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The Interpretation of Dreams Chapter 7 - E. The Primary and Secondary Processes. Repression Psychology
VII. THE PSYCHOLOGY OF THE DREAM PROCESSES (continued)
F. The Unconscious and Consciousness. Reality
If we look more closely, we may observe that the psychological considerations
examined in the foregoing chapter require us to assume, not the existence of two
systems near the motor end of the psychic apparatus, but two kinds of processes
or courses taken by excitation. But this does not disturb us; for we must always
be ready to drop our auxiliary ideas, when we think we are in a position to
replace them by something which comes closer to the unknown reality. Let us now
try to correct certain views which may have taken a misconceived form as long as
we regarded the two systems, in the crudest and most obvious sense, as two
localities within the psychic apparatus- views which have left a precipitate in
the terms repression and penetration. Thus, when we say that an unconscious
thought strives for translation into the preconscious in order subsequently to
penetrate through to consciousness, we do not mean that a second idea has to be
formed, in a new locality, like a paraphrase, as it were, whilst the original
persists by its side; and similarly, when we speak of penetration into
consciousness, we wish carefully to detach from this notion any idea of a change
of locality. When we say that a preconscious idea is repressed and subsequently
absorbed by the unconscious, we might be tempted by these images, borrowed from
the idea of a struggle for a particular territory, to assume that an arrangement
is really broken up in the one psychic locality and replaced by a new one in the
other locality. For these comparisons we will substitute a description which
would seem to correspond more closely to the real state of affairs; we will say
that an energic cathexis is shifted to or withdrawn from a certain arrangement,
so that the psychic formation falls under the domination of a given instance or
is withdrawn from it. Here again we replace a topographical mode of
representation by a dynamic one; it is not the psychic formation that appears to
us as the mobile element, but its innervation. *
* This conception underwent elaboration and modification when it was recognized
that the essential character of a preconscious idea was its connection with the
residues of verbal ideas. See The Unconscious, p. 428 below.
Nevertheless, I think it expedient and justifiable to continue to use the
illustrative idea of the two systems. We shall avoid any abuse of this mode of
representation if we remember that ideas, thoughts, and psychic formations in
general must not in any case be localized in organic elements of the nervous
system but, so to speak, between them, where resistances and association-tracks
form the correlate corresponding to them. Everything that can become an object
of internal perception is virtual, like the image in the telescope produced by
the crossing of light-rays. But we are justified in thinking of the systems-
which have nothing psychic in themselves, and which never become accessible to
our psychic perception- as something similar to the lenses of the telescope,
which project the image. If we continue this comparison, we might say that the
censorship between the two systems corresponds to the refraction of rays on
passing into a new medium.
Thus far, we have developed our psychology on our own responsibility; it is now
time to turn and look at the doctrines prevailing in modern psychology, and to
examine the relation of these to our theories. The problem of the unconscious in
psychology is, according to the forcible statement of Lipps, * less a
psychological problem than the problem of psychology. As long as psychology
disposed of this problem by the verbal explanation that the psychic is the
conscious, and that unconscious psychic occurrences are an obvious
contradiction, there was no possibility of a physician's observations of
abnormal mental states being turned to any psychological account. The physician
and the philosopher can meet only when both acknowledge that unconscious psychic
processes is the appropriate and justified expression for all established fact.
The physician cannot but reject, with a shrug of his shoulders, the assertion
that consciousness is the indispensable quality of the psychic; if his respect
for the utterances of the philosophers is still great enough, he may perhaps
assume that he and they do not deal with the same thing and do not pursue the
same science. For a single intelligent observation of the psychic life of a
neurotic, a single analysis of a dream, must force upon him the unshakable
conviction that the most complicated and the most accurate operations of
thought, to which the name of psychic occurrences can surely not be refused, may
take place without arousing consciousness. *(2) The physician, it is true, does
not learn of these unconscious processes until they have produced an effect on
consciousness which admits of communication or observation. But this effect on
consciousness may show a psychic character which differs completely from the
unconscious process, so that internal perception cannot possibly recognize in
the first a substitute for the second. The physician must reserve himself the
right to penetrate, by a Process of deduction, from the effect on consciousness
to the unconscious psychic process; he learns in this way that the effect on
consciousness is only a remote psychic product of the unconscious process, and
that the latter has not become conscious as such, and has, moreover, existed and
operated without in any way betraying itself to consciousness. -
* Der Begriff des Unbewussten in der Psychologie. Lecture delivered at the Third
International Psychological Congress at Munich, 1897.
*(2) I am happy to be able to point to an author who has drawn from the study of
dreams the same conclusion as regards the relation between consciousness and the
unconscious.
Du Prel says: "The problem: what is the psyche, manifestly requires a
preliminary examination as to whether consciousness and psyche are identical.
But it is just this preliminary question which is answered in the negative by
the dream, which shows that the concept of the psyche extends beyond that of
consciousness, much as the gravitational force of a star extends beyond its
sphere of luminosity" (Philos. d. Mystik, p. 47).
"It is a truth which cannot be sufficiently emphasized that the concepts of
consciousness and of the psyche are not co-extensive" (p. 306).
A return from the over-estimation of the property of consciousness is the
indispensable preliminary to any genuine insight into the course of psychic
events. As Lipps has said, the unconscious must be accepted as the general basis
of the psychic life. The unconscious is the larger circle which includes the
smaller circle of the conscious; everything conscious has a preliminary
unconscious stage, whereas the unconscious can stop at this stage, and yet claim
to be considered a full psychic function. The unconscious is the true psychic
reality; in its inner nature it is just as much unknown to us as the reality of
the external world, and it is just as imperfectly communicated to us by the data
of consciousness as is the external world by the reports of our sense-organs.
We get rid of a series of dream-problems which have claimed much attention from
earlier writers on the subject when the old antithesis between conscious life
and dream-life is discarded, and the unconscious psychic assigned to its proper
place. Thus, many of the achievements which are a matter for wonder in a dream
are now no longer to be attributed to dreaming, but to unconscious thinking,
which is active also during the day. If the dream seems to make play with a
symbolical representation of the body, as Scherner has said, we know that this
is the work of certain unconscious phantasies, which are probably under the sway
of sexual impulses and find expression not only in dreams, but also in
hysterical phobias and other symptoms. If the dream continues and completes
mental work begun during the day, and even brings valuable new ideas to light,
we have only to strip off the dream-disguise from this, as the contribution of
the dream-work, and a mark of the assistance of dark powers in the depths of the
psyche (cf. the devil in Tartini's sonata-dream). The intellectual achievement
as such belongs to the same psychic forces as are responsible for all such
achievements during the day. We are probably much too inclined to over-estimate
the conscious character even of intellectual and artistic production. From the
reports of certain writers who have been highly productive, such as Goethe and
Helmholtz, we learn, rather, that the most essential and original part of their
creations came to them in the form of inspirations, and offered itself to their
awareness in an almost completed state. In other cases, where there is a
concerted effort of all the psychic forces, there is nothing strange in the fact
that conscious activity, too, lends its aid. But it is the much-abused privilege
of conscious activity to hide from us all other activities wherever it
participates.
It hardly seems worth while to take up the historical significance of dreams as
a separate theme. Where, for instance, a leader has been impelled by a dream to
engage in a bold undertaking, the success of which has had the effect of
changing history, a new problem arises only so long as the dream is regarded as
a mysterious power and contrasted with other more familiar psychic forces. The
problem disappears as soon as we regard the dream as a form of expression for
impulses to which a resistance was attached during the day, whilst at night they
were able to draw reinforcement from deep-lying sources of excitation. * But the
great respect with which the ancient peoples regarded dreams is based on a just
piece of psychological divination. It is a homage paid to the unsubdued and
indestructible element in the human soul, to the demonic power which furnishes
the dream- wish, and which we have found again in our unconscious.
* Cf. (chapter II.), the dream (Sa-Turos) of Alexander the Great at the siege of
Tyre.
It is not without purpose that I use the expression in our unconscious, for what
we so call does not coincide with the unconscious of the philosophers, nor with
the unconscious of Lipps. As they use the term, it merely means the opposite of
the conscious. That there exist not only conscious but also unconscious psychic
processes is the opinion at issue, which is so hotly contested and so
energetically defended. Lipps enunciates the more comprehensive doctrine that
everything psychic exists as unconscious, but that some of it may exist also as
conscious. But it is not to prove this doctrine that we have adduced the
phenomena of dreams and hysterical symptom-formation; the observation of normal
life alone suffices to establish its correctness beyond a doubt. The novel fact
that we have learned from the analysis of psycho-pathological formations, and
indeed from the first member of the group, from dreams, is that the unconscious-
and hence all that is psychic- occurs as a function of two separate systems, and
that as such it occurs even in normal psychic life. There are consequently two
kinds of unconscious, which have not as yet been distinguished by psychologists.
Both are unconscious in the psychological sense; but in our sense the first,
which we call Ucs, is likewise incapable of consciousness; whereas the second we
call Pcs because its excitations, after the observance of certain rules, are
capable of reaching consciousness; perhaps not before they have again undergone
censorship, but nevertheless regardless of the Ucs system. The fact that in
order to attain consciousness the excitations must pass through an unalterable
series, a succession of instances, as is betrayed by the changes produced in
them by the censorship, has enabled us to describe them by analogy in spatial
terms. We described the relations of the two systems to each other and to
consciousness by saying that the system Pcs is like a screen between the system
Ucs and consciousness. The system Pcs not only bars access to consciousness, but
also controls the access to voluntary motility, and has control of the emission
of a mobile cathectic energy, a portion of which is familiar to us as attention.
*
* Cf. here my remarks in the Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research,
vol. xxvi, in which the descriptive, dynamic and systematic meanings of the
ambiguous word Unconscious are distinguished from one another.
We must also steer clear of the distinction between the super- conscious and the
subconscious, which has found such favour in the more recent literature on the
psychoneuroses, for just such a distinction seems to emphasize the equivalence
of what is psychic and what is conscious.
What role is now left, in our representation of things, to the phenomenon of
consciousness, once so all-powerful and over- shadowing all else? None other
than that of a sense-organ for the perception of psychic qualities. According to
the fundamental idea of our schematic attempt we can regard conscious perception
only as the function proper to a special system for which the abbreviated
designation Cs commends itself. This system we conceive to be similar in its
mechanical characteristics to the perception-system P, and hence excitable by
qualities, and incapable of retaining the trace of changes: i.e., devoid of
memory. The psychic apparatus which, with the sense-organ of the P-systems, is
turned to the outer world, is itself the outer world for the sense-organ of Cs,
whose teleological justification depends on this relationship. We are here once
more confronted with the principle of the succession of instances which seems to
dominate the structure of the apparatus. The material of excitation flows to the
sense-organ Cs from two sides: first from the P-system, whose excitation,
qualitatively conditioned, probably undergoes a new elaboration until it attains
conscious perception; and, secondly, from the interior of the apparatus itself,
whose quantitative processes are perceived as a qualitative series of pleasures
and pains once they have reached consciousness after undergoing certain changes.
The philosophers, who became aware that accurate and highly complicated
thought-structures are possible even without the co- operation of consciousness,
thus found it difficult to ascribe any function to consciousness; it appeared to
them a superfluous mirroring of the completed psychic process. The analogy of
our Cs system with the perception-systems relieves us of this embarrassment. We
see that perception through our sense-organs results in directing an attention-cathexis
to the paths along which the incoming sensory excitation diffuses itself; the
qualitative excitation of the P-system serves the mobile quantity in the psychic
apparatus as a regulator of its discharge. We may claim the same function for
the overlying sense-organ of the Cs system. By perceiving new qualities, it
furnishes a new contribution for the guidance and suitable distribution of the
mobile cathexis-quantities. By means of perceptions of pleasure and pain, it
influences the course of the cathexes within the psychic apparatus, which
otherwise operates unconsciously and by the displacement of quantities. It is
probable that the pain- principle first of all regulates the displacements of
cathexis automatically, but it is quite possible that consciousness contributes
a second and more subtle regulation of these qualities, which may even oppose
the first, and perfect the functional capacity of the apparatus, by placing it
in a position contrary to its original design, subjecting even that which
induces pain to cathexis and to elaboration. We learn from neuro- psychology
that an important part in the functional activity of the apparatus is ascribed
to these regulations by the qualitative excitations of the sense-organs. The
automatic rule of the primary pain-principle, together with the limitation of
functional capacity bound up with it, is broken by the sensory regulations,
which are themselves again automatisms. We find that repression, which, though
originally expedient, nevertheless finally brings about a harmful lack of
inhibition and of psychic control, overtakes memories much more easily than it
does perceptions, because in the former there is no additional cathexis from the
excitation of the psychic sense-organs. Whilst an idea which is to be warded off
may fail to become conscious because it has succumbed to repression, it may on
other occasions come to be repressed simply because it has been withdrawn from
conscious perception on other grounds. These are clues which we make use of in
therapy in order to undo accomplished repressions.
The value of the hyper-cathexis which is produced by the regulating influence of
the Cs sense-organs on the mobile quantity is demonstrated in a teleological
context by nothing more clearly than by the creation of a new series of
qualities, and consequently a new regulation, which constitutes the prerogative
of man over animals. For the mental processes are in themselves unqualitative
except for the excitations of pleasure and pain which accompany them: which, as
we know, must be kept within limits as possible disturbers of thought. In order
to endow them with quality, they are associated in man with verbal memories, the
qualitative residues of which suffice to draw upon them the attention of
consciousness, which in turn endows thought with a new mobile cathexis.
It is only on a dissection of hysterical mental processes that the manifold
nature of the problems of consciousness becomes apparent. One then receives the
impression that the transition from the preconscious to the conscious cathexis
is associated with a censorship similar to that between Ucs and Pcs. This
censorship, too, begins to act only when a certain quantitative limit is
reached, so that thought-formations which are not very intense escape it. All
possible cases of detention from consciousness and of penetration into
consciousness under certain restrictions are included within the range of
psychoneurotic phenomena; all point to the intimate and twofold connection
between the censorship and consciousness. I shall conclude these psychological
considerations with the record of two such occurrences.
On the occasion of a consultation a few years ago, the patient was an
intelligent-looking girl with a simple, unaffected manner. She was strangely
attired; for whereas a woman's dress is usually carefully thought out to the
last pleat, one of her stockings was hanging down and two of the buttons of her
blouse were undone. She complained of pains in one of her legs, and exposed her
calf without being asked to do so. Her chief complaint, however, was as follows:
She had a feeling in her body as though something were sticking into it which
moved to and fro and shook her through and through. This sometimes seemed to
make her whole body stiff. On hearing this, my colleague in consultation looked
at me: the trouble was quite obvious to him. To both of us it seemed peculiar
that this suggested nothing to the patient's mother, though she herself must
repeatedly have been in the situation described by her child. As for the girl,
she had no idea of the import of her words, or she would never have allowed them
to pass her lips. Here the censorship had been hoodwinked so successfully that
under the mask of an innocent complaint a phantasy was admitted to consciousness
which otherwise would have remained in the preconscious.
Another example: I began the psycho-analytic treatment of a boy fourteen who was
suffering from tic convulsif, hysterical vomiting, headache, etc., by assuring
him that after closing his eyes he would see pictures or that ideas would occur
to him, which he was to communicate to me. He replied by describing pictures.
The last impression he had received before coming to me was revived visually in
his memory. He had been playing a game of checkers with his uncle, and now he
saw the checkerboard before him. He commented on various positions that were
favourable or unfavourable, on moves that were not safe to make. He then saw a
dagger lying on the checker-board- an object belonging to his father, but which
his phantasy laid on the checker-board. Then a sickle was lying on the board; a
scythe was added; and finally, he saw the image of an old peasant mowing the
grass in front of his father's house far away. A few days later I discovered the
meaning of this series of pictures. Disagreeable family circumstances had made
the boy excited and nervous. Here was a case of a harsh, irascible father, who
had lived unhappily with the boy's mother, and whose educational methods
consisted of threats; he had divorced his gentle and delicate wife, and
remarried; one day he brought home a young woman as the boy's new mother. The
illness of the fourteen-year-old boy developed a few days later. It was the
suppressed rage against his father that had combined these images into
intelligible allusions. The material was furnished by a mythological
reminiscence. The sickle was that with which Zeus castrated his father; the
scythe and the image of the peasant represented Kronos, the violent old man who
devours his children, and upon whom Zeus wreaks his vengeance in so unfilial a
manner. The father's marriage gave the boy an opportunity of returning the
reproaches and threats which the child had once heard his father utter because
he played with his genitals (the draught-board; the prohibited moves; the dagger
with which one could kill). We have here long-impressed memories and their
unconscious derivatives which, under the guise of meaningless pictures, have
slipped into consciousness by the devious paths opened to them.
If I were asked what is the theoretical value of the study of dreams, I should
reply that it lies in the additions to psychological knowledge and the
beginnings of an understanding of the neuroses which we thereby obtain. Who can
foresee the importance a thorough knowledge of the structure and functions of
the psychic apparatus may attain, when even our present state of knowledge
permits of successful therapeutic intervention in the curable forms of
psychoneuroses? But, it may be asked, what of the practical value of this study
in regard to a knowledge of the psyche and discovery of the hidden peculiarities
of individual character? Have not the unconscious impulses revealed by dreams
the value of real forces in the psychic life? Is the ethical significance of the
suppressed wishes to be lightly disregarded, since, just as they now create
dreams, they may some day create other things?
I do not feel justified in answering these questions. I have not followed up
this aspect of the problem of dreams. In any case, however, I believe that the
Roman Emperor was in the wrong in ordering one of his subjects to be executed
because the latter had dreamt that he had killed the Emperor. He should first of
all have endeavoured to discover the significance of the man's dreams; most
probably it was not what it seemed to be. And even if a dream of a different
content had actually had this treasonable meaning, it would still have been well
to recall the words of Plato- that the virtuous man contents himself with
dreaming of that which the wicked man does in actual life. I am therefore of the
opinion that dreams should be acquitted of evil. Whether any reality is to be
attributed to the unconscious wishes, I cannot say. Reality must, of course, be
denied to all transitory and intermediate thoughts. If we had before us the
unconscious wishes, brought to their final and truest expression, we should
still do well to remember that psychic reality is a special form of existence
which must not be confounded with material reality. It seems, therefore,
unnecessary that people should refuse to accept the responsibility for the
immorality of their dreams. With an appreciation of the mode of functioning of
the psychic apparatus, and an insight into the relations between conscious and
unconscious, all that is ethically offensive in our dream-life and the life of
phantasy for the most part disappears.
"What a dream has told us of our relations to the present (reality) we will then
seek also in our consciousness and we must not be surprised if we discover that
the monster we saw under the magnifying-glass of the analysis is a tiny little
infusorian" (H. Sachs).
For all practical purposes in judging human character, a man's actions and
conscious expressions of thought are in most cases sufficient. Actions, above
all, deserve to be placed in the front rank; for many impulses which penetrate
into consciousness are neutralized by real forces in the psychic life before
they find issue in action; indeed, the reason why they frequently do not
encounter any psychic obstacle on their path is because the unconscious is
certain of their meeting with resistances later. In any case, it is highly
instructive to learn something of the intensively tilled soil from which our
virtues proudly emerge. For the complexity of human character, dynamically moved
in all directions, very rarely accommodates itself to the arbitrament of a
simple alternative, as our antiquated moral philosophy would have it.
And what of the value of dreams in regard to our knowledge of the future? That,
of course, is quite out of the question. One would like to substitute the words:
in regard to our knowledge of the past. For in every sense a dream has its
origin in the past. The ancient belief that dreams reveal the future is not
indeed entirely devoid of the truth. By representing a wish as fulfilled the
dream certainly leads us into the future; but this future, which the dreamer
accepts as his present, has been shaped in the likeness of the past by the
indestructible wish.
END
The Interpretation of Dreams Preface
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