe in assuming that they have some connection with his early repressions, or are, at least, derivates of such. By encouraging the patient to conquer his hesitancy when talking to us, we are training his “I” to overcome its tendency to “run away” and rather face that early repression. At the end, after we have been successful in reproducing the situation which originally induced his repression, the complacency of the patient is splendidly rewarded. The number of years that have meanwhile elapsed prove to be all in favor of the patient. What once scared his immature “I” and threw it into panic and flight, appears to the adult-strengthened “I” nothing more than just a childish bugaboo.

V

“Everything you spoke of so far pertained to psychology. Frequently it sounded somewhat strange and far-fetched to me and altogether none too clear. But at any rate, everything you said was, if I may say so, clean! I admit, without hesitation, that I have never had more than just superficial information in regard to psychoanalysis. However, I have been told, time and again, that your psychoanalysis deals for the most part, with things to which generally the word ‘clean’ may not be applied readily.

“To be quite frank with you: I have a slight suspicion that, up to now, you have intentionally avoided to touch upon this phase of psychoanalysis.

“There is still another doubt in my mind which I cannot suppress:—Neuroses, as you said yourself, are the result of disturbances of our soul life. How is it possible, then, that such important factors as our ethics, our conscience, our ideals, apparently do not enter at all into the development of these far-reaching disturbances?”

I understand you quite well. It appears to you that in the information I have given you so far, I have attached insufficient importance to the most vulgar, as well as the most sublime aspects of the matter. The reason for this is simply that, up to now, we have not spoken about the substance of psychical life at all.

For once, permit me to delay the progress of our conversation.

I have told you so much about psychology, in order that you may see that our analysis is just a part of applied psychology; to be sure, that part of psychology which is unknown beyond the field of analysis. From this, it follows that it must be the first task of the Analyst to become acquainted with the Psychology of the Depths, or Psychology of the Unconscious, to the very extent it is known today. It will be well to bear this fact in mind, as we shall later on refer to it.

And now, I wish you would explain what you meant when referring to the lack of “cleanliness” in psychoanalysis?

“Well, the general impression which prevails is that, in the course of the analysis; the most intimate and the most revolting phases of sex life are aired with all their sordid details. Of course, I do not draw this conclusion from the lecture on psychology you have given me so far! But if this is really true, it would constitute a strong argument in favor of the demand that the practice of psychoanalysis should be restricted to physicians. How else would it be possible to confide such details to persons whose discretion may be open to doubt, and whose character may not warrant such frankness on the part of a patient?”

It is true enough that physicians are privileged characters, as regards sexual matters. In our times, physicians may even examine sex organs, a prerogative denied to them in the dark ages.

However, you wished to know whether sexual matters play an important part in psychoanalysis.

They do!